“Well,” she says, holding up her phone. “Call me if you need me. I’m late to class.”
When the door clicks closed, I look around my crappy apartment. The ceiling is covered in water stains. The sink drips. There are cockroaches—probably a lot more than the ones I squish with my bare feet on the way to the sink in the middle of the night to get a glass of water. The whole apartment is the size of my bedroom, back home. Growing up, I’d been given the best of everything, doted on. My father was a state senator and my mother was his picture-perfect wife. Our photo made one hell of a Christmas card. We lived up in an ivory castle where it seemed nothing could touch us.
Then I went and screwed things up in a big way.
When I got pregnant not three months after heading to Hollywood, I became an embarrassment to them. And yes, what I did was stupid. I was so desperate to show the rest of Falls City, Nebraska that I could be famous that I fell hook, line, and sinker for the lines from a seedy “producer” who claimed he wanted to make me a star. When they heard the news, my parents turned their backs on me completely. I can just remember the icy tone of my mother’s voice when I called her. “Well, Beverly. You got yourself into this mess. You figure out a way to get yourself out of it.”
Sighing, I stand up, walk the three paces to the fridge, and open it. It’s even more dire than Ava made it out to be. There’s absolutely nothing inside. I open up the drawers in the pantry and can’t even find the tuna or the saltines.
On cue, my stomach growls.
All right, all right. Jeb did cut me a final paycheck for one-twenty, and as I go through my pockets, I find a little over eighty dollars in tips there. Planning to buy Brandon a Happy Meal and something off the dollar menu for dinner for me, which will stretch the two-hundred as long as possible, I get a lump in my throat when I remember that rent of six-fifty is due in a few days.
What the hell am I going to do?
As I’m thinking of curling up into fetal position and rocking myself to sleep on the couch, my cell phone starts to ring. I check the display. It’s an unfamiliar number, which I never answer. I toss it on the coffee table and slump into the sofa.
Then the phone starts to ring again.
Same number.
All right, I think. Maybe this is my salvation. And if I don’t pick up the phone I will be missing out on the chance to win a million dollars from Publisher’s Clearing House.
I answer the phone and say, “Hello?”
“Is this Beverly Wilson?”
I straighten. That voice. Low, assured, sexy. It sounds like . . . but it can’t be . . . “Yes?”
“Hello. My name is Justin Avignon,” he says, and gosh, he sounds yummy. “I met you this afternoon in the diner.”
So it is him. Avignon. I think of the way those Emblem assholes had breathed the name, like it was poison.
“The man with the meatloaf,” I murmur, only realizing how stupid it sounds after it’s out, hanging in the air there.
“Yes, that’s me.” There’s laughter in his voice. “I called the diner and was told you were let go. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Um. Thank you,” I say, my mind whirling through all the reasons why he could be calling me. Did he get food poisoning? No, he’d have had to have eaten something to do that. Did I leave an earring with him? No, I don’t wear earrings. Did he want to ask me out? Then I think of the way he’d scrutinized my face. “Wait. How did you get my number?”
“Your previous employer gave me it. I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home, but I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“No, I don’t mind. Especially if it’s a job. Because I am in between them.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
A small flicker of hope ignites inside. “It is? What kind of job?”
“Well, I’d like to take you out to dinner to discuss it, if you’re interested. Say, tomorrow night?”
I narrow my eyes. Dinner? That sounds so personal, and could be . . . smarmy. Hollywood isn’t known for its truthfulness. “Is this about an acting gig, Mr. Avignon?”
“In a way, yes.”
My heart strangles inside my chest. I suddenly can’t breathe. I’m thinking of one night, five years ago, when I was a lot more naïve and trusting. I’d gone to a party in the Hollywood Hills that was rife with real, actual movie stars. But Steven Long, movie producer extraordinaire, only had eyes for me. You’d be perfect for the lead for the new film I’m working on. Say you’ll come to dinner with me to discuss it, tomorrow night?
I’d jumped at that chance.
He plied me with champagne and caviar, both of which I’d never had before. Taken me in a blood-red Porsche roadster to this enormous mansion in the Hollywood Hills. Then, when he said he simply couldn’t imagine making the three-part series about a modern, female Robin Hood without me as the star, coaxed me into his bed. I’d let him strip me and climb on top of me, half-drunk and exhilarated and certain my dreams were about to come true.
He didn’t even wait until morning to kick me out of his house. The second he pulled out, he rolled over and, half-asleep, told me to get the fuck out.
And the next week? I learned he cast Alicia Nash, a well-known, intensely connected up-and-comer in the role of Robin. Not only that, the movies became some of the highest grossing films of all time.
Alicia Nash, who made ten million dollars a film, who is blonde and stunning and looks absolutely nothing like me.
It’s enough to make me weep. Instead, I grip the phone harder and say, “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? You’d be perfect for the part. Allow me to at least tell you a bit about it.”
I’m sure. That’s probably what they all say. “I don’t take my clothes off,” I blurt.
There’s a small laugh of amusement. “Good to know,” he says in an easy voice. “Ms. Wilson, if you accept this position, I assure you, you will not be expected to do nude scenes.”
I frown. There’s got to be some catch. There’s always some catch. But as I scan the coffee table, with my meager tips and my crumpled last paycheck from Rudy’s, I realize that even if there were a catch, I don’t have much of a choice. My whole life is a catch these days. I suppose I could just go and listen to what he has to say. Get a free meal out of it, anyway.
“Fine. Tomorrow night. But . . .” I mentally run through Ava’s schedule. She has class. I’ll have to get Maude to babysit. “Not too late.”
“What, do you turn into a pumpkin?” he asks, with a teasing note to his voice. Before I can answer, he adds, “Seven?”
“Yes. Fine,” I say.
“I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
I cringe. That sounds . . . like a prime opportunity for rape. Hell if I’m going to fall for that shit again. “Actually, I’ll meet you. Just tell me where.”
“All right. The Ivy. Seven. Until tomorrow, Beverly.”
“Ye-es,” I say shakily, then end the call, and stare into space for a minute. I’m going out to dinner with hottie. To discuss an acting gig.
Holy fuck.
Tingles skitter up the back of my neck as I think of the way he’d looked at me with those glorious emerald eyes. Steven Long was not what you would call hot, but for a guy of nearly fifty, he was good-looking and in reasonably good shape. And he’d had no problem charming me out of my clothes. Someone like Hottie Justin?
I stand absolutely no chance.
Justin. Justin Avignon. Come to think of it, the name does sound familiar. And the way that those men from Emblem turned tail with obvious respect? Who the fuck is he?
I grab my phone and type in the name.
My Google search is flooded with results, all pictures of that gorgeous man. I read some of the headlines that come up:
Hollywood Playboy Justin Avignon
Young Dynamo Movie Producer
Responsible for one of the most successful horror franchises ever
Of course. Justin Avignon. The guy respo
nsible for The Devouring, a movie I saw about twelve minutes of while I was in high school in Nebraska before I dove under the seats and nearly peed my pants.
I swallow. Playboy? Successful? Movie Producer? What the fuck am I doing? This is Steven Long two-point-oh.
“Mommy?”
I look over as Brandon appears in the bedroom doorway, rubbing his eyes, hair all disheveled. “Hey, baby.”
He runs over to me and piles himself in my lap. I kiss his head and hold his sweaty little body to mine. And I remember once again exactly why I’m going to do this. For my little Everything.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
And maybe, just maybe, though his business is in nightmares, Mr. Justin Hottie Avignon might be my dream come true.
Chapter 4
I step in front of the full-length mirror stuck to the back door of my bedroom and cringe. It’s probably a mistake, wearing the red, tight, and sexy.
Not that I have much of a wardrobe to choose from. Besides, everything is tight on me these days . . . I’m a mom. I gained weight with Brandon—okay, a LOT of weight, and didn’t exactly have the funds to buy a whole new wardrobe after he came along. I wore this dress to a college formal at the University of Nebraska, and back then, I definitely didn’t have quite so much boobage.
My mother’s voice rings in my head: You’re just begging for it.
Fuck it. Blame the victim, why don’t you? I might as well dress in a way that makes me feel less like a harried mom and more like a confident woman of the world.
Stepping into the kitchen, I sit Brandon in front of a plate of dino nuggets and check my phone. It’s seven-fifteen and my Uber is waiting outside. No time to change. It’s the red dress or nothing.
But where is Maude? As I’m lifting the phone to call her, someone raps on the door. I open it and breathe a sigh of relief when I see her little gray head, but then I realize that she looks terrible. Her face is all red and she’s wincing in pain. “Are you okay?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “Shingles. I’m in so much pain.”
“Oh!” This is not good. But I can’t make it all about me. She’s slumping against the door jamb, barely able to stand. “Can I get you something?”
“No, I just wanted to tell you I don’t think I can watch Brandon tonight.”
“Oh.” Shit. I want to ask her if it’s contagious, if it really hurts that bad, because I’m up shit’s creek right now. I grab my phone. “Are you sure you can’t . . .”
“Sorry, honey,” she says to me in her Southern take-no-nonsense drawl. “I’ve got a date with my bed right now.”
Double shit. I wave at the Uber from the balcony and motion that I’ll be five more minutes. Then I call Ava, but of course, she doesn’t answer. She’s probably deep in the middle of her Chem class right now, and has her phone silenced.
All right. Desperate times, desperate measures. Grabbing Brandon’s backpack of things to keep him busy out of the closet, I throw his nuggets in a napkin in my purse and say, “Change in plans, kid. How about we go on a little adventure?”
He nods at me, his mouth stuffed full of nuggets. He’s wearing his dinosaur pajamas, but whatever.
I lift him into my arms and carry him to the Uber, and then we’re off to the Ivy. Brandon is overtired, a little wired, and won’t sit in his seat, as he’s usually never out after the sun goes down. The driver drops me off at a quaint little house that looks decidedly not kid-friendly. It’s packed with people dressed to the nines. By the time I step out onto the curb with Brandon, it’s nearly seven-thirty, and I already know how this night is going to go.
The pathway is choked with people who all seem to turn to regard me like I have a horn on my head instead of your ordinary little kid. Keeping an eye out for those startling emerald eyes, I make my way to the outdoor podium. The blonde looks at me like I must’ve gotten lost on the way to Chuck E. Cheese.
“I’m sorry,” she says to me. “We don’t have a children’s menu here.”
“That’s okay,” I say. He’s holding one of his Thomas Trains and trying to shove it up my nose, so I swat his hand away. “He already ate. I’m meeting someone here. A Justin Avignon?”
Her eyes widen, and rake over my body. “You’re meeting Justin Avignon?”
I nod. Why is this so hard for her to believe? Who is this guy?
She points over her shoulder, at the bar. I see him immediately, leaning against the bar in jeans and a sweater. He’s facing the other way. Those damning eyes aren’t focused anywhere near me and I already think he’s beautiful. God, he has a perfect ass.
Maybe it’s a good thing I have Brandon with me. My little man will fill me with decorum and stop me from acting out all of the stupid and borderline pornographic things that are going through my mind.
Gathering my courage and doing my best to ignore all the people watching me, I straighten my spine and stride through the crowd. I stop mere feet behind him, wondering how to get his attention. Tap him on the shoulder? Say his name loudly over the crowd?
I don’t have to do anything. Before I can make up my mind, Brandon drops his train on my foot and squeals as loud as a fire truck.
I bend down to pick it up, just as Justin spins, holding a pint of stout beer in his hand. As I’m straightening, my head jams straight into his beer, sending it splattering everywhere. It sprays on my head, but most of it flies straight into Justin’s chest.
“Oh. My. God.”
He just stands there, holding his empty beer, the wet, dark spot on his light sweater growing by the second. He wipes some wet droplets off his face, but other than that, his stony expression doesn’t change. He’s got to be pissed.
I put a hand to my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Avignon.”
He ignores the apology and sets the empty glass down, motioning to the bartender for another. When he gets his new glass, his eyes fall on Brandon, but he doesn’t seem surprised. “You’re not big on punctuality?” he asks.
I blink. “Well. Usually I am. I just ran into a situation with babysitting. You see, I, uh . . .”
He waves it away. “I need someone who’s punctual. Because I’m usually not.”
I squint at him. What the hell does that mean? I thought this was an acting gig, not an interview to be his personal assistant.
He motions to the hostess, who plucks two menus from a pile and leads us to an outdoor table in the back of the patio. I’m glad; the noise of the cars going back on the road outside is so loud that no one will probably hear Brandon if he has a tantrum, something he’s bound to do if he stays out much later than eight.
She lays a menu on a place setting and shrugs at me. “Sorry. We don’t have . . . high chairs.”
I look at her. He’s four, not four months. Does she really think he sits in a high chair? “That’s fine,” I say sweetly, depositing him on a round wicker chair with a cushion.
I sit down across from Justin, and oh, my god. He’s beautiful. He hasn’t shaved since the last time I saw him and so he looks more rugged and manly and well, breathtaking than I remembered. To stop my face from overheating, I take a sip of the water from the goblet in front of me and concentrate on getting out some crayons and a coloring book to occupy Brandon.
When he’s settled, I look around. “I’ve never been here before,” I say. “It’s nice.”
Nice is an understatement. When I first moved here, I had actor friends who used to take us out on the town, drinking and partying in all the clubs. We spent a lot of money I didn’t have, pretending to be glamorous. But since that night with Steven Long, I’ve been strictly a McDonald’s kind of girl. I open the menu a balk at the prices near some of the items. I sure as hell hope he’s paying for this.
Oh, god. Maybe he’s not.
I’m starving, too. I look at the bread basket next to me. Maybe I can just fill up on that.
“Can I take your drink order?” a waiter appears out of nowhere and asks.
I know I’m not drinking.
Drinking is what made me fall too easily into bed with Steven. I’ve got to keep my head. “I’m fine with the water.”
When I look away from the waiter, Justin Avignon is staring at me. Oh, god, how disconcerting is his stare? It’s making every nerve I have zing. He leans in. “Listen, Beverly.” He frowns. “That’s really your name? God, that’s horrible. Bev . . . Verly . . .I can’t even think of any way to make that sound better. Ly. Can I just call you Lee?”
I just stare at him. Did he really bring me out here to insult my name? “Well, I’d prefer if--”
“Okay, Lee,” he says, ignoring me. “Do you know who I am?”
Unfortunately. “After your call, I got curious, so I may have Googled you.”
He smiles and scratches at his chin. “And what did you make of me, from what you read?”
I sigh. Typical Hollywood. Enough about me, let’s talk about you . . . what do you think of me? “That you’re irreverent. That you’re the King of the cheesy B movie. You like to shock people, with your movies . . . and otherwise.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Otherwise?”
I press my lips together. Does he want me to spell it out? Two years ago, he was invited to the Oscars to help present the legendary Joel Kiefer, president of Emblem Studios, with his Lifetime Achievement Award. Justin Avignon showed up with three mostly-nude porn stars as his dates and, when interviewed by the press, called them his “kittens.” As the ceremony went on, the quartet proceeded to practically have an orgy right there in their seats; they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
And that was just one of the many stories. They got worse from there.
I’d read all of this well into the night last night, hardly able to believe how outlandish some of the stories were. He was heavy into drugs. Sex. Partying. Overindulgence. Oh, and he’d been arrested for ripping up hotel rooms, DUI, fighting with the lead actor in one of his movies . . . you name it. He’s everything about Hollywood I despise. The hot guy who’d defended me at Rudy’s? He isn’t exactly a knight in shining armor.
Just Fake It Page 3
