Page 19 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Too right it was. Get your ass back to the car. If you’re not here in five minutes I’m leaving without you—”
I let him rant on and on before he runs out of firepower and hangs up to reload. “I gather you got the gist of that?” I say, turning back to Brad.
He grimaces in sympathy, pulls us into a sharp U-turn, and puts his foot to the floor. “Does Jake always speak to you that way?”
“Only when he’s having a bad day…which tends to be every day.”
“You don’t need to take his shit. You should come work with me instead.”
He says it casually enough, but it’s like a bomb just slipped into the conversation. I smile at him and say nothing. I’m not sure what the relationship is between these two men, but I have a feeling that wouldreallypiss Jake off. Besides, I’m not prepared to leave Max and Rachel in the lurch, no matter how dazzling Brad’s Hollywood smile is.
We’re nearly at the Escalade. There’s a familiar tall shadow leaning against the passenger door. He’s yelling into his cell phone, but we’re too far away to make out anything other than curse words. He’s lost his jacket. His sleeves have been rolled up, displaying inches of that hard-muscled, golden skin. Hisagitation is shimmering off his body like waves of heat, and he’s running his hand through his hair again. It’s a warning sign:verbal missiles incoming.
We pull up alongside him. When he sees Brad, his face loses all emotion. The next thing I know he’s hanging up his call and tugging me out of my seat by my wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shriek as I lose my footing and tumble into a solid, muscular wall of disapproval.
“Get in the car, Books.”
“Take your goddamn hands off her,” yells Brad, jumping out of the buggy, my knight in five-hundred-dollar retro sneakers.
My head ping-pongs between them as I search for clues as to why everything just went all Wild Weston me.
“I meant what I said, Charlie,” Brad says, addressing me but never taking his eyes off Jake for a second. “I’ll email you my cell number.”
“Don’t bother,” snaps Jake.
“This isn’t your decision to make, Dalton.”
“The fuck it isn’t. She’s mybrother’s assistant, not yours.Neveryours. Back off before my fist makes a meal of your jaw.”
Promised violence hangs over us like a studded veil. When the hell did I become the object of a pissing contest between these two godlike men?
Giving Jake a wide berth, Brad leans over to press his lips briefly against my temple. “Don’t get too close,” he murmurs, loud enough so only I can hear. “Jake’s too cold, too consumed by the past. You seem like a real nice girl, so trust me on this one.”
He releases me and turns on his heel, stalking off without saying another word to Jake.
Chapter Eleven
“I told you to wait in the car.”
“I’m British! We don’t see sunshine very often! We need to soak up all the Vitamin D we can get.”
“That’s what supplements are for.”
Jake’s ditched the Escalade and unearthed a black Maserati from the depths of the Global Studio’s car lot. He’s speeding back toward the freeway like a merchant of doom, and I’m in the passenger seat with only a stack of production paperwork to shield me from his temper. I never knew a man could look this good when he’s clearly hell-bent on murdering me. I wince as he weaves in and out of traffic, the speedometer never once dipping below fifty. He works his black tie loose with a violent jerk and rips it over his head.
“Look, I get it,” I say, cringing into my seat as he chucks the redundant tie over his shoulder. “There’s something weird going on between you and Brad. Some kind of professional rivalry or—”
Jake laughs but there’s no humor in it. “Is that really what you think? Shows how much you know about the business, Books. Brad couldn’t produce a fucking infomercial, let alone a multimillion-dollar movie. The guy’s a complete fake.”
His comment stings. I’ve actually handled stuff pretty well these past few days. “Well, I thought he seemed nice.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot who can’t see past the end of a chapter. Stick to reading the literary equivalents of wet dreams, sweetheart, and I’ll stick to making movies.”
“Screw you. Pull over, I quit!” I cry, finally seeing red. I’ve had as much as I can take of Jake Dalton and his insults.
He says nothing but he exits the next ramp. Pulling into an In-N-Out Burger parking lot, he skids the Maserati to a halt. We sit in bristling silence for a moment.
