Page 18 of Two Guys, a Girl, and a Tripod

“Oh, I love them. I worked with Vera a couple years ago and I just met Penny recently."

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun working with them. I almost forgot the cameras were even there!”

“Well, thank you so much for joining me today, Honey.” Sara grins at me, speaking into her mic. “Tell everyone where they can find your content and services.”

I rattle off a list of my sites, smiling into the camera.

“And that’s all she wrote, folks. Thanks for joining us for another episode of Hide the Sausage. Make sure to check out my website where you can subscribe to gain access to premium stuff like behind-the-scenes content and our extra steamy episodes.”

I smile and wait for Sara to indicate that we’re finished. A few seconds later, she nods and I deflate.

“Thank you again.” I divulged a lot more than I had expected to, but it’s so nice to talk about my experiences and feel seen.

Sara stands and moves to stop the recordings and turn off the studio lights.

“You were great.” She taps on the laptop a couple of times and then stands, meeting my gaze. “Hey, I’m here in New York for a bit longer, but I have a house party in a few weeks in LA. If that’s something you’d be interested in coming to, you’d be able to mingle with more creators. I’m happy to add you to the list.”

My eyes go wide and I sit up straight.

“Really? Oh my god, that would be amazing. Yes, thank you!” I want to jump up and hug her, but I’m not sure how she feels about getting embraced by strangers.

“Great! I might forget if I don’t add you to the list today, but don’t hesitate to remind me if I haven’t sent you the info by Sunday.”

“Thank you so much.” I sound like abroken record.

“Don’t mention it. It’ll be fun.” She winks. “You seem to have your head on straight and I can safely say you’re in the minority there.”

6

Brody

I know damn well I’m running late when I step out of the shower, but I can’t say I feel all that guilty. An image forms in my mind of Miles pacing by the front door. I took an extra half hour at the gym this morning, forcing him to stay and continue working out. I really don’t want to do this stupid shopping trip.

Wrapping the towel around my waist, I crack the bathroom door and turn on the fan. Then I go through my post-shower routine and finish by running a comb through my hair before tousling it slightly with my fingers. I watch the way it falls, longer on top, shorter on the sides.

I throw on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that has an image of a tardis on the front left breast. On the back, in large, faded, white letters, it says ‘Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey Stuff’. Slipping on my tennis shoes, I grab my wallet from my dresser and head out to find Miles doing exactly what I expected him to be doing.

“Bro.” The annoyance in his voice is obvious, even in that one syllable. His eyes roam down my body and back up. “Really?”

“The whole point is to get new clothes today,” I say with a shrug, leading the way out the door and leaving Miles to grab his keys. If he’s making me do this, I’m making him drive. “I figure she should know what she’s working with.”

Miles groans when he sees the back of my shirt, even though he’s seen it a million times. He locks the door behind us and meets me at his jeep. I check my phone to see just how late we are, knowing that with LA traffic, it’s going to take longer than a map tells us.

Miles pulls into a parking lot half a block away from Moira’s shop in Glendale. All the street parking was full, which we figured out after spending a solid ten minutes trying to find something, so we end up in a paid lot.

The shop, simply calledMoira’s, has a sleek storefront. The outside is all matte, black, metal finishes with a gigantic window next to the front door. The only thing visible through the window is a waiting room with a plush, leather couch, two dark blue, velvet armchairs, and a reception desk. Behind the desk, Moira’s name is set in a beautiful, gold script. Lights behind the sign illuminate it, making it stand out from the dark wood behind.

The bell above the door dings when Miles and I walk in, catching the attention of the man sitting at the desk. He glances up, the overhead light glinting off of his shaved head and thick-rimmed, black glasses. He studies me with something akin to disgust. Actually, that’s exactly what it is. The look he gives Miles is only slightly better.

“We have an appointment with Moira,” Miles says, confidently sidling up to the desk and slipping his hands into the pockets of his coral shorts.

“For…” The man looks down, possibly checking a calendar. “Brody Torrence?” He looks back up at Miles and then at me.

“That’s the guy,” says Miles, waving his hand toward me.

Without acknowledging the answer, the man lifts the receiver of a phone to his ear.

“Miss Hall, your nine o’clock is here.” He pauses, listening. “Yes, ma’am.” He hangs up and stands. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

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