“Like what?”

“Tell me about you. What do you do? What’s the secret project about?”

Ah, a direct question. I could skid the truth again, but no, I don’t want to lie to Lana. She’s already had enough bullshit fed to her.

“I’m an actor,” I say, “and I’m working on a new movie.”

Her mouth curls into a little smile.

“What?” I ask, self-consciously.

Her smile widens. “You’re just so LA,” she says. “So, is this an actual movie we’re talking about, or are you really a bartender walking around with headshots in your pockets, hoping to be discovered?”

Maybe fifteen years ago.

“No, I did some work already.” That’s, like, the understatement of the century. I’ve featured in so many box office hits, I’ve been the top-grossing actor in LA for almost a decade. “You might’ve seen me?”

“No, sorry,” she says. “I don’t watch TV.”

No kidding!

“You don’t go to the movies?” I ask.

“Nope. I prefer to read books or spend time outdoors…”

As she talks, Lana almost unconsciously unlocks her phone. Only this time, she jolts, sitting up straighter.

“They’re on the move!” Her eyes track the screen for a few seconds. “They’re both heading back to their offices. Guess they finished their business and now it’s life as usual.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Take the bus home and pack John’s stuff before he comes back tonight,” Lana says determinedly. “I want that bastard out of our house.”

“Hey, you want a ride?” I ask on impulse. “I came here in my car.”

“No, thanks. I don’t drive by choice. There’s enough pollution around already. The weather here’s nice enough to walk anywhere I need to go, and if it’s too far, I use public transportation.”

“Oh, but I drive electric.”

The lie escapes my lips before I know what I’m saying. My Ferrari California may be a sweet ride, but it’s not exactly eco-friendly.

“Traffic is terrible at this hour,” she protests.

“Traffic is terrible at any hour in LA,” I counter. “I promise, it’s no trouble at all.”

Why am I so hell-bent on giving this woman a ride home? I don’t know her. Her problems aren’t mine. But I’m not heartless, and it doesn’t seem fair to make her battle public transportation on top of everything else.

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“Where do you live?”

“Westwood.”

“Perfect, it’s on the way…” …opposite to my house, I finish silently.

Lana sags back against the wall. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll gladly skip the over-packed bus ride, then. Are you good to go, or are the people you’re hiding from still out there?”

I fish my phone out of my pocket. “Let me check real quick.”