LOVE ‘EM(6)

“Okay, Gee-Gee, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So, when you go on the show again, trip more carefully. I want to know if that Jackson is—what did he say to that lady in the audience? Oh! I want to know if he’s hung like a mule. You’ll find out for me.”

I close my eyes. This is my family.

Surely, I was secretly switched at birth and somewhere, my real family is normal. A nice, normal family. A family who talks about the weather and the latest sports win, not how well endowed a man is.

“Gee-Gee, why can’t you be like other grandmas and tell me all about your ailments when I call?”

“Oh pish-posh. You don’t want to talk about the fact that I haven’t had a bowel movement in three days.” She chuckles. “Wait—you don’t, do you?”

The doorbell chimes, sending Dickey Bird into a wild tizzy as he whistles, beeps, and sings every ringtone and alarm he’s ever learned.

Thank God. Saved by—the bell rings again.

“Sorry, Gee-Gee. Someone’s at the door; I need to go. I’ll talk to you later. Love you. Bye.”

I swipe my finger across the screen. “Shush, Dickey. You’re going to wake the beast.”

As I pass his large perch, he bobs his head and flaps his wings. “Beware the beast.”

Sometimes I’d swear that bird does more than mimic what he hears. “Shh. I see you. I see you. Attention hound.”

I turn the handle on the door, still laughing at the bird.

“Well, look at that smile. I’m glad you’re happy to see me.”

Shit.

Jackson Tremaine. And look, he’s brought along his smug grin.

“What are you doing here?” I pull the edge of my cami top up a notch and cross my arms over my breasts.

He shrugs and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tattered jeans. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Yeah, right. “You come to West Hollywood often? Don’t they have everything you need where you live?”

“I live not too far from here.” He glances over his shoulder toward his car.

A sedan. Upper end… but still, I’m surprised it isn’t some testosterone fueled sports car.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Tremaine?”

“Nice place.”

“Thanks, but I only rent a room.”

“Yeah? How’d you end up here?” He looks into the entryway.

It’s weird to be having this somewhat mundane conversation with Jackson Tremaine. In all the years I’ve lived in the LA area, I’ve barely even seen a handful of stars. Now one shows up where I live? What’s his game? Bet he’s sniffing around, looking for Shay.

I answer, “Ten months ago, I lost my attic apartment because my slumlord—I mean landlord—died and his kids sold the place. So I moved in here.”

He leans against the door frame, his gaze darting from one corner to the next, as though he’s trying to see what—or who—is inside. “So, who do you live with?”

Wait. “You didn’t come to see Shay?”

His brows draw together. “Shayna? As in Leave ‘Em?”

“This is her place. I thought you came to see her. She gets a lot of that.”

“She does all right with her little out-the-cheater business, eh?”

“I guess. She’s pretty hard to resist, I suppose.” I fiddle with the hem on my top, pulling it down to cover the band of exposed skin above my shorts.

His eyes zone in on the cleavage I accidentally revealed. Or maybe my headlights are shining, and that’s what caught his attention. Boobs. Why do they choose the worst times to do their own thing? I try to cross my arm over my tits and hide my midriff as well.

Damn. I can’t cover everything with this stupid top.

I lay my hand flat over the spot his eyes are burning a hole into. “Mr. Tremaine?”

With what seems to be great effort, he pulls his gaze to meet mine.

“Oh, sorry. Call me Jackson. I—” He takes a step closer and his hand shoots out. He wriggles his finger beneath my palm. “—is that a tattoo?”

What the hell?

I back up.

He follows me inside. He digs a bit further under my hand and pushes against the top of my breast. “C’mon, don’t be shy, Ronnie. Let’s see it.”

I tighten my hold over my tat and thump his knuckles. What’s wrong with him? Has he lost his mind?

“No.” I grind out.

“Aw. Now, don’t be like that. I want a peek.” His spicy, wooded scent encroaches on my comfort.

He inches closer, sending my heart into panic-mode when my back hits the wall.

God knows why, but I want to lean into him.

Wait. No. That’s wrong.

This is the guy who likely ruined my life between commercial breaks last night. What the hell is the matter with me?