“The network execs are all human,” Rebecca said. “They won’t care what it is, only that we caught something.”
“They’re going to cancel us otherwise, and then what?” Alan nudged Spencer with an elbow. “Move back to Arizona and work at the family feed store?”
Spencer closed his eyes for a long blink. “You’re right. We’re desperate enough, so let’s use it.” He squared his gaze on Lilith. “But don’t ever pull a stunt like that again.”
Lilith drew an X over her heart and held her fingers up in a V. “Vampire’s honor.”
His brow rose in a slow arch. “Is that even a thing?”
“It is now.” Lilith winked and stepped out of the van.
“Let’s head back to the motel,” Alan said as the others filed onto the road. “If the Wi-Fi is decent enough, I’ll send the footage to the editors tonight.” He and Rebecca climbed into the front seats, leaving Lilith alone with Spencer at the back of the van.
Spencer’s lips were tight, his expression a glower, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Thank you for letting me hang out tonight,” she said. “It was fun.”
A grunt was his only response.
“Why are you still mad at me? I swear I only wanted to help.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m not mad at you for trying to help. What you did was dangerous. Do you know how many venomous snakes and spiders live in those woods? Hell, even the frogs are poisonous. You could have been hurt.”
How cinnamony-sweet. He was concerned for her safety. She grinned and playfully punched him on the shoulder. “Oh, Spencer. You do care.”
“Of course I care. What we do is dangerous enough. You don’t need to put yourself at risk for a TV show.”
“You’re forgetting one tiny detail… I’m immortal. I could lick a dozen poisonous frogs, and I’d be just fine.”
“That’s something I can’t forget, and it’s why this ends now. You and I can never be, and you can’t keep showing up on our excursions. You’ll have to find your excitement somewhere else.”
“But we’re…”
“I can’t, Lilith. I won’t.”
The sting of rejection backhanded her across the face, but she maintained her composure despite her thickening throat and sour stomach. “I understand.”
Spencer headed to the van. He opened the side door, but before he got in, he turned to her. “I hope your familiar feels better now.”
She nodded, and he climbed inside, sliding the door shut behind him. Ouch.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Spencer wiped his clammy palms on his pants and adjusted his tie. The last time he attended a meeting with the network execs, he was fired and blacklisted within five minutes of sitting down. He could still see Isabella’s smug, wicked grin as she told them she refused to work another day with him on the set.
She’d made up stories about his competence, blamed every mishap on him, called him lazy and self-serving. He’d defended himself, but she had every producer, director, and editor wrapped around her pristinely manicured finger, so he hadn’t had a chance.
“That’s a scowl I haven’t seen on your face in a long time.” Alan sat next to him at the massive oval table, drawing him from his thoughts.
“Thinking about the last time I was here.” He poured a glass of room-temperature water from the pitcher on the table and took a sip. It did nothing to relieve the dryness in his throat.
Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, providing an outrageously expensive view of the city sprawling out twenty stories below. The tint on the glass helped keep out the heat, but it didn’t stop sweat from beading on Spencer’s forehead.
If their show was canceled, Alan and Rebecca could work elsewhere. Spencer was screwed, thanks to his ex-fiancée. Alan joked about Spencer having to move back to Arizona and work at his dad’s feed store, but that was the most viable option he had. He’d blown through his savings keeping himself afloat after the Isabella fiasco. The best he could do would be to move in with his dad, save for a few years, and then head to New York or maybe Austin. Texas would be more affordable.
“I was going to say, ‘sorry I’m late,’ but since we’re the only ones here…” Rebecca forced a smile and sat on the other side of Alan.
“Their time is important, not ours.” Alan clasped his hands on the table, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing. “Remember, Spence. If they ask about El Cadejo, it was not faked,” he whispered.
