Page 27 of The B!tch is Bad

He kissed me fully then, one palm splayed across my ass, the other thumbing my nipple through the fabric. Twining his tongue around mine, Creed kissed me languidly, careless as the blossoming vines. He thumbed my hard nipple, sending spasms flowing to my pussy lips.

I kissed him as though I were in love with him.

When we parted, we touched nose tips and smiled lazily. Creed petted my hair, and I ran my thumb along his lower lip.

“You’re amazing,” he finally said.

I didn’t know what to say. So I kissed him briefly and went to the bathroom to pee. When I returned to the kitchen, Creed, all put back together, was frowning at his phone.

“What is it?” I asked.

He tossed his head. “Check your phone. Something from Santiago Slayer.”

Going into my cross-body purse, I saw what Santiago had messaged:

Caught this guy lurking around Rocky Mountain High asking questions about you. Pippa said, ‘Good Gracious Ignatius, that guy’s asking about Patience and he knows her name is Constant.’ I said Me cago en tus Muertos and threw him into the elk corral.

Santiago had included a photo of some scared guy looking as though his hands were zip-tied behind his back.

“But,” I sputtered, “this is Timothée Chalamet!”

Creed nodded, indignant anger in his eyes. “Right? That’s fucking Timothée Chalamet. He was just here stomping grapes. I’ll bet his feet are still purple. Slayer’s got the wrong guy.”

Standing side by side, we held our phones out comparing photos. There was Timothee in all his glory, flowing brunette locks falling over one olive green eye. Even in captivity he glared righteous innocence.

“Let me check something.” Creed swiped and typed, and soon his phone revealed something incredible. “What the fuck?” he whispered, handing me his phone.

Grabbing it, I read on Buzzfeed how Timothée was hanging at an LA haunt with Leo DiCaprio . . . yesterday.

Creed took his phone back and swiped with two fingers to enlarge Santiago’s photo. “Look,” he breathed. “This is no fucking Timothée Chalamet in the elk corral.”

This time, unlike at the harvest festival, he wore no neck scarf. And unlike Timothée’s scrawny doe’s neck, this guy had heft. With jowls to spare, his cheeks seemed to wobble in the breeze—or with Santiago shaking him. Was that a scar on his neck? His biceps were twice as large around as the actor’s. How had no one noticed he was an imposter? Not even Bob Redford had called him out. Maybe he had no clue who the real Chalamet was.

“An imposter!” I cried. “And he’s asking about Constant.”

Creed’s eyes locked onto mine. “Sent by your husband,” he assumed. He corrected, “Your ex.”

“Fuck!” I screamed, throwing my phone onto a couch, where it bounced like popping corn. “I’m going to shoot that motherfucking fake actor. He obviously knows I’m here after lurking in the vineyards!”

Creed approached me with spread hands. “We have to handle this calmly.”

“Fuck calm! There’s only one person who could’ve sent this colossal asswad and that’s Paul Fingerhut!” I couldn’t fucking believe I’d come this far, living in a vineyard and sucking on a new lover’s cock, only for it to come back to this same old clusterfuck. I twirled to face Creed. “Let me shoot the guy.”

“That’s not really the best option when the guy’s already in handcuffs. I mean, how many people know he’s in the elk corral? Whatever that is.”

“It’s an area where Fish and Wildlife come to help the sick elk. You know, they’re all over the dry lake bed.”

“Maybe fake Timothée will die of an elk disease.”

I snorted. “It’s not an elk disease I’m thinking of. Can we drive to Smoky Mountain now?”

“Let’s call Slayer first.”

“No. It just goes straight to his voicemail saying Alen Gualarga is busy at a party.”

Creed frowned. “A lengua larga? The Big Tongue?”

“What? No, that’s the character he played on the Mexico City telenovela. You know how he likes to look like a giant playboy.”