Page 6 of You Rock My World
I purse my lips, amused. “As opposed to what? An alien with three heads?”
“You know what I mean,” she deadpans.
I give her a small nod, appreciating her frankness. “I’ve been treated worse. I don’t mind.” Before the silence creeps back in, I suggest, “We should do an inventory of the resources we have to survive the night.”
I set my phone on the floor, pat my pockets, and add a crumpled candy wrapper.
Josie raises an unimpressed brow. “A phone with no service and a candy wrapper? MacGyver would’ve restored power to LA by now.”
She flashes me a goofy grin, and her freckles dance across her cheeks. The motion is hypnotic. I realize I’m staring and avert my gaze, not wanting to make her self-conscious.
I gesture toward her oversized bag. “What are you hiding in there? That thing could double as luggage.”
She glances down. “Oh, you know, just the essentials: a grappling hook, a smoke grenade, and a compact rocket launcher. I never leave home without them.”
I low-whistle. “Mary Poppins has nothing on you.”
Josie smiles and starts unpacking. She pulls out her wallet. A lipstick—which she isn’t wearing, but the label makes me wonder how her full lips might look in “forbidden fuchsia.” And a tampon. She waves it in the air and says, “We won’t be needing this.” She goes to put it away but stops mid-gesture and adds, “Unless you’re on your period?”
“Not until the full moon,” I deadpan.
She studies me and smiles. “You’re a smartass.”
“Surprised?”
“Iama little shocked. Your public persona doesn’t exactly scream ‘quick wit.’”
I lean in, resting my elbows on my bent knees. “Really? So, what does it say?”
She considers me, then, with the candor of a toddler explaining how they colored on the wall, she says, “More like… cursed sex god.”
A deep, belly-aching laugh shakes me, the kind I haven’t experienced in months. It’s a release from all the crap going on in my life right now. When I catch my breath, I ask, “Whycursed?”
Josie maintains a perfectly straight face. “Must be the guyliner. Gives off a tormented vibe.” She wields an eyeliner stick. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered if you need to reapply after midnight.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “I might be a smartass, but you, Josie, are a sass master.”
She pulls the topknot of her hair tighter. The gesture entirely too distracting. “I dabble in the ancient art of sarcasm.”
The playful back-and-forth flows naturally, as if we’d known each other for years instead of minutes. It’s a distraction from the mess in my head—my crumbling marriage and the uncertainty of the future.
Josie pulls out a small, worn notebook. “My diary.”
“Oh? Planning to journal our ordeal?”
“It’s a planner mostly, but if we’re stuck long enough, I might add a ‘survive a smartass rockstar’ section.”
I nod, mock-serious. “Will that go above or below ‘buy cat food’?”
Josie flips through the pages. “Below, obviously. The imaginary cats come first.”
I laugh again. “What do I have to do to beat the kitties?”
She taps her chin. “Depends. Do you purr when you’re happy?”
The question lodges in my brain, and I consider it more seriously than I should. Surprisingly, I realize that for her, I might actually purr—if I lived in a different universe where I’d never married the wrong woman and my marriage wasn’t falling apart.
The thought sobers me, a cold reminder of everything outside of this elevator I don’t want to deal with and why I had to rush downtown to do damage control. After getting emotionally hammered by Billie Rae again, I made a scene like an amateur who doesn’t know everyone has a phone ready to record what I do. Cue the emergency session at my PR firm and ending up stuck in their elevator. I scrub a hand over my jaw, forcing Billie to the back of my mind.
