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I sigh. “I’ve got to go. Congrats on becoming a superhero.”
“Are you getting back at me for hurting you? That was a million years ago, and we weren’t even dating exclusively at the time.”
“You didn’t hurt me. Don’t conflate my passionate desire to seek revenge against a punk-ass ingrate with a passionate desire for you.”
She draws in a shocked breath.
“You’re obviously looking for more than a sexual fling with me,” I continue. “And that’s not something that interests me. Not with you, not with anyone. It’s nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal?” she shouts. “Reed, I’m in love with you! I’m sorry if that’s an inconvenient truth, but I can’t help what I feel.”
For a long moment, I look out the window of my sports car at the cement walls of the parking structure, feeling angry with myself for opening myself up to this drama again. And for what? Some drunken, nostalgic pussy at a party. “I can’t fathom you’re actually in love with me, like you’re claiming. But if you are, then that’s your misfortune, I guess.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Isabel whispers.
I can’t help smiling at the question—the same one I’ve been asked by women my whole life. Shit, I’ve even asked it of myself plenty of times, too. Most memorably, when I stood next to Josh on a beach in Maui and watched him exchange marriage vows. And then again, when I stood next to Henny on my patio in the Hollywood Hills and watched him do the same. When I stood on a beach in the Bahamas and watched my baby sister say “I do.” And, most recently, when I sat in a castle in France and watched CeeCee exchange marriage vows with a French billionaire, certain her third time down the aisle would be the charm, even though she and her new husband weren’t even planning to reside on the same continent after the nuptials. All those times, and others, too, as I’ve watched the people I care about promising their eternal love to one person, I’ve found myself wondering, if only fleetingly... What the fuck is wrong with me?
“This isn’t goodbye,” I say, my heart softening at the sound of Isabel’s sniffling. “If you need a date to a red-carpet event and you can’t find anyone who looks as good in a tux as I do, then call me. And it should go without saying, your secrets will always be safe with me. We started this climb together as kids, and I’ll always have your back. But if you’re genuinely in love with me, like you say, then it’s time for you to move on. There’s no happily ever after I can offer you, sweetheart. No ending to this story where I’m the prince and you’re my pretty princess, and we ride off together into the sunset on a white horse.”
Isabel sniffles. “You’re selling yourself short. You could be the prince, if you’d let yourself.”
“I’ve gotta go. It’s time for me to ‘give back’ to some college kiddies, all of whom are almost certainly plotting to ambush me with their music demos afterwards.”
“Reed.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you at all the parties during awards season. And when I do, don’t worry, I’ll always make sure everyone thinks you’re my ‘one that got away.’ Not the other way around.”
“Reed. Stop. Please. You can’t just—”
Click.
Oh, yes I can.
Chapter 4
Reed
Ten years ago
I pick up my cell phone... and then immediately put it back down on my desk, my pulse pounding. I look around my garage, at the large cardboard boxes stacked against the walls, all of them filled with merch samples for RCR’s upcoming debut tour. All of them requiring my approval by tomorrow. And all of them reminding me I’m going to be up shit creek if this massive gamble doesn’t pan out.
I glance at the notepad on my desk, its pages covered with the furious editing notes I’ve scrawled for the director of RCR’s debut music video. I glance at the documents stacked on my desk—licensing deals I’ve been chasing down for all three of my bands for the past four months. But, mostly, for Red Card Riot, the band I’m betting the farm will put my fledgling label on the map when their album debuts in two months.
Yeah, I’ve got to make this call. Go big, or go home.
“Majestic Maids,” a female voice says, answering my call.
My heart pounds even harder. “Is this Francesca?”
“Yes. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to book an escort for later this month—for an important event.”
“We’re a cleaning service, sir. Not an escort service.”
I tell her the name of the guy who referred me, a star midfielder for the LA Galaxy whom I met last month at one of Josh’s raging parties, and the woman quickly changes her tune.
“To whom am I speaking?” she asks, her voice suddenly light and bright.
