Amber, “you started making movies young.”
Ruby gave her hair a restless shake. “Yeah. Real young. And I wouldn’t have had the money to go anyway if I didn’t make the movies.” The set of her jaw was tight. “Geez, right now, I wish I’d never quit smoking. Situations like this are why cigarettes were invented.”
Somebody had been making life tough for Ruby, too, apparently.
Nick, probably .
Not something Amber really wanted to discuss, but it seemed churlish not to ask. “What situation is that?”
Ruby shrugged. “It’s complicated.” She let her hair slide forward to curtain her face, apparently finding something fascinating to stare at in the row of garbage bins. “How ‘bout you? What’s got you hiding out back here in the boondocks?”
“Also complicated.” She let her mangled bit of branch fall to the ground.
“Yeah,” said Ruby. “Life’s like that, right?” She leaned back her head and stared up at the clouds. “I seriously do want a cigarette. Got one on you, by any chance?”
“Sorry. Non-smoker.”
“That figures.” Ruby’s red lips quirked. “You seem like the wholesome type.”
Wholesome . Same word Nick had used for her. Who did everybody think she was, Anne of Green Gables? She was the director of Junkyard Baby , for pity’s sake—the New York Times called her work “gritty” and “unflinching.” And “darkly hilarious,” too. That had always been her favorite part.
Ruby shifted her weight against the fence. “Guess you don’t have a flask, either?” She didn’t sound too hopeful.
Hell . “Not on me,” Amber said, feeling any claim to hipness draining rapidly away. “Trust me, booze is mother’s milk on indie shoots. But Wild Mountain National Park is really strict about prohibiting it.”
Ruby raised her eyebrows again. “What, you couldn’t smuggle in a case of beer?”
“I couldn’t risk losing my filming permit.”
“Gotcha,” said Ruby, and gave her tongue a click, and Amber could swear she could hear her thinking, goody-goody .
A little pang went through her chest. Oh, God, was that the real issue with Nick after all—did he think she was too wholesome , too much of a Good Girl for a Bad Boy like him? Did he think she’d bore him quickly? That she had what it took to be a friend, but not to be a lover?
She felt a little dizzy. The smell of her junior high gym during school dances came back in a rush—anxious sweat and strawberry lip gloss and Binaca—along with a very old and long-unfamiliar sense of insecurity.
Ruby Torres was definitely messing with her mojo.
Amber gave herself a shake. No . She wasn’t boring. Nick never seemed bored with her—not when they were working on a film, and not when they in bed either.
It wasn’t boredom that had freaked him out in the meadow that first day, and it wasn’t boredom that had made him leave the bed in the dead of night the other night. When they’d tried to talk about it, he’d talked about being afraid .
Of breaking her. Of losing her.
Though she had no idea how she was going to fix that either.
“Hey,” said Ruby. “You think one of the rangers has a private booze stash somewhere? They must. They couldn’t live out here without it, could they?”
Amber blinked. “Uh—I bet the Head Ranger could rustle us up a bottle of something. Morrissey would give you anything you asked for.” She smiled wryly. “Have you seen the screensaver on his laptop?”
Ruby looked wary. “No.”
“Picture of you,” she said, wincing a bit. “That Rolling Stone cover....”
“The macramé bikini?” Ruby struck the pose, hip cocked and back arched dramatically, breasts and chin thrust forward in a posture no chiropractor would ever recommend.
Amber couldn’t help herself; she laughed.
And then Ruby rolled her eyes back in her head and stuck out her tongue like a cartoon dead animal. “Gorgeous, right?” she said. “I was oiled up, too, like a frying pan—anybody who
Ruby gave her hair a restless shake. “Yeah. Real young. And I wouldn’t have had the money to go anyway if I didn’t make the movies.” The set of her jaw was tight. “Geez, right now, I wish I’d never quit smoking. Situations like this are why cigarettes were invented.”
Somebody had been making life tough for Ruby, too, apparently.
Nick, probably .
Not something Amber really wanted to discuss, but it seemed churlish not to ask. “What situation is that?”
Ruby shrugged. “It’s complicated.” She let her hair slide forward to curtain her face, apparently finding something fascinating to stare at in the row of garbage bins. “How ‘bout you? What’s got you hiding out back here in the boondocks?”
“Also complicated.” She let her mangled bit of branch fall to the ground.
“Yeah,” said Ruby. “Life’s like that, right?” She leaned back her head and stared up at the clouds. “I seriously do want a cigarette. Got one on you, by any chance?”
“Sorry. Non-smoker.”
“That figures.” Ruby’s red lips quirked. “You seem like the wholesome type.”
Wholesome . Same word Nick had used for her. Who did everybody think she was, Anne of Green Gables? She was the director of Junkyard Baby , for pity’s sake—the New York Times called her work “gritty” and “unflinching.” And “darkly hilarious,” too. That had always been her favorite part.
Ruby shifted her weight against the fence. “Guess you don’t have a flask, either?” She didn’t sound too hopeful.
Hell . “Not on me,” Amber said, feeling any claim to hipness draining rapidly away. “Trust me, booze is mother’s milk on indie shoots. But Wild Mountain National Park is really strict about prohibiting it.”
Ruby raised her eyebrows again. “What, you couldn’t smuggle in a case of beer?”
“I couldn’t risk losing my filming permit.”
“Gotcha,” said Ruby, and gave her tongue a click, and Amber could swear she could hear her thinking, goody-goody .
A little pang went through her chest. Oh, God, was that the real issue with Nick after all—did he think she was too wholesome , too much of a Good Girl for a Bad Boy like him? Did he think she’d bore him quickly? That she had what it took to be a friend, but not to be a lover?
She felt a little dizzy. The smell of her junior high gym during school dances came back in a rush—anxious sweat and strawberry lip gloss and Binaca—along with a very old and long-unfamiliar sense of insecurity.
Ruby Torres was definitely messing with her mojo.
Amber gave herself a shake. No . She wasn’t boring. Nick never seemed bored with her—not when they were working on a film, and not when they in bed either.
It wasn’t boredom that had freaked him out in the meadow that first day, and it wasn’t boredom that had made him leave the bed in the dead of night the other night. When they’d tried to talk about it, he’d talked about being afraid .
Of breaking her. Of losing her.
Though she had no idea how she was going to fix that either.
“Hey,” said Ruby. “You think one of the rangers has a private booze stash somewhere? They must. They couldn’t live out here without it, could they?”
Amber blinked. “Uh—I bet the Head Ranger could rustle us up a bottle of something. Morrissey would give you anything you asked for.” She smiled wryly. “Have you seen the screensaver on his laptop?”
Ruby looked wary. “No.”
“Picture of you,” she said, wincing a bit. “That Rolling Stone cover....”
“The macramé bikini?” Ruby struck the pose, hip cocked and back arched dramatically, breasts and chin thrust forward in a posture no chiropractor would ever recommend.
Amber couldn’t help herself; she laughed.
And then Ruby rolled her eyes back in her head and stuck out her tongue like a cartoon dead animal. “Gorgeous, right?” she said. “I was oiled up, too, like a frying pan—anybody who
Similar Books
