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“So what’s your solution? Find someone else?”
“Makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”
“You think there are women like Clarke just hanging around on every corner? We picked her for a very specific reason.”
“She’s not the only woman in the world who has a clean record and a good job… I could find thousands of women that fall into the same category who would kill for the opportunity to pose as my fake girlfriend.”
“And that’s why they would never work. People talk. Peoplealwaystalk. No, what you need is someone who’s integrity and motives will never come into question. Clarke’s the poo, Treyton, so I suggest you lean in and take a big whiff.” She modifies her favorite line fromBring It On, one of the stupidest movies to ever grace the big screen. Though I would never say that to Kat. She has a serious hard on for those kind of movies. I’ve seen her almost stab someone with an ink pen for sayingMean Girlswas the worst movie ever made. Sadly, this isn’t the first time she’s used this specific quote on me. And I’m sure it won’t be the last.
“One, please do not refer to a woman I’m being forced to spend time with as feces, that’s just gross. And two, I think you’re being a little short sighted when it comes to Clarke. You know as well as I do that we can easily find someone else. Someone who, I don’t know, actually likes me.”
“We’ve been over this. It’s Clarke or bust.” Her unwillingness to budge on this is mind blowing. Like what the actual fuck?
“Why do you have such a boner over this girl?”
“One, I do not get boners.” She stands. “And two, we’ve already laid the groundwork. I’m not starting from scratch because you can’t put your big boy pants on and make something happen.”
“Put my big boy pants on.” I stifle a laugh. Because really, what else can I do but laugh?
“Yes.” She gives me a curt nod. “Now, why don’t you get off your ass and do something about winning this girl over. Preferably something grand and over the top, where a lot of people can see.”
“You’re fucking cutthroat, you know that?”
“That’s why you pay me so well.”
“Remind me later that I need to reevaluate that,” I tease.
“I know you think this is some kind of joke, but it isn’t. I love you but I’m done, Trey. I’m done cleaning up your messes. I’m done watching you fuck your way through L.A. while flushing your career down the toilet in the same fluid motion. I’m getting too old for this and if this shit keeps happening, I’m going to keel over from a heart attack before I reach sixty.”
“That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“If you were the one who had to deal with you, you wouldn’t think so,” she fires back, in no mood for my antics today… Clearly.
“You act like I’m the worst person to work for.”
“Somedays, Trey, you just might be.”
“Ouch.” I press a hand to my chest.
“Listen,” she crosses the small distance between us, sliding down onto the cushion next to me, “I know I’m being really hard on you, but it’s because I care about you. I care about what happens to you if you don’t turn your life around.” She pats my leg. “So please, stop your whining and do what needs to be done.”
Without waiting for me to respond, she stands, crosses the length of the room, and disappears from sight. The alarm system beeps her departure moments later.
“Fuck…” I grumble, running both hands through my hair.
The universe fucking hates me right now. And in a lot of ways, I know I deserve it. But how is pretending to be into someone who can barely stand to inhabit the same space as me the answer to all my problems?
I love Kat, and she’s never steered me wrong before, but she’s definitely off the tracks with this one. But that doesn’t change the fact that deep down I know she’s right. The ground work with Clarke has been laid. Besides, I’m still not convinced that she dislikes me as much as she claims. The way I catch her looking at me sometimes… I don’t know. Maybe all hope isn’t lost yet.
“Treyton Tyler, as I live and breathe.” The all too familiar voice has my steps faltering less than a block from Clarke’s building. My shoulders go rigid and an unfamiliar wave of discomfort washes over me.
Of all the fucking places in this city…
Fuck.
I turn to find myself standing face to face with the only woman who’s ever had the pleasure of calling herself my girlfriend. Brandy Hill. One of Hollywood’s biggest names, and the only person I’ve ever let close enough to hurt me.
Her golden hair shimmers under the bright afternoon sun. Cut into a short bob, it hits her right below her chin, accenting her narrow, angled jawline. Her red painted lips tug upward as she pulls her too large sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, her blue eyes finding mine in an instant.
