“You never know.” He’s not joking.
“Banks,” I press.
He sighs, then relents. “Fine,” he says, then rolls his shoulders, like he’s mentally girding himself for the indignity of being the passenger.
My mind flashes back to yesterday at the coffee shop. To him not liking naps. To him liking control. Then to now—the kitchen being pristine. “Did you clean the kitchen?”
“I did,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say genuinely. “That was thoughtful.”
“Happy to do it.”
“You don’t like messes, do you?”
“I do not,” he says.
But it’s more than that. Banks Kendrick likes to be in control of his life, his environment, his job, the premises. He likes to handle things. But people are who they are for a reason. Maybe that’s just his nature.
Or maybe once upon a time, he wasn’t able to control a damn thing.
I hand him the keys. “You can drive,” I say.
He clutches them like they’re a precious gift, then we head to my wheels.
19
THE PERILS OF PEDICURES
RIPLEY
If Banks had taken this detour two days ago, I’d have been pissed that he was trying to make the point he’s making. But now I’m damn curious as he drives slowly past The Ladybug Inn. So curious I’m rubbernecking, but it’s not for a glimpse of the star supposedly staying there, getting into his small-town character.
I’m checking out the guys waiting outside. A chill slides down my spine, but I try to shake it off. I don’t like the invasion of the paps in my hometown, but they’re only doing their job. It’ll be over soon enough, I hope.
That same, stocky guy in the ballcap from the other day is across the street, camera in hand, like he’s been staking out the entrance, waiting for New Chris. There’s another man next to him, also with a camera. He’s short, with a fair complexion, and also sporting a man bun. He’s in position too.
“That’s Silas, as you know,” Banks says, nodding to the first guy.
“He’s still here?” I ask, a little amazed at his, well, stamina. “Doesn’t he have other work?”
“Sure. But he can do both. He’s a former sports journalist, so he’s agile with a camera. He does a lot of work in San Francisco since Webflix is shooting some TV shows there. He’s always following some of those celebs, and sports stars there too when he’s up in Northern California instead of LA.”
That makes sense, I suppose. With some reluctance, I nod. “And the other guy? Any idea?”
“Ludwig,” Banks says. “He fancies himself an Ansel Adams. Takes moody black-and-white rain shots in Seattle or fog shots in San Francisco. So when there’s a big fish, he chases it.”
“And Chris is a big fish,” I say.
“Yup, and that’s why he wants a shot of Chris and Haven. Ludwig has a six-month-old and a four-year-old. He freelances for the highest bidder. Usually toNews Site Ink, which is a company that buys pics from photographers and sells them to celeb sites.”
“You know him too?”
“Do you know all the varieties of lavender?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Then I know all these guys.”
