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Life was good. I had my main business in my basement (I owned three gyms in the city), my own line of fitness apparel and exercise DVD’s, along with a dozen books that had been ghostwritten for me (like I have the fucking time to write). The best part about being me were the private sessions I give to certain female celebrities who shall remain nameless. Let’s just say that more often than not, those sessions come with a happy ending, if you know what I mean.
“The reason I’m calling,” Martin continued, “I need you to fly out to New York in a couple of days. Good Morning Manhattan would like to do a segment on you. It would be great exposure and you could pimp the new DVD’s that are dropping later this month.”
I whined into the phone like a spoiled bitch. “Two days? Fuck, Martin you know I can’t just up and leave on a moment’s notice like that…”
“Chad, dude, this is the show we’ve been trying to get you on for the last six months. New York City’s number one morning show. And now they want you on the show, but it’s gotta be this week. You cannot pass this up. Whatever you have going on, have your assistant reschedule and get your ass on a plane. Capiche?”
I sighed until my lungs were out of air. I fell back on the bed and gave my balls a little scratch. “Fine. Book it and send me the flight and hotel info.”
“Awesome!” Martin said. I could feel him smiling over the phone. More money in my pocket meant more money in his. “Don’t forget, rock star, you are the number one guru in the fitness industry right now and we’re going to keep it that way, my man. You got this!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, wondering if he really believed half of the shit that came out of his mouth. “I’ll see you in New York on Monday.”
I tossed the phone on the bed and went off to take a shower. For some reason, I felt especially dirty at that moment, and it wasn’t the stink of my jizz and Bree’s cunt coming off my cock and balls.
It was just the smell of my life, a smell I knew I could never wash away, at least not on my own.
CHAPTER THREE: Zoe
“Hello, Mr. Elliot,” I said playfully. Whenever I saw Graham’s face popup on my cellphone I always forced myself to sound happier than I usually was. Graham worried about me like an older brother, so I mustered a smile and put a happy tone to my voice before I slid the screen to answer the call.
“Miss Maxwell,” Graham said, his voice soothing in my ear. “How are you today? Did you make it home safely last night?”
“If I hadn’t you would have been my first call,” I said with a grin. I pushed myself back from the laptop and turned to put my bare feet up on the little writing desk I kept in front of my bedroom window. “What’s up?”
“I was calling to invite your over for dinner tonight?” he said.
“Oh, Graham, I’ve had enough of dinner parties for a while.”
“Not a dinner party, my dear. Nothing fancy, very low key, just you and me. I have something I’d like to run by you.”
“Low key sounds great,” I said, stretching my arms toward the ceiling. I had been writing for several hours and needed a break. “Anything out of the public eye is good for me these days.”
“I kind of figured you’d done your time in the public eye for a while,” he said, chuckling. “Need me to send a car for you?”
“I can get a cab,” I said. “I’m not that much of a celebrity.”
“The hell you’re not,” he snorted. “If your next book sells like we think it will your lovely face will be plastered on posters and billboards across the country. You might as well face it, my dear, you are a bona fide celebrity whether you like it or not.”
“Whatever!” I said, cutting him off. I wasn’t comfortable with my celebrity and Graham knew it, as meager as that celebrity might be. “Need me to bring anything?”
“Just yourself,” Graham said. “See you around eight.”
I stared at the phone for a moment after he hung up, wondering what Graham wanted to talk to me about. I prayed it wasn’t about Mark. That was a topic I had no desire to discuss with Graham or anyone else.
* * *
“Glad you could make it,” Graham said, hugging me as I walked through the door of his uptown apartment. Graham did very well as an executive for Roland House. His place was larger than mine and much nicer. Graham had hit the daily double: he came from old money and banked one hell of a paycheck from Roland. His good fortune was well-deserved. Graham Elliot was a good guy in what could be a very shitty business. He’d saved my bacon on more than one occasion. He was the best friend this writer would ever have.
“Did you enjoy the dinner last night? Roland House certainly knows how to blow money on large parties that no one wants to attend,” he said as he handed me a glass of wine. He nodded at the glass. “That’s an ‘84 Chateau Laffite Rothschild. Don’t waste a drop.”
“I’ll certainly try not to,” I said, smiling as I took a sip. The wine was smooth going down and left a delicious plum and blackberry taste lingering on my tongue. Graham always had the best wines. He was a wine enthusiast who loved to travel and collect wines from every corner of the world. Some of them were too exotic for my taste, but the Rothschild was like drinking nectar.
“I couldn’t wait to get out of there last night, I can tell you that,” I confessed as I took another sip. “And Carla… ugh! I can’t stand that woman! I tell her no and she keeps coming back like a rabid dog.”
“Most people can’t stand Carla,” Graham said with a smile. “But she is very good at her job, one of the best PR reps in the business.” He stared at me for a moment, then brought his glass to his lips. “I could tell you were ready to get the hell out of there. Too long away from our cave, little hermit?”
“Something like that,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Although I’d like to think of myself more as Cinderella in t
