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Her eyes soften slightly. Not because my hand kiss is that good (my other kisses are) but because of my name. Because of who I am. Average dudes don’t get away with messing up girls’ names.
Gage Barrett does.
Gage Barrett can do whatever the hell he wants.
Quite honestly, reality’s usually only about half as bad as my reputation, but tonight I’m living up to everything the tabloids love about me.
Worthless playboy who spends his days between mediocre action movies, drinking too much, playing too hard, and bedding far too many women?
Check, check, and check.
“What’s with you tonight, Gage?” Wes asks from across the table as he tosses down two cards and taps for Dan to deal him two more.
I give him a quick glare. Best-friend speak for Shut the hell up.
But despite the fact that Wes and I have been friends ever since getting cast in the first Killboys movie six years ago, intuition’s never been his strong suit, and he’s not picking up on the fact that I don’t feel like fucking talking it out.
“Nothing,” I mutter. I set my cards down, folding. My hand sucked. They’ve been sucking all night, but luckily everyone else’s have too, so the pile of chips in front of me’s better than decent.
I pull out my phone as the other three guys finish out the hand. I intend to do a quick check for new messages—for anything to distract me—but instead I pull up the picture again.
As far as babies go, this one…
Looks like every other.
Tiny and sort of bean shaped, all wrapped up in a white blanket with a pink hat, a wrinkly face the only thing visible.
Clara Michelle Barrett. Congratulations, Uncle.
Clara.
I don’t have to ask my brother who named the kid. Layla had the name for her first daughter picked out by the time she was seventeen.
How do I know?
Because Layla used to be my girlfriend. And back when we used to talk about our future, Clara was going to be my daughter.
You think I’m bothered by this? Hell yes.
But I’m even more bothered by the fact that I hadn’t even known my sister-in-law was pregnant.
Sister-in-law. Jesus.
“Barrett.”
I look up, my agent’s giving me a questioning look, and I realize the next hand’s been dealt.
I pick up my cards. Three tens. Not terrible.
“Wes is right,” Dan says, taking a sip of his club soda. Guy gave up the drink a few years ago. “You’re acting weird. What’s up?”
“None of your business.”
“How the hell do you figure that?” he asks, studying his hand. “As your agent, your moods are absolutely my business.”
“I don’t have moods.”
“Not usually, no,” he says, leaning back in his chair and studying me. Mid-forties, built like a brick, with a dark beard and shrewd eyes, Dan’s more like a brother to me than my own. Especially these days.
