Page 2 of Rest In Pieces
“You want to get dinner next week?” she asks.
I turn and look back at her. I want to say no. Dinner with Kayla Gray isn’t just dinner with her; it’s dinner with a dozen paparazzi snapping pictures all night long. It’s definitely something I’ll have to wear pants for. But the look she’s giving me reminds me exactly why her picture is pinned to bedroom walls.
“Ugh, fine. But it’ll have to be before next Friday. I leave for my next job then.”
“Already? Don’t you want to go on vacation or something first? You know, like a normal person.”
“Says the movie star,” I tease. “But seriously, after a week of naps and channel surfing, I’ll be itching to get back to work. I’m not really into taking time off, but if I had to go on vacation, I’d go camping.”
“That’s not a vacation.” She shivers, making me laugh.
“It’s not so bad. I like hiking and exploring nature. How do you think I keep these”—I raise my T-shirt and show her my hard-earned, toned abs—“without going to the gym?” I gag at the word “gym.” I only go when absolutely necessary.
“I hate you,” she groans as Ian calls her name.
“I’ve gotta go. I’ll call?—”
I shake my head. As if I ever answer my phone, pfft.
She sighs. “I’ll text you the details for dinner next week.”
“Sounds good.”
“Liar.” She chuckles as she heads over to Ian.
I smile and keep going, needing to disappear into my RV before someone else decides they want something from me.
Once I’m inside with the door shut, I breathe a sigh of relief. I love my job, but it really drains my social battery quickly.
I unzip my high-heeled boots and pull them off with a sigh, wiggling my toes. Anyone who says being a stuntwoman is easy—my male counterparts included—has never had to do their stunts in six-inch heels.
Next, it’s time to lose the pants, leaving me in a black tank top and purple bikini underwear. Once I’m free of my leg prisons, I walk over to the fridge and grab another bottle of water and a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter. As I eat my snack, I look around, making sure nobody has snuck in while I was working. Nothing seems out of place.
It happened once, about three years ago. An overzealous fan broke in, thinking the RV belonged to Ella Mae Johnston, the lead actress in the movie I was working on at the time. He was obsessed with her, convinced they were in some kind of relationship that only he knew about. I’m not sure what he thought was romantic about bringing rope and a knife. But I was happy to use both on him.
As fucked up as it was finding a naked stalker in my bed—and a pretty lousy stalker at that, since he had the wrong girl—I was glad it was me and not her. My martial arts training meant I could disarm him before he could hurt anyone.
Stunt people rarely get trailers on movie sets, and I understand why. But as my popularity grew, I spent more time on set and less time at home, so the house I was renting was empty for most of the year. On a whim, I decided to buy an RV, killing two birds with one stone.
Knowing it would be my home and not just my work trailer, I took a chunk out of the inheritance my mom left me and bought one that was nicer than most people’s homes. It’s always amusing to roll into a new town and see people get excited to see a rock star or some other big name, only to find little old me instead.
Inside, the main living area has two cream leather recliners facing a matching three-seater couch. To the left of that is a dining area large enough to seat four, and directly opposite it is the kitchen, complete with a stove, sink, dishwasher, and fridge-freezer. Beyond that is the bathroom and a washer and dryer, followed by my bedroom. My queen-sized bed takes up most of the space, but there are built-in closets on either side of the room and drawers under the bed where I keep bedding and towels.
The bedroom and the living area both feature giant flat-screen TVs on the walls. I might not get much downtime, butwhen I do, I like to binge-watch mystery series and crime documentaries.
I kick back in one of the recliners and take a sip of my water just as my cell phone rings. I ignore it because what kind of monster still uses cell phones to call people? If it’s important, they’ll leave a message. But after ten missed calls in five minutes, my eye twitches as I get up to grab my phone from the counter where I left it to charge. I don’t need to look at the screen to see who it is. There’s only one psycho in my life that’s this relentless.
“You are the worst friend in the world. I don’t know why I put up with you,” I snarl into the phone before my best friend, Nevaeh, can even say a word.
“Is your blood sugar low? Go eat a banana or something.”
I take the phone and walk into the bedroom, face-planting on my bed. “Why can’t you just text like a normal person?”
“I think we both know I’m the normal one in this relationship. Now stop being grumpy and listen to me for a freaking second.”
I picture my five-foot-nothing—with her heels on—friend, with her long red hair and big green eyes, and wonder how a woman who looks like a tiny, pocket-sized doll can make me want to commit murder on a weekly basis.
“The floor’s all yours, Pippin.”