Page 93 of Turn Me On
Zane
Let’s see.
I could take a scalding-hot shower in my big-ass hotel suite in Los Angeles, order food delivery, listen to this new podcast from one of my favorite comedians, and then conk out in this king-size bed.
Or I could go to the agency soirée at a trendy new restaurant on Venice Beach. A restaurant that Maddox probably chose. One where I’ll have to see him again. The one I RSVP’d to.
My heart pounds uncomfortably.
That’s the decision right there. Seeing Maddox will hurt too much.
I settle onto the bed in my hotel, grab my phone, and scroll over to my podcast app. Gage is in the room down the hall, but he’s putting Eliza to bed, so I don’t want to bug them. I settle in for an evening with Jon King, AKA King of the Bad Dates bits. Love his stories about terrible evenings out.
As I listen to his opening, I place an order for a sweet potato and brown rice bowl from a nearby café. Ten minutes later, I’ve laughed a few times thanks to King, and that feels pretty good. Then, there’s a knock on my door. I wait to see if the person will announce themselves.
“Dude, open up. It’s your big brother,” Gage calls out.
“And your favorite person in the whole world!” Eliza shouts happily.
I flew them down here with me and paid for their room too, so they could watch the All-Star Game. I pop out of bed and head over to the door, swinging it open for them.
My brother looks me up and down, his green eyes quizzical. “I thought you were going to the agency dinner?”
“Nah. Decided to get delivery instead.”
Eliza parks her hands on her hips. “And you didn’t invite us? You are in trouble. We came down here to see you in the All-Star Game and you could have had pizza with us.”
“I’m a bad uncle, especially since I ordered sweet potatoes,” I say.
“Yuck.”
“They’re healthy and good for athletes,” I point out.
“Okay! I want some then,” she says.
“And I want you to go to sleep,” Gage chimes in, exhausted. But hotels are like caffeine for kids.
I scoop her in my arms and lift her into a piggyback.
“Be careful, Uncle Zane. You better not get injured before your big game,” she warns even as she clambers onto my shoulders, then lifts her hands to touch the ceiling.
“Every game’s a big game, slugger,” I say, then set her down on the edge of the bed.
Like all kids in a hotel, she gravitates toward the remote on the mattress, clicks on the TV, and scrolls to cartoons, staring from the end of the bed.
My brother flops down on the couch, yawning and arching a knowing, big-brother brow. “Is there maybe another reason you’re not going to the agency dinner?”
Whoa. He’s a smarty-pants. But my bluff game is still tight. “Nope,” I say as lightly as possible, like it’s no big deal.
He snorts. “I call horse patootie,” he says.
I laugh at the kid-friendly euphemism, then shake my head. Deny, deny, deny.
“Oh, come on,” he says with a doubtful smirk. “You told me you fell for your agent. You think I didn’t figure out that’s why you’re not at the party tonight?”
“Why did I tell you that?” I grumble.
“Because it was dead obvious?”