Page 94 of Late Harvest

“Good boy, Bashie,” Slash teased. He knew how much Bash disliked the ever-present shadows that protected his safety. That said, it was better than the alternative.

“Why are you bothering me, Slashie?” He intentionally mirrored the twist of their nicknames.

“I’m bored. Out on my fart walk and I don’t like the book I’m listening to⁠—”

“You’re still doing those? I hope no one is around to hear the cannon fire of your ass.” Bash slowed his pace, needing more breath to devote to talking to his favorite knucklehead. Yes, things had been strained lately. But, deep down, Slash was good people.

“Yes, I’m still fart walking. I had a pasta lunch with a producer about a possible role for you after Paradise and I needed to release trapped gas. You really should try it. It makes for a happy gastrointestinal tract.”

Bash snickered, rolling his eyes.

“And as it happens, I am alone, since my best friend dumped me for freaking Nowheresville, Virginia,” Slash continued, fake whining. “When are you coming back?”

“For the Atlas Unhinged premiere,” Bash managed, hitting the middle of an unexpected hill, his lungs and legs starting to scream.

“But that’s a few weeks from now. Aren’t you…moldering there?”

Bash pictured him and Arabella laughing in the kitchen this afternoon, their little prince scurrying around, chirruping away. “Not even a little bit.”

“Hmmpf,” Slash grumbled, firmly entrenched in the belief that LA was the center of the universe, the rest of the world only trying to keep up with the glitz and glam. It was a sentiment Bash had echoed himself. Until recently.

But now? One taste of something—or someone—truly un-Hollywood, and it was like his eyes had been opened to the wonders and possibilities of life outside the self-absorbed, shallow, pretentious microcosm of the film industry. Arabella had dragged him from the sparkling, phony dream state he’d been living in.

And he didn’t miss it one bit.

His earbuds caught an elongated thrrrp sound. “Dude, did you just rip one?”

“It’s a fart walk, asshole. What do you think?”

“Why are you calling me?”

“I thought we could catch up. I saw the photos from the shelter. Impressive work. You looked really into it.”

“I was into it, Slash. It’s an incredible place serving an important purpose for domestic abuse survivors.” Bash sighed, both from reaching the apex of the hill without throwing up a lung and from frustration at Slash. His best friend was a good man at heart, but life as a Hollywood agent had taken its toll on his personality.

“Your doctor chick looked good.”

Now Bash rolled his eyes hard, his blood heating in a telltale rise of his temper. “As I’ve told you too many times before, her name is Arabella. Or Dr. Remington. She’s not a chick, dickcrud.”

“I’m just saying, she’s kind of hot for an older lady.”

“She’s younger than we are, Guinn,” he huffed as he picked up his pace. “Try to have a little class.”

Slash ignored the reprimand, as well as Bash’s intentional use of his much-hated birth name. “Melody told me Poet’s been messaging her on Insta about you. She wants you back.”

“In good news for me, I don’t want her back. She’s…she’s not the type of person I want to be with.”

“And what type is that? A grouchy, middle-aged surgeon from East Nowhere?”

“Fuck. Off,” Bash seethed, halting in his tracks to catch his breath, which had been stolen more by anger than the run. “You show some respect to the woman I⁠—”

“The woman you what, Bash? You were going to say ‘love’ weren’t you? What the hell? Are you serious, or are you a better actor than I thought?”

Damn. That stung.

“Shit. Fuck, Bash, I didn’t mean it that way,” Slash added hurriedly. “You’re a talented actor. The marquis name of your generation.”

Bash looked over his shoulder and nodded at the fit, twenty-something security agent who’d quickly closed the distance, probably worried his middle-aged client would collapse in cardiac arrest on his watch. He resumed his run, this time even faster. Just to prove the point.