That Blue Gibson: Another Round

fifty-seven

Her truck was gone when he snuck in through the garage door.

The house was quiet as he wandered into the kitchen while contemplating his next move. A stack of papers sat next to the pile of aluminum trays and extra tinfoil she'd grabbed for their upcoming holiday, and he rushed toward it in the hopes it would give him a clue as to where she was but found he was holding the Cline script and contract.

He blankly flipped through the script, running his fingers over her notes and the green highlights, finding his heart would lighten when he read something funny she'd written. And when he saw that the contract was signed, her elegant signature neatly placed near the bottom beside yesterday's date, he paused.

Why would she even have the contract if the insurance was refusing her? Didn't those huge studios have underwriting teams that would secure the insurance coverage first and then distribute contracts? Shit, their lawyer had even signed it - telling him she'd taken him up on his joking request to up her asking price - and he confirmed it when he flipped to the last few pages and found the agreed-upon sum.

Suddenly, he felt exceptionally foolish.

Why in hell had he believed Courtney Love, of all people, who stumbled to his hotel room in the dead of night? He absolutely should have known better. If he'd learned anything from the past he would have known that Courtney's modus operandi was to act rashly and prematurely.

Shaking his head at his own hasty reaction to a false rumor, he tried to ignore the embarrassment he felt and shuffled over to the coffee maker. If he could just inject a few hundred more milligrams of caffeine into his blood, he'd be coherent enough to call Silva and offer an apology to end all apologies.

The green light on the house phone blinked rapidly from the sofa table in the living room, stealing his attention. He grumbled to himself about even having a house phone as he started the coffee maker, in fact, he'd been dead set against one, but they both needed a dedicated landline for work and it kept the traffic off their cell phones, so he'd eventually relented.

But whatever the voicemail was, it could wait until after coffee. Not only was he was in desperate need of it, but he was also sure Liz would want some when she finally came home, so he went through the motions while silently berating himself for falling for Courtney's hysterics.

When the coffee was streaming into the carafe, he wandered over to the phone and pressed the necessary buttons to access their voicemail.

Mrs. Grohl, this is Deb from Dr. Ruthenberg's office. We have the results of your tests back and we'd like to speak with you as soon as possible to begin a plan of care. Please call us back at-"

The phone slipped from his shoulder and hit the side of the counter before clattering to the floor, but Dave was already halfway across the house.

*

He'd pushed that Tesla in the past, pushed it as far as he thought he could take it without it coming off its wheels, but he was managing to squeeze even more out of it that morning. Ripping down the 405 into Sherman Oaks, his heart lodged in his throat when the building came into view.

His phone on the dash mount cheerfully announced that he'd arrived at his destination and three floors up, he spotted Liz's truck in the surprisingly packed parking garage. By the grace of the universe, the space next to her's was open and he nearly rammed the nose of the Tesla into the concrete wall as he parked.

Racing through the building, he found the doctor's name on a directory and bolted up a flight of stairs, then down a long horror movie-like hallway before wrenching open a door that led to a deathly quiet waiting room. Several annoyed pairs of eyes examined him as he sheepishly stepped to the receptionist's desk.