Read Online Tempting Faith (Indigo Love Spectrum) by Crystal Hubbard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Crystal Hubbard
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hadn’t noticed earlier now made sense: RBAHRT.
His boss had been livid when he saw Alex returning with the freshly battered Jag, but his rage vanished within the first twenty seconds of his phone call to Olivia, who had verified that the accident had occurred exactly as Alex had claimed. Alex had no idea what she’d said, but from what he gleaned from his boss’s end of the conversation, Olivia was paying triple his rate to have Robia’s ride repaired as soon as possible.
As for Robia Hart, Hollywood’s reigning period-movie princess had been royally pissed about the accident, but even she had come to Alex’s defense when told that Olivia Baxter had caused the new damage. Evidently, every licensed driver in Robia’s neighborhood knew to literally steer clear of Olivia’s white Mustang when they heard it roaring down Roxbury Street.
His boss had flung Olivia’s business card at him—after firing him. Even though he had praised Alex’s skill at working with cars, he couldn’t take the risk of keeping on an employee with no social security card and no driving insurance.
With Olivia’s business card and his last day’s pay in his pocket, Alex walked the four miles home to his motel. Everything was so expensive in Los Angeles, and he already felt the sting of unemployment. His weekly rent of one hundred and forty dollars was due, his Harley was sitting idle because he lacked the money to purchase the parts he needed to repair it, he was down to his last package of ramen noodles and the six dollars cash and eighty-five dollar check he had in his pocket was all the money he had in the world.
He walked past his motel and went to the corner bar, Jose’s Hideaway, to drown his sorrows in one-dollar shots of watered tequila. He allowed himself six shots to figure out his next move.
There were other repair jobs, but the last one had been relatively close to home, and he’d enjoyed his coworkers. By his third shot, he had just enough of a buzz to convince himself that things wouldn’t look so bad in the morning. Two shots later, when he realized he needed his last buck to tip the barkeep, renewed anger at Olivia Baxter killed the warm fuzzies he’d talked himself into.
He was out of a job, he’d soon be without food, and unless he could talk the motel manager into letting him do odd jobs around the building, he’d be homeless, too. In one careless strike of her hot Mustang, Olivia Baxter had seriously dented his pathetic life. Insurance would take care of the Mustang and the Jag, but who would compensate him for the damages he had suffered?
Searching his pockets, hoping to find a stray bill hiding somewhere, Alex patted a stiff wad of paper in his hip pocket. He smoothed it out on the water-marked counter.
Olivia’s card.
Call me.
Alex had gone back to his room. In his old jeans, work boots and ribbed undershirt, he’d sat on his sunken mattress, his head and shoulders propped against the stained wallpaper, staring at the little card in his hand.
And then he’d stopped staring. He’d picked up the phone, dialed the number and, the next morning, he’d met Olivia in a back booth at Krasco’s.
He’d left Alexander Brannon in that booth, and the rough lump that would become Zander Baron had walked out with Olivia Baxter.
And now Zander Baron was there to meet the one woman Alexander Brannon had ever loved.
It was easy to admit that while masquerading as Zander Baron.
“Quit it,” he whispered to himself. “Only crazy people talk about themselves in the third person. Or is it the fourth person, since I’m talking about someone who doesn’t really exist? Or—”
Noticing the pretty waitress watching him mutter to himself, Zander slumped deeper into the booth and turned his face toward his cold coffee.
He glanced at his watch, a heavy silver and black Oris that one of the producers had given him at the close of filming for Burn . A simple Timex would have been more in line with his tastes, and
His boss had been livid when he saw Alex returning with the freshly battered Jag, but his rage vanished within the first twenty seconds of his phone call to Olivia, who had verified that the accident had occurred exactly as Alex had claimed. Alex had no idea what she’d said, but from what he gleaned from his boss’s end of the conversation, Olivia was paying triple his rate to have Robia’s ride repaired as soon as possible.
As for Robia Hart, Hollywood’s reigning period-movie princess had been royally pissed about the accident, but even she had come to Alex’s defense when told that Olivia Baxter had caused the new damage. Evidently, every licensed driver in Robia’s neighborhood knew to literally steer clear of Olivia’s white Mustang when they heard it roaring down Roxbury Street.
His boss had flung Olivia’s business card at him—after firing him. Even though he had praised Alex’s skill at working with cars, he couldn’t take the risk of keeping on an employee with no social security card and no driving insurance.
With Olivia’s business card and his last day’s pay in his pocket, Alex walked the four miles home to his motel. Everything was so expensive in Los Angeles, and he already felt the sting of unemployment. His weekly rent of one hundred and forty dollars was due, his Harley was sitting idle because he lacked the money to purchase the parts he needed to repair it, he was down to his last package of ramen noodles and the six dollars cash and eighty-five dollar check he had in his pocket was all the money he had in the world.
He walked past his motel and went to the corner bar, Jose’s Hideaway, to drown his sorrows in one-dollar shots of watered tequila. He allowed himself six shots to figure out his next move.
There were other repair jobs, but the last one had been relatively close to home, and he’d enjoyed his coworkers. By his third shot, he had just enough of a buzz to convince himself that things wouldn’t look so bad in the morning. Two shots later, when he realized he needed his last buck to tip the barkeep, renewed anger at Olivia Baxter killed the warm fuzzies he’d talked himself into.
He was out of a job, he’d soon be without food, and unless he could talk the motel manager into letting him do odd jobs around the building, he’d be homeless, too. In one careless strike of her hot Mustang, Olivia Baxter had seriously dented his pathetic life. Insurance would take care of the Mustang and the Jag, but who would compensate him for the damages he had suffered?
Searching his pockets, hoping to find a stray bill hiding somewhere, Alex patted a stiff wad of paper in his hip pocket. He smoothed it out on the water-marked counter.
Olivia’s card.
Call me.
Alex had gone back to his room. In his old jeans, work boots and ribbed undershirt, he’d sat on his sunken mattress, his head and shoulders propped against the stained wallpaper, staring at the little card in his hand.
And then he’d stopped staring. He’d picked up the phone, dialed the number and, the next morning, he’d met Olivia in a back booth at Krasco’s.
He’d left Alexander Brannon in that booth, and the rough lump that would become Zander Baron had walked out with Olivia Baxter.
And now Zander Baron was there to meet the one woman Alexander Brannon had ever loved.
It was easy to admit that while masquerading as Zander Baron.
“Quit it,” he whispered to himself. “Only crazy people talk about themselves in the third person. Or is it the fourth person, since I’m talking about someone who doesn’t really exist? Or—”
Noticing the pretty waitress watching him mutter to himself, Zander slumped deeper into the booth and turned his face toward his cold coffee.
He glanced at his watch, a heavy silver and black Oris that one of the producers had given him at the close of filming for Burn . A simple Timex would have been more in line with his tastes, and
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