Kiss Talent Agency Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Virna DePaul

  But I realize I can’t. Not yet. I slump back on my couch, the cool air pumping out of my dying window unit. Samson hops up onto my lap and beings purring.

  “No, we’re too far in it now,” I tell the cat. I take another look at the house in the picture. It’s a small, quaint little one-story house with a nicely trimmed yard. It looks like the perfect little home to raise a perfect little family.

  And for some reason, I’m overcome by such a cloud of depression that I stand up—Samson lets out an annoyed meow—leave the wallet where it is, go into my bedroom, fall into bed, and cover my head with a pillow. Maybe I even scream.

  According to the searches I’ve done on my laptop in the café near my apartment, Sebastian Rich goes by Bastian.

  Bastian.

  It would be obnoxious if he didn’t look like a Bastian, sexy and mysterious, with eyes that sparkle with vitality when he’s not passed out cold on a grocery store floor.

  I’ve only been on my laptop for fourteen minutes so I can’t claim to be an expert on all things Mr. Rich, but I’ve gleaned enough to know some of my speculations were right.

  And some of them were wrong.

  He comes from money. He works in a high-rise building downtown. He often wears a suit and tie to work.

  And yes, he’s most definitely out of my league.

  But he’s not married. Ashley Rich, it turns out, is his sister.

  I almost wish he were married.

  Then, at least, I’d only have to imagine him in a serious relationship with one woman, as opposed to engaging in a string of sexual encounters with one woman after another.

  Turns out, Bastian Rich is a playboy. At least, if you believe the evidence online, of which there is plenty.

  It’s currently the second busiest time for cafés in this city—a time when white-collar workers need shots of caffeine adrenaline before hitting the night scene after work. I have internet service on my phone but not my in apartment—too costly—which is why after moping at home for a while, I headed to this café.

  The only table available is a small tabletop for two situated in the very center of the café. Even though there is only one empty stool at my table, I still feel like the loneliest girl in the room. There is no privacy between myself and those behind me, but even at the risk of being caught internet stalking Mr. Rich, I keep right on doing it.

  I click the back button and return to his company website—RichCo.Org. It has a nice, luxurious ring to it, but I suppose that’s to be expected when your surname is Rich. The About page tells me it’s a family business run by Bastian; his father, Sebastian Sr.; and his brother, Lucian. There’s a picture of all three men—each attractive, each exuding that special something that screams power and entitlement, each capable of melting my panties with a forced smile on the opposite end of a camera lens—and a younger Ashley.

  There’s only one phone number listed for the receptionist and it ends in 6969.

  Are you kidding me? There’s no way this number is legitimate, and if it is, then I’d suggest firing the PR manager for the firm. A light bulb hovers above my head: maybe I could parlay this foul into a well-paying job as a brand manager for RichCo.

  How many delusions is that today? Enough to sign the papers for a permanent stay in a psych ward.

  Back to my search results.

  Nothing catches my interest for the next few pages, but then a sidebar link steals my attention. RichMenExposed.com. I’m so hell-bent on learning more about this man called Bastian that I don’t even consider the consequences of clicking on the link.

  I’m instantly bombarded with images of men in various states of undress. I cringe at the first set of pictures, candid photos of a socialite I’ve never heard of, but who based on the comments section is a complete asshole. Karma’s a bitch. I continue to scroll down the page until I hit a proverbial treasure trove.

  Bastian, photographed like the movie star I had first pegged him to be, standing beside a window where the sun shines against his perfectly symmetrical face. A little farther down are a series of photos in which he’s shirtless. My mouth drops open at the sight of perfect abs, muscular pecs, and biceps that aren’t too big, but just right. The photo gallery begins innocent enough, but quickly spirals out of control.

  At first, his zipper is tugged down, exposing a pair of stark black boxer briefs. Then, the jeans are gone altogether. Then his boxers are on the floor and he’s lying in bed, his hard cock, long and thick, resting against his thigh. Then he’s fisting his cock, and he looks like he’s about to explode.

  I’m going to explode, drown in a pool of my own desires right here in the center of the café . . .

  Oh no!

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” a stranger scolds me as he rushes past my table with a young child cradled in his arms. His free hand covers the child’s eyes. “You’re sick.”

  I’d protest, but I’m at a loss for words at my own behavior. I slam my laptop shut in a flurry of embarrassment and take a quick glance around the café.

  All eyes are on me.

  I gawked at dick pictures in the middle of a crowded café. This has got to be a new low for me, and considering my history, that bar was set incredibly low already. Yet somehow, I managed to crawl below it like a contortionist aiming for self-destruction.

  I can never show my face on this side of town again, which is definitely a problem since I live one building over.

  Get caught staring at a perfect stranger? Check.

  When caught staring at said perfect stranger, make a complete ass out of myself when trying to pretend I wasn’t? Check.

  Chase an ambulance with perfect stranger inside before causing a traffic jam via a stalled cab? Check.

  Get caught salivating over dick pics in a crowded public space? Double check.

  Today might just be the day I prove the theory that it’s possible to die from embarrassment. But stay strong I must; after all, it wouldn’t be fair to leave my mother childless after we’ve worked so hard to get her through her cancer treatments.

  God, if she only knew the day I was having, she’d demand I move back home and give it her all to set me straight. Unfortunately for her and myself, I’m well past the point of being a lost cause.

  My cellphone buzzes with another call from Kevin, but I don’t pick up. I haven’t decided if I’m going to tell him about the wallet and my impulsive car chase to return it to its owner, Bastian Rich.

  I catalog what I know about him thus far. His address and vital statistics. The names of his father, brother, and sister. The fact that he’s a wealthy businessman and a playboy who apparently likes having naked pictures of himself taken and posted online or else has obviously put his trust in the wrong people’s hands.

  Oh, and I know the size of his dick.

  So yeah, you know, the important shit.

  I look down at the number I had scribbled down before I—the whore of Babylon—was chased out of a coffee joint by a rabid mob of slut-shamers. I work up the nerve and dial the number. After one long, deep breath, I press my finger against the green button and raise the phone to my ear.

  4

  Julia

  The day after I found Bastian Rich passed out on the floor, I’m back behind my sample table, this time in the health and beauty aisle. Considering how late it had been, it should have come as no surprise that the receptionist at RichCo hadn’t answered my phone call. I’d spent the night calling hospitals to see if a Sebastian Rich had been admitted but finally gave up around 10:00. Now I’m handing out sample packs of a new brand of cotton swab. That’s right, someone has decided that they can improve upon the simple design of the Q-tip.

  “Ma’am, would you like to try a new brand of cotton swab?” I offer a sample pack to an elderly lady leaving the pharmacy.

  For a moment, she looks interested, but it’s possible she’s simply straining to hear me.

  “They’re softer and more luxurious than your standard cotton swabs,” I say.
<
br />   “I’m sorry, dear, I like the Q-tips I’ve been using all my life.”

  I sigh, surprised by how many people are turning these things down. They’re basically designer Q-tips! Who can’t use more of them? Maybe the product would do better on Bastian’s end of town.

  As I watch the little old lady walk away hunched over her shopping cart, it suddenly dawns on me she looks like a Q-tip with the ball of white hair sitting on top of her head. I think about taking a picture of her from behind and texting my observation to Kevin, but he’s pissed at me for ignoring his calls. I’d tried to apologize to him this morning, but he’d given me “the hand” and a shake of his head before flouncing off. I’ll give him the day to cool off and then, after I track down Bastian and return his wallet after work, I’ll fill him in on my latest bout of lunacy over drinks.

  “So, what are we handing out today?” a handsome man suddenly asks after stopping in front of my sample stand. I’m a little startled by his friendly demeanor and the fact that he acts like he knows who I am. The guy’s super cute. I clear my throat and try to put some flirtatious edge to my response. God knows I need the practice.

  “Miracle Swab brand cotton swabs. They are softer and more luxurious than any cotton swab you’ve used before,” I tell him. “With other brands, sometimes you stab yourself because there isn’t enough cotton on the end. Well, that will never happen with these. No, sir.”

  “It’s a miracle,” he says, looking up from the sample packs and pointing at me to drive his joke home.

  I smile weakly. Again, he’s cute, almost as cute as Bastian, yet my heart hasn’t even sped up.

  “Sold,” he says suddenly. “Can I grab a few of these? I’ll hand them out at the gym.”

  I wonder if he’s serious, but I grab a green Miracle Swab sample bag and load it up for him.

  “But wait, there’s more,” I tell him as I pull out a coupon. “Because you took a sample bag today, you also get a coupon for twenty-five percent off your next Miracle Swab purchase. It’s good for any size package or any variety.”

  “These guys are hard-core,” he says absently as he looks over the coupon.

  “That’s right. Can you say the same about your current cotton swab?”

  “You’re pretty good,” he laughs. “You make me want things I didn’t even realize I wanted.”

  “Well, thank you.” I can feel myself blushing and I wonder what the heck is going on. Is the fact that I had myself a little adventure yesterday making me sparkle just a bit more today or something? Maybe. I feel more alive and the world seems a little bit brighter, but as much as I appreciate this guy flirting with me, my mind is still occupied with Mr. Rich. I think he gets the hint given I’ve shown more interest in a pack of bubble gum before. With a final smile, he’s off and on his way to the back of the store.

  I’m thinking about taking a break and trying to call Bastian’s work number again when an old guy with an amazing amount of hair sticking out of his nose and ears walks up to me.

  “Sample Q-tips?” he asks.

  “They’re Miracle Swabs.”

  “What’s the difference?” He grabs a pack and picks it up, examining the swabs carefully.

  “These aren’t your standard cotton swabs. They’re Miracle Swab Luxury Cotton Swabs. It’s supposed to be like using a cloud to clean your ears.”

  “Have you tried them?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been at work, so—”

  “Well, I think I’m going to try one.” He opens the package right in front of my stand and proceeds to shove one of the Miracle Swabs into his ear.

  I watch in horror as his eyes roll back in his head while he twirls the plastic stick with cotton balls at either end inside his ear. He moans in satisfaction. I can’t help but wonder if the look upon his face—of complete and utter ecstasy—is the same look I wear on my face at the tail end of a life-changing orgasm.

  It’s enough to make a girl swear off sex completely.

  Customers walk by and stare at him, appalled by this disgusting display. He pulls the crusty, dark yellow end of the swab out of his ear and flips it around to continue with the other side. I’m forced to watch as he repeats the spectacle.

  “Oh, that’s good,” he says, working on his other ear now.

  “Um, can you . . .” I say, about to suggest he do this in the bathroom, but he ignores me. “Sir, would you mind if—”

  The older gentleman holds up a massive finger to tell me to wait a minute while he continues wrecking the second cotton swab. I close my eyes. I can’t witness any more of this.

  “Want to try it?”

  I open my eyes, and he’s holding the sample package out to me.

  “No thank you,” I say.

  “They’re not kidding. It is like using a cloud. They’re down here in health and beauty?” he asks, putting his freaking used cotton swab down on my table.

  I stare at it and cover my mouth as I feel my stomach roil.

  The guy is oblivious, starting to push his cart down the aisle to my left.

  “Yes, sir,” I manage to choke out. “And here’s a coupon. Get twenty-five percent off any package you purchase.” I grab a coupon and hand it to him as he walks past me.

  “Awesome,” he says in a surprisingly grateful voice.

  Once he’s down the aisle, I stare at the disgusting swab on my table, deciding what to do. I can’t leave it there, can I? Finally, I grab some napkins from the bathroom and the little waste basket I normally use when sampling food, throw the napkins over the offensive swab, then toss the dirty swab into the trash. Mind you, I’m cringing and gagging a bit as I do this, and by the time I’m done I feel gross and exhausted.

  I have definitely earned some fresh air.

  I let She-Hulk know I’m taking a break. I grab my purse, then head outside. There’s a small greenbelt across from Cooper’s with a bench in the shade. I sit down, open up my purse, take out Bastian’s wallet, and stare at it, running my fingertips across the fine leather, as if it’s some kind of magic lamp and can somehow transport me away from my current life.

  After work, I’m going to drive by the address on his driver’s license and return the wallet to its owner. Mr. Sebastian Rich will be fine. He’ll also be thankful. I fantasize that he’ll be so thankful, he’ll invite me in for dinner. That maybe he’ll give me a demonstration of how those condoms fit him, or rather how he fits . . .

  Dammit, Julia, stop! I take a deep breath to clear my head. The guy’s a stranger and you’re just going to return his wallet.

  “Right, just returning his wallet,” I repeat aloud. I decide to run through what I’m going to say. I want to be prepared when he answers the door.

  “Hello, Mr. Rich? My name is Julia. We spoke at Cooper’s Food Market and Pharmacy yesterday? Yes, it’s good to see you again, too. I’m glad to see you’re doing okay. Um, the reason I’m here is because I took your wallet to give the 911 operator your name, and in the confusion, I still have it. I hope you don’t mind. I looked through it to see who it belonged to and found your address. Oh, why didn’t I leave it with a cashier or manager? Um, I . . . I noticed that, um, you have a lot of money in there and I didn’t, you know, didn’t want anyone to take it.”

  I stop to catch my breath. This is going to be a disaster. I can’t even practice talking to him without stammering and stuttering. I try again.

  “Mr. Rich? Hi, I know you probably don’t recognize me outside of the store, but I found your wallet and decided to track you down at your house to return it to you. I hope you don’t mind, I looked through it, and wow, Mr. Rich, I must say I’m impressed with the size of your . . . your . . . dammit, Julia!”

  5

  Julia

  After realizing I couldn’t even practice greeting Bastian Rich without making a fool of myself, I postpone trying to call or see him. Instead, I finish the rest of my shift, then meet up with Kevin. I quickly fill him in about Bastian and my failed attempt to return his wallet, then wh
en Kevin finally stops laughing, I try to talk him into seeing a movie after he’s off. Unfortunately, even though Kev’s decided to forgive me for blowing him off (his words, not mine), he has a hot date immediately after work. I grab his hands and jump up and down with him when he tells me he finally worked up the nerve to ask out the guy at the gym he’s been crushing on, then we promise to get together the next day for drinks.

  “You have the perfect excuse to see Big Sexy and make your move, Julia!”

  “What move?” I say with a shaky laugh.

  “Any move that will end with you cupping that fine ass of his instead of just ogling it. Wait, forget his ass. Check out that fabulous package first. No wait, his ass. Ugh, I can’t decide.”

  I just smile weakly, not telling him I’d already checked out Bastian’s package online. For some reason, I want to keep that knowledge to myself. For some reason, the idea of my best friend pulling up Bastian’s dick pics?

  Uh-uh. No way. Guess I’m not that good a friend. Sorry, Kev!

  After work, I end up going home alone and trying to watch TV, but of course Bastian keeps entering my thoughts. All joking aside, I really am beginning to wonder if my obsession with him is all kinds of unhealthy. Finally, in a desperate attempt to stop thinking about him and his wallet for even a short amount of time, I do something that shocks me.

  I grab a box from the back of my closet, a box I haven’t opened in years, and pull out stacks of paper, unfinished songs I’d worked on before The Incident. As soon as I do, it’s as though I’m transported back in time. Somehow, I manage not to obsess about the magnitude of my past mistakes and instead wholly focus on the crisp feel of the paper, the beauty of the patterns—bars, notes, staffs, and bridges—inked on it, and the melodies that instantly begin playing in my head.

  I’d always loved composing music almost as much as performing, and an hour later, I’m fully immersed in chord progression and riffs. Two hours later, I’m scribbling down lyrics. Four hours later, I realize it’s past ten and I’m starving because I’d forgotten to eat. But more than that . . . I’m happy. My heart is beating with excitement and I feel recharged. Refreshed. Inspired.