Pinky growls low in his throat as he boxes me in between a building and a potted plant at the end of the street. His head is down over his phone, undoubtedly texting someone for an explanation.
He’s a broad Scottish fellow who has the least patience of the three security men that the studio has insisted trail me and my boys since the unexpected breakout success of one of my television shows.
“Sheclaimed you booked a party,” Pinky tells me.
I peer through the bush at the food van.
Bus. The foodbus.
Much larger than the food vans back in London or the food carts in New York City.
It’s an actual school bus, painted with hamburgers stacked on their sides, a little pickle over the back wheel well, and above the window cut out for service,Best Burger Busis spelled out and adorned with flowers that have hamburgers in the center.
“I didn’t book a party, though were I to, I would certainly entertain the idea of having it catered by a burger bus. How adorably charming.”
He stares at me.
And as I stare back, I have a bloody good idea what the man’s thinking.
“You book a party and not tell us, boss?” he asks.
Rather than answering, I pull my own phone from my trousers pocket.
Heat is gathering on my neck. “You say you—wehad her arrested?”
“She hacked the gate code. Got all the way to the front door.”
I flip open my bank app and begin scrolling, though it’s unnecessary to scroll far.
The day is quite warm, but not warm enough to justify the increasing heat at the base of my neck.
Fraud report—credit issuedis the first entry on the list of charges.
With the vendor reported to be Best Burger Bus.
I clear my throat and continue scrolling.
“Do you recall when I misplaced my phone for a full day last weekend?” I say to Pinky.
He grunts.
I check the date as I come across the original charge to the Best Burger Bus, and I discover I’m lacking the correct word.
What, exactly, is more awkward than regular awkward?
A voice distracts me from my own embarrassment at the trouble I suspect my children have caused, and I turn to watch the burger bus again.
A brown-haired woman is leaning out of the service window and having a lively discussion with a police officer.
“You’re over the line, Bea,” the policeman is saying.
I squint closer behind my sunglasses at her.
“Is that her?” I murmur to Pinky.
“Yes.”
She smirks at the officer, showing off her dimples. “Measure again and use your glasses this time. I can park this thing on a dime.”
