Page 2 of Two-Step
Ramon shrugs. “Why do you think the name is Rose Petal Spa?”
Sally silently mouths the name of the spa, and I see the moment it all clicks into place. She goes pale. “Oh my God.” Then she looks at me. “Iris, you poor thing!”
“I’m not—”
She’s shaking her head. “Why would the studio even need you to do that? I thoughtHexedwas TV-MA. You’re playing a witch.” She frowns at me behind her glasses, all concerned confusion. “How would anyone see Raven Blackwell’s... your… your... “
“They won’t.”
“Well, there is that bathing suit scene you’re shooting next week,” Ramon says.
I glare at him. “They. Won’t.”
He puts his hands up in surrender as though I’m holding a weapon. “Should we call Moira? You know how she gets when you change—”
“No one’s going to call Moira,” I say.
“Calling Moira. Mobile.”Siri announces through Bluetooth.
My eyes snap to the media display on the dash, and I jab the red circle to end the call. “Shit. Shit!” The call disconnects before she can answer, but my heart is already pounding.
A preternatural stillness falls over the car, all three of us watching the display as if it is a sleeping panther we must sneak past in a perilous jungle.
Seconds tick by in silence.
Ramon lets out a breath. “Maybe she didn’t see the c—”
The trill of the incoming call rattles the windows, and Moira’s name flashes across the display.
“Dammit,” I hiss.
We all stare, frozen.
Sally pipes up from the back seat. “You could just let it go to voice—”
“No, we can’t,” Ramon and I say in unison.
I curse again in defeat and push the answer symbol.
“Why aren’t you at the waxing appointment?” Moira’s voice attacks from all sides. Ramon’s hand shoots out to turn the volume down to a bearable level.
“We’re here,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Everything’s cool.”
“Then why are you calling? Is there a problem?”
“Accident. Just an accident,” I blurt. “Butt dial.”
“Well, are they running late? It sounds like you’re calling from the car? Why haven’t you gone in yet?” I reach for the volume knob and give it another quarter turn so her voice feels less like iron spikes in my brain stem. This is typical Moira. Question after question after question. It doesn’t occur to her to pause and let me answer them one at a time.
“We’re about to go in. We just—” I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t do this.
“Just what?” she snaps.
“We were just discussing the appointment. I don’t really think a full Brazillian is nec—”
She cuts me off. “Ramon and I talked about this.”
I whip my gaze to Ramon who is already shaking his head like he’s suffering demonic possession. But I don’t have to see his silent denial to know that when Moira says she’s discussed anything with someone else, it usually doesn’t imply a dialogue. She’s the only one who gets a word in most of the time.
