[2018] PS I Hate You Read online

  I slip my phone and keys into my pockets and eye the door.

  “What do you say?” she asks. “One week. No romance. No lies or bullshit or games. Just a couple of people hanging out and having fun.”

  I’ll admit she’s dynamite in bed and maybe “hanging out” a few more times with her before I leave would be better than finding some fast and loose girl at the sports bar down the street from Ma’s, but I don’t know.

  Once you sleep with someone a few times and get to know them, shit changes and sometimes you have no control over how it’s going to change—if it’s going to be better or worse or complicated or the kind of thing you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to recover from.

  I’m leaning toward the inclination that no good can possibly come of something like this. Someone’s going to catch feelings and get hurt and more than likely it’s not going to be me.

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” I say.

  Her expression doesn’t waver. “I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

  I exhale. I just want to get the fuck out of here, get through the rest of the week, and get my ass overseas where I belong.

  “I can get some of my shifts covered for the week,” she says, stepping closer and wrapping the blanket so tight the tops of her breasts practically spill out. It’s a silent bribe, I fucking know it is. “Come on. We could have fun.”

  “No romance or dates?” I ask.

  “None.” She makes an ‘x’ across her chest.

  “No bullshit or lies?” I ask.

  I can’t believe I’m even considering this. It’s got to be those eyes. Those big brown eyes. She’s luring me in, casting a spell or some shit. I don’t know. For some reason, I feel almost powerless around her. Or maybe it’s nothing more than curiosity and an amazing sex hangover that left me wanting more.

  “Zero.” Her full lips turn up at the sides, like a girl who knows she’s about to get what she wants.

  Running a hand through my messy hair, I exhale, locking eyes with her. “Fine.”

  This marks the first time in the last ten years that I’ve been defeated by a woman, that I’ve given up control of a situation when every fiber of my being is screaming at me to walk away, to say no while I still can, before this gets messy.

  She wraps her arms around my shoulders, bouncing before pressing her body against mine. “Go home. Get some sleep. Saturday number one is tomorrow.”

  I just hope I won’t live to regret this.

  And I hope she won’t either.

  Saturday #1

  “I NEVER REALIZED HOW small Miley Cyrus was,” I say as I pull Isaiah toward her wax likeness Sunday morning. “I think I was twelve last time I looked like this.”

  Isaiah doesn’t seem amused and he doesn’t seem to care.

  “Hey, look, you’re the same height as Ryan Gosling,” I say, pointing.

  Yesterday morning a courier delivered my phone from The Mintz at approximately seven AM, and I can only imagine Isaiah arranged that.

  This morning I texted him as soon as I woke up and told him to meet me at 6933 Hollywood Boulevard by 9:30 AM. I met him with two coffees in hand—two creams and a half of a sugar pack for him—because somehow I remembered.

  “You don’t find this shit creepy?” he asks.

  “I find real celebrities creepier than their waxy counterparts.” I take a sip of coffee. “They’re so … all over the place. You never know if they’re going to be nice or rude or in a good mood or a bad mood or if they’re nothing like the last fifteen movie roles they played. These wax people are more real than any celebrity, and I speak from experience.”

  He doesn’t ask, but he doesn’t have to. When you live in LA, people just assume you run into famous people on a daily basis. And sometimes you do. Depends on where you work or where you spend most of your time.

  These days, living in my grandmother’s guesthouse in her Brentwood estate on the same street where Marilyn Monroe took her final breath, I don’t tend to get out much. Most people in Brentwood keep to themselves and the flashier stars stick to Beverly Hills and those places. A few of the B and C listers who’ve pseudo-retired and started families have been migrating to Encinitas and Temecula, but for the most part, I might see someone I recognize from TV mayyyyybe once a month.

  “Oh, full disclosure,” I say, placing my hand on his arm as I catch him checking out waxy J. Lo’s booty. “We were talking about not being fake and stuff yesterday?”

  “Yeah?”

  “My boobs are fake. Just putting it out there in the interest of full honesty and sticking to our agreement.”

  He smirks for a split second, dimples flashing, and his honeyed eyes land on my rack.

  “That wasn’t an invitation to check them out,” I say, pointing at him with two fingers and then pointing at my eyes. “Up here, Corporal.”

  “How’d you know I was a corporal?” he asks.

  “Rachael told me that day at the diner. I don’t forget a thing.” I point to my head and give him a wink.

  He sniffs, like maybe he’s impressed. “Anyway, that was a natural reflex. Forgive me.”

  “Forgiven,” I say, pressing my palms against my full C-cups. “I’ve had them since the month I turned eighteen. At the time, all my girlfriends were getting new boobs as graduation gifts, and my friend’s dad was a plastic surgeon who offered a buy-one-implant-get-one-free deal to all her friends. In retrospect, having her dad do my surgery was kind of creepy, but at the time, all I could think about was how nice it was going to be to finally fill out a bikini top for the first time in my life.”

  “Priorities of an eighteen-year-old.”

  “Exactly.” I grin, head tilting, and I nudge his shoulder with mine. “See, you get it.”

  We make our way into the next room, which is set up like some fancy nightclub. Will Smith is perched on some futuristic-looking seat, Jada standing beside him. Across from them is Edward Norton—random—and then of course Brad and Angelina.

  “Whoever runs this place needs to read an Us Weekly. Brangelina broke up, like, a year ago,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  He slips his hands into his jeans pockets, and I watch the subtle flex of his triceps before following the round curve of his shoulders. Isaiah is pure muscle. Hard, steely muscle.

  Shaking my head, I snap myself out of it.

  “You’re not into this celebrity stuff, are you?” I ask. “You seem bored. If I’m being honest. And I am. Always.”

  He drags his hand down his full mouth. “Yeah. This isn’t my thing.”

  “Then why do you live in LA?”

  “I don’t. My mom is here. I stay with her between deployments.”

  “So, where’s home then?” I ask.

  Isaiah shrugs. “Nowhere.”

  I follow him to the next exhibit, which is full of historical replicas of people like Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. He lingers in here a bit longer. Maybe history is more his thing?

  “My cousin, Eli, is a huge history buff,” I say. “He’s in the army, too. I think that’s partially why he joined. He wanted to be in command, he wanted to lead, but more than that, he wanted his name printed in a history book. True story.”

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, I’ve met a lot of those.”

  “Can you believe I’ve lived in LA my entire life and this is the first time I’ve ever been here?” I muse. “Here, take my picture next to this guy. I like his hair.”

  “Thomas Edison?” He lifts a brow.

  “Yeah.” I strike a pose, flashing a peace sign and sticking my tongue out of the side of my mouth a la Miley. Fuck trying to look cool. I’d rather be memorable, even if it means looking like a dork.

  Isaiah lifts his phone and snaps a picture, texting it to me a second later, and we head toward the exit.

  “So, uh … Before I knew you didn’t like this stuff, I kind of, sort of booked us this celebrity tour-of-homes sightseeing e
xcursion.” I wince, eyes squinting hard as I shrug my shoulders. “But we don’t have to go.”

  Even though I already paid the eighty bucks to hold our spots …

  “Nah, it’s fine,” he says, glancing toward the distance. “I’ll try anything once.”

  “Just don’t get your hopes up, okay? You strike me as the adrenaline-seeking type, and this is going to be more like Midwestern tourists and little old ladies asking where Clark Gable used to live.”

  Looping my hand into the bend of his elbow because I’m an unapologetically touchy-feely kind of girl, I pull him toward Sunset Boulevard where we’re supposed to wait for some hot pink topless bus type of vehicle with the words CELEB VIP TOURS painted across the sides.

  By the time we round the corner, the open-top bus contraption is pulling into a reserved parking spot and a herd of little old ladies are climbing on.

  “Sure you want to do this?” I ask. “I’m giving you an out right now, so if you want it, you better take it.”

  “I told you, I’ll try anything once,” he says.

  “Good. Because I wouldn’t want you violating rule number one on our first day,” I say, winking.

  “Did you say day or date?” he asks, face pinched.

  “DAY,” I say, loud and clear, enunciating each and every letter.

  “All right. Just checking.”

  Elbowing him as we climb on board, I say under my breath, “You’d be so lucky.”

  I swear he fights a smirk.

  Retrieving my phone, I pull up our tickets in my email and the driver scans the barcodes. We find a seat in the back row, left side, and he gives me the outside which clearly has the better view.

  “Okay, are we ready for our Homes of the Stars tour?” The driver-slash-tour guide speaks into a microphone, his enthusiasm way too extreme for a weekday morning. The women around us smile and half-clap, and he takes his seat, buckling up.

  We pull into traffic a second later, and while I feel like an enormous dork, I’m secretly pleased because this is always something I’ve wanted to do, but my friends always acted like they were too cool for shit like this.

  The first stop is the Holmby Hills neighborhood, where the guide rambles on about the Playboy Mansion, spouting as much trivia and fun facts as he can as we pass by the gated drive. Next we approach the old Spelling Manor, which now belongs to some international gazillionaire whose name I couldn’t understand because the guide’s mic was all crackly and an onyx Maserati was honking at a baby blue Aston Martin.

  Ten minutes later, he approaches the Holiday Palms neighborhood, which he proudly spouts was the place to live in the sixties, with Raquel Welch, Farrah Fawcett, and Gloria Claiborne all living door to door at one point in time.

  “It’s true,” I lean into Isaiah. “Grandma said Farrah was sweet as pie. Raquel was the one to watch out for. Wasn’t her fault though. Men couldn’t resist her exotic beauty and sensual charm.”

  “Grandma?” He lifts a brow.

  “Yep. Gloria Claiborne is my grandma,” I say. It’s better that I get it out now because sooner or later, I find myself accidentally working it into conversation. And it’s not that I’m trying to brag or name drop—because let’s be honest, most people my age have no idea who she was back then—but my grandma is one of my favorite human beings on the planet, so I talk about her more than most people probably talk about their grandmothers.

  He scratches the side of his nose, brows furrowed. “Wasn’t she in that movie …”

  I nod. “Davida’s Desire.”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “No. But my dad had that famous poster in his garage growing up … the one with the white bikini.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I know exactly which poster that is. My grandma has a room full of all her old movie posters.”

  Over the years, her poster for Davida’s Desire has gained cult status, kind of like Farrah’s red swimsuit cover. People recognize it instantly—Grandma’s thick, chocolate curls, round, babydoll eyes, elegant pointed nose, bee-stung pout, and curves spilling out of a tiny string bikini as she lies in the sand next to a turquoise ocean.

  “Huh.” Isaiah’s palm drags across his jaw and I feel him staring at me, looking at me through a new lens. “You kind of look like her now that I think about it.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Yeah, I get that.”

  I don’t like to make it into a thing, but my entire life people have pointed out how much I resemble my grandma in her younger days. And it’s true. We have the same abundant, coffee-brown mane. The same round-as-saucers, coffee-hued irises. The pinched nose and the full lips are another Claiborne trademark.

  The only thing I didn’t inherit from her were her exaggerated curves.

  My father (her son) saw it fit to marry a 90s runway model with straight hips, long legs, and no boobs. From the neck down, I’m all my mother … minus the breast implants of course.

  The tour lasts a long and sometimes fascinating two hours before the bus returns us to Sunset Boulevard. Isaiah stands, letting me out first, and then I swear I feel his hand graze my lower back as he follows me.

  A zing of something—not sure what—zaps through my middle, but it’s gone by the time I climb down the bus’s steps and hit the pavement.

  Checking the time, I bite my lower lip.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “We should probably call it a day,” I say, eyes flicking to his as my words are laced in an apologetic tone. A tepid Californian breeze kisses my skin.

  “Really?” He checks the time on his phone.

  “Just realized I forgot to feed Murphy this morning,” I say. “He hasn’t eaten since last night.”

  “Wow.” His hands rest at his hips and he takes a step back, glancing down the packed street.

  “What?”

  “If you don’t want to hang out, just say so. Don’t make up some bullshit excuse about your roommate’s dog.”

  I laugh. “Wait—you think … no. I’m not making this up, Isaiah. I seriously need to feed her dog. She’s out of town and I’m supposed to be taking care of him. He’s probably starving by now, and I feel awful.”

  His head tilts, like he still doesn’t believe me.

  “I’m being honest, I swear. Rule number two, remember? No bullshit, no lies,” I remind him.

  Isaiah exhales, lips pressed flat as he studies me for a moment. “All right. I believe you.”

  “Good. You should. And I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, cinching my purse strap over my shoulder. Mouth drawn into a smile, I say, “I had fun with you today.”

  He nods. “I did too.”

  “Liar.”

  “I would never violate your rules, Maritza,” he says, rebelling against a hint of a smile. His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth then lifting back to my eyes. And while I didn’t give it much thought before, there were a few small moments today when I caught him staring at me … almost like he was wondering what would happen if he kissed me again.

  And truth be told, I caught myself thinking that I kind of wouldn’t mind if he did …

  … in the name of fun, of course.

  “Text me tonight,” I tell him. “Tell me where to find you tomorrow and I’ll be there.”

  With that, I turn, walking away, feeling the weight of his stare and wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

  Saturday #2

  “SANTA MONICA PIER, EH?”

  She finds me on a bench next to a churro vendor, and her hands rest in the back pockets of her cutoff shorts. A white, v-neck tee shows off her tanned skin and a hint of the pale pink lace bra she’s wearing underneath.

  Maritza the Waitress is a stunning work of art and the proud recipient of the Claiborne genetic lottery, but I have to remind myself to keep my eyes where they belong. Far too many times yesterday, I caught myself checking her out, letting my gaze linger on every square inch of her every time I knew she wasn’t paying attention.


  Despite the fact that we christened our non-relationship that night at the concert, I’ve got no business turning this into any kind of a thing.

  Aside from the fact that her bubbly and effervescent personality tends to grate on my skin half the time, I respect the hell out of the fact that she has no qualms about calling things the way she sees them, and she isn’t trying to impress anyone—certainly not me. Maritza is simply Maritza. She isn’t hiding behind layers of makeup, nervous giggles, or agreeable opinions.

  But I would never tell her that.

  She might get the wrong idea.

  She might think that I like her.

  “What made you pick this place?” Maritza takes the spot beside me, her thigh brushing against mine. The scent of fried dough, cinnamon, and sugar fills the salty air, and I’m immediately taken back to my younger days.

  “My parents used to take us here when we were younger,” I say. “They’d let us run around, buy us anything we wanted.”

  The memories of the better times are the only thing I really hold onto from my earlier days.

  “Sounds nice,” she says, exhaling with a gentle hum. “So, you grew up in Santa Monica then?”

  “Nah.” I shake my head and crack my knuckles as I stare toward the ocean. “Riverside mostly.”

  “When was the last time you came here?”

  I blow a heavy breath through my lips, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even know. Ten, twelve years ago?”

  I’m guessing I was sixteen or seventeen the last time he took us, which makes sense because that was right before he died, which was right after he walked out of his life and left behind his disabled wife and their six children.

  “You’re quiet,” she says a few beats later, nudging my arm. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing worth sharing,” I say. And it’s true. She doesn’t need to know about my past. It has nothing to do with the here and now, with our week of Saturdays. It’s a part of me I no longer discuss and that’s all that it is.