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She always wanted to know every little detail about my life, and now I'd hidden something from her. Except not really. Well, sort of—ugh, I was still too freaking hungover to think this whole thing through.
"Give me the phone," I snapped. Shirley scowled at me from the screen, and I smiled at her, my face a lying mask of calm. "I have a boyfriend. His name's Kyle. Tori set us up." That was the story I decided on, in all of its lackluster detail, right on the spot.
"Why am I just hearing about him?"
"Because I wanted to keep it private. I didn't want the press hounding us."
"And now?" She arched her carefully waxed eyebrow.
"The press is already hounding me. I want to give them"—I looked at Kyle—"a nice, juicy piece of meat to gnaw on."
"Let me see him."
I held up the phone so she could examine Kyle. I heard her clucking in approval as he beamed at her. I practically threw the phone back to Gigi.
"He's perfect, right?" she asked Shirley, her voice all sparkly approval.
"He'll do nicely. I hope. Tell them this is do or die, Gigi."
Gigi hung up and looked at us. "Right. Like Shirley said, this is an important night. Get out there and show your best side." She beamed at Kyle. "Not that you have a bad side."
"Bye, Gigi," I said and hustled her out the door while she eye-fucked Kyle. "I'm pretty sure we've got this." I slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. I felt as though the walls were closing in on me. "We absolutely do not have this."
"But you have me, your secret weapon. Everything'll be fine. Bang bang." Kyle grinned, looking completely at ease.
"Bang bang," I agreed weakly. All I wanted to do was bang my head on the door.
But since this was my show and I was about to go on, I went and got dressed.
For better or, most likely, for worse.
Kyle
I'd never thought that my geeky stepsister would grow up to be a hot Hollywood actress, but over time, I'd gotten used to the idea. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that Lowell would hire an escort. She'd always been a good girl—annoyingly good when we were growing up. Her public image had been squeaky clean, aside from the occasional scowl at the paparazzi. That was why that video of her puking was so shocking—she was America's up-and-coming sweetheart.
And now she needed help. My help. I just had to convince her that I was the right person for the job, our past notwithstanding.
When I'd pulled up to her Mission-style house, my mind had been racing, trying to figure out who the actress who'd hired me could be. Elena had been clear it was someone who needed to stir up positive press, but I never would've guessed that it was my uptight ex-stepsister, trying to recover from going off about body image and sexism in Hollywood then tossing her cookies all over YouTube.
But now I was here and I wanted to earn my keep, to show Lowell that I was worth the money. I wanted to show her I was worth keeping around. I wanted to be worth keeping around.
It was also really nice to have some breathing space, literally, from Mrs. Plastic Housewife's thigh clamp.
&n
bsp; "Let's get changed," she said, dismissing me. "This is a casual event. I'm wearing a sundress, and you can wear whatever you want. There'll be press at the entrance. They'll be taking pictures and… asking questions." She looked grim at the prospect.
I went outside and grabbed my suitcase, then I put my things in the room Lo showed me. I picked out my clothing with care. The cameras weren't the only thing I was dressing up for. Holy shit. She looks even better in person than she does on the big screen. How is that even possible? And where's the little twerp I remember?
She didn't look like the puffy, pasty fourteen-year-old I remembered. Of course, I'd seen all of her movies, but she looked even prettier in person.
I'd studied her face in darkened theaters, trying to see the sulky, tattling nerd I'd known growing up. The one who had almost broken my nose with the sex textbook she'd stolen from the library. But in her movies, I never saw the girl I remembered. I just saw a beautiful young woman who happened to be a great actress. I'd been jealous of her then. When we were growing up, I always thought of her as an annoying bug, buzzing around me and my friends, ratting me out, reading her books and looking down on me for partying. I'd been the cool one. She'd been the nerd.
And now she was a famous, talented, successful, sexy nerd. With money in the bank.
And I was her deadbeat, disinherited male escort.
I looked at myself in the mirror and adjusted the collar of my shirt. At least I looked good. That was one thing we had in common. I tucked my white shirt into my jeans and ran my hands through my hair. Satisfied, I went out and met her.
