The Girlfriend Stage by Janci Patterson

Author:Janci Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Romance
Publisher: Janci Patterson
Published: 2019-12-16T16:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Anna-Marie

The next morning when we get back to my house, and after we take showers and get dressed—separately, sadly, because Patrice is eyeing us judgmentally—I go outside to call Brent and tell him the bad news. I’ve got a whole speech prepared, in which I thank him for all he’s done for me as an agent, for taking a chance on me, blah blah blah. It’s important not to burn bridges, and really, I am grateful.

I don’t get a chance to deliver it, because I’ve barely gotten out the words “I’ve decided to sign with Josh Rios,” when Brent cuts off the rest with a harsh laugh.

“Yeah, I saw that coming.” He sounds like he’s eating something, his lips smacking wetly together. This is not new—during my first meeting with him, he ate two foot-long meatball sandwiches and left marinara-smudged fingerprints on my contract.

“Oh,” I say, not sure how to respond. “That’s good, I suppose. And Brent, I want you to know I’m so grateful—”

“I figured it’d happen as soon as I saw that picture of you two in that club. He’s a slick one, Rios. Knows how to use what the good lord gave him.”

I bristle. “Josh isn’t dating me to sign me.” I’m actually surprised Brent doesn’t think it went the other way around—everyone else in Hollywood will, no doubt.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, sweetheart,” Brent says. “Just remember who was here for you from the beginning. When he’s done screwing you, and is working on his next poach, I’d be happy to—”

I don’t bother hearing what he’d be happy to do. I hang up on his pompous ass and stand there fuming on the front lawn.

When he’s done screwing you . . .

It sounds so much like something my mom would say that I can practically hear her echo the words in my head.

I’m spared from reliving a full memory of my mom’s litany of reasons to distrust men by a UPS truck pulling up in the driveway. A heavyset woman in the brown uniform emerges with a large, battered-looking package in hand.

“Are you Patrice?” the delivery woman asks. “Because we at UPS are officially sorry about the lateness of the package, but really, we’d appreciate it if you’d stop leaving long messages threatening to report us to the Bureau of Land Management, and even if your brother does work there, I don’t think they—”

“Oh my god, did she seriously . . . never mind.” I shake my head. “I’ll make sure she gets the package. And the message. I’m sorry. On behalf of . . . humanity.”

The UPS driver gives me a look, and has me sign for the package. Then she peals off down the street, probably vowing never to return to Everett again.

I should follow the woman’s stellar example. Instead, I heft the package, wondering briefly if that tear on the bottom is from being chewed on by a goat, and bring it in the house.

“Patrice, your t-shirts are here,” I call.

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