“I thought you were a dog walker?”
“I am.”
“Oh! Thedogsare your clients. That’s adorable. Perfect. I just texted you the address. Please let me know when you plan to arrive so I can notify the guard house.”
Guard house?Pushing that to the back burner, I dig my phone out of my pocket. Sure, enough there’s a text from an unknown number sharing an address. I open it in my map and wince. It’s all the way up in the hills and my old beater of a car is on fumes.
I try to calculate how much cash I have in my wallet and how much is left in my bank account after paying my bills last Friday. It’s… not much. I don’t know if she can sense my hesitation, or if it just occurred to her to say it, but she clears her throat. “You will, of course, be compensated for your time. Generously.”
“How’s eleven for your client?”
“Perfect. We’ll see you then.” The line goes dead.There you go, Aaron. I answered the call.Not that it provided a single answer.
* * *
I watch the gas gauge drop lower and lower and lower as I drive up into the hills of Santa Monica. The houses get larger and more spread out the farther I go, until I can’t even see them from the road anymore. I’d guess that’s where we cross into true ‘estate’ territory. At the turn for my mystery client’s neighborhood, I pull up to a truly enormous gate. I can’t even see the top of it unless I lean forward over my steering wheel.
A uniformed woman sits inside a stone guard house but stands and comes out to meet me when she sees my car. I roll my window down and fish my license out of my purse.“Honey, did you miss a turn?” She sees my car, and judges, apparently.
“No, I’m supposed to be meeting a client at their home.”
She eyes me skeptically, her gaze assessing my jean shorts and cheap floral tank top. I am suddenly painfully aware that my car is more rust than anything else and the backseat—scratch that—everythingis covered in dog hair.
“Who are you here to see?” she asks with more patience than I would have expected.
“Oh… I don’t actually know. Their assistant called…” I look for my notes. “Sandra. This is the address.” I show the guard and her eyebrows inch upwards. She takes my ID back into the guard house and types away at the laptop inside. Then she makes a call.
My car gives a little shudder and for one terrifying second, I’m sure it’s going to die right here, right in front of a guard house that probably cost more than the teeny bungalow I share with five other people.
“Yes, ma’am.” The guard gives a slight shake of her head as she hangs up. “You’re good to go,” she says, leaning out and handing my ID back. “Just make sure you head straight there. No sightseeing.”
“Oh, you don’t run celebrity tours up here?” I joke. She stares. I guess that wasn’t a good idea. “I’m kidding. Straight there, straight back.” She nods and hits a button. The gate slides open in front of me, and I sputter through it.
By the time I reach the driveway attached to my destination, I’m feeling thoroughly inferior. These houses look like palaces, and I couldn’t afford to buy a single doorknob. The mansion sits at the end of at least half a mile of driveway. Cream-colored stucco, natural stone, and a tiled room give it a bit of Spanish flair. It has to be bigger than the high school I went to.
A woman steps out the front door, wearing a gray pantsuit. Her hair is pulled back in a severe chignon, and the determined set to her mouth has me thinking she’s not one to joke with either. She meets me on the front steps of the insane mansion, a clipboard in her hand. She holds it out to me.
“Before you go in, you’ll need to sign this NDA. My client is very protective of his privacy. By signing this, you agree that you won’t share his identity, address, or anything you witness while in his employ.”
I take it and sign. I wouldn’t do any of that anyway. I don’t care who the client is, if I’m taking care of their beloved pets and given access to their home, keeping my mouth shut is kind of common sense. I hand the form back, she gives it a once over, and then gestures for me to follow her inside.
That first step is like walking into another universe — a fantasy land that should only exist in movies. Marble floors stretch down the foyer, so polished that I’m glad I’m not wearing a skirt. I try not to gawk as we wind down hallways, but I don’t think I do a very good job. Modern, black-framed windows sit against sleek white walls. It’s not gaudy or overly frilly. If anything, the house seems kind of empty. It’s gorgeous, but sterile.
A guitar strums somewhere in the house, the opening notes of one of my favorite songs drawing me in like a siren.
“Dancin’ when the stars go blue…”
“Who—?" I whisper, but don’t finish the question, because the voice that carries through the lonely house is one Iknow. Sandra raises an eyebrow at me, stepping aside and waving me into a living room, but I come to a halt in the doorway, my heart pounding.It seriously can’t be…
A man sits on a dark, leather sofa, one hand sliding along the neck of an acoustic guitar. A black t-shirt hugs his shoulders so tight that I can see the muscles move under theverytouchable cotton. Long, dirty-blond hair, lightened by the sun (or maybe a very talented stylist) swishes over the collar of his shirt, a little rough, a little rumpled… and oh,fuck me.It is. I’m sure of it.
His voice is deep and warm. Familiar, but even richer in person. Just like the first time I heard him on the radio, every hair on my body tingles like he’s ASMR on steroids. My head swims, memories swirling. Fourteen-year-old me, locking herself in the closet. Clamping her dollar-store headphones around her ears as hard as she could. Anything to block out her mother’s brutal words.
Fifteen, laying on a cement picnic bench in the park, curled up under a sheet; the only thing she managed to grab besides her purse. Staring up at the SoCal stars, his voice the only thing to keep her company while she waited for her mother to come down.
Sixteen, the day she left for good, his voice easing her panicked heart as she tried to hitchhike to LA. He was there in her ear that first day of independence. Washing dishes for less than minimum wage because it was cash under the table. Hopping from shelter to shelter, telling them she was eighteen, even though she wasn’t fooling anyone. Scraping enough money together to rent a room in Compton.
The day she bought her car. $900 worth of rust and crap that never passed inspection. But it ran, and it had a CD player and one working speaker. Carson Jones was her escape.