Don’t say Franco Francone Don’t say Franco Francone Don’t say Franco Francone.
“Franco Francone.”
J. T. said nothing.
His agent laughed. “It’s a testament to your acting skill, J. T., that you didn’t say a word but I heard ‘fuck’ loud and clear.”
“Pardon my language,” J. T. said dryly.
“Ah, shake it off. They loved you and et cetera. It’s not a big deal. Francone doesn’t have your chops. He isn’t going to head up a cable series, for God’s sake, andThe Rushis going to be fantastic. And other agently stuff I always say to you. Did I miss anything?”
“I think that about covers it. And yeah. I knowThe Rushwill be great.”
“Where are you, by the way?”
“Hellcat Canyon, apparently. Truck started making noises. I got hungry. I stopped.”
“Where the hell is Hellcat Canyon? I thought California had two cities. L.A. and San Francisco.”
“California Gold Country. WhereThe Rushwill be filmed. Had a few weeks before my schedule starts winding up again and it’s more or less on the way to Napa. Thought I’d get a sense of the place, maybe find a place to stay. Gorgeous here,” he said absently. “Long way from L.A.”
He didn’t tell Al he’d got in the truck last night and just started driving because waiting on news ofLast Call in Purgatorywas going to make him crazy and he couldn’t stay cooped up in a house. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared this much about a role.
He didn’t ask about it. If there was news, Al would tell him.
“All right, then. If you can’t be good, be newsworthy,” Al said dryly. “See you at Nicasio’s wedding in Napa?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Al.” J. T. was supposed to give a toast there, and for many reasons, he still had no idea what he was going to say.
“You bet, J. T.”
J. T. ended the call and was just about to stuff his phone back into his pocket when a text chimed in.
He sighed gustily. He knew exactly who it was from.
Better Luck Next Time, McCord.
Franco must have fist-pumped when he thought of that. It was a brilliantly horrible thing to say for a lot of reasons. J. T. almost laughed.
He did what he always did whenever Franco sent him a text about anything.
He sent back a photo of one of his Emmys.
It made Franconuts.
It was just one of the things J. T. had that Franco claimed J. T. had stolen from him.
Franco was wrong on every count, of course. But it wasn’t as though J. T. was entirely innocent.
He finally put his phone away.
He got a few feet closer to his truck and paused to crouch and scratch a black-and-white cat drowsing in front of a florist’s shop.
It arched and stretched to greet him, then ecstatically rotated its head so he could reach under its chin.
A little girl, nine, ten years old, peachy skinned, hair bound in two ruthlessly symmetrical strawberry-blonde braids, pushed open the door of the shop and paused to stare at him.
“Isn’t my cat soft? His name is Peace and Love.”