So Far Away (California Dreamers #2) Page 2

“Your jealously is showing,” Finn bites back.

  “Maybe if you’d recommend your buddies to your manager…”

  “Maybe if you’d write something worth recommending…”

  “Dudes,” Roscoe stands between them. “Chill. This is a hassle-free zone.”

  “As I was saying.” Finn turns his attention back to me. “My manager mentioned that Jackson Drake is looking for a personal assistant. You’d be perfect for the job.”

  “Who is Jackson Drake?” I ask.

  Every pair of eyes in the room are on me instantly. It’s as if I just said God is dead or something equally as blasphemous.

  “Only one of the greatest action suspense writers of this century,” Oliver states.

  Everyone in the room nods in agreement.

  “And what makes you think I’d be perfect for the job as his assistant?” I ask.

  Finn narrows his gaze at me. “Because you seem a little desperate.”

  As much as I hate to admit it he’s right. I don’t have a lot of options. “What’s wrong with the guy?”

  “Let’s just say he has a little difficulty keeping assistants.”

  “And what makes you think he’d hire me?”

  Finn hesitates for a moment then says, “He likes young female assistants. And you’re breathing. So you meet the qualifications.”

  “I have two Master’s degrees.” I generally don’t share that tidbit of information, but I’m tired of people thinking I’m just some dumb blonde slut.

  “You do?” Jasper sounds shocked.

  “And they’re from Yale,” I add.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as Finn removes a cellphone from his pocket and dials.

  “Calling my manager.” He glances up at me.

  “I never said I’d talk to your manager. I never said I was interested in being some weirdo writer’s personal assistant.”

  “I don’t think Jackson Drake is a weirdo,” Oliver pipes in. “A bit eccentric, perhaps.”

  “And how do you know?” I raise an eyebrow. “Have you met him?”

  Oliver shakes his head. “No. But I’ve read every one of his novels multiple times. No one that brilliant could be a total weirdo.”

  And no one thinks Annabelle Miller is a crazy bitch. A celebrity’s public persona can be a lot different than what he or she is like behind closed doors. I learned that lesson the hard way.

  Finn puts up a finger in a shushing motion while he talks to his manager on his cell. “Hey, Joel. It’s Finn…right. Listen, you mentioned that Jackson Drake was looking for a personal assistant. I have someone…Okay…Sure.”

  Finn’s brow is furrowed when he ends the call. He doesn’t look hopeful at all.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I tell him preemptively. As many times as I’ve been rejected over the last two months it still stings.

  “Joel wants to see you.”

  “He does?” I can’t help the surprise in my voice.

  “Right now.”

  My jaw drops. “I’m sorry. Did you just say now?”

  “Right now,” he repeats.

  “As in this moment?” I’m still having a difficult time comprehending what he’s telling me.

  When he moves towards the door I know he’s serious. “I’ll take you over there.”

  “What about tonight’s critique?” Milo moans.

  “I’m sure you boys can handle it without me.”

  Nellie clears her throat. “Sorry, I’m sure you boys and Nellie can handle the critique without me.”

  ***

  “Are you taking me there because you’re being a nice guy or because you think I’ll chicken out?”

  I’m not surprised that Finn drives a Jeep. It seems to be the vehicle of choice for guys who surf. His Jeep is brand new with all the bells and whistles. He said he was unemployed, which leads me to believe that he’s being bankrolled by wealthy parents.

  He laughs. “What makes you think I’m a nice guy?”

  “Let me guess. Your manager is offering some kind of finder’s fee.”

  “You are a lot smarter than you look. Maybe you’re not lying about the two Master’s degrees.”

  I furrow my brow. “Why would anyone lie about earning two Master’s degrees?”

  “I guess you haven’t been in town very long.”

  “I’ve lived here all my life, except when I went to Yale.”

  “Then you should know people in in this town lie about everything.”

  “Where are you from?” I ask even though it’s pretty obvious he’s from the West coast.

  “I was born and raised here,” he confirms.

  “Does that mean you lie about everything?”

  His smirk tells me everything I need to know.

  “Let me guess. Your mom and dad are in the business. That’s why you have a manager and your friends don’t.”

  “It’s all about who you know,” he confirms.

  When someone doesn’t immediately tell you who their parents are it’s usually because one or both of them are very powerful in Hollywood. That’s their way of protecting themselves from people who just want to get to know them for their connection in the business. It’s only the kids of C and D listers who blab to everyone about their famous or powerful parents.

  We’re both quiet the rest of the way to his manager’s office. It’s late, nearly nine, and I’m surprised to see the lights are still on. The building seems to be bustling with activity when we arrive.

  “Good luck,” Finn tells me as he slides into a parking spot right in front of the building.

  “Thanks...I think.”

  “Everyone who’s anyone knows Annabelle Miller’s a psycho bitch and Daniel Robinson would prefer to bat for the other team.”

  Even though I didn’t live with them very long I did have my suspicions about Daniel being gay.

  “You said you didn’t know about Nannygate.”

  “Remember what I said about lying.” He winks at me. “My older sister went to high school with both of them.”

  I heave a sigh. “I really need for this to work out. I don’t have any other job prospects.”

  He gives me a warm smile. “I hope it works out too. Joel said he’d give me a thousand bucks if you get the job.”

  ***

  I immediately recognize some of the names on the directory as I enter the building’s lobby. They represent some of the biggest stars in the business.

  As I make my way down a long hallway I start to feel sick to my stomach. I probably should have eaten something before I downed a beer.

  And it’s probably not a good idea to go for an interview with beer on my breath. To be fair though this was a very last minute thing. It’s not like I was planning on going to a job interview when I accepted the booze.

  I reach into my purse and rummage around for that last stick of gum I’m sure I had somewhere.

  I manage to find a paperclip, which I have little use for. Who actually prints things on paper anymore? Next I come across a purple marble. I have no idea how that got in my bag. I also find a plastic spoon with some crusted peanut butter still on it. Luckily I pass by a garbage can where the spoon can make its new home.

  The gum has to be here somewhere. I stop mid-hallway and stick my head into the handbag. I hunt around one more time, but to no avail.

  There’s no gum.

  I guess I’ll just have to go into Joel’s office smelling like a brewery. If he’s that desperate to hire an assistant for his client, my beer breath shouldn’t matter that much.

  Joel gives me a quick wave signaling me to step into his office, even though he is still on the phone.

  His office is just as flashy as the man himself. He must manage quite a few very successful clients, because it takes a lot of money to maintain a place this upscale and extravagant looking.

  Joel isn’t a large man. The massive black desk he’s seated behind makes him look even smaller. I have a difficult time telling people’s ages, but if I ha
d to guess Joel’s I’d estimate he’s around 45. He’s bald, and he’s squinting at me like someone who should wear glasses but hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.

  When he ends his call he stands up and offers me his hand. He’s wearing a bit too much cologne and his toothy smile seems forced. He gives off the vibe of a car salesman in an Armani suit.

  I’ve haven’t yet figured out if my mother is one of the shrewdest women in the world, or if she’s just plain crazy. She’s probably a combination of both. One thing she did teach me is that you can tell a lot about a man by shaking his hand.

  Joel’s hands are cold and slimy. My immediate thought is that he’s smarmy.

  As soon as he opens his mouth my initial impressions are immediately validated.

  “I’ve heard really good things about you, kiddo.”

  Liar. There’s no way he could have heard anything about me. His conversation with Finn was five seconds long. And I overheard everything Finn said.

  And is there a reason he has to call me kiddo? The word is so condescending it makes me bristle.

  He points a stubby finger at me. “This job is perfect for you.”

  He may be right about that, but only because no one else in the country will actually offer me a job.

  “I’m very interested,” I reply. I try to leave the revulsion I feel towards him out of my voice. I give him a weak smile instead.

  “So when can you start?” He stares at me, waiting for my reply.

  I’m not sure what to say. He hasn’t told me anything about the position, nor has he asked me anything about myself.

  “Doesn’t the writer have to meet with me first?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not necessary. Jackson Drake likes to do these things his own way. It’s like a trial by fire sort of thing.

  I gulp. “Okay…” The word barely slips out of my narrowing throat.

  “Tomorrow?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “You haven’t really told me anything about the position.”

  “He wants his assistant to live on site. His home is a bit of a drive from LA.”

  “How far?” I squeak. “Like Malibu?”

  He moves his index finger away from his thumb to indicate a little bit further.

  I rub my temple. How much further?

  Living in New Haven, Connecticut while I attended Yale I realized how much I missed living in LA. Now that I’m finally back in town I don’t want to leave again.

  “Laguna Beach,” he says.

  That’s an hour away. It might as well be New Haven. My friends aren’t going to drive all the way down there to visit me.

  My mother rarely makes it out of the Valley. I can hear her voice in my head. “Laguna Beach? That’s just so far away.”

  I heave a sigh. I have to take the job. I can’t live with Nellie and Roscoe forever.

  “Tomorrow,” I tell him. “Just give me the address.”

  Two

  As I pull into the driveway of Jackson Drake’s spectacular Oceanside mansion my heart is beating so wildly I feel like it’s about to explode.

  I was so filled with anxiety I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I spent most of the night on my laptop doing research on Jackson Drake.

  This is what I found out. He’s fifty-six years old. Thirty years older than I am. He taught creative writing for several years at UCLA until his professional writing career took off in the early 1990s. He published steadily, about one book every year, until 2005, when he stopped writing. I’m sure it’s not a coincidence that his wife of over thirty years died in 2005.

  Jackson Drake and his wife never had any children. I suspect it’s because she was diagnosed with MS at a fairly young age, but that’s purely speculation on my part.

  Maybe they just didn’t like kids.

  Jackson Drake has fifteen books in print, all of them suspense thrillers. And he’s sold over 20 million copies. Several movies were adapted from his books and were released in the early 2000s.

  For the last 10 years he’s been a recluse.

  I didn’t have enough time to read any of his books in their entirety, but I did skim through a few of them. Suspense thrillers aren’t really my thing anyway.

  If I’m going to make time to read, which I don’t do very often, it’s usually something non-fiction.

  I’m not sure where he wants me to park so I leave my car in a spot away from the front of the house.

  Not that I have to worry about him having guests if he’s truly a recluse.

  Jackson’s magnificent multi-level home overlooks the Pacific Ocean. My mother dabbles in real estate when she’s not planning her next wedding, so I know a little bit about what oceanfront property sells for. At current market value a place like Jackson’s is probably worth about 30 million dollars.

  I lock my car and stare at the exquisite grand entrance which is bordered by two waterfalls on either side of the front door.

  I’m surprised the guy doesn’t have a moat.

  I take in a deep breath then exhale. It’s time to meet my new boss.

  I ring the doorbell and wait.

  And wait.

  There’s no answer.

  I try knocking. Then I pound on the door. There’s still no response.

  I’m not sure what to do. Jackson’s manager didn’t give me a phone number. He said Jackson never answers his phone anyway. Apparently he doesn’t answer the door either.

  Did his manager even bother to tell him I was coming?

  It only takes me a moment to realize how stupid that is. How could he tell him if he doesn’t answer his phone?

  Something tells me he probably doesn’t respond to emails either.

  On a whim I decide to check the door to see if it’s locked. When I turn the handle I’m not that surprised to find that it isn’t.

  Now the question becomes: do I barge right into Jackson Drake’s home?

  Right now I can’t think of any other option.

  I walk into the foyer as quietly as I can and close the door behind me.

  Now what?

  The place is eerily quiet.

  I glance around. When I think of the word recluse I guess I think of those hoarders like they show on television who somehow manage to live amongst piles of junk.

  Jackson Drake’s house is nothing like that. Quite the contrary. It looks more like a model home than a place where someone actually lives. It’s beautifully decorated and immaculate.

  I’m startled by the sound of tiny footsteps. A small gray cat scampers past me without giving me as much as a second look.

  I decide to follow the feline.

  The cat makes its way into the living area, which is nothing less than spectacular. The ocean views, which are the centerpiece of the room, take my breath away.

  Nature’s artwork never ceases to delight me.

  The cat hops on a large overstuffed leather chair, curls up and goes to sleep.

  That’s when I hear the faint sound of snoring.

  I look over at the leather couch and find what I hope is Jackson Drake, arms and legs sprawled in different directions, almost like he’s passed out.

  My hypothesis is confirmed when I notice the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

  It’s ten thirty in the morning. So he’s either still passed out from last night, or he started drinking really early in the morning.

  I’m not sure which of those scenarios is worse.

  As much as I don’t want to disturb him I know I have to announce my presence. It’s my first day of work and I need to actually work.

  I shake his shoulder as gently as I can.

  He makes an indecipherable grumble and turns over so his face is crammed into an expensive looking decorative pillow.

  A decorative pillow that he is now drooling all over.

  I reach over and shake him a bit harder.

  He lifts his hand and starts swatting at the air around him.

  I shake him a third t
ime even harder.

  This finally rouses him. As his eyes slowly open he squints. “Sadie?”

  “I’m Maddie. Maddie Malone. Your new assistant.”

  He rubs his eyes. “What happened to Sadie?”

  “I don’t know. Did you fire her?”

  He tilts his head like he’s giving this some thought. “Maybe I did.”

  “You can’t remember?”

  He shakes his head then places his palm to his temple. “Shit. How much did I drink last night?”

  Ever so slowly he rises to a seated position on the couch. Staring straight at the whiskey bottle he says, “I put a good dent in it.”

  A half of a bottle by himself is more than a dent, but I don’t say anything.

  “How did you get here?” he asks.

  “I drove down from LA.”

  “No, I mean how did you get inside my house?”

  I gulp. “I rang the doorbell and I knocked. I didn’t have your phone number.”

  I bat my long lashes at him and try to look as innocent as possible so he won’t fire me. Or call the cops for breaking into his house.

  Although I didn’t actually break in; I just walked in. I think that’s still illegal though.

  “Your door was unlocked,” I add.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t answer my phone anyway.” As he rises from the couch he wobbles a little. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Maddie,” I repeat. “Maddie Malone.”

  He rubs his temple. “I hate alliteration, especially in names. I can’t stand when authors do that. Why the hell would anyone do that to their child?”

  “My mom’s name is Margo Malone. I guess you could say alliteration runs in our family.” I laugh at my attempt at literary humor, but it doesn’t seem to faze him a bit. He just stares at me.

  Jackson’s fifty-six years look like they were hard won. His graying hair is a bit too long and shaggy. Like it was styled nicely at one time, but is long overgrown. His forehead is creased with lines as thick as the crow’s feet which circle his dull hazel eyes.

  His rumpled t-shirt and jeans look liked they’ve been slept in for more than a few days. And if I’m being perfectly honest he reeks of alcohol and sweat.

  If you were to pass by Jackson on a street corner instead of him standing in this mansion you might mistake him for a bum.