“It actually is,” Dylan said, stepping into a cozy kitchen with dark green cabinets and butcher-block counters. “Killin’ Dylan strikes again.”
Ramona frowned, then went to a coffeepot by the sink and poured some of the dark liquid into a mint-green cup. She handed it to Dylan, then sat down with her own cup at the table. “Where does that name come from anyway?”
Dylan sank into the chair. All of her muscles hurt—Jesus, that speed walking had really fucked her over in terms of aerobic endurance.
“It’s stupid,” she said, folding her hands around the cup. “And from when I was an idiot in my early twenties and had no clue how to control my temper.”
Ramona lifted a brow.
Dylan laughed. “Okay, so, sometimes, I still don’t know how to control it.” She winced. “Heard about Jocelyn’s birthday party, did you?”
Ramona sucked her teeth. “Everyone heard about that, Dylan.”
“Right, right,” Dylan said, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “Well, losing one’s shit on the set ofSpellboundwhen your rock star father shows up tosupport you”—here she hooked finger quotes into the air—“and then proceeds to pretty much take over the entire day with his narcissism, resulting in his daughter blowing up and knocking over a prop table full of lit candles for a spell scene, will indeed get you a nickname like Killin’ Dylan.”
Now it was Ramona’s turn to wince. “Well…at least I’d never heard that story before.”
Dylan laughed, but it was bitter. “You’re in the minority, trust me.”
“Even I’ve heard that story,” Olive said, coming into the kitchen, “and I was, like, ten when it happened.”
“Oh, very nice,” Dylan said, but she smiled at the girl.
“I’ve heard it too,” Mr. Riley said, meandering into the room aswell with his phone in his hand, clad in khakis and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. He looked like such adad, Dylan felt a flutter of longing underneath her ribs.
“Mr. Riley,” she said. “I’m really sorry about all of this.”
He waved a hand, then tapped at his phone. “They’re trespassing, and I’ve just found the state ordinance to reference if anyone gives me trouble, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kick these charlatans off my lawn.”
“You need to be riding a white horse when you do that,” Ramona said. He winked at her, then came over and kissed her on the top of her head. Dylan melted a little, literally felt her insides go soft and warm. Luckily, her phone buzzed right then, a good distraction from her thickening throat.
But the name flashing across the screen did nothing to calm her down. In fact, it did the exact opposite.
Rayna.
“It’s my publicist,” she said. She’d already tried calling Laurel this morning, but her manager was on a plane on her way here, and her agent, Adriana, most definitely left this kind of drama to Laurel and Rayna. Rayna, who was a pit bull and had saved Dylan from many a scandal, but who was also sort of, maybe, definitely terrifying. Dylan clicked the red button, sending the call to voicemail, but it just rang again a second later. Dylan slapped the red button again.
As dread pooled in her stomach, the back door flew open, revealing April breathing hard and holding up her phone.
“Answer my texts, Llama Face.”
“Oh, god, sorry,” Ramona said, taking out her phone and tapping. “I’d turned off alerts.”
“Turned off alerts?” April said, pressing her hand dramatically to her chest. “Forme?”
They talked back and forth, an amusing verbal tennis match, butDylan’s phone rang a third time, and she knew she couldn’t put Rayna off any longer.
“Rayna, hey,” she said, standing up from the table and wandering into the living room.
“Dylan, there are only a few things I really hate,” Rayna said, her sexy-raspy voice deadly quiet. “Number one, roaches. They’re nearly impossible to kill and carry diseases and, when you least expect it, they fly.Flying roaches, Dylan.”
“Yeah, that’s—”
“Number two, multiple forks at dinner. Who has the fucking time?”
Dylan stayed quiet this time.
“Number three, waking up to my client’s name plastered all over the gossip sites when that client gave me no advance warning of said plastering.”
