“This is not what I expected,” Shelly muttered.
I glanced over from the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel tighter. She’d been bitching about everything all damn day. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s so . . . flat. It’s nothing like the pictures.”
“What pictures?” If she’d googled Clifton Forge, Montana like I had a month ago, she’d know that the view through the windshield was identical to the photos from the search results.
“Are those the mountains?” She leaned forward, squinting through her purple-framed glasses. “They’re far away.”
I bit my tongue.
The mountains weren’t far away, maybe fifty miles at most. They cut across the horizon, standing proud and drawing a jagged line between heaven and earth. Beneath them rolled an open plain of green fields interrupted only by straight sections of barbed-wire fence. The breeze tickled the tops of the tall grasses growing along the road. Overhead, the azure sky was clear except for wisps of white clouds.
Some people, like me, might call this paradise.
I shot Cameron a look through the rearview mirror. He was wearing his signature round sunglasses, but I caught his eye roll.
“Is that it?” Shelly pointed ahead at a cluster of buildings in the distance.
I double-checked the map on my phone, my heart rate speeding up with every racing mile. “Yeah. That’s it.”
Clifton Forge.
I could see it with my own eyes. No more Google searches.
This movie had been announced a month ago, and I’d been itching to visit since. Hectic schedules and working to clear my plate for the foreseeable future had delayed my arrival, but finally, we were here.
I hit the gas, speeding down the highway. Blood pumped through my veins faster than it did during my morning run. Excitement and anticipation buzzed through every nerve ending. Goddamn, I was ready to get this project underway.
I hadn’t been truly anxious to play a role for five years. The films I’d been working on lately had all been variations of the same. I’d played the good guy, because that’s what the world saw when they looked at my face. In every movie, I won the girl at the end. I saved the day. American Hero was my brand, and I’d been reveling in it from the start. So had my assistant, manager and agent.
Well, fuck the brand.
I was tired of playing the game, sticking to safe roles and delivering common lines. Not even doing my own stunts had helped break up the monotony. It was time for something different. It was time to see if I actually had talent, or if the only reason I was making millions was because I hit the gym religiously each morning and my face looked good on magazine covers.
“It’s small,” Shelly said as the edge of town neared. “That’s good. Maybe we can add some mountains into the background with CGI.”
I huffed. “I thought we were going for authentic.”
That was the reason we’d hired Cameron, wasn’t it? Because of his reputation for keeping things real and raw and honest. As a general rule, Hollywood lacked honesty. Cameron’s vision for this film was the reason I’d gone full tilt, why I’d thrown so much of my own money in to make it happen.
I didn’t want to shoot in front of a green screen. I didn’t want to be sequestered in studio sets. I wanted to walk down an actual street lit by the actual sun.
“No CGI.” Cameron’s tone left no room for debate.
“Right,” Shelly agreed. “Forget the CGI. I just expected . . . something else. But this will work. It’s, uh, rugged.”
I could use a little rugged. The phony polish of Hollywood was wearing thin.
But here in Clifton Forge, life was real. The town didn’t thrive on tourism or cater to rich guests like some other areas of the state—something else I’d learned from Google. This town was fueled by agriculture and people who carved their living out of the land.
I respected that. I admired it. There were times when I longed for the hard days working on the force, when life had been a hell of a lot simpler.
Businesses sprang up along the road as we neared the town’s limits, welcome signs on doors and sandwich boards on sidewalks. It was the beginning of a parade, the early onlookers waving you down the road, inviting you into the fray. Windows were decorated with red, white and blue for the Independence Day festivities taking place in a few days. The GPS took me off the highway and straight down Central Avenue, a street packed with local shops and restaurants. The wide Missouri River flowed along one side of the street. A man stood at the helm of a fishing boat, casting his line into the rippled water.
I missed fishing. Maybe before shooting wrapped, I’d find some time to work in a day along the river.
“Motel first, Cam? Or do you want to drive around town?”
“Let’s get our bags dropped off and check in.”
I nodded and followed the directions to the Evergreen Motel, located two miles on the opposite end of town. Navigating two miles in downtown Los Angeles could take hours. Here, the miles went by too fast. My eyes struggled to stay on the road as I scanned storefronts and side streets.
Every cell in my body hummed. I itched to stop driving, get out and just walk. The schedule for this short trip was Cameron’s to dictate, but next time, I’d come alone. I’d spend time wandering and learn everything I could about this town and its people.
For once, I was going to enjoy being on location.
Most of the films I’d done had been made in LA. Any trips out of California were always short and grueling. I’d arrive at an airport after dark. I’d go immediately to the location, shoot for hours and hours on end—sometimes up to twenty per day—and the moment shooting wrapped, I was wheels up and headed home. There’d always been something next, either another project or a premiere or a press stop.
My agent and manager had pushed for me to do the same here. Get in and get out of Montana, Shaw. But I’d put my foot down.
During shooting, I was not flying back and forth to California. I’d stay in Montana to make sure everything went smoothly. Shelly had the official role of producer, but I was staying active. And once this film was done, I was taking time off. Six months. Maybe a year.
It was time to take a break.
From work. From the media. From the city.
Ahead, the single-story motel came into view. The building was shaded by pine trees on three sides, and its name on the dated sign fit perfectly.
The Evergreen Motel.
Our soon-to-be headquarters.
The scene of our crime.
I parked beside the office, hopping out to stretch my legs. Cameron, Shelly and I had flown in on my jet this morning, then rented the Escalade and gotten on the road. The nearest airport of any size was in Bozeman, two hours away. Next time, I might fly direct to Clifton Forge, but for this first trip, I hadn’t minded seeing more of the Montana countryside.
“This is great.” Shelly smiled, bouncing from foot to foot. “I hope they let me stay in her room.”
“Jesus, Shelly.” I cringed.
She shrugged and took off for the motel’s office.
The her Shelly referred to was Amina Daylee. Four years ago, Amina had been murdered right here at the Evergreen Motel. She’d been stabbed to death seven times by the former chief of police, Marcus Wagner.
The villain.
The man I’d be playing in Dark Paradise.
Cameron and I shared a look—we were equally annoyed with Shelly—then followed her into the office. It was no more than a kiosk in the center of the motel. I stayed back as Shelly took the lead, greeting the clerk, who identified himself as the owner. Shelly rattled off our names for him to find our reservations. I cringed again as she asked to be put in the room where Amina had been murdered.
So much for a low-key visit to blend in and learn the layout of the place.
The motel owner’s expression turned hard as he retrieved three keys, each hooked to a green oval disk stamped with our room numbers.
“Thanks,” I told him when Shelly forgot.
He nodded. “Just, uh . . . let me know if you need anything.”
“Appreciate it.” I waved, key in hand, and held the door for Shelly as she marched outside.
Now I understood why Cameron had insisted on coming here alone during his other visits. Blending in with Shelly was nearly impossible, and it had nothing to do with her magenta hair.
We huddled around the rear of the SUV, scanning the U-shaped motel for our rooms. Cameron and I had adjacent rooms. Shelly’s room was on the opposite end. Thank God. My temples were beginning to throb.
Shelly and I had worked together for years. At times, her personality grated on me, but she was hardworking and reliable. She’d get the job done and done well, so I could deal with a slight headache.
Cameron and I hadn’t known each other long, having only crossed paths occasionally before he’d agreed to come on as director. As I’d gotten to know him, I’d learned his reputation lived up to reality. He was a legend. He worked with dedication, precision and utmost sincerity. If this project was my baby, it was his grandchild.
Most actors weren’t involved with the preproduction stage of a film’s making, but I wasn’t just the bankable star. I was a moneyman.
My production company was making this movie, and I’d made a significant personal investment. Funding a movie took millions of dollars, so we’d pulled in other investors. But if I could have, I would have funded this entire venture myself. That was how strongly I believed in this script.
The screenplay had come to me via my gardener, John. His next-door neighbor Ann was a young screenwriter who’d regaled him with stories of a Montana murder. Ann had spent weeks in Clifton Forge researching the crime she’d read about in an online article the year prior. Then she’d returned to LA and written her screenplay.
Lucky for me, she hadn’t worked up the courage to send it out. After he’d begged for a month, Ann had relented and given John a copy of her screenplay to pass on to me.
John had brought it to me on a Monday morning. By Tuesday, I’d purchased it from Ann. By Wednesday, I’d optioned the rights to Valance Pictures. By Thursday, I’d funded the initial development costs and given Shelly the green light to hunt down more investors and kick off preproduction.
I was wasting no time.
I’d started Valance Pictures five years ago, and for the most part, I was too busy to get involved with the day-to-day activities. I had a reliable team who ran the business and producers, like Shelly, I trusted to oversee each film. The CEO churned out a report I read each quarter, and thus far, I’d had no dreams of grandeur. While Shelly and my CEO wanted to build the company into the next Warner Bros. or Universal Pictures, I’d been content to simply see the bottom line in black.
We’d released two movies so far, both with moderate success. Others were still in the pipeline, but nothing we’d picked stood out.
Dark Paradise was unique.
It had the potential to be something great for Valance Pictures, or it had the potential to ruin everything I’d worked for over the past eight years as an actor. Which meant I’d stay here, in Montana, and hope like hell the outcome was the former.
“Let’s get settled and regroup in thirty.” Cameron dragged his backpack out of the SUV.
“Sounds good.” I hefted out Shelly’s suitcase. Had it gotten heavier since the airport? We were only here for one night.
As she wheeled it behind her, practically running to her room, I slung my weekend bag over a shoulder and walked beside Cameron toward our own rooms. “Sorry about Shelly.”
He lifted a shoulder. “She’s a producer. I’m used to it. And she’s better than some.”
“Let me know if she crosses a line.”
“We’ll be fine. She’s keyed up, but things will settle once we start shooting.”
I waved to Cameron as he disappeared into his room and I ducked into mine. The room was as expected, clean but old. This motel had likely been built in the seventies, though the owners had kept it up. The siding had been painted a sage green within the last decade. Outside each room they’d hung flower baskets overflowing with a riot of spring petunias.
Setting my bag aside, I flopped onto the bed. My six-foot-two frame would have to sleep diagonally to fit on the mattress, and even then, my toes would dangle off the end.
My phone buzzed in my jeans pocket. Without looking, I knew it was either my mom, one of my sisters, my agent Ginny, my assistant Juno, or my manager Laurelin. The women in my life didn’t believe in letting me rest.
The call went unanswered as I raised my arms and laced my fingers behind my head, staring at the ceiling. This hadn’t been her room, but it was odd being at this motel, knowing this was where a person’s life had been stolen.
Had Amina Daylee studied the popcorn on the ceiling as she’d died? Or had she closed her eyes as Marcus had driven a hunting knife into her body seven times? What had it taken for him to kill her? Rage. Pain. Maybe a crazy mix of both.
I’d been pondering Marcus’s character for months and mentally rehearsing scenes. I hadn’t been a shoo-in for the part, even though my company was making the movie. Cameron had made me audition. After he and the casting director had offered me the role, we’d spent hours talking through my performance and his expectations. As far as jobs went, I’d never been more prepared.
Or terrified.
This movie might flop, sinking my reputation and image. But my gut screamed there was something here, that this was a winner, and I always listened to my gut.
Always.
Still, I hadn’t been this scared my first day at the police academy or my first day on the force. The nerves would settle eventually, but for now, they were nearly crippling.
We needed to start shooting. We needed to get the opening scene of the movie behind us so I could stop dwelling on it.
That scene wasn’t slated for shooting until later in the schedule, and it would be the hardest to perfect. It was the shot we needed to make our first impression and we’d shoot it right here, at this very motel.
It was the scene where Marcus kills Amina.
Cameron wanted the focus to be on Amina and how the life drained from her eyes. The killer, me, was to be an afterthought. My face wouldn’t even be in the shot.
The audience would suspect that Marcus was investigating the murder for the majority of the film. If I did my job, they’d only suspect he’d been her killer toward the end.
Because in reality, Marcus Wagner had nearly gotten away with Amina’s murder. He’d lived and worked in Clifton Forge for a year before being caught. The entire time, he’d been trying to frame an innocent man.
Draven Slater.
Draven had been the past president of a former motorcycle club and Amina’s lover. Only hours before her death, they’d been together in the room where Shelly was now. According to speculation by the Clifton Forge Tribune, Marcus had killed Amina in a crime of passion. He’d been in love with Amina, and her night with Draven had been the ultimate betrayal.
It had cost Amina her life.
Draven had faced trial for her murder. He’d nearly been sentenced too, but the day before the jury had been scheduled to deliver a verdict, Draven had hung himself inside his home. He’d escaped life in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed by claiming his own life.
With Draven gone, Marcus had been home free.
Almost.
Marcus had made a mistake. He hadn’t counted on one thing—or one woman. Genevieve Daylee, Amina and Draven’s daughter.
Genevieve had discovered Marcus’s obsession with her mother and tricked him into a confession that had landed him in prison. He was currently serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole.
Along with the screenplay of the film, Valance Pictures had purchased the life rights to Marcus Wagner’s story. That had taken us longer than a few days to procure. The movie was using facts based on a number of different sources, but from a liability standpoint, we’d sent Marcus a request anyway, hoping to get his consent.
He’d shocked the hell out of us when he’d agreed to the one-million-dollar payout. No counteroffers. No arguments. Just a signed agreement funneled through his lawyer and a hefty sum deposited into his former bank account, now controlled by his ex-wife.
We’d also bought her life rights too—the former Mrs. Wagner had negotiated an even bigger payday and was now living alone in Hawaii while her ex-husband rotted in a cell.
I’d tried to visit Marcus in prison, but he’d refused my invitation. I’d try again. And again. And again. One day, I’d sit across from him and look him in the eyes. I had to see for myself the man who’d once been a decorated officer. The man who’d hidden his crime for a year. A man who could turn his back on the oaths he’d taken to serve and protect.
Because maybe if I could understand why Marcus had turned, I’d be able to forgive my father for his crimes.
The minutes ticked by as I stared at the ceiling. When I heard Cameron’s door open, I pushed off the bed and snagged the keys beside the TV. I met him outside on the sidewalk. “Where to?”
“I’d like to show Shelly the shooting locations, let her get a feel for what we’re dealing with. Then debrief with her for a few hours.”
“Sounds good.” I nodded as Shelly came out of her room and joined us by the SUV.
“It’s a little creepy,” she admitted.
No shit. A woman had bled to death in that room. I doubted the motel’s owners advertised that in their brochures.
We climbed into the Escalade and I drove through town, following Cameron’s directions to each of the locations he’d marked for shooting. Cameron had been to Clifton Forge three times already, scouting locations himself. From the moment we’d hired him for this project, he’d immersed himself in the details. He remembered street and business names. He knew which bar served the best cheeseburger and where to get a stiff drink.
The more we traveled around Clifton Forge, guided by Cameron’s directions, the more my nerves calmed. The stiffness in my shoulders eased. There was a sense of peace in this town. A sense of normal.
People meandered down the sidewalks. No one walked in a frantic march. We stopped at a sandwich place for a late lunch and nothing about the meal was hectic. Our waitress didn’t rush us in and out to make room for another tipping customer. Even the stoplights, what few there were, seemed to change at a relaxed pace.
Cameron had chosen a ranch house about three miles out of town to use as Marcus’s home. The owners had agreed to let us do some exterior and interior shooting for a hefty price. It was where we’d film the scene of Marcus’s confession and arrest. The city had given us an all-access pass to public areas—after we’d opened the checkbook. And then there was the Evergreen Motel. The owners were allowing us to film on-site. That slice of authenticity had cost a quarter of a million dollars, plus we’d rented out the entire place for a solid two months for some of the crew.
Some interior scenes, like those in the police station, would be at the LA studio. We’d fabricate Marcus’s workplace and a few other locations. But otherwise, most of the action would happen in Clifton Forge. Shelly had spent months on the phone ironing out agreements with the locals.
The only place she hadn’t even bothered approaching was the Clifton Forge Garage.
Shelly might be a bulldog, but she knew when not to bark.
Once owned by Draven Slater, the garage was now operated by his son, Dash. According to Google, Genevieve had just graduated with honors from law school. I’d found her name listed on the staff directory for a firm in Clifton Forge.
We had decided not to approach either for life rights. We were using facts to craft their part of the movie, their fictionalized characters. And the rest was all make-believe. It was a risk we were willing to take since the focus was so heavily on Marcus.
I knew that filming this movie, let alone filming it in Clifton Forge, would be difficult for the victim’s family. My plan was to approach them personally. I hoped they’d see this project as a way to set the story straight for Draven and show the world his innocence.
I’d explain that the script was mostly focused on the murder and the downfall of a cop. This story would travel with Marcus down his road to corruption and violence.
When the words Based on a True Story faded in, they’d be as close to history as possible, thanks to Ann’s research. She’d pulled articles and court reports. She’d written letters, corresponded with both Marcus and his ex-wife. She’d spent time in Clifton Forge. I doubted the citizens here had even noticed the quiet woman sitting in the corner of a bar or restaurant, eating alone and soaking it in.
Ann had even braved a trip to the garage for an oil change. She hadn’t included it in the script, but she’d told me one day how sitting in the waiting room of the garage had been like standing in the corner of a dining room, eavesdropping on another family’s Thanksgiving dinner.
Approaching the garage—this family—would take finesse.
“Are we going to the garage?” Shelly had a thick notebook on her lap and had checked the small boxes she’d drawn beside the shooting locations.
“Not today.”
Shelly didn’t have the delicacy to walk into the garage and not ruffle feathers. Besides, it was likely a no-win situation. I wouldn’t send her into the lion’s den. As her boss’s boss, I’d be the one to make the first introduction.
“Anywhere else?” She twisted in her seat to look at Cameron.
“No.” He was scrolling through pictures he’d taken of the various locations. “I really like how everything looks right now. It’s green but not too green. It’s—what was that word you used earlier?—rugged. I want rugged. How fast can we get rolling?”
Shelly flipped to a different page of her notebook. “With a skeleton crew? Two weeks. If you need the full staff, a month minimum. We’re nearly done with preproduction but I don’t have any of the crew scheduled to arrive here until August one. We could do some without, but it will be clunky.”
“We’ve managed clunky so far,” I said.
She nodded. “This is true.”
We hadn’t hired a location manager for this film because Cameron had insisted on scouting locations himself. And Shelly had jumped in to negotiate contracts for the different places.
The casting was done. We’d used our in-house casting director for the smaller roles while Cameron had handpicked the leads to submit auditions. This film didn’t have a huge cast, which had made hiring efficient. Cameron had also insisted on a well-known production designer he’d worked with numerous times in the past.
Shelly had the rest handled. Costume design. Sound. Hair. Makeup. Catering. Housing. She’d spent months putting all the dominos in a row so they’d fall in exactly the right order.
God help us if she ever lost that notebook.
“I’d like to go with the skeleton crew.” Cameron tapped his chin. “At least get some of the scenery shots done before the summer burns hot. Can you be here, Shaw?”
“No problem.” This movie was priority.
“If we’re going to do this, I need a few hours to make some calls,” Shelly said, already jotting notes in the margin of a page.
“I’ll take you back to the motel.” I eased off the gas and flipped a U-turn to go the other direction.
“I want to get in touch with my assistant too,” Cameron said.
“Let’s break,” I said. “We can regroup for dinner.”
“What are you going to do?” Shelly asked.
“Explore.”
And make an introduction.
After dropping them at the motel, I punched a new location into my GPS and aimed my wheels along the resulting blue path. The calm I’d found earlier evaporated as the garage came into view.
The towering shop stood stately on the street, like the mountains in the distance. The tin roof gleamed under the July sun. There were four bay doors, each open and occupied with a car. I parked in a free space beside the door marked OFFICE.
The sound of an air compressor whirling filled the air. Metal scraped metal. Socket wrenches cranked as they tightened bolts. The barely there smell of grease and gasoline tinted the air.
I opened the office door, my eyes aimed at the shop, searching for faces. When I spotted one, I faced forward with a smile.
My smile had won me the hearts of countless women across the world. Normally, it was met with a blush and dropped jaw.
Today, I was met with blue. Two of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Eyes that paled the Montana sky and dulled the Caribbean shores.
I staggered.
It was my turn to flush and force my mouth closed as I studied the woman behind the desk, making sure she was real.
Her hair was the color of the purest sand. It was short, swooping over one perfectly arched eyebrow. Her lips were as hard as her expression, but I suspected that when she wasn’t scowling, they’d form a natural, sexy pout.
I had no idea who she was, but she clearly knew me.
Her eyes weren’t just blue. They were an angry blue.
She knew me and she knew exactly why I was here.
By some miracle, we’d managed to keep the tabloids out of preproduction. If anyone in Clifton Forge had noticed Cameron on his visits over the past few months, they hadn’t cared.
But as production neared, everyone in Clifton Forge would notice the activity, the influx of visitors. Some in town, like the mayor, were counting on the commerce. About a month ago, after Shelly had signed the final agreement with the town council, the mayor had announced the movie alongside our Hollywood press release. I’d been keeping watch on Clifton Forge’s local newspaper ever since, and they’d published an article shortly thereafter. My name had only been mentioned once.
I’d hoped that people would have adjusted to the idea of a film cast and crew, accepted it even, after a month. That did not seem to be the case at the Clifton Forge Garage.
I spotted the latest Entertainment Weekly tossed on a table beside an empty chair. My face was on the cover, decorated with a devil’s pitchfork and horns.
So much for finesse and a smile.
“Hi.” I flashed her the grin photographers salivated over.
Her stare narrowed. “Can I help you?”
I crossed the empty room, my hand extended. “Shaw Valance. I’m guessing you know who I am and why I’m here.”
Her eyes darted to my hand and she crossed her arms over her chest.
“I, uh . . .” I dropped my hand. “I was hoping to introduce myself to Mr. Slater.”
“Dash isn’t available today.” Her voice was flat. “Would you like to make an appointment?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
She shook her head. “He’s busy.”
Why did I get the feeling that Dash would be busy no matter what time I suggested? I blew out a deep breath. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I only want to introduce myself. Talk a little about the project.”
“Right.” Her tone dripped sarcasm. She didn’t give a shit what we were doing here or why.
I held her stare, unable to move my feet. I was getting nowhere with this woman, so why wasn’t I already back in the car?
The angry waves pulsing from her captivating face set me on my heels, but the soles of my boots were glued to the floor. She was a little thing, probably just over one hundred pounds, but damn, she was a force.
The last person who’d intimidated me this much had been my father before he’d fallen from grace.
Wavering under that livid blue gaze, I glanced around the room. My eyes landed on a framed photo tacked to the wall. I leaned closer, taking in the man I knew had been Draven Slater—yet another Google score. His sons, Nick and Dash, stood by his side and beside them were three motorcycles.
The door behind me opened and my feet came unstuck. I turned as one of the men from the photograph stepped inside.
Dash cleaned grease from his hands on a red rag. He eyed me from head to toe as I did the same, noting we were about the same height and build.
“Dash Slater.” I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Shaw Valance.”
His handshake was firm, his expression guarded. “What can I do for you, Shaw?”
“I’m looking to build a bike.” The idea came from the ether and spewed from my mouth.
“A bike?”
“That’s right.” I nodded, pretending that I hadn’t just hatched this brainchild. “I heard you’re one of the best.”
“Sorry. We don’t have openings in the schedule.” Dash crossed his arms over his chest and looked past my shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Presley?”
“Yep. We’re booked out for two years.”
Damn. That actually sounded like the truth.
Their wait list was my way out the door. I’d stopped to introduce myself. I’d offered them business. Neither one of them seemed to want to know anything about my film. So why was I still standing here? Why did I suddenly feel guilty about filming a movie in their town?
This was good commerce. We’d bring money to this town during production and, afterward, notoriety. Didn’t everyone want that elusive claim to fame?
No. Not everyone enjoyed the limelight. Not even me.
I should leave, but once again, I didn’t even glance at the door. Now that the idea was out there, I did want a bike. I wanted to get to know these people who’d only been characters on a page until this point.
“I should have figured you’d be busy and called sooner. It was a last-minute idea. Sorry. We’ll figure something out for the movie. I’m sure Harley-Davidson will send over something stock for the guy playing your dad to ride. It won’t be as cool as that bike in the picture, but I bet people won’t notice.”
“Stock?” Dash’s jaw clenched.
He knew I’d just baited him, and he knew he was going to take it. Because Draven Slater, the man in the picture standing in front of a fifty-thousand-dollar bike, would never have ridden a stock bike.
Dash would build the bike so his father’s image was as accurate as possible.
Shelly might not understand the concept of authenticity, but Dash Slater sure as hell did.
“It’ll cost you,” Dash said.
“Dash—”
He held up his hand, silencing Presley’s protest.
“How much?” I asked.
“Seventy-five grand. Three months. I have design control.”
In three months, we’d be long gone from Clifton Forge. “Six weeks. Design whatever you want, and I’ll pay ninety for the rush.”
“Done. Presley will draw up the contract.” Without another word, Dash exited the office and returned to the shop.
When I turned around, I was met with an icy glare.
“Please have a seat.” Presley pointed to the chair across from her desk.
I obeyed. As I sat across from her, the scent of citrus and sweet vanilla wafted over the desk. The smell was inviting, unlike the woman whose eyes were aimed at her computer screen.
“Name?” she asked.
“Shaw Valance.”
“Your legal name.”
“Shaw. Valance.”
Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard before punching in my name. She took down my address and phone number, clicking her mouse about one hundred times and never once looking at my face. Then she twisted in her chair to pick up the contract pages fresh from the printer.
She set them down in front of me along with a pen. “Sign the last page.”
I scribbled my name.
Presley slid the sheets from under my hand before the ink had a chance to dry. She signed her own name below mine.
My lips fought a grin the whole time.
Who was this woman? When was the last time a single female—I’d checked, there was no ring—hadn’t thrown herself in my direction? Presley was ice and fire with cool blue eyes that blazed with fury. Except every word, every movement, was full of indifference.
She pretended not to care, but her eyes betrayed her.
“I’d like a copy of that.” I nodded to the contract.
“And I’d like a deposit.”
I shifted to yank my wallet from my back pocket. I pulled out my credit card and tossed it on her desk. “Run it for the full amount.”
Her eyes flared but only slightly. Not a lot of people could charge nearly one hundred thousand dollars on a credit card, and yeah, it was a gross display of wealth. But her attitude, this apathy, was making me fucking crazy.
Presley dragged the credit card through the machine beside her computer, giving it back as the receipt printed. She ripped it off with a clean tear, pushing it across the desk for another signature.
I signed it and stood, walking for the door. I paused at the handle, glancing over my shoulder. I expected to see her eyes snapping up from my ass—that was normally what happened when I walked out of a room. But there was nothing. No look. No glare. Presley’s attention was firmly fixed on her screen.
Huh. That dented the ego.
“Goodbye, Presley.”
She blinked. The mouse she’d been moving froze for two seconds, then she was back to work. Not a damn word . . . because I’d already been dismissed.
When I returned to the motel, I didn’t stop by to tell Cameron or Shelly that I was back. I went to my room and stared at the ceiling, not thinking about the movie or the murder.
My mind was fixed on Presley.
She was different than the women who’d caught my fancy these past few years. They’d all been beautiful, but Presley stood apart. She had strong cheekbones and a pretty chin. I’d been right about the lips. When she wasn’t pursing them tight, they had this perfect, soft swell. She’d caught the bottom one between her teeth as she’d signed the contract and I’d almost reached to set it free. Presley had slight curves because she was a slight woman, which happened to be just my type. And goddamn those eyes.
She was . . . real.
I craved real.
“Damn,” I muttered. I shouldn’t have given Dash design control over that bike.
Because now I’d have to think up another excuse to visit the Clifton Forge Garage.