Page 3 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

Scents of cooking oil and chips—pardon, french fries—permeate the air.

People mill about the cobblestone pavements on either side of this charming side street off the main road, but the policeman has left and so has Jake.

Daphne is nowhere to be seen on the street either. Bea is no longer at the window.

I approach it and rap on the windowsill near the front of the bus. “Hello?”

The woman I recognize as Daphne appears inside the vehicle, wiping her hands with a towel as she turns to approach me. “It’ll be a few minutes. We’re still warming up the—oh, fuck, are you serious?”

I smile pleasantly at her. “Could I please speak with Ms. Best?”

“Why?”

“To offer my sincerest apologies for the mix-up this morning.”

“As opposed to your insincerest apologies?”

“Ah, yes, my insincerest apologies. I have been known to make those on occasion.” I pull my sunglasses over the brim of my baseball hat so that she can see me wink. “I save those for when I accidentally mow down a man after he’s been unnecessarily rude to a lady. Ms. Best, please?”

Bea herself appears behind Daphne. “Daph? What’s wronnnnn—are you for real right now?”

“Ms. Best.” My smile falters in the face of the unamused energy radiating off her. “I’m Sim?—”

“I know who you are.”

Complimentary, that was not. Not that I deserve for this to be easy. She should not have ended up in jail over me. “I see. I wish to?—”

“I wish to see you gone. Tally ho, good potheads, I do believe this is the end . As it should be. Cheese shop is that way. You should check it out.”

“Ah, I’m?—”

“Lactose intolerant? I know that about you too.”

My head might be spinning. This woman can quote In the Weeds and knows my stomach cannot digest cheese, but nothing about her suggests she’s a fan.

There’s likely another explanation, and this one has me smiling again. “You must know Lana.”

My ex—the boys’ mother, who’s still one of my best friends, and who’s rather tied up with family issues, hence my summer in her hometown to be the primary caregiver for the boys—she doesn’t mince words.

Good or bad.

It’s perfectly fine. I’m aware my shortcomings exist, and I’m very comfortable with forgiving myself for them.

Though this situation is a little more difficult than most.

This may be the first time someone has been arrested because of me, and I dislike that immensely.

Especially as she was very likely innocent in the whole ordeal.

She continues to frown at me. “Do I know who Lana is? Yes. Do I know her personally? No.”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

And try once more. “Ms. Best, I’d like to apologize?—”

“Sure. Whatever. All’s forgiven.”

All does not sound forgiven. “Is it?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, then sighs long and loud when she opens them again, as though my face is the last in a string of very bad things about her day.

“It is if forgiving you means you’ll let me try to salvage the rest of this day and get back to opening my bus to sell my fish,” she says.

I wince to myself. “So it doesn’t go bad. Of course.”

Daphne coughs again, and this time it’s accompanied by a dick .

Bea shoots her the same kind of look Lana regularly gives the boys—half-frustration, half-exhaustion.

“Well, he is,” Daphne whispers. “Apologies won’t pay for the fish he stuck you with.”

Heat once again gathers at the base of my neck.

Rather doubt it’s because of the summer breeze.

More because I’m realizing Bea might be in the same kind of spot in which I’ve found myself more than once over the past fifteen or twenty years.

That is to say, in a financial pickle.

But this time, it’s because of me. “And naturally, I’ll reverse the fraud report. My accountant must have made it.”

Did I mention the suspicious part of Bea’s gaze? Because that’s aimed fully at me now.

“Will you?” she says.

“Of course. I—fish?”

“Doubt that. Your biggest fanboy would’ve told me if you fished.”

I’m rather wary of the tone she’s using.

It’s ominous.

I shake my head. “No, no—this is a burger bus. Why are you selling fish?”

“Called a secret menu, dude, and you ordered all of it,” Daphne says.

A secret menu.

This is the best and worst experience I’ve ever had.

Highly inspirational.

Highly mortifying.

“Your kids did it, didn’t they?” Bea says to me.

“I find there’s no good answer to that question that doesn’t ultimately leave the blame for your experience this morning solely on my shoulders. And I do apologize. For myself, and for the role my children may have played as well.”

The two women share a look.

“Didn’t expect that,” Daphne murmurs.

“Still don’t want to keep seeing his face,” Bea murmurs back.

And I smile.

It is my default facial expression, but in this case—“You both rather dislike me.”

It’s odd these days.

Also oddly refreshing in a way I’d like to not examine.

Daphne pins me with a flat stare that makes uneasy tingles dance down my spine.

“We don’t know you, you pulled a double cross on my best friend and got her sent to jail, and I’ve met a few celebrities in my life.

Too many of you think you can get away with anything just because you have a pretty smile.

I’d say we’re suspicious, but sure, we can use your words and say instead that we rather dislike you.

Are you going to fix the payment problem or not? ”

I’ve also met a few celebrities in my life—clearly—and while many of them are marvelous human beings, I can, unfortunately, understand her suspicions.

I dig into my trousers for my phone again. “I do apologize again. Little fuckers can be quite sneaky. I’ll call the credit card company myself straight away.”

“You know it’ll take days to get this straightened out?”

“Of course. Happy to pay again. Immediately. The rest shall sort itself out in the wash.”

They share another look, and then Daphne grabs a tablet, navigates the screen, and holds it out to me with the card reader attached.

I glance at the readout on the card reader she’s extended my way, verify it’s roughly what I’d expect, and I add a fifty percent tip.

Once again, the women eyeball each other.

Then they share a shoulder shrug.

And then they both look at me with matching are we done now? expressions.

Utterly fascinating how they’re in sync. Now that I’ve made this situation right, I need to wrap this up so I can get home and take notes. Make some character sketches.

“Are you sisters?” I ask them.

They don’t pause to share any glances before both staring at me as though they’ve never seen my level of idiocy in their lives.

To be fair, it’s a rather ignorant question.

They look nothing alike. Bea’s light brown curls that keep escaping her sloppy bun, and her bright green eyes, the twin dimples in her cheeks, and her long nose and wide pink lips are near polar opposites to Daphne’s straight, multi-hued dark hair, brown eyes, button nose, and cupid’s bow lips, which are stained a deep burgundy.

Bea’s at least two inches taller, though I have no idea what shoes either are wearing, which could clearly change their heights, but Daphne has a smaller frame to Bea’s perfect curves.

She’s far from a waif, but she’s also noticeably smaller than Bea.

“No,” they answer together.

My security man clears his throat.

I know that throat clear.

It means it’s time to move on.

“I truly am sorry for your inconvenience, Ms. Best,” I say. “I’ll monitor the boys better to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”

“Where are your children, Mr. Luckwood?”

“I requested my other two security agents sit on them until I return. I’m sure they’ve not caused any more mayhem.”

I smile at her again.

She doesn’t return the expression, so I clear my throat. “Ah, they’re with their mother. She picked them up over their loud protests that I didn’t understand at the time—soon before you arrived.”

“Hope you took their credit card away,” Daphne murmurs.

“Of course. Yes. And Lana’s a far better parent than I am. I’m certain they’ll cause no more mischief while with her.”

Ah, there it is. More silent communication between the two women.

I clear my throat again. “I’ll also inform the staff that you’re welcome to call round.”

Bea’s brows knit together. “Generous as that offer might be, it’s unnecessary.”

Daphne leans on the windowsill. “Or are you asking her on a date?”

“I—” I start, then realize I have perhaps made a miscalculation, but also—a date wouldn’t be a bad idea. My head is absolutely spinning with ideas for a new pilot to show the studio after this encounter. “No. Merely that if it happens again?—”

“It won’t,” Bea says.

“She’s a little over men right now,” Daphne says in a stage whisper. “Even famous British single dads with the world’s most popular TV show. Or possibly especially famous British single dads who play total dicks on that popular TV show.”

A murmur breaks out behind me. Daphne straightens and makes a you’re next, come on up gesture. “Secret menu only today, and it’s all on the house. Fish on a stick? It’ll be ready in just a few minutes. We’re still heating the fryers.”

Fish on a stick ?

That’s odd.

I start to ask if I could have one, but then I hear it.

“Is that Simon Luckwood?” someone whispers behind me.

“Oh my god. It’s Peter Jones.”

“That can’t be Peter Jones. What’s he doing here?”

“Didn’t you know? His baby mama’s from here. Lana? Lana Kent? Remember? And her mom is fighting going into the memory unit at Shady Acres. Oh my god, that’s Simon Luckwood .”

Pinky grabs me by the elbow and tugs.

I nod to the ladies. “Right, then. Thank you for your time. Apologies once again.”

I smile at the crowd behind us while my man pulls harder. “Good afternoon. Lovely to see you all. Enjoy your fish—fish on a stick ?”

This entire burger bus keeps getting more and more fascinating.

I turn back to the window. “How do you keep it on a stick?”

“Duct tape,” Bea replies from deeper within the bus at the same time Daphne says “Superglue.”

“Is it not so flaky that it falls off the stick?”

They share yet one more look while my man tugs even harder on my arm and I continue to ignore him, which I’ll likely pay for later, but dammit, I want to see how this works.

Bea breaks eye contact with Daphne on a sigh.

“He did pay for it,” Bea grumbles.

“Fuck him—he sent you to jail,” Daphne replies. “He paid for your inconvenience. Not for fish.”

“Peter—Peter— Simon . Sorry. Peter was just such an amazing character, I—can I get a selfie? Wait. Wait, in Britain, you call them an ussie , don’t you? I saw that on another TV show. Can I get one of those?”

“Back up and let the man get his fish on a stick,” Daphne says to the man crowding Pinky and trying to get to me for a photograph.

“ PETER JONES! ”

The scream comes from entirely too close, and if everyone in the entire town of Athena’s Rest didn’t hear it, I’ll buy this burger bus myself.

But what I see when I turn?—

Bloody hell.

That’s the man Bea was arguing with.

Jake, was it?

And he’s charging me, and he’s close.

Too close.

I yelp and leap backward as Pinky growls and leaps forward, but Bea has beaten all of us.

One minute, a normal-looking-though-overzealous blond-haired, averagely built, American man is dashing at me, and the next, the woman I apparently sent to jail this morning is using a red ketchup bottle as a weapon.

Not by flinging the bottle at him.

Oh, no.

She’s squirting ketchup directly at him.

And it lands.

The thick red liquid hits him squarely in the middle of his face, splattering everywhere and making me think for a moment that his nose has exploded.

Someone behind us shouts in terror.

Pinky grunts, I assume in surprise.

Highly doubt the man’s ever considered using condiments to protect his clients.

Jake grabs his face and squeezes his eyes shut and yelps.

“Don’t attack my customers, you dickweed.” Bea holds the ketchup bottle straight out as the man I recognize as Jake begins screaming again.

But this time, rather than my character’s name, he’s doubled over, wiping his eyes and yelling, “My eyes! Assault! My eyes!”

The policeman comes running back from down Secret Alley.

I share a look with Pinky, who looks back at me as though he intends to throw me in jail for not going with him when he tugged my elbow.

“It was self-defense,” a woman behind me yells. “She was protecting Peter!”

I try to not wince and miss.

Peter was…not a good person on the show.

That’s one other minor discomfort in this whole fame thing.

People tend to assume I’m personally as big of a tosser as the character I wrote and played.

Much like Bea and Daphne have.

I’ve become accustomed to it.

Not that it took much accustoming.

Not with my childhood being what it was.

“Yeah, the security guy didn’t see him coming, and so Bea had to do something,” a man behind me agrees as the policeman skids to a stop.

“I thought he got attacked by an invisible bird that pecked his nose off!” a woman cries.

“She blinded me!” Jake yells. “ My eyes! ”

“You’re not blind, you prick,” Daphne says. “Don’t rush at people. It’s not nice. And rushing at people with security guards is fucking dangerous. You did this to yourself. You, Luckwood. Get inside the bus. You’re causing problems.”

Bea growls at her.

Daphne rolls her eyes. “Seen this play out a time or two,” she mutters. “Give him the chef’s table. Can’t hurt to increase foot traffic.”

“Fucker,” Bea mutters back.

I don’t think she’s calling Daphne a fucker.

“Mr. Luckwood—” the policeman starts.

“I didn’t see the man coming at my client, and the burger bus woman saved him before I could intervene,” Pinky says.

He slides me another look.

While Butch, not Pinky, regularly cooks dinner for all of us on top of his other duties, they’re often in harmony, which means it’s likely that in retaliation for me turning this into a far larger spectacle than it should’ve been, they’ll conspire against me to slip cheese into one or two of my dishes this week.

And I’ll take it as graciously as possible, because I do, in fact, appreciate Pinky taking Bea’s side.

I’ve caused her quite enough trouble for one day, and she did save me.

In a manner of speaking.

“ Inside ,” Daphne repeats, pointing to the back of the bus while Jake keeps yelling about being blind as an older woman attacks his face with a paper tissue.

“Stop squirming and let me pour this water bottle in your eyes,” she barks at him.

“All right then,” I say. “I’ll be inside the bus. Chef’s table, you say? Fascinating. This is turning out to be my lucky day.”

This is even better than all right.

I do believe I’ve finally found a muse.