Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,13

if she knew I’d just walked away from this. We Harrises finish what we start, she always used to say. And dammit, I will finish what my big fat mouth started. I just need to know how to get in touch with Luca Weaver. That’s all. And I’ll handle the rest.”

Adele shoves back in her chair and crosses her pale, freckled arms over her chest. “It’s illegal for me to give out one of my client’s personal information.”

“I get that—”

“But,” she cuts me off. “That doesn’t mean shit because I don’t even have anything that’s going to help you. I send Luca Weaver’s checks to a P.O. box in a town nobody’s ever heard of, and that’s the end of the line.”

“You don’t send them to his house?”

She laughs. “Nope. I imagine Luca Weaver was smart enough to realize that in Hollywood, any information is a liability.”

Shit! What am I going to do now?

I’m dead. I’m a walking, talking corpse with no possibility for resuscitation. I’m in my end-of-life transition and everything is going black and, oh God, I never thought I’d—

“Probably pretty smart of him, seeing as I’m about to blab.”

Wait…what?

I peek open one eye, and she nods. “Something about you seems just pathetic enough to make me take pity.”

I jump up and down, doing some kind of cheerleading move teenage me only wishes she could do.

Adele laughs, a raspy cough making her grasp her chest dramatically.

Dear God, Billie, don’t kill her before she helps you!

“Goddamn LA smog,” she gripes.

Sure, Delly, it’s the smog making it hard for you to breathe. Not the decades-long addiction to cigs.

Still, I nod along and make a face in agreement. I’m not about to blow this deal by pointing out the obvious.

She takes out another cigarette from her pack and lights it up, sucking it harshly between her wrinkle-lined lips.

“Town’s called Rally, Alaska. I don’t know shit about it, and it don’t know shit about me. But I’d say going there is the best chance you’re gonna get at hitting your target in the dark.”

I jump forward and grab her hand, patting the back of it like she’s royalty. “Thank you so much, Adele. Thank you.” I’m awkward and she’s uncomfortable, but I can’t help but fall all over myself now that I’m not completely hopeless.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replies. “Best of luck. You’re gonna need it.”

Call me optimistic, but I think I’m back in the game.

Billie

I’ve never actually spit on a neighbor, but if I lived out here, I couldn’t hit ’em even if I tried. After three hours of scrambling to pack some kind of suitcase and get to the airport, seven hours of flying, a night in the cheapest motel I could find in Juneau, Alaska, and ninety minutes trying to rent a car that can handle whatever the Alaskan wilderness throws at me, I’m finally on the road to Rally.

Rally, Alaska, that is, the only crumb of a clue I have on the path to Luca Weaver.

I’m told Alaska is the land of adventure. An invigorating state that will show me things I’ve never seen—or at least that’s what a billboard near baggage claim said.

Seeing as I’ve never seen Luca Weaver, I’m hoping to hell it’s right.

So far, though, through the windshield of a Subaru Outback that smells like days-old cigarette smoke and gym socks, all I see are lots and lots of trees.

Ninety miles into my lonely drive inside the Alaskan wilderness, and I start to wonder if I’m going the right direction.

Does Luca Weaver really live out here?

There’s literally nothing but two lanes of pavement. No traffic, no restaurants, no coffee shops—not even a Target. Just me, the open road, and Lady Gaga’s voice crackling through the radio.

From what I can gather from the directions I printed off at home after freaking out about maybe not having strong cell service, I should be getting close.

I hunch up over the wheel and squint to see if I can get a look at anything up ahead. A wooden sign with bright red lettering beckons in the distance, and I find myself stepping on the accelerator just to get there faster.

Welcome to Rally, it says in bold letters. I throw a hand in the air and cheer. Yes! Signs of life do exist up here!

I slow to twenty-five, the posted speed limit on the roadside, and coast through what must be the outskirts of town. There’s a rickety old cabin with a sign that reads Earl’s, a small white church with