Unscripted (12 page)

“Nope. Alas.”

“Similar chaise, similar reflecting pool, Vietnam?”

“Not even.”

“At least gimme a beach scene.”

“How about lots of beach, no water.”

“Huh?”

“Very brown, very dry, three-hundred-and-fifty-degree open-oven, gates-of-hell-type heat. G’wan, guess.”

Jaya laughed. “Not on vacation, then.”

“Definitely not. I am working.” I took a deep breath. “I’m in Moreno Valley.”

There was a pause, then an incredulous,
“Why?”

“Because here be Alex.”

Jaya let loose a little squeal. “You found him?”

“I did.”

“What did he say?”

Another deep breath, this one shakier. “I haven’t seen him yet. On my way there now.”

“What’s he doing in Moreno Valley? And—sorry—which is where, exactly, again?”

“An hour and a half, two hours inland from the coast . . . ish. I don’t know; I just followed my GPS.”

“And what’s he doing there?” she repeated.

I limped up the wide, shallow steps of a squat building that looked like all the other squat buildings surrounding it, except it was round instead of square. I heaved open one of the heavy glass doors and practically fell inside.

“I’m here. I’ll have to talk to you later.”

“But where’s
here?
And why couldn’t you just text him?”

“Later, my pet. All things will be revealed later.”

“I hate it when you build suspense.”

I clicked off. I was in the lobby of the arts building of the esteemed Inland Empire Community College, est. 1969, according to the poking about I’d done online yesterday. I couldn’t see a thing, still blinded as I was by my time in the searing sunshine, but I wasn’t interested in the sights. I only wanted to collapse on the floor and absorb the air-conditioning for, oh, about three days or so.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw a couple of shabby benches with worn checked upholstery and metal legs squatting in front of some narrow, floor-to-ceiling tinted windows on either side of the doors, a couple of modest abstract sculptures on pedestals, and the open doors to the theater proper, straight ahead, where voices, and random clunks and clanks, echoed. I dropped onto the nearest bench, lifted my hair, and let the cool air hit the back of my neck.

What was I doing here? This was a stupid idea. It was stupid of me to drive all the way out here. And where was here? Stupid Tatooine, felt like. I had never been to Moreno Valley before, even though it was only a couple of hours from L.A., but my first impression of it wasn’t all that positive: hot, brown, dry. It might as well have been another planet as far as I was concerned.

Maybe I
should
have texted Alex . . . but no. I knew I had to do this face to face. He could ignore a text, but he couldn’t ignore me, right in front of him.

So after a few seconds, when I was feeling almost human again, I hoisted my bag back onto my shoulder and headed farther inside. The theater itself was even darker than the lobby, the house lights low, throwing the lit stage into high relief. Alex should be here. I scanned the people scurrying around for some sign of his familiar face. Was that him there? Or maybe—

Thwack.
Suddenly something was in front of me, and I walked right into it. The something was hard and soft at the same time, and a slightly pained noise came out of it. My face was between two shoulder blades, and my purse had just swung forward to whack their owner in the kidney. I jumped back as the person turned around.

“Sorry,” I muttered, stepping to the right to go around. “Dark in here.” And I made for the stage again.

But a limb shot out and barred the way as effectively as Bea’s studio gate arm, blocking me right at boob level. Was this person trying to cop a feel? But no—he jumped, apparently as alarmed as I was at where his arm had landed, and removed it quickly. “Can I help you with something?”

I craned my neck to see past him, keeping my eye on the people on the brightly lit stage. “Yeah, you can get out of the way. I need to get—”

Before I could say anything more, someone from down near the foot of the stage called, “Mason?” and a young woman in a ribbed tank top, cargo shorts, and hiking boots, with a headset around her neck, loped up the aisle from the foot of the stage. When she got to us, she pushed some stray hairs away from her forehead, smoothing them back toward her sleek, dark ponytail, and gave me a really good
Who the fuck are you?
look. Kudos, kid. Nice territorial vibe.

“Can I help you?” the fierce little thing asked.

Oh, so much help offered around here. Too bad I got the feeling they were offering to help me find the exit. I decided to play dumb. “I hope so,” I said. “I’m—”

“Faith Sinclair,” the guy supplied.

Oh great. Recognized. Now the question was, would that be a help or a hindrance? I looked at the guy, scanning him from his old-fashioned sneakers—what would probably have been called tennis shoes back in the day—up his “I’m a grown-up” khakis and his dark plaid button-down shirt, past those impressive shoulders I had walked into, to the top of his shaggy head.

He was staring back at me, scritching the bit of scruff under his chin.

“Oh,
seriously?
” It just popped out of my mouth, and I still wasn’t sure if I was pleased or dismayed. I passed a hand over my forehead. “Weren’t you—”

With a quick, sidelong glance at the girl, he cut me off with, “Right. In L.A. I’m, uh, Bea’s friend.” Quickly changing the subject, he turned to the pit bull of a tech next to him. “Uh, Kaylie, why don’t you get Ms. Sinclair some water. She looks hot—uh, thirsty.”

She didn’t move, just kept her narrowed eyes on me.

“Kaylie?” he prompted.

Reluctantly, she headed back down the aisle, ponytail swinging, occasionally glaring at me over her shoulder. I kept waiting for her to do the two-fingers-up-to-the-eyeballs “I’m watching you” thing, but to her credit she didn’t. I turned my attention back to the pleasant, and familiar, specimen of manhood in front of me.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured.

“So. Dusty Toyota. Isn’t this a coincidence.”

“Good character name. But—hate to let you down—I’ve washed the car since then.”

I still wanted to blow past him and find Alex, but I figured maybe a little schmoozing would help get me there. “You know, I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Really? Did you come all the way out here to invite me for a drink?”

Oh God, he remembered. “I heard you talking to Bea, about interviewing for a job. I wondered how that went.”

He winced. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? Let’s just forget any ill-advised adventures in L.A., okay? And, uh, if you don’t mind, I kind of want to keep my job hunt quiet, so could we just . . . ?”

“My lips are sealed. What job that you weren’t going for didn’t you get?”

He let out a little rueful laugh and rubbed his cheek. “Writer, actually.”

“For . . . ?”

“A little something called
Modern Women.
”

“Oh. Oh God—really?”

He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Yup.”

My stomach clenched. So Randy B. was, what, hiring a writing staff to take my place—one that would take my show even farther from my plans, my vision? I’d have to investigate that. Because even if this guy didn’t get the job, someone else must have.

“And here, you’re . . . ?”

“Mason is head of the theater department,” said a sharp voice at my elbow. Kaylie had returned with my water. She thrust a tiny paper cup toward me. It was filled with a tepid, likely toxic sample from a tap.

Oh, this girl was good.

“He’s an excellent teacher. And director,” she added for good measure, as Mason winced again—not at her compliments, but at what she was delivering.

“Kaylie, I meant one of the bottles of water from the fridge in the green room,” he reprimanded her gently. “I’m sorry,” he said to me, reaching for the cup. “We’ll get you—”

“No, no. Don’t trouble yourself. This is fine.” For some reason I was desperate to prove that I wasn’t one of Bea’s Hollywood asshats, expecting to have a giant, icy bottle of Evian on hand at every moment. Yep, tap water was good enough for me, dang it.

I put the cup to my lips as I glanced around, scanned the stage again. There were fewer students working than when I first arrived. I still didn’t see Alex. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Kaylie watching me like a hawk. I tipped the cup, planning to down the soupy stuff in one gulp, just to show her. And then I spotted a familiar profile, illuminated by the glare of the stage lights. Alex. Crossing the stage, helping to carry a scenery flat. I choked.

Coughing wildly, my eyes tearing up, I was dimly aware of Mason patting my back. “Ms. Sinclair—are you all right?”

I nodded blearily, trying to stop the tickle in my throat. “Fine,” I gasped.

“Maybe you need some water?” Kaylie sniped.

Laughing at her snark, I pushed the cup at Kaylie and made a beeline for the front of the house.

But Mason blocked my path. “Ms. Sinclair? What can I do for you?”

I tried to see past him, first over one shoulder, then the other. Stupid broad shoulders anyway—I couldn’t see a thing but them. I worked hard to get my voice working again. “You can get out of my way, thanks. Alex!” I called. But Alex was already gone, into the wings. Frustrated, I clenched my hands in my hair, took a steadying breath. “All right. Look. I’m here to see Alex McNulty. I need to talk to him about—well, never mind. I just need to talk to him.” I craned my neck, hoping to see him come back out from backstage.

“Well, we have a policy about that, I’m afraid.”

I focused on Mason. “What?”

“No outside visitors.”

“What—
why?
”

“I don’t think that’s any business of yours, Ms. Sinclair. With all due respect,” he hastened to add, but I was already pissed off.

“What kind of place is this, that you don’t allow . . .” Then the penny dropped. “Oh. This is just for Alex, isn’t it?”

In answer, Mason only gave me a polite, closed-mouth smile.

“Look, I’m not a fan or anything—you know who I am—”

“All the same.”

I was speechless for a moment, then spluttered, “This is stupid.”

“Alex is entitled to his privacy,” Kaylie interjected. “You have no right to—”

I actually laughed in her face. I’d had just about enough of this kid. “Honey, stop talking.” I should have taken my own advice, but I’d reached the end of my tether. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Kaylie gaped, shocked at my words. And, honestly, so was I. It wasn’t one of my finer moments, but I brushed it off, even as Mason spoke up.

“Ms. Sinclair, that was entirely uncalled for.”

I was barely listening; I decided I had to go hunt my prey down instead of waiting around. “You need to get out of my way, Mr. . . . whatever your name is—”

“It’s
Professor
Mitchell—” Kaylie interjected again.

“Whatever. Excuse me.”

And I shoved my way past Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell and his minion. He didn’t put up much of a fight, although I was sure he could have been an immovable wall if he’d wanted to. I rushed the stage like a groupie, leaping up the side steps and hurrying offstage, where Alex had gone.

There was no one there. I dashed around for a couple of seconds, then called to a couple of students hanging lights upstage to ask if they saw which direction Alex had headed. They didn’t respond, just stared at me blankly. I spun around, spotted a door in the black cinderblock wall. I shoved it open and found myself on a loading dock at the back of the building, blinded by the sudden sunlight. I shaded my eyes and looked around. Alex wasn’t hanging around outside for a smoke, and he wasn’t on one of the white paths that crisscrossed the campus lawns. He was long gone.

* * *

“Cover me. I’m coming in.”

I flicked off the security spotlights, as well as the light by the door, so my entire front yard was in shadow. Within a minute I heard the grumble of tires in my driveway, then a car door slam. I opened the front door just enough to admit Jaya’s slim form and the items she had in her arms.

“This is so cool—I feel like I’m having an illicit affair,” she whispered, squeezing inside.

Jamie stomped by, stopped short, and said eagerly, “What’s this, then? Should I cancel my evening plans? Something more interesting going on at home?”

Over my shoulder, I snapped, “Move along. Nothing to see here. Go on your date.”