The Redhead Plays Her Hand (Redhead #3)(12)
Author: Alice Clayton

I breathed in and out.

“You scared of me now?” she asked, her voice worried.

“I’m more scared that you just carried on an entire conversation by yourself, actually.”

She laughed. “Don’t hate me because you’re beautiful.”

“Okay, it’s getting a little thick around here.” I pulled into the gym parking lot. I saw three stunning girls walking in, sports bras and tiny shorts, legs for days and boobs for hire. Sigh.

“Love you, ya little fruitcake.”

“Fruit I can have. Cake has gone bye-bye.” I snorted, hanging up on her as she laughed. I watched the stunnings as they headed inside. I hated the gym. Even when I was losing all my weight, I’d worked out as much as I could from home or outside. But gyms were where the trainers were, so when in Rome . . .

Can’t eat pasta . . .

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I repeated the words my own TV show, my own TV show as I headed in.

“I can’t go anywhere. I can’t even move.” I moaned.

“Not even to run and get something to eat? We need groceries, love. There’s nothing in the house,” Jack whined, pulling at my shoe.

I had collapsed when I returned from the gym, my entire body a wet noodle. I had been worked out. Hollywood style. When my trainer wasn’t admiring his abs in the mirror, he was sending me into another round of sprints or down to the floor to do kill-me-now crunches. He was good, no doubt. But clearly the devil.

“Get in your car and go get something. Leave me. I’m no good to you,” I cried, trying to lift my head off the couch and giving up immediately.

“Gracie, come on, walk it off,” he teased, pulling at both shoes now. I could feel myself sliding down the couch.

“Take your ass down the hill to the canyon store and get yourself a sandwich. Let me die,” I instructed, trying to kick him as he pulled me farther off the couch. Kicking used muscles, though, and that was impossible. Every muscle I possessed was now on strike.

“Oh, love, I won’t let you die,” he pronounced dramatically, finally succeeding in pulling me clear of the couch and thumping me into his lap.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I yelled as he wrapped his arms around me. Once I was settled, he ran his hands up and down my back, his fingers pressing into my skin in a soothing way. My muscles relaxed, albeit slightly.

“How many days are you on this crazy workout plan?”

“Chip has me coming in twice a day every day this week.”

“Your trainer’s name is Chip?” He laughed into my neck.

“Of course his name is Chip. Chip’s also an actor, you’ll be glad to know.”

“Is he good-looking? Do I need to be worried here?”

“He’s a juicehead, Jack. You have nothing to worry about. Besides, as sore as I am, I’m not even going to have the energy to keep up with you for a while, to say nothing of the likes of Chip Chip the Devil Man.”

“Oh, I’ll get you sorted out all right. I can’t have my girlfriend so tired she can’t service me properly.” He sighed, sitting back against the wall and bringing me farther into his lap. I snuggled in and yawned.

“I know. It’s in my contract that I keep you satisfied. You might have to do it while I’m sleeping, though.”

“Certainly makes it easier for me when you’re unconscious.” He laughed.

“I promise I’m mentally laughing, George. I just don’t have the abdominal strength to manage it right now.” I yawned again. We sat in the quiet for a moment as he stroked my hair until I heard his tummy growl.

“Okay, you run to the market and get something to eat. I’m going to try and make it to the bed,” I said, trying to extricate myself from his lap. He stood with me, picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder like a bag of overexercised potatoes.

“You nap. I’ll sort out the sandwiches. You want the chicken salad?” he asked.

“Yeah, sounds good, and get me a bag of Chex Mix and— Wait! No, get me a cucumber. And some air. I can have as much air as I want.” I sighed as he eased me down onto the bed. He chuckled as I put my arms in the air, gesturing for him to remove my sweatshirt.

“Cucumber and air, got it. How long are you on the all-air diet?”

“Until I don’t have to carry a big purse.” I snorted as my head hit the pillow. The last thing I heard before I slipped into sleep was his asking me what the bloody hell a big purse had to do with it.

I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing shrilly. I blinked, looking around, confused. It was dark out. Jesus. How long had I been asleep?

“Jack?” I called out, but no answer. I looked at the clock. I’d been sleeping for a few hours. Where was he? I jumped as the phone rang again and winced as I reached across the bed for it. It was the Brit.

“Hey, you get lost?” I smiled into the phone.

“Yeah, something like that,” he mumbled, and I stopped midstretch. He sounded weird.

“What’s wrong, where are you?”

“Somewhere on Santa Monica. I’m stuck in traffic.”

“What the hell are you doing on Santa Monica?”

“Bloody photographer at the market . . . I pulled out and started heading back up the hill, and he followed me. Followed me no matter where I went, and I didn’t want to come home yet, so I kept driving. And so did he. And I ended up getting turned around in the hills and came back down and then—”

“Jack, hey, slow down. It’s okay. Where are you now?”

“It’s not okay! This is f**king ridiculous! Grace, you should have seen how close this guy was behind me. He was a maniac—just to get a picture? It’s insane! I—”

“Okay, love, just come back home. Is he still following you?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure. He’s— Dammit! He’s still back there, and now there’s another one. Shit!”

A prickle of fear began to work its way from the base of my spine all the way to the top. I started pacing around the room, not noticing my muscles cramping up.

“Jack? Hey, Jack?”

“I’m pulling over. This is crazy. Hey! Look out—”

I heard tires squealing. I heard metal crunching. The phone went dead.

“Jack? Jack? Hey, are you there?”

Six

Movie star Jack Hamilton was involved in an altercation today at the corner of Santa Monica Blvd. and Doheny Dr. Several cars were impacted when Hamilton swerved into oncoming traffic, allegedly to avoid a car driven by a photographer. No one was seriously injured, although Hamilton was treated for “minor scrapes” at the scene.