Free Just Like Me, Only Better by Carol Snow Page B

example, Haley never says thank you.”
     
     
    I assumed Rodrigo would drive me to the coffee place. Instead, Jay handed me a set of keys. “Take the Escape Hybrid.” He led me through the kitchen to the garage.
    The kitchen turned out to be just as disappointing as the façade: brown granite countertops, dark cabinets, commercial oven, stainless steel appliances—not a campfire, taxidermic animal, or copper pot in sight. Esperanza stood over the big sink, scrubbing a griddle.
    “Pancakes again, Esperanza?” Jay asked with forced lightness.
    She was listening to an iPod and didn’t respond.
    A door at the end of the kitchen led to the garage. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the demure navy blue Escape Hybrid but a great, big, jacked up, kiss-my-ass yellow pickup truck.
    “Oh, my.”
    “Haley’s Tonka toy,” Jay said.
    “Does she drive it much?”
    “No. It’s such a gas guzzler, it’s bad for her image. She just likes knowing it’s here. Sometimes she’ll come out and sit in the driver seat without leaving the garage.”
    “Well, that’s kind of . . . strange,” I said, regretting my words immediately.
    Jay walked me over to the Escape and opened the front door for me. “It’s extremely strange.”
     
     
    Starbucks was in the Sunset Plaza, a wide, charmless, urban street of clothing stores, comedy clubs, and restaurants. After parking on a side street, I dug my cell phone out of the handbag Simone had chosen. It was soft tan leather, with a row of fringe.
    I locked the car, stuck the Jackie O sunglasses in the big handbag, and opened my cell phone. About a hundred yards down the street, the security guys watched me from one of the black SUVs. Jay had instructed them to keep an eye on me but stay out of things as much as possible. We wanted the public to see that Haley Rush was unafraid to pop out for a quick errand on her own.
    “Big deal in the works,” I murmured into the silent phone, working my way toward the coffee shop while the SUV trailed at a comfortable distance. On the way down the hill, they had cut off a banged-up Camry that was riding a little too close on my tail.
    “Lots of money,” I continued. “Mm. Mm hm. . . . Maybe I’ll buy a new car. Or an island. I’ve always wanted my own island . . .”
    “Haley! Yo—Haley Rush!”
    It took me a moment to realize the man on the sidewalk was talking to me. I looked up just as the flash went off. Did he really need a flash in the middle of the day?
    He was middle-aged and stocky, with dark curly hair, thinning at the temples, and a three-day growth of beard. He wore baggy jeans, a black T-shirt, and running shoes. He bared his teeth in an approximation of a grin.
    I waved with one pinky and smiled, my phone suddenly slippery in my sweaty hand. There. He got a shot. Would that be enough?
    “And of course I’d need a private plane to get to my island,” I whispered into the phone, walking faster now. “Let’s put it in the contract.”
    I thought the Starbucks barista would say, “Oh, my God—you’re Haley Rush!” Instead, in response to my whispered order, he just asked, “Would you like whipped cream with that?”
    I thought the other patrons would stop what they were doing to stare at me or ask for an autograph, but they barely glanced at me before returning full attention to their MacBooks.
    Haley wasn’t nearly as big a star as I thought she was, at least at this coffee shop. It was kind of disappointing.
    As instructed, I took my coffee to an outside table, even though it was kind of cold. The raised concrete patio overlooked the busy street. The photographer stood just below, on the sidewalk. I refused eye contact as he hauled himself up and over the railing. There were a couple of others coming over now, like ants alerted to a sugar spill.
    Hands shaking, I swapped my cell phone for Haley’s iPod and shoved the buds into my ears. Rap music: yuck. I scrolled through the menu, amazed that there were that many songs