The Fame Game (Love and the City Book 3)

by Jillian Quinn

  The doorbell rings. I push myself up from the couch, moving past Willow toward the front door. She’s at my side, two twenty-dollar bills clutched between her fingers. Beating her to the punch, I remove cash from my back pocket and box her out of the way as I open the front door.

  The delivery man’s eyes widen as he looks at me. I hand him the money and take the pizza boxes, thanking him as I close the door.

  “I wanted to pay,” Willow says.

  “Not while I live here.”

  “But,” she protests. “This is our first client dinner.”

  She’s so cute that it brings a smile to my lips. “I’ve milked Vinnie for plenty of dinners over the years. We’re doing things differently this time, right?”

  She bobs her head.

  “We can make our own rules.”

  Willow flips open the pizza box, smiling as she raises the slice to her mouth. “Yeah. I like the sound of that.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nico

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I roll on to my back. A sliver of light creeps through the blinds, the sun getting ready to set. I tossed and turned all night, lucky to get a few hours of sleep. I slide my legs off the mattress, my head foggy as I open the door and walk down the hall to the bathroom. An alarm blares from the last door on the right—Willow’s bedroom. She starts work at seven o’clock. I don’t miss the early mornings on the set, but I miss acting regularly.

  I close the bathroom door and do my business before standing in front of the mirror and splashing water on my face. The skin beneath my eyes is dark and bruised, as if someone punched me in the face. When was the last time I had a good night’s sleep? Too long.

  A loud bang on the door snaps me out of my self-loathing. I dry my face and hands with a towel and swing the door open. Willow stands in the hallway, dressed in a knee-length terrycloth robe with no makeup on her face, and her hair slung over her shoulder.

  “Morning. How did you sleep?”

  I roll my shoulders. “As expected, I guess.”

  “I need to shower.”

  I’m not used to sharing bathrooms. The house I rented in Beverly Hills had ten bedrooms and seven bathrooms.

  Willow moves to the side, giving me enough room to exit the bathroom.

  “Do you like pancakes?” I ask her.

  Her face beams with delight. “I love them.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen,” I say before I walk away.

  Willow clears her throat behind me, and then she whispers something under her breath. I stop and glance over my shoulder, but when our eyes meet, she smiles and rushes into the bathroom like the hallway is on fire.

  In the kitchen, I open cabinets until I find a few frying pans and set them on the stove. I haven’t cooked for a woman in years, but it’s the least I can do since Willow is cool with me staying here until I find a place to live. I remove bacon from the refrigerator and grab a box of pancake mix from the cabinet.

  I get to work mixing pancake batter in a bowl, adding the perfectly blended mix to a hot pan. Standing in front of the stove, I flip the golden pancakes and turning over the slices of bacon frying in the pan.

  Willow strolls into the kitchen with her wet hair hanging over her shoulder. Her face is free of makeup, though she doesn’t need it. She’s wearing a black dress with a belt that wraps around her slim waist, highlighting her gorgeous curves.

  Willow tips her nose in the air. “The bacon smells amazing.” She grabs her laptop and sits at the kitchen counter, flipping open the lid. “I like mine extra crispy.”

  “You got it, boss,” I say with a wink.

  She giggles, her eyes pointed down at the screen. Her fingers move across the keys quickly, though I don’t miss the concern on her face.

  I add three pancakes to her plate and slices of burnt bacon and slide it in front of her. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah…” She closes her laptop and moves it to the side, pulling her plate toward her. “The usual work emails. Nothing to worry about.”

  Liar. She fidgets on the barstool, biting her cheek.

  “You can tell me.” I take the seat next to her and dig into my breakfast. “Give it to me straight. I’m used to the rejection at this point.”

  She cuts into her pancake stack and sighs. “It’s nothing. Just a few more form letter responses about the movies I inquired about.”

  “For me?”

  She nods and then shoves the food into her mouth.

  “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the word no in my career?”

  Willow wipes her mouth with a napkin, her eyes on me. “How many?”

  “One thousand two hundred twenty-three.”

  Her blue eyes widen. “You’re joking me.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I keep track of every time someone turns me down for a role.”

  She gives me a confused look. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because success requires failure. No one walks into any business and becomes an overnight success. I mean, sure, there are a few exceptions to that rule, but most people have to grind for years before they make anything of themselves.”

  “This week alone, I’ve been told no eight times. You can add those to your list.”

  She gives me a cheeky grin, her expression contagious.

  We eat our breakfast, the silence between us thick in the air. I’m not used to spending time around people. Alone in my mansion, I hid behind the stone walls and drank myself into oblivion. It was nice to have my sanctuary from the world, where no one could hurt me. But now, I’m sharing a part of myself with Willow. She’s allowed me into her home and her world, and I feel the need to reciprocate. She should know what she’s gotten herself into by agreeing to work with me.

  Willow slides off the stool, plate in hand, and swipes mine from the counter before she places the dishes in the sink and runs water over them.

  “If you’re cool with cooking, I’ll handle the cleaning and other household stuff.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Sounds good. I’m not a gourmet chef, but I can make simple stuff. You like Mac and cheese?”

  She laughs. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Get ready to eat the best three-cheese mac and cheese on the planet.”

  “You’re not what I expected,” she says in a hushed tone.

  I wiggle my eyebrows, giving her a sly grin. “I plan to exceed your expectations.”

  “Happy to hear it.”

  “I emailed Shay to let her know we’re coming tonight. I haven’t heard from her.”

  Shay Marshall is my first and only acting coach and a legend in this business. She’s why I made it this far in my career, like a mother who pushed me in the right direction.

  “How long has it been since you saw her?”

  “Too long,” I admit.

  “I have to finish getting ready for work.”

  I wave my hand. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

  She smiles. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  As she leaves the kitchen, my cock jerks at the sight of her tight ass in that dress. Willow has legs for days and a body I would love to run my hands over. But she’s my agent… and so off-limits.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Willow

  Nico grips the steering wheel, biting his cheek as he pulls into the parking lot attached to the playhouse. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the house.

  He shifts the car into park and turns to me. “I’m nervous. Why the fuck am I nervous? I feel like I will crawl out of my skin.”

  “Because you’re worried about what people will think of you.”

  He sighs, his eyes downcast. “Yeah, I guess. It’s been over a year since I showed my face here. What if everyone hates me?”

  “You don’t know what you don’t know,” I say with a smile.

  Nico bobs his head.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’m here for you.” I cup his shoulder with my hand, and our eyes
meet. “Starting over is hard for everyone.”

  “I’m acting like a pussy.” He groans, opening his car door. “Just ignore me.”

  I get out of the car, my laughter shaking through me. “Dramatic much?”

  Nico rolls his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

  “Creative people are insecure by nature. You put so much of yourself out into the world for public consumption. It goes with the territory to think you’re not good enough. But you know what? You’re not the only one. Every actor, writer, musician, and painter struggles with the same issues.”

  “Shay never answered my email,” he says in his defense. “She probably doesn’t want me showing up uninvited. I haven’t spoken to her in years.”

  Shay Marshall is an iconic coach who has shaped the careers of dozens of famous actors.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.” I push my hand into his back, forcing him to move toward the brick building. “She’s a busy woman.”

  Nico opens the door for me, stepping to the side to allow me to pass. We walk down a long hallway, the walls and floors lined with red carpet, which reminds me of a movie theater. A concession stand is on my right, where a few people are chatting. Heads turn, their eyes wide as they stare at Nico, who attracts more attention with each step we take.

  Once inside the theater, we stroll down a long aisle set between two rows of seats. Shay Marshall, a woman in her late sixties with short white hair and sharpness to her tone, stands in front of the stage. She gives orders to the men moving armchairs across the floor, organizing them to look like a makeshift living room.

  Nico shoots me a pained look, though I think he’s worried over nothing. He’s made a lot of mistakes in the past few years, but nothing he can’t overcome with a little patience and a lot of hard work.

  A woman whispers, “Is that Nico Chase?”

  Another woman says, “Oh, my God. What is he doing here?”

  “You can’t miss a face like that,” someone adds.

  “He’s so fucking hot,” says another woman.

  “He doesn’t look like a drunk,” says a young man sitting in a row to my left with the women.

  Nico visibly shudders at my side, his face twisted with emotions, but he keeps his eyes on the front of the room. I would hate to have people talk about me like I’m not a real person. Like my feelings don’t matter, and my life is open for comment.

  I hook my arm through Nico’s as we pass them. “Don’t listen to them,” I say under my breath. “They don’t know you. Their opinion doesn’t matter.”

  Nico taps Shay on the shoulder, leaning into her ear to whisper something I can’t hear. She spins around and wraps her arms around him. He hugs her back, his face buried in her neck as he lifts the petite woman off the floor. They look more like a mother and son engaged in a warm embrace than old friends.

  I thought it would help if Nico went back to basics, back to the woman who first believed in him. He’d mentioned her in previous interviews, even brought her to a few red carpets earlier in his career. Shay had more to do with Nico’s success than Vinnie Sax.

  My insides turn to mush when he smacks a kiss on her cheek. If only people could see this side of Nico Chase. He’s not the asshole drunk everyone makes him out to be. After a few days of living together, I have seen a side of him I wish the world could know firsthand.

  “Nico, my boy,” Shay says as he releases her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t you get my emails?”

  She gives him a confused look. “No. I only check my Gmail account when my daughter sends me pictures of my grandkids.”

  “I tried calling, even sent you a few text messages.”

  “I got rid of that gadget, couldn’t stand it. Next time you want to get a hold of me, leave a message with someone at the playhouse. Or call the house.”

  “You still have a landline?”

  “I’m as you say, old school.”

  She winks at Nico, and he smiles in response.

  “So, what brings you here?”

  Nico angles his body, extending his hand to me. “I have a new agent. This is Willow Duvall. She’s helping me get back on track.”

  Shay steps forward and gives me a warm hug. She smells like vanilla and menthol, a strange mixture that makes my nose tingle.

  “Nice to meet you, Willow. You’re doing something right if Nico is visiting me after all these years.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I say as I step out of her arms. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “All good things, I hope.”

  “You’re the Movie Star Whisperer,” I joke.

  She laughs. “No one’s called me that in years.”

  “It’s true,” Nico chimes. “Shay’s made more careers than any acting coach in Hollywood.”

  Shay’s cheeks flush crimson. “Stop flattering me.”

  “I was hoping to join the group tonight,” Nico admits.

  Shay’s gaze travels around the room. The surprised faces in the crowd show they are equally excited about Nico’s presence.

  Shay grabs his hand. “It’s improv night. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

  I take a seat a few rows back and dig my cell phone from my purse. A few emails require my attention. Burke wants me to call Carrie Le Blanc in the morning because she has answered none of his calls. We had a successful trip to New York, and Carrie seemed interested in switching from JTA to Brenton-Lake. But maybe, in this case, Carrie just needs a woman’s touch to seal the deal.

  I type back a response to Burke and get his Out of Office message. A mid-sized studio sent me a form response email thanking me for my interest in one of their movies. I won’t even bother telling Nico about that. Rejecting Nico by fucking email is harsh. Jerks.

  On stage with Nico, Shay announces the first improvisation topic—Boys in Blue. Nico and a redheaded woman have to play good cop-bad cop and interrogate a man suspected of stealing women’s underwear from Victoria’s Secret. It’s a ridiculous but funny scene where Nico shines as an actor. Nico plays the bad cop, getting in the suspect’s face.

  I sink back in my chair, laughing along with the people sitting in the first few rows, awaiting their turn. Maybe I’ll find some talent among the group of eager actors. Vinnie Sax discovered Nico at one of Shay’s famous theater nights.

  My cell phone buzzes in my purse, and my pulse pounds when I see Firehouse Films flashing on the screen. Nico is in the middle of an improv skit, busy with his acting group. I sneak along the row and rush up the center aisle toward the back of the room and answer the call.

  “We’re passing on Nico,” Doug Cavanaugh says. “I thought you should hear it from me instead of my assistant.”

  My heart sinks into my stomach. Nico is making progress, one step at a time, and this could crush him.

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I still have my reservations about Nico,” he admits. “But I might have something for him in a few months. The project shoots in New Zealand.”

  “We would love to work with you.”

  “I’m looking at other actors at the moment. But if they don’t pan out, we’re interested in Nico.”

  “That would be great. Thank you, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  He mutters a quick goodbye, and then the call ends. I stare at the screen, still in disbelief. In a short time, I’m making headway with Nico’s career. Sure, he didn’t get the part in War of the Gods, but at least I have one studio that’s not repulsed by him. Vinnie Sax’s mistake was focusing on big studios, while I’m going the independent route.

  I stroll into the theater where Nico and his group are now gathering in front of the stage. People circle Nico, so enamored by him. It brings a smile to my face. He was so worried about getting rejected before we walked into the theater.

  I shove my phone into my purse and watch Nico in action. He’s so charismatic and full of energy. Ash had complained about his drinking and disheveled appearance, but since Nico lives with me, it�
�s as if he’s a different person.

  Nico finishes up with his new friends and eventually strolls up the aisle to meet me, greeting me with one of his movie stars smiles. “I guess you can say, I told you so.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I’m happy for you, Nico. I knew they would welcome you back.”

  “You never seem to doubt me.”

  “I think you’ve read too many negative comments online, and all of that noise has gotten to your head. Their negative energy could be the reason your career started slipping. You’re not allowed to read Variety, or Google yourself, or do any of the harmful, self-destructive things you’ve done in the past. And stay off social media. Understand?”

  He gives me a sexy look I want to slap from his face. “Yes, agent girl.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Willow

  After two weeks into our living situation, we find a groove that works for us. Nico does the food shopping and cooking, and I clean and maintain the house. Our unconventional relationship is feeling like we’ve been friends for years. Nico stands in front of the stove, dressed in basketball shorts that hang low on his narrow hips. He doesn’t seem to enjoy wearing shirts in the house. It’s as if he can’t stand to have the fabric touch his skin. The man never wears a damn shirt, which is frustrating.

  On the plus side, he’s trying and hasn’t touched a drink since he moved in with me. Not like I would supply him with alcohol, anyway. We made a deal, and he’s following through with the plan.

  “Do you want cheese on your burger?” Nico asks me with his back to me.

  And what a nice back. He’s ripped with muscle, tanned and without an ounce of fat on his body.

  “Extra cheese,” I tell him.

  “You got it.” He flips a burger in a frying pan and then reaches for two slices of cheddar cheese. “Do you want your bun toasted?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I lean forward on the counter, my elbows digging into the marble, and watch this gorgeous man make me dinner. He sways his hips to a pop tune belting out from the speaker on his cell phone. Nico sometimes sings and dances when he cooks. The first time I caught him, we both laughed it off, but now, he does it to entertain me. And torture. I mean, seriously, this man is doing things to my lady parts that should be illegal. I push the dirty thoughts down because he’s my client in need of my help.