Page 14 of Jacob Michaels is Trouble

There were three people sitting at Oma’s kitchen table when I walked into the house through the backdoor, and only one of them was Oma. While I had no real way to explain it, I had known that Jason would be waiting at Oma’s house for me. S0, seeing him sitting there was not that unnerving at all. The fact that he was sitting peacefully with Oma in her own home was unusual, however. Of course, the two of them acting civilly towards each other could be explained away by the third person at the table.

Nelda Hammersmith.

My manager.

That was definitely a plot twist that I had not seen coming—my manager flying in from Los Angeles to make a surprise visit. Honestly, I hadn’t known that people in the entertainment business even knew that Ohio existed, let alone how to get there. Well, maybe that wasn’t fair. A lot of people in entertainment know where Ohio is on the map and how to book a flight there. But for people like Nelda Hammersmith—high-power, high-profile talent managers—asking them to go to Ohio was like asking them to go to Narnia. It was a magical land which existed only in storybooks about Middle America where everyone wore bib overalls and work boots.

Not that that was entirely inaccurate.

At least, not as far as Point Worth was concerned.

“Good morning,” I stated neutrally as I stood in the open doorway and stared into the eyes of each person at the table in turn.

“Jacob.” Nelda gave a relieved exhale.

I smiled tightly at her.

Oma’s face was blank and unreadable.

Jason was smirking.

Obviously.

“Hi.” I nodded before turning to shut the door. “What are you doing here, Nelda?”

Oma presented a raised eyebrow surreptitiously as Nelda rose from her seat dramatically, her actual, honest to goodness, fur capelet nearly twirling all the way around her neck like a Hoola-Hoop. I thanked my lucky stars that Lucas had not come home with me to see the menagerie of dead animals around my manager’s neck.

Nelda Hammersmith was Old Hollywood, though she had actually been born in the early fifties and was no older than Oma. However, the way she presented herself, from her dress to her demeanor, to the flourishes she gave her speech and body language, you’d have thought she attended the premiere of the first talkie and sat on Jack Warner’s lap for the entire showing. The fact that she had the fur capelet and a fucking turquoise headwrap on did nothing to dispel the myth that she was a one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old woman in the body of someone nearly half that age.

“What is on your head, Nelda?” I asked evenly.

One hand gently went to the side of her head, laying lovingly against the material of the wrap. Diamond teardrop earrings hung from her ears.

Alzheimer’s or Delusional. Those were the only excuses.

“It’s vintage, Jacob.” The blood-red gash on her face parted, and the vibrant blue lids of her eyes danced as she answered. “Do you like it?”

“It’s…a look.” I tried to be polite, then turned my attention to Jason. “What are you doing here?”

“Just getting to know your Hollywood manager here.” The smirk deepened. “Hearing all about your time out there in California while we waited on you this morning, Jacob.”

He pronounced “Hollywood” as “Hall-ee-wood” and “California” as “Cal-ee-for-nee-ya.”

It took all I had to not roll my eyes. And then punch him in his.

“Jacob—” Nelda began.

“Robbie,” Oma spoke, startling Nelda. “Mrs. Hammertoe here—”

“Hammersmith, dear.” Nelda corrected her with a sniff. “Hammersmith.”

“Mrs. Hammersnatch.” Oma nodded. Nelda sniffed again. “Seems to think that you need to be back out in California instead of out here with us country bumpkins.”

I sighed. Nelda Hammersmith didn’t have the wherewithal to look offended at the butchering of her name or the insinuation that she thought everyone in Ohio was a rube. Of course, if I knew Nelda, she had probably declined any offer of drink or food from Oma, attempted to smoke in her house, and refused to let Oma take her fur capelet for her. Nelda Hammersmith was not known for knowing how to blend in, conform to social norms other than the ones she had made up in her head, or generally, just be polite. If she didn’t know everyone in Hollywood and hadn’t gotten me project after project to work on, I wouldn’t have put up with her over the years. Harmless, yes. Asshole, definitely.

“Nelda.” I reached out, offering my arm. “Why don’t we go to the living room to have a talk? In private?”

That red gash on her face split again, her shockingly white, bleach-enhanced teeth beaming out at me.