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“Reed.”
“Your last name, please?”
I pause, nerves tightening my belly. Am I being reckless here? It’s technically illegal. But, oh well. I’ve come this far. Stolen from Peter to pay Paul for months now. I’m so close now, I can taste it. Which means now isn’t the time to start playing it safe. I mean, come on. If a star soccer player and his teammates, plus a whole bunch of his famous friends, can trust this woman to be discreet, then I can, too.
“Rivers,” I say, my tone surprisingly calm, despite the thundering of my heart.
“Hello, Mr. Rivers. I’m glad you called. When and where is your event?”
“The twenty-first, at Greystone Mansion in Beverly Hills. It’s a black-tie event, so my date will need to rock a designer gown. Something that makes her look like ten million bucks.”
“Not a problem. Tell me about the kind of woman you’re envisioning. What type are you most attracted to?”
“Curvy brunettes always turn my head the most,” I admit. “Even more than that, though, it’s women with lots of confidence and sass. Actually, though, in this instance, sass maybe wouldn’t be such a good idea. I don’t think what personally attracts me is relevant here. For this event, the woman needs to be what other people covet. Someone who looks like she could walk a Victoria’s Secret runway. You know, the kind of woman who looks like she could get any man she wants.”
“And yet, she’s chosen you. And what about later that night, after the event? Would you like to spend time with her, in private—perhaps enjoy some intimate, one-on-one time? It would be a good idea to choose someone you’re personally attracted to, in case you’d like to leave yourself that option.”
I lean back in my leather chair and gaze up at the ceiling of my garage. At my surfboards and snowboards and kayak resting above the wooden rafters. If everything goes according to plan on the twenty-first, if I find a way to meet CeeCee Rafael at that party and pique her interest in RCR enough to secure a well-timed mention in Rock ‘n’ Roll, it’ll be a whole new ballgame for me. I’ll finally be able to move my operations into an actual office space—hopefully, that amazing one on Sunset Boulevard. I’ll be able to hire a couple full-time staffers. Maybe even buy myself a condo, if I catch a few other lucky breaks. Yeah, if I hit a grand slam at the party, then I’ll surely be in the mood to celebrate with at least a BJ from my smoking hot escort. On the other hand, though, if things don’t turn out the way I’m hoping, if I leave that mansion on the twenty-first in the same position I’m in now—crossing my fingers and toes I’ve done enough to squeak RCR onto the bottom rung of the fucking alternative rock chart, then I’ll surely want to be alone after the party.
“I’ll play it by ear on hiring my date for ‘intimate services’ after the party,” I reply. “I want to be certain there’s sufficient chemistry between us to move forward on that.”
The woman snorts, like there being a lack of sexual chemistry is a ridiculous notion.
“Look, I’m not calling because I can’t get laid,” I say, annoyance flashing through me. “I can. And by exceptionally beautiful women. I’m calling because this is going to be a critical work event for me, possibly life-changing, and I won’t have the time or bandwidth to deal with a date who’s pissed at me for God knows what. For not paying enough attention to her. For not introducing her around or trying to help her career. I want someone on my arm who understands I’m building a fucking empire here—a brand. And that means I need to communicate my place in the hierarchy the second I walk through the fucking door.”
“I understand, Mr. Rivers,” she says soothingly. “I think you’re brilliant to realize an exceptionally beautiful woman on your arm is a must-have status symbol in this town. But how about I tell you the pricing on intimate services, just in case?”
Without waiting for my reply, she quotes me a number for “unlimited services.” It’s a number I consider to be ludicrous, and tell her so. So, she offers to take twenty percent off her price, if I book now.
“That’s still too high a price for something I can get for free on my own,” I say. But the truth is, I simply can’t afford that price tag, whether it’s reasonable or not. Not now, I can’t, before I know if I’ve secured a feature in Rock ‘n’ Roll for RCR.
“Mr. Rivers,” Francesca says, like she’s talking to a moron. “You want a girl who looks like she could walk a runway? Well, my girls actually do walk runways. Indeed, they’re signed to the best modeling agencies in the world. And as far as you getting it ‘for free’ on your own... we both know that’s not true. Nothing comes for free. One way or another, a man always pays for it. With my girls, however, the only thing you pay is what’s been agreed upon in advance. There’s simplicity in that, don’t you think? Freedom. Honesty, in a way. Far more so than having to wine and dine a woman to get to the same result.”
