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grinned. He could he ar Fiona smiling. “I miss you.”
    “Yeah? It’s only been like three hours since you saw me.”
    “That’s two hou rs and 50 minutes too long.”
    Fiona chuckled, and Dane shifted be hind the wheel of his boy’s Benz to accommodate a rising erection. “How’s the voice?”
    “Shitty. How was the meeting?”
    “Good. I think I got a job.” He knew he’d got it. “Whatcha’ doin’?”
    “Waitin’ for the doctor to come. I may have to cancel my studio time. My boy’s gonna be pissed.”
    “Is this for your next album?”
    “No. No album right now. I’m on hiatus from the scene.” This was Fiona-speak for the music business. “I’m just doing a hook for a friend, but my voice is fucked so – listen. I just heard the door. If Cleo catches me on the phone!”
    “Can I see you later?”
    “If you don’t, I’ll be crushed.” Two kisses into the phone and she was gone.
    Cleo knocked and poked her head around the door. “Dr. Shaw’s here. Were you on the phone?”
    “No. No talking remember?”
    Cleo snorted. “Here she is, Dr. Shaw.”
    Fiona answered a shit load of questions, stuck her tongue out, endured palpations of her throat by the doctor’s soft, fat little hands, gagged over the pen light shone down her gullet and after myriad additional gyrations was finally diagnosed with non-threatening vocal strain. She was given a few days worth of mild antibiotics to soothe her slightly inflamed vocal chords, a long list of foods to avoid, a recommendation for a humidifier, a special kin d of white tea – to be drunk without sugar – and instructed not to talk at all for at least two weeks.
    “Come see me after that, and you absolutely must stop smoking,” the doctor told her. No one asked him how he knew she smoked.
    Cleo snorted.
    Fiona glared.
    “Well, what happens if she talks a little, doc? She’s got a few meetings.” Andrea said, standing over the bed where Fiona was propped up like a gangly, braceleted little bird.
    “That will just delay her recovery. I will come see you in two weeks, yes? We’ll need to discuss voice habits and come up with some limit s to avoid further irritation.”
    Fiona kissed the good doctor’s cheek and sent the little man off smiling without having said more than hello. The one word was all he’d allow after she greeted him in her throaty rasp. He’d clapped his hand ov er her mouth and grinned like he was there to celebrate a holiday, not examine a sick patient.
    Fiona looked both extremely cuddly and extremely sexy with her hint of discomfort smile and the occasional, unc onscious hand to her throat, a gesture that drew the eye to a delicate Lucite charm hanging between her plump breasts.
    She gestured to Netty when Andrea and Cleo started arguing, and made the universal sign of the smok er with two fingers.
    “AC’s g on’ kill you.” Andrea and Cleo.
    Fu ck ‘em, Fiona mouthed. Roll up.
    “You know this is perverse , right? The doctor just left.”
    Fiona eyed her and Netty rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Since I knew you wasn’t gon’ listen, can you at least wait ‘til they leave before you light this shit?”
    Fiona made the okay sign. When are they leaving? She asked. Then – I’m thirsty. Make tea, please.
    Cleo and Andrea left 20 minutes later, still bickering, and Sugar, Fiona and Netty sat on Fiona’s huge tumbled bed and sparked one of Netty’s patented slow burners.
    “Andrea says we should cancel tonight,” Netty said. “She says it’s not important. She doesn’t tr ust you not to drink and talk.”
    I can do it, Fiona mouthed, exhaling two perfect smo ke rings and taking a sip of the pomegranate green tea Netty liked. It tasted like dishwater.
    It was only a pre-production dinner thing with key staff like Stephen the director, eager to pick her brain for information. They were shooting most of the movie in Chicago and its surrounding suburbs, and as a native she’d been appointed an expert. She’d