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I lean back in my chair and think about this plan of mine. It feels extreme, but it’s just so I can avoid the questions about my relationship status that I get asked every single time I’m out. I want to get my friends off my case. And I want to focus on building my business.
I’m sick of Los Angeles.
I should be happy right now, on the day where with the stroke of my pen, I made more money than I made in the three years I worked for Nanette.
I’ve gone from personal trainer to the stars to television star, model, and spokesperson.
I can afford to go on vacation with my friends and pay for my mother’s care.
I have a Tesla in my driveway, a Range Rover in my garage. I live in this ten thousand square foot house with an elevator, tennis court, swimming pool, screening room, and rock climbing wall.
But it doesn’t feel like enough. This time I know exactly what’s missing.
After my conversation with Isabel, I went off the rails. Reece and Omar were both back in LA for good. Dave was around at least once a month, and they were experts at finding random hookups.
The first time I brought someone home was a disaster. It turns out that casual sex felt just as awful to me as transactional sex. Well, actually, a little worse. Women, when they’re not just using you like a discreet way to get off expect more than a mind-bending orgasm. They want you to kiss them, put your mouth on their bodies. Look at them while you fuck.
I understood. I just couldn’t do it. One of my attempted hookups left my hotel room screaming obscenities and threatening to tell everyone I was a “limp dicked asshole.” A few days later, my publicist, Jenn, made a deal to kill and bury a story all about my impotence and deception.
I didn’t care, honestly. I thought maybe it would mean I could stop pretending to be the playboy everyone thought I was.
But Dean reminded me that the audience who watched my show tuned in because they wanted to fantasize about me. Living an outwardly celibate existence wasn’t an option.
What I really needed was to focus on getting over Apollo. And I didn’t want to continue my revolving door of disappointed potential fuck buddies.
I thought a beard would be the perfect solution. Lots of people have them. It was an open secret. When I broached Dean about it, he told me he’d made arrangements for other clients before, but thought they were a bad long-term solution. Beards get tired of the pretense faster than the person they’re covering for. I just hoped mine would prove to be the exception.
I opened the e-mail, glanced at the picture, and laughed. It was Amber, the little gossip reporter who interviewed me last year. What in the world did she need a beard for? I couldn’t wait to find out. I e-mailed Dean back to tell him I was ready.
I stand up when I see Amber sauntering to the table. It’s our first “date,” and we decided to kick things off as publicly as possible. We decided to tell everyone we met when she interviewed me last year. If I didn’t have a brain that seemed to do nothing but think of one of the only women in the world who wasn’t in love with me, and a cock that did whatever my brain told it to, I would have been into her. She’s gorgeous. Like in a way that doesn’t need the pounds of makeup she was wearing when she interviewed me. Her cinnamon skin glows, and her trademark braids are caught in a huge bun on top of her head. She’s wearing a pair of tiny shorts, paired with a pink silk sleeveless top that stops right above her belly button in the front but appears to have some sort of train in the back. And she’s also a lot shorter than she was when I met her last time. I look at her feet and see she’s wearing silver flip-flops instead of heels.
I like her right away.
“Hey,” she says in that cheerful, even toned voice that made her a hit on radio before she shoots me the smile that made her a success on television.
“Hey, nice to see you,” I say and press a light kiss to her cheek and then reach around to pull out her seat.
“Thank you,” she says wit
h a wink before she sits down.
She rests her forearms on the table and then leans forward, and with a twinkle in her eye says, “Good job,” in a hushed voice.
“Thanks. Want to make sure we look legit,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. Even though when I found out it was you, I thought it had to be a joke.”
“It’s no joke, I assure you.”
“Oh, I know. As soon as I heard who your agent was, I knew. He doesn’t play games or waste time. So yeah, I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“About what?”
“Why the fuck Graham Fucking Davis needs a beard? I mean, you have a fucking PussyPhone. Was all of that a cover?”
“Ugh, I regret ever saying that. Not one of my finer moments.” I hang my head at that. Mama fussed at me for days after that.
She crosses her arms over her chest, wiggles her shoulders, and leans back in her seat. “Well, come on. Spill.”
