Page 9 of No Interest in Love

“Californians don’t know how to drive in this kind of weather,” she says, and because I was sort of dreaming about her smacking me with her shoe, I flinch when she bends to scratch her ankle. “This is like a light summer rain in New York.”

I laugh as I look at the window, not seeing anything past the waterfall streaming down the glass.

“You’re probably drivingwiththe storm and notoutof it,” I say, kicking my fallen feet back up on the dash. She sighs, reaches over, and pulls on my pant leg to get me to put them back down. Grinning at her, I finally relent, adjusting the seat back instead to stretch my legs. “Hey, so while I was at the pool, a Jason Sterne fan wanted me to sign her boob.”

The car jerks a bit to the right, but Shay regains control and swats me.

“Don’t joke around. I have to concentrate.”

“I’m not joking. One lucky boob has my John Hancock. And a lucky arm, since I signed her husband’s skin too.” Travis said if I become a big name that’ll be his tat. I really hope not, since my writing looks like a three-year-old’s. But not gonna lie, that sent unrealistic fantasies of big jobs, movie posters, giant premiere parties, and lots—lots—of women replaying over and over in my head while I slept in that hotel bed. Probably explains the pleasure dreams.

“How old was she?”

“Huh?”

“The woman attached to the boob you signed?”

“Oh, I dunno. Early twenties maybe.”

Shay nods, brings her pinkie to her mouth, and chews on the nail.

“Why?” I ask.

“Learning your demographic.” She puts her hand back on the wheel. “You land this audition, you’re going to attract a lot of women—”

“Obviously.”

“And your debut will attract a lot of men.”

“I’m just the all-around shit.”

She starts biting her pinkie nail again. Usually she has some comment to pop my big head when I start bragging, but she stays quiet, biting that nail and staring out the windshield. I stretch my arms out and tuck them behind my head. May as well try to sleep while I can, since that coffee had to be decaf. If I stay awake, pretty soon she’ll make me work in some way. Practice lines, study Carletta’s movies, social network or something. Maybe make out with another inanimate object. She already recited the movie description to me—word for word, I’m betting. The gist of it is Guy One and Chick One get on a reality show and realize that if they fake a relationship, then they’ll move farther in the game. Sort of like a chick-flickHunger Gamesfor thirty-year-olds. Of course a series of unfortunate and hilarious events draw the two very opposite leads together, and the initial “end goal” of the money doesn’t mean shit anymore.

It’s the screenplay that only happenson-screen and rarely off of it.

Keeping my eyes closed, I pretend to be dead asleep while Shay keeps talking about how we’re going to market…well, me. I doze off almost right away.

5:57A.M.

A lurch in my stomach wakes me up, and I shoot upright. Shay’s fists are curled around the wheel so tight her knuckles are white, and her lips are pushed together in a hard, straight line.

“Shit, how fast you going?”

“Is that always the first word you say when you wake up?” she says through those tight lips. “Be more professional, damn it.”

“Ahhhh…” I inhale deeply. “The sweet smell of hypocrisy.” The car lurches forward again and I adjust the seat up and check the speedometer. “Seriously, though, slow down. We’re gonna spin out.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she spits, and I jolt back from her tone. Sure, Shay’s never been a ray of sunlight, but she’s never been one hundred percent hellhound. I check the durability of my seat belt.

“You okay?” I ask her.

“Fine. Just want to get there.”

I raise an eyebrow, noticing the makeup under her eyes is a bit smeared. She fixes her glasses and doesn’t give me a second glance.

“Stupid!” Shay says, making me jump in my seat. “Stupid, stupid,” she continues, pounding her hand on the steering wheel. “I work my ass off and they just…They just…Argh!”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “You sure sound ‘fine.’ ”

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