by Stella Gray
“This is like a straight-up mug shot,” I say, before realizing I’ve just said the most awkward thing in the world to someone who did indeed get arrested a few months back.
But when I look up at him to gauge his reaction, he’s got the biggest smile on his face. “To be honest, my mug shot looks way better than my driver’s license,” he says. “Google it.”
Now we’re both laughing, and I have to remind myself that this is the same man who lied to me, who used me, who doesn’t even have the decency now to remember my face.
He hands my license back. “Okay, I was wrong. This is a terrible photo of you.”
Just then, the waitress appears with our meals. By the time she leaves, I’ve composed that part of myself that wants to just run away with the superficial lust between us. Setting my napkin on my lap, I press my palms into my thighs.
“Tell me what the point of this whole marriage thing is,” I say, cutting to the chase.
He gives a slight nod. “Sure. Got a little distracted there.”
My stomach tightens in expectation of what he might say. The pasta smells amazing, but I’m not sure I can take a bite right now. Luka, on the other hand, digs right in. He notices that I haven’t touched my food, sets his fork aside, and clears his throat.
“So basically, the reason for all of this is that my reputation needs work in light of my father’s recent arrest. The disgrace he brought down on the business and our family name is no secret, and with him in jail, I’ve been the media’s scapegoat.”
I nod. “Makes sense. People are angry. They need someone to take it out on. Not that it’s fair to you.” I finally start on my spaghetti as he leans back, seeming to gather his words.
“Even with every other member of our family being cleared of any wrongdoing, and the fact that my older brother pretty much handed my father over to the feds on a silver platter, we’re still struggling to regain the public’s confidence in us. As a business and as humans.”
“Sure,” I say, pausing to blot my mouth with my napkin before continuing. “I mean, I was floored when I heard about it. It made me think twice about going to the audition today, and whether I wanted to be associated with the Zorics at all.”
It comes out sounding harsher than I meant, but Luka takes it in stride.
“I’m sure you’re not the only one who feels that way,” he says. “All the KZ models were released from their contracts after the scandal broke, and not all of them signed back on with Danica Rose. We lost some great talent. Not that I pity us. A lot of people got hurt, taken advantage of. Lives were ruined. Something like that rips people’s trust away pretty deeply.”
He looks off, thinking hard, and I finish chewing and set my fork down.
“So things are royally fucked right now,” I say matter-of-factly. “Not to salt the wound. And it’s your job to sway public opinion back into a positive light.”
“Yes. My brother and I agreed to use our collective influences to make over the Zoric empire’s image. But since I’m the resident bad boy and he’s happily married and settled down, I’m the one who needs to change my lifestyle in a big and very public way. And fast.”
I pause for him to go into detail of said lifestyle, but he resumes eating. I feel a little smug, though, because I know exactly what he’s talking about. His online presence is flooded with images of him clearly intoxicated, out with a different woman every night, sometimes more than one. He parties hard. He fucks hard. He spends money hard.
Luka Zoric has always been a diehard playboy.
It hits me just then, what’s different about him. He’s shed some of that old skin. And now he seems contemplative, and a little bit lost, like he’s not sure what to do next.
I might have a few ideas.
He takes a long drink and then gives me a pointed look. All signs of flirting are suddenly gone. “Here’s the deal. It’ll be a two-year commitment, maybe three, depending on public response. After that, a very amicable and quiet divorce and you’ll be free to live your life.”
My mind is already racing with the “what do I get out of it” portion of this conversation. The part where I use him in return for using me. I’ve never been that kind of a person. But here? Now? With Luka Zoric? I just might be.
“You’re the ideal candidate,” he adds. “You’re well spoken, accomplished, and you have a good background. And not to be a dick, but you’ll look amazing on my arm—which in this business really matters. Plus, your philanthropy work is great PR for both of us.”
“And what do I get out of it?” I reply without missing a beat.
He starts talking more animatedly, really getting into it. “You want a contract with us, right? I’ll sign you right away and send you out on the most prestigious calls, get you in all the major campaigns and runway shows. You act as my wife, and we’ll do everything in our power to make you a supermodel.” He pushes his plate to the side and leans toward me. “Plus, if my image is cleaned up and the rep of the agency bounces back as planned, that will help you out as well. It’s a win-win all around.”
I let out a long breath.
“I really just want to be a model,” I tell him. “Taking part in a marriage—even a fake one—is a huge thing to ask of someone. My life won’t be my own.”
“Come on, Brooklyn. Do you know the kind of press and attention you’ll get just from being married to me? You’ll have professional power like no one else. Every photographer and designer that matters will be bombarding you with opportunities.”
I shift in my chair, my jaw going tense. These pie-in-the-sky promises are sounding eerily familiar. And after the shit he pulled three years ago, there’s no way I can trust him.
“Thank you for dinner, Luka, but I’m leaving.”
I stand and grab my purse. It’s satisfying, looking down at him and seeing how intently he’s watching me.
“The answer is no. Thanks again for the opportunity.”
I spin on my heel and leave. That’s right—I’m the one leaving him this time. And it feels almost as good as it would have if we’d gone to his penthouse.
On second thought, nope.
This feels much better.
Brooklyn
Chapter 6
“Obviously I can’t take the offer.”
I scoot back onto the overstuffed chaise and hug my knees. Mateo is lounging on the plush ivory rug on the floor, a wine glass in one hand as he lies on his side and studies me.
I’m so glad he decided to come to Chicago with me, and extra grateful that I didn’t have to move back in with my parents while I chase this next phase of my career. Mateo is making bank, thanks to the way his modeling career has soared—and extra props to him for being one of the first openly bisexual male models to get this big—so he’s got the money to live wherever he wants now. And while I do enjoy the perks of being his bestie, like this posh little apartment in Wicker Park, what I love even more is that we’ve got each other’s backs.
No matter what happens in our lives, I hope our friendship never changes.
“Why the hell not? I mean, how can you not even consider it?” He sips and grins and sips some more. “Normally, I’d frown on this sort of thing, but think about it, Brookie. You’ll be Luka Zoric’s wife. You get to bang him. Repeatedly. As often as you want. Hell, I’d even go monogamous for that man.”
I chuckle. Mateo monogamous? That will be a cold day in hell. When he’s not dating two or three at a time, which is never, he’s on the prowl for replacements.
In the very scarce in-between of those moments, he’s tried to convince me we should be friends with benefits. I’ve always shut that kind of talk down, not really knowing if he was serious—and honestly, I don’t want to know. He’s my absolute favorite person in the world and I never want our relationship to change. Plus, I’m too jealous to get involved with someone who only has open relationships, and as his platonic friend I’m free to cheer on his flavor of the week.
He rolls onto his back, b
alancing his wine glass on his abs, and looks to the ceiling.
“Tell me everything, one more time.”
“Ugh. Mateo.” I pretend to be annoyed. I’ve already gone through the entire story with him twice. Honestly, I think he’s using my narrative to role-play himself into my place, with a different ending that results in him and Luka fucking behind the restaurant in some bushes.
He knows I slept with Luka three years ago, and I’ve lost count of how many times he begged me to retell the story of that doomed escapade. He was ridiculously disappointed tonight when I got home and told him there’d been no sex.
“No sex” is Mateo’s most hated phrase.
“We went to dinner. We ordered pasta and sparkling water.”
“Eww. The water. Seriously.” His face scrunches up.
“I know. Anyway, he said he needs to clean up his reputation and get married to jack up his image. In return, he’d give me a contract to model for DRM.”
Mateo starts to speak, but I cut him off. “Do you think I should try to get another appointment, maybe with Stefan or something? I mean, this wasn’t even a real audition.”
He sits up and shrugs. “They hold two open calls a year, and this was number two.”
“It wasn’t an open call, though! It was a…spouse screening.” My heart sinks at the thought that I’ve missed my chance, again, to get a legit contract with the agency.
“Sorry, hon. Look on the bright side, though. You can totally wait around until next year to go crawling back and hope to God they like you enough to offer you a contract that won’t hold a candle to the insane deal Luka just tried to make you…or you can say yes right now, become Zoric royalty, and get famous by association so the next time the lease is up on this place, you can pay to keep it.” He looks at me pointedly and then says, “Your call.”
Then he looks away, pretending to inspect his nails nonchalantly, but it’s obvious which course of action he thinks I should choose.
“Funny. But it’s not like I don’t have other options. I had that audition for Maxilene cosmetics before I left LA, remember? I should be hearing from them soon.”
When the second largest cosmetics company in the world hosts an open call for models, you don’t run, you go super-sonic and get your ass there. I was the third in line and breezed through the audition, batting my lashes and smiling like a maniac while flourishing the tube of mascara they’d given me as a prop. Now if only they’d call me back.
Mateo’s got a curious look on his face, but maybe it’s the wine. He’s on his third glass.
“I’m telling you,” he insists, “there is nothing negative in the offer Luka made you. It’s all positive. All of it.”
“No, it’s not. He lied to me. He ghosted me. How can I trust him now? And why should I even want to help him after what he did to me?”
“He gave you the best fuck of your tender little life, you ungrateful wench. You could have that every day. Every. Day.”
I lie back dramatically and toss an arm over my eyes. “You don’t understand, Mat. I’m aging out. I don’t have much longer to make something of myself. You had your break and look at you now. I’m nearly out of chances.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re barely twenty-two. You have a bright, successful future ahead of you. And plenty of time to get there.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, my voice hitching with emotion.
There’s rustling beside me, and then the cushion sinks near my hip. I peek and see a wine glass thrust at me. Mateo holds it out impatiently. I sit and have a sip, and he looks pleased.
“It’s true that I have smoother, younger looking skin than you, Brookie. And I don’t have as much trouble staying in shape.” I roll my eyes as we bump shoulders good-naturedly. “But you have an amazing face and an incredible personality and a feisty attitude that has gotten you plastered all over this beautiful city. You’re a fighter, and believe me, you ain’t done fighting yet. Luka Zoric would be damn-ass lucky to have you.”
Slipping an arm around him, we side-hug, and I hand him back his wine. He settles onto the floor again, swirling his merlot and looking thoughtful. “Let’s just say—for the sake of argument—that getting married is your best option for breaking out right now.”
He side-eyes me and I groan. That’s his guilty face, which I don’t see often because Mateo rarely feels guilty about anything. “Why are you saying this?”
Mateo hangs his head in shame. “Okay, look. I wanted to hold off on saying anything until I knew more, but…I have good intel that Monica Shore had a private meeting with the head of Elite Image. Like, really good intel.”
“Dammit.” I put my face in my hands and silently scream into them. Once again, it’s just not going to go my way. “Do you think they’re looking at her for the Maxilene campaign?”
“I’m compelled to think so, considering that every other Maxilene model just so happens to have been an Elite girl.”
“Yeah. Everyone knows that.” I let out a big sigh.
Monica Shore is kind of a big deal. At one time, she had the new-age face that everyone talked about—huge, wide, otherworldly eyes, a delicate heart-shaped face, lips that would give Steven Tyler a run for his money. All she has to do is bat her baby blues and she gets signed every time. Rumor has it that she’ll stop at nothing to book the jobs that she wants, and from her impressive resume, I have to believe there’s some truth to that. She walked into Elite after a recent, messy split from her longtime former agent and I’m sure she walked out with a brand-new contract and the Maxilene gig to boot. No wonder I haven’t gotten a call back yet.
I shift my weight and look at the floor. The truth is, Elite Image is interested in me, more than I’ve let on to Mateo. He doesn’t know about the recent conversation I had with them…and what the results of that conversation were.
A pang of guilt goes through me. Sometimes I feel like I’m turning into the person I said I would never be. The one who does anything to get a contract.
The thought makes me feel a little sick.
It’s not like me to cry over my career. I learned early on that it left you with undereye bags for days and no resolutions. So I’m surprised when tears threaten. Holding them back is easy, but it bothers me that I’m now stressed to the point where tears are my only option.
Well, not my only option.
Maybe I should consider Luka’s arrangement. It’s just…I’ve never cheated my way into a job, and I’ve always been firmly against it. Sleeping your way to the top is commonplace in this profession, but it’s something I’ve avoided at all costs. Until now.
Brooklyn Zoric, supermodel.
It has a nice ring to it. A very nice ring.
I catch Mateo’s eyes. He looks smug, as if he’s reading my mind. “Just make sure the prenup includes a clause that says getting laid all the time is a requirement. Oh, and a guest room clause for your bestie.”
I huff a laugh. Yeah, right…like I’d actually go through with this. Although I can’t deny how hard my nipples get when I think about sliding into bed with Luka every night.
Reality slinks back in and I shake off these ridiculous notions.
I can’t marry Luka Zoric.
So why the hell are my panties wet just thinking about it?
Luka
Chapter 7
After my epic failure with Brooklyn, I decide I need to blow off some steam. I text my workout buddy Diego and then meet him at the gym to do a few hardcore weight circuits. But even benching three hundred pounds of iron with the latest Nas album blasting in my AirPods can’t distract me from replaying the dinner date over and over in my mind, trying to figure out where I made that fatal wrong turn.
If I had the conscience to feel guilty about things, I’d feel guilty about fucking her three years ago and then ghosting her. But of all the women in the world who could’ve shown up to my wife auditions, I never in a million years expected Brooklyn Moss to walk through that door.
It took
all of my willpower not to react when I saw her. My cock remembered her before my brain did, a flash of heat and lust coursing through me—and then I remembered why. Those sultry, smoky eyes, those legs that go on for miles. That mouth wrapped around my dick. The dirty talk. How hard she came, as if I was some kind of sex god. I’ve never been the type to need an ego boost, but hearing her scream my name like that sure hadn’t hurt.
Diego and I trade off machines for an hour or so, and then I head back home, my muscles burning pleasantly as I drive through the nighttime lights of the city.
I’ve been with a lot of beautiful women, but Brooklyn is the kind that a man doesn’t forget. And I didn’t; I just pushed her out of my mind like I do all the others. No sense in hanging on to the old when I need to make room for the new.
That’s a lesson I learned the hard way, from a very young age. Every woman I got attached to left me, and it doesn’t take a shrink to figure out why I turned out how I did, jumping from each one-night stand to the next without a second thought. But I’ve enjoyed it every step of the way. Never looked back.
Until Brooklyn.
She was always hanging around in my memory, just lingering there as the first completely unforgettable piece of ass I’ve had in, well, ever.
I didn’t do right by her. I’ll admit that. I’d promised her a modeling gig three years ago, when honestly, seducing her was all I’d ever had on my mind.
I probably could have gotten her signed, but that would have required me to beg my brother Stefan for a favor. And to explain that that favor was for one of my conquests. I groan even thinking about the lecture on responsibility and self-respect that would have followed. After I’d come home from my MBA program and started making up for all the years of partying I’d missed while I was studying my ass off at college, my father and brother had perfected the same boring speech about “upholding the Zoric name” and loved to dictate it to me at every opportunity. I’m disgusted to think that my father was such a hypocrite all along.
