Chapter 1

chapter

one

Mills

The heat gags me the second I roll my bag out of the airport terminal.

I would give my voice box to a sea witch in exchange for a private, air-conditioned Uber to transport me and my luggage to my apartment.

But I need my voice to do comedy, and I need my bank account to stay in the black. So, I'll wait here for a crowded shuttle to the remote parking lot, along with the rest of the cheapskates.

A sleek, black car pulls up to the curb in front of me, and the driver hops out and opens the rear door. A whisper of that fully functioning air conditioning escapes. My fantasy sugar daddy comes to life, perhaps?

Alas, that fantasy evaporates when a leggy blonde in a cute jumpsuit and killer heels glides past me in a fog of designer perfume. She effortlessly folds her long frame into that cool black car while the driver loads her luggage. Scrolling on her phone, no concerns about traffic mar her perfectly serene, not-sweaty face.

I'm not jealous, not even a little bit. Her toes are probably throbbing in those $700 shoes.

What do I have to be jealous about anyway, now that I'm flush with cash from a gig in Chicago? Technically, I could afford that ride. It simply would make no sense because my car would still be at LAX.

What I didn't spend on rides and first-class seats on this trip, I'll use to buy name-brand cereal at the grocery store, or some organic chicken breasts instead of hot dogs and ramen.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'll probably spend it on a cute new collar for Monster, my Boston terrier. Maybe a casting director will show up at the dog park and be so taken with Monster's utter perfection that they offer us an ad contract on the spot, allowing me less travel and more time at home with said dog. Everybody wins.

Boarding the shuttle bus in front of me, a family of four wearing Disney tee-shirts is struggling. "Daddy's not leaving without us; don't push each other," the mother gently reminds two small children. She tries to hold them back so the dad can wrangle their suitcases one by one into the luggage rack. White lines on his temples announce that he wore sunglasses but not sunscreen for at least a week. I politely move my suitcase out of the way to give them room.

Everyone settles in for the 15-minute ride back to the cheap remote lot. I smile at the mom who sits across from me.

"Good trip?"

She nods. Her husband grunts, "Disney Cruise," then wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The tired mom starts to speak but the kids immediately interrupt. "I got to be a princess!" one of them announces.

"Cool!" I reply.

"The best part was the Lego room," says the other one.

"The ship was very nice," the mom says. "But I'm looking forward to being home."

Her husband reaches over their children's heads and squeezes her shoulder. The two exchange a look.

I'm not sure what's come over me but that look between them triggers a lump in my throat.

My mind scraps the idea of a casting director showing up at the dog park and subsequently launching my pup into animal sidekick stardom. I'd much rather meet a sociable man there who loves dogs as much as I do. The last guy I dated was allergic to dogs, but I often wonder if that was real or if it was a control thing for him.

Allergies were his excuse for everything. We could never go to parties with my friends who owned animals, which is one hundred percent of my friends. We never ate at restaurants that I liked because of a long list of food allergies.

In addition to being allergic to everything I love, that guy was averse to me letting my freak flag fly. He never wanted to do anything that wasn't completely vanilla in bed. Don't get me wrong. I love vanilla. Vanilla can hit the spot perfectly a lot of the time. But there are things I've always wanted to try, and he refused because it was "too weird."

Looking at the happy couple sitting across from me, I notice how they look at each other. The smiles. The blushing. The gleam in his eye. Oh yeah. They are freaks in the bedroom.

I wonder if he lets her do butt stuff to him.

Not that I'm jealous.

I'm fine just the way I am. I'm just tired. And emotional because I miss Monster, and I need some stinky dog kisses.

When I finally reach my car, I crank the A/C and enjoy the cool air for as long as it lasts, which will not be the entire ride back to my apartment. To fix what's wrong with my car, I'll need to book three more out-of-town gigs, and I don't want to think about that now.

I feed my ticket into the little machine at the exit gate, then pay with my card, feeling the sting of that $46 charge. Maybe an Uber ride would be worth it after all.

I jump out of my skin when a badge-wearing woman in a bright yellow airport employee vest taps on my window.

"Excuse me."

Rolling down my window, I wonder if I've done something wrong. "Yes?"

She asks, "Would it be okay if this man over here uses your card? His isn't working. He has cash, and I'll get you a parking voucher for your next visit."

My tired brain has to do some quick math. Am I being scammed? No, she's wearing a badge. But it might be a scam. If it is a scam, no one is going to get very far with my shitty credit limit.

Looking past the parking attendant, it's all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping like a cartoon character.

At the wheel of the new Range Rover in the next lane is someone who is clearly the result of Faramir having a baby with Cillian Murphy. There's no other excuse for those cheekbones. Nor can there be any other explanation for a luscious head of hair on a man in his early to mid-40s. Is he a movie star? If not, he could be.

He waves at me, offering a disarming smile. "So sorry to bother you; I know this is weird," he says, dripping with boy-next-door charm.

My people-pleasing response is to exclaim with zero chill: "Not weird at all!" while thinking this is, in fact, a little weird.

I hand over my card to the parking attendant, who feeds it into the other machine. The driver opens his wallet, presumably to put his defunct bank card away. But then, something else happens that will etch this man into my memory forever: he hands a wad of cash to the attendant, who, in turn, walks it over to me along with my card.

"For your troubles," he calls out to me.

I look at the stack of crisp bills in my hand, and there must be over three hundred dollars here. I gasp. Am I now indebted to an incredibly hot drug dealer?

"This is too much!" I say, waving the bills at the attendant. She smiles, and ignoring my attempt to return the cash, she pushes a button that triggers the gates to open in both lanes.

The man's smolder can't be denied. "Listen. My card doesn't work, I haven't slept in 24 hours, and I just want to get home. Thank you so much for your kindness."

I try to hand one of the large bills to the attendant, but she shakes her head as if to say accepting cash tips violates some sort of parking attendant rule, though I'm sure it does not.

Another driver behind me honks. Startled, I shove the cash into my purse like a wild animal instead of carefully securing it in my wallet.

Before I drive away, I beam at the man in the Range Rover. "I'm gonna go get my car fixed! Thank you!"

The beautiful man's full lips turn up in a half smile that could melt Trunchbull. I consider ignoring the cars behind me so I can stare a little longer.

Sigh.

Smiling and waving back, I roll up my window and put the car in gear.

The driver with the crappy bank card watches me leave, follows me out of the lot, then disappears from my life forever.

And that's that. That's the end of our relationship.

Monster is waiting, after all, and I've been looking forward to happy dog snorts and excited wiggles.

Dates and hook-ups come and go in this town, but the constants in my life are good friends and my dog. I'm content with that, for now.