Breaking Hollywood(3)

By: Samantha Towle

“Hey now! There’s no need for that. Seriously, Gabriel, you’re close to hurting my feelings.”

“Am I? Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He slaps his hand on his chest. “Because I would hate to hurt your feelings after you so kindly ran me over with your fucking golf cart of a car and broke my fucking foot!”

“It was an accident! And my car is not a golf cart!”

“It was not an accident! You didn’t see me because you were too busy bawling your eyes out to notice I was even there!”

Shit. He saw me crying.

I feel so embarrassed. It stains my cheeks.

“What happened? Did you have a fight with your boyfriend?” he prods sardonically.

“No,” I bite. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Anymore. “And, not that it’s any of your business, but I was just fired.”

“Did you run over your boss as well?”

Ugh. Asshole.

The urge to stamp on his good foot with my stiletto, taking that one out of action as well, is strong. But I won’t do it because I’m a better person than he is. He is so off the top of my celebrity crush list.

“You are not a nice person, Gabriel Evans.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“And you’re a danger to people everywhere. I should call up the DMV and have them take your license away because whoever gave it to you must’ve been fucking high.”

“Mr. Anders was not high! He was a nice old man! God! Why don’t you just skip the DMV and call the police to report me for dangerous driving? I’m sure they’d happily take my license away from me!”

Ah, hell. Why did I say that?

From the smirk he’s now wearing, I’m guessing he didn’t think of calling the police.

I am so going to jail.

I swallow down.

“As nice a thought as that is, you wouldn’t last five minutes in jail, Speedy. Call this me being nice, as I’m keeping your pretty ass out of jail by not calling the cops.”

Is it sad that I’m stuck on the fact that he called me pretty? Well, he called my ass pretty, but whatever.

God, I seriously need a slap across the face.

“You’re welcome,” he snips.

Then, he pushes off my car and starts to hop. I kid you not; he’s hopping away.

“You forgot your shoe and sock,” I call out to him, spotting them on the sidewalk.

“You can keep them as souvenirs,” he calls back as he hops toward a fancy-looking silver Audi parked a little further down on the other side of the road.

I bend down and pick up his sock and shoe.

I told him that he wasn’t a nice person, but there must be a little nice in him. He could’ve called the cops. He probably should have, but he didn’t. And I didn’t even thank him.

Sock and shoe in hand, I start to walk over to Gabriel, who’s just made it to his car and opened the driver’s door.

By the time I reach him, he’s inside, and the engine is on.

I rap on the window. He turns his head and stares at me.

“I brought you your sock and shoe.” I hold them up for him to see.

He rolls his window down, and he takes them from me without a word, tossing them on the passenger seat.

I awkwardly stand there, biting on my lip and twisting my hands together. “I should have said thank you. For you not calling the cops. I do appreciate it. And I am sorry about running over your foot. Really, I am. And I would totally understand if you changed your mind and wanted to call the cops. So, I can give you my cell phone number in case you need to—”

“Are you hitting on me right now? Because I’ve gotta say, that’s just straight up inappropriate if you are. You broke my foot, and now, you’re trying to get in my pants. Bad form, Speedy.”

“What? No!” I step back in shock, my hands going to my face. “I-I was just-just—” I splutter, shaking my head. “I am not trying to get in your pants! I was trying to be a good person! I can’t believe you think I was hitting on you!”

“Weren’t you?”


“Well then”—he scratches his chin—“I don’t know whether to be relieved or offended.” He looks me up and down. “I’ll go with relieved.”

“Ugh! God, you’re a…”

“What am I?” he goads.

Be the bigger person, Ava. Do not take the bait. It’s clear that he loves an argument. Don’t give him what he wants.

I take a few deep breaths in and out and then change tack. “Are you sure you can manage driving?”

He blinks back at me like he was expecting me to argue back. And I swear, I see a spark of disappointment because I didn’t.

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