Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,14

a bright red door, and another building set back in a field on the other side of the road.

I look up ahead, ready for a downtown area or something, when another green sign approaches quickly. I slow down to read it as I’m passing.

Thanks for visiting Rally! it proclaims. I hit the brakes hard and screech to a halt before looking behind me. Did I pass out briefly? Miss a turn? Three buildings can’t make up a whole town, can they?

With a huff, I sit back in the cloth seat of my rental car and breathe. Dear God in heaven, what have I gotten myself into? I’ve taken pees that have lasted longer than Rally, Alaska.

With a thrum of my fingers against the steering wheel and a lick of my lips, I summarize what I know before coming to a quick conclusion.

There’s no telling what’s inside Earl’s. It could be food, it could be booze—Earl could sell dildos and porno flicks behind a dusty black curtain, for all I know.

Earl could also be a serial killer and I could be setting myself up for an Alaskan revival of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but I’m not seeing a whole lot of options. It’s Earl’s, a mystery building, or a house of God, and even though I’m not deeply religious, I’d like to avoid lying in a church if at all possible.

Earl’s it is.

I execute a U-turn and head back in the other direction. When I get to the rickety-looking cabin with a wraparound front porch and a sad excuse for a gravel parking lot, I pull in and put the car in park.

I grab my phone from the cupholder, send Birdie and Serena texts letting them know I’ve arrived safely at my destination in the “North to the Future” state and get out of the car. With only a ten-day allowance from my boss to come through on my promise to produce Luca Weaver, I’ve got no time to waste.

Caution, meet wind.

The air is cooler than I’d expect for a spring day but not intolerable. No doubt, sunny California weather has spoiled me into a punk-ass wallflower, as my new queen, Adele Lang, would say.

Faded wooden steps creak under my feet as I climb onto the porch, and a bell above the entrance door chimes my arrival when I open it.

It’s dusky inside among all the shelves and racks stocked with camping, fishing, and hiking gear. And quiet. Almost eerily quiet for someone used to the hustle and bustle of virtually every place in LA.

“Hello?” I call out cautiously. “Anybody here?”

“Just a minute!” a male voice answers from somewhere in the back, perhaps tending to the adult franchise materials. “Be there in a jiffy!”

I nod and rock faux-patiently back and forth between my cowgirl-boot-covered feet.

Evidently, a jiffy is equivalent to about three minutes—because that’s how long it takes for the man to appear through a curtain-covered doorway behind a cash register that I refuse to believe is from this century. Seriously. If he made out his bills of sale on slabs of stone while writing in Sanskrit, I wouldn’t be surprised.

With bushy gray eyebrows, a ball cap with a fish on it, and an ensemble of attire that is entirely khaki-focused, the man walks toward me and the corners of his lips wrinkle as he flashes a friendly smile my way. “I’m Earl,” he introduces himself. “How can I help you?”

“Ah, right.” I swallow hard and gear myself up to steamroll another person with lies. Poor Earl, an innocent proprietor of this lovely business, has no idea what kind of a web he’s stepped into. “Yes. Yes, I’m hoping you can,” I say, trying really hard to smile in a way that will make Earl fall victim to either one of two acceptable options—fall in love with me so instantly and completely that he’s willing to do anything for me, or take pity on me enough that giving me his assistance seems like the only humane thing to do. “See, I’m visiting a…an old friend. I had directions, but I lost the paper with everything beyond the stuff that got me to here.” I pause, trying to decide if he’s skeptical or sympathetic. When I can’t figure it out, thankfully, he fills in the void.

“Who’re you lookin’ for, darlin’?”

I swallow hard through my dry throat. “Luca Weaver.”

His eyes narrow as he hums. “Mm-hmm.”

My knees start to shake a little bit as he gives me an enthusiastically thorough once-over. Probably mentally logging my