I’d prefer to use dictation, but Iamon a street, making notes about the woman arrested on the order of my proxies this morning, likely to be spotted by any number of the people also strolling by or pausing to watch, and I don’t need to speak out loud to draw attention to myself.
Not many Brits around.
I stand out by virtue of my accent, never mind my fame.
Still getting used to it, to be honest.
While it’s thrilling to be asked for pictures, and going out in disguise is an amusing kind of fun, there are a few downsides.
Such as needing security.
And the way that they’re terrifying.
Don’t misunderstand—Tank, Butch, and Pinky are good at their jobs—but also terrifying.
Three security specialists are perhaps overkill, but then, the studio executives are familiar with my boys, so possibly not overkill after all.
The other biggest downside to fame is regularly being asked what’s next.
I was happily rolling along in the obscurity of barely-not-broke-actor land roughly two years ago when an influencer live streamed herself watching the show that launched to crickets three years before that.
Overnight, I became a household name, and the studio is demanding that I cough up the contracted material for a new show without delay to capitalize on my moment in the spotlight now that we’ve rushed through a second season ofIn the Weeds.
Far easier said than done to deliver new material though, unfortunately.
Pinky nudges me. “Best get on with it.”
Get on with it.
Right.
Of course.
I pocket my phone, and he and I step out from behind the foliage to approach the burger bus.
Scents of cooking oil and chips—pardon, french fries—permeate the air. People mill about the cobblestone pavements on either side of this charming side street off the main road, but the policeman has left and so has Jake. Daphne is nowhere to be seen on the street either. Bea is no longer at the window.
I approach it and rap on the windowsill near the front of the bus. “Hello?”
The woman I recognize as Daphne appears inside the vehicle, wiping her hands with a towel as she turns to approach me. “It’ll be a few minutes. We’re still warming up the—oh, fuck, are you serious?”
I smile pleasantly at her. “Could I please speak with Ms. Best?”
“Why?”
“To offer my sincerest apologies for the mix-up this morning.”
“As opposed to your insincerest apologies?”
“Ah, yes, my insincerest apologies. I have been known to make those on occasion.” I pull my sunglasses over the brim of my baseball hat so that she can see me wink. “I save those for when I accidentally mow down a man after he’s been unnecessarily rude to a lady. Ms. Best, please?”
Bea herself appears behind Daphne. “Daph? What’s wronnnnn—are you for real right now?”
“Ms. Best.” My smile falters in the face of the unamused energy radiating off her. “I’m Sim?—”
“I know who you are.”
Complimentary, that was not. Not that I deserve for this to be easy. She should not have ended up in jail over me. “I see. I wish to?—”
