Page 33 of Hot Nights in Morocco
We’ve been camping out in a terminal that hasn’t been updated since the 1970s, crammed in side by side on a small bench next to a disgusting toilet cubicle. All around us, travelers of every nationality are bawling into their electronic devices while small children play at their feet. It’s a hotbed of sweat and irritation, and the air conditioning unit is so crap it could melt an iceberg.
Jake shifts his weight in protest at the conditions. As he does, his left leg strays over to my side, past the orange foam oozing out of the red fabric bench like a decapitated teddy bear. It touches mine briefly and then springs away as if stung.
“Can’t you just summon up your private jet?” I’m losing my cool, and fast. After zero hours sleep, my tolerance levels are plummeting.
Jake grumbles something about routine maintenance again. “Call Rachel,” he orders, tapping in the VP’s number for the fiftieth time. “See if she can send a production driver out to pick us up. We need to get back to that set tonight.” He holds up his hand as his phone connects with the VP’s voicemail. “Harrak. Dalton again.”
“But Erizo’s a fourteen hour round-trip,” I argue. “You can’t expect him to drive both ways without stopping. It’s dangerous.”
“Any better ideas then, sunshine?”
I fight the urge to smack him one in his beautiful face. “This isn’t my fault, and spare me the fake endearments,Mr. Dalton.Only friends get that privilege.”
After last night, “Books” appears to have been permanently shelved.
“Sure thing,sweetheart. You should have checked for flight issues before we left L.A.—Rachel would have done so. That’s if she ever stops mooning over my brother.”
“You leave Rachel out of this. She’s far more loyal to you than you deserve.”
“That’s because she’smyassistant. I knew you were a mistake the minute I met you.”
“You mean it was a mistake to screw me,” I counter bitterly.
“Keep your voice down!”
We’re encountering interested glances from our fellow stranded passengers now.
“Why? Worried some passing paparazzo might shop you to the press? ‘Famous producer caught slumming it!’ Shocker!” I’m horrified to find tears in my eyes.
He opens his mouth for a crushing reply when a young, dark-skinned man with chocolate-brown eyes taps him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir? May we speak?” His voice is low and hesitant, his accent rich and colorful.
“If you’re selling getaway vehicles, I’ll take five,” drawls Jake.
The man looks blank for a moment. “You need to get to Erizo, no? I have a taxi. It’s a long journey through the mountains but I would be happy to take you for a price.” He sweeps his long robes to one side and crouches down in front of us to await our response.
“Done,” says Jake without consulting me. He grasps the young man’s hand and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.
“My village lies on the way.” The man’s smile is warm and genuine. “Join me and my family for dinner. I insist.”
Jake hesitates and I know what he’s thinking.Kidnap. Rape. Extortion.Take your pick. He’s the richest man in Hollywood.
“Of course your beautiful wife is invited, too,” the man says, his smile widening at me.
We’re both so shocked by his assumption that even Jake can’t muster a comeback. At least it clears one thing up—this guy hasn’t a clue who Jake is.
“We’re n-not—I mean w-we’re—” I stammer.
“She works for my brother,” says Jake crushingly. “We’re colleagues, nothing more.”
No need to spell it out, Jake. I’m getting the message loud and clear.
The young man looks embarrassed, shifting his weight from one brown sandaled foot to another. “I apologize. I assumed from the way you were talking with one other…”
“Unfortunately, this woman hasn’t yet grasped the concept of a hierarchal working relationship,” says Jake, not looking in my direction. “Thanks for the offer. We appreciate the invitation, and thank your family in advance for their hospitality.”
“This is good news.” The young man’s face lights up again as he rises to his feet. “My name is Hassan. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
