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“Yet, somehow deserved.” Her lips tip to one side.
“Seriously, tell me.”
Good job, Trey. Make her think you care to know more about her. That always works.
I give myself a mental high five.
“What do you want to know?”
Bingo! Now if I can just keep her talking.
“Everything.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes, something I’m finding she does so often I’m not sure she’s even aware she’s doing it most of the time. I hate it yet on her, I don’t know, it kinda makes me want to take her over my knee. Not that I’ve ever been into that kind of thing. But with her, I think I could get into it.
“Just tell me something, anything.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you already know and we’ll go from there,” she offers.
She sure as shit is not going to make this easy on me.
“Clarke Hamilton, twenty-nine. Born and raised in L.A. Graduated from USC. Took over your parents’ real estate agency when you were twenty-five. No kids. Never married. And your record is squeaky clean. That’s about all I’ve got.”
“Lame.”
My gaze shoots up to hers.
“Lame?”
“I expected you to do better than that.” Her smile turns mischievous. “My turn.” She raps her fingers on the table. “Treyton Tyler, thirty-seven. Grew up in northern California with your parents who divorced when you were ten. You were the star of your high school baseball team and signed to the Dodgers at nineteen years old, and was a standout star on the team until a knee injury ended your career at thirty. You starred in your first movie a year later and haven’t left the tabloids since. You’re never photographed with the same woman twice. You’re reported as being arrogant, egotistical, and difficult to work with. Now,” she leans forward, “how’d I do?”
“Predictable.” I force out a yawn.
“Predictable, but not wrong,” she gloats.
I’m torn between reaching over the table and strangling the hell out of her or kissing her so damn hard she forgets how to speak all together. At this point, I’d settle for just about anything to shut her up.
“Guess it depends on who you ask.” I shrug.
“Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Deflect to outside sources.”
“Huh?”
“Can’t always believe what you read. Guess it depends on who you ask. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Yada, yada, yada. Seems to me you spend more time saying things aren’t true than actually telling me what is.”
I consider her words.
Okay, if that’s how we’re going to play it…
“My parents divorced when I was ten because they were miserable together, but insisted on living together until I was eighteen for my sake, making for one really fucking uncomfortable childhood. I was the star baseball player at my high school because I lived and breathed baseball. While other kids were fucking off, I was working. Nothing was ever handed to me. I signed to the Dodgers when I was nineteen, true, but it took two full years before I made the starting roster. I worked my ass off for that position. And my first movie, well, they gave me that gig, not because they thought I deserved it or because they believed in my talent, but because everyone was so obsessed over my personal life at that point they thought it would bring in a good audience. Come see baseball’s bad boy, the fuck up himself, right here under the bright lights.”
I blow out a hard breath, not sure why I’m telling her any of this, other than maybe because I want to shut her self-righteous ass the fuck up.
“As far as the women,” I continue, “I’m only photographed with different women because I can’t seem to find one with any substance. But again, you don’t know what’s in the pond if you don’t cast your rod.”
