The Billionaire's Past (His Submissive, Part Ten)

by Ava Claire

  Section Five

  When I walked into the Kent strategy meeting I expected all bets to be off. The last time Missy Diaz and I attempted to play nice, it lasted all of five minutes. I had a feeling I’d walk into the conference room and she’d give me some sort of acknowledgement, a nod, maybe a smile if she woke up on the right side of the bed and was feeling generous, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

  I stepped through the doorway, gripping my expandable folder to my chest, almost like I was holding onto the illusion that she’d give any of the suggestions and ideas inside a listen. Sure, we’d had a moment in a cab where we talked about her sister and put our beef on hold, but that was days ago. It was Monday, Mia had yet to sign her contract, and from the way Missy flipped through the papers in front of her, this was going to be a long meeting.

  I was early enough that there were still seats near the front, but I gravitated to my usual seat near the back. Away from the line of fire.

  Sia Murrow, one of the staff publicists, gave me a hearty wave. “Hi Leila!”

  I had to remind myself to wave and smile back. She was one of my coworkers who generally didn’t acknowledge me at all before. At barely five feet with cropped white blond hair, big, expressive gray eyes and a fitted white dress, she was a bundle of frenetic energy...all of which was unfortunately focused on me.

  “Have a good weekend?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and I felt the warmth of embarrassment and a hefty dose of annoyance. Some random chick who spent months looking right through me thought we were close enough to hint at questions about my sex life?

  I abandoned my regular seat since it was right beside her and opted for one three seats away. I gave her a tight smile and turned my attention to my folder.

  “Leila?” Mia said at the front.

  I looked up at the sound of my name, only vaguely aware of the lack of condescension in her voice. "Yes?"

  “Can you come up here for a second?”

  I was very aware of the eyes locked on me as I slowly rose from my chair. It was barely a ten foot walk to where she was standing at the head of the table but it stretched on forever, horror movie style. The dread I’d been holding down burst free, doing wretched things to my stomach and I was grateful I’d only had time to scarf down a banana and coffee before the meeting. Even though my eyes were locked on Missy, I had a pretty good idea everyone else’s faces were along the lines of ‘Ooo Leila’s in trouble'.

  I battled to keep my face from showing just how nervous I was, trying to take a page from the Whitmore Art of the Poker Face.

  I stopped a few feet from Missy, giving myself an internal pinch. Cut. It. Out. Missy isn’t the boogeyman. You have a right to be here. Experience. And an established relationship with the client along with a pretty awesome management plan. My input, my presence, was just as valid as anyone else sitting around the table. Missy Diaz didn’t have any power over me unless I gave it to her.

  I stood up a little taller, ready to face whatever drama she was about to send my way.

  Missy was dressed in all black--blouse, slacks, with stilettos. Her hair was piled into a tight bun on the crown of her head and her brown eyes were intensified by smoky eye shadow. Her blood red lips creased and she gave me a small smile.

  “Why don’t you join me up front?”

  I must have looked confused. Heck, I was confused. Why did she want me up front? So she didn’t have to aim so far when she threw daggers my way?

  She must have seen the question because she explained. "We’re partners and I don’t want to have to yell back and forth all meeting."

  Partners.

  She gestured behind me. “Is that yours?” She looked at Sia. “Sia bring Leila’s things up front.”

  Sia’s glossy lips soured but she snapped to action, grabbing my folder and trudging to the front, the ball of energy fizzling as she looked back and forth between us like she missed the memo where she was my assistant.

  She held it out to me, her eyes narrowed to charcoal slits.

  “Thanks," I said awkwardly, accepting it.

  She gave me a crisp nod and went back the way she came. I had a feeling our faux friendship was pretty much over. And me and Missy? I still wasn’t sure where we stood.

  “Mind if I take a look?” Missy asked smoothly.

  “S-Sure.”

  I gave her the folder and watched as she leafed through the contents. Pulled out folders, scanned papers, nodding slowly as she surveyed the material. She passed it back to me. “There’s some good stuff in here.”

  Wow. We were partners and now I was getting a job well done too? I was cautiously optimistic. This was what I wanted. We didn’t have to be besties or even like each other, but we should be able to check that at the door and work together.

  The last person filed in and all eyes rested on Missy as she called the meeting to order.

  “Good morning,” she began, taking in the room before continuing. “A new week and new developments in the Kent case. As I’m sure you know Mia Kent was rushed to the ER after a suicide attempt.”

  Anywhere else, the word suicide would have raised a few brows or been accompanied by whispers. No one even blinked weird. We were in the fixing business and it wasn’t all promoting new movies and setting up TV appearances. Mia’s attempts weren’t Whitmore and Creighton’s first brush with a star who’d had enough and unfortunately, it probably wouldn’t be our last. Still, it was slightly eerie that no one even flinched.

  I tried to tell myself it was because the media had been running the story all weekend. Talking to psychiatrists and people who knew and worked with Mia, leaving no stone unturned so the public could be over-informed on every aspect of her life.

  “She was released this morning.” Missy turned to me. “Have you spoken with Miss Kent?”

  I cleared my throat, feeling the nerves cartwheel in my throat as eyes shifted to me. “We’ve exchanged a few texts since her admittance." From the way Missy’s eyebrow curved she wanted more than that so I added, “She seems to be doing better.”

  Mia was doing better. She made sure she let me know that she still didn’t like that ‘mouthy bitch’ and wasn’t sure if she wanted to be represented by Whitmore and Creighton. The fact that she was considering it at all told me that she was at least thinking about her future. Of course I was sure I let her know that we could help her but more than anything I was just glad she was showing signs of the smart ass I’d met.

  “That’s good,” Missy nodded. She pulled out a chair and sat down, pulling out a blank sheet of paper. “It still brings us back to the issue of signing her as a client.” She picked up a pen and spun it between her fingers. “Any ideas?”

  Hands shot up like vines and I had to bite my lip to hide my amusement. A room full of Hermione Grangers.

  Missy pointed the pen at a tall, dark haired guy near the back. “Paul?”

  “I’ve done some research and I found out that she loves indie music and spa days. We could set her up for the weekend at Blue Heart and find out the best local band and get them to do a set for her.”

  Missy crinkled her nose. “Girls day out and a concert for a client that’s way too high profile?”

  “We’ll keep it small and intimate,” he suggested, his voice a little less confident. “Just Miss Kent and two friends.”

  A warning sound fired in my ears and me and Missy exchanged a look. Paul’s suggestion wasn’t a bad one--but the idea of her being around friends anything like the one we’d met was.

  Missy turned to the woman beside him. “Kara, what’s your suggestion?”

  Kara sat up, sweeping her brown hair over one shoulder. “Well, piggybacking on Paul, I think we should woo her. A dress by her favorite designer. Shoes. Handbags. Have the chef from her fave restaurant cook her meals. Fly in treats from her favorite bakery, no matter the location.” Nods rippled across the room. “Christmas should come early. We need to show her that we have resources and we’re ready to use them on her.”<
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  “Interesting,” Mia said quietly, her piece of paper still blank. “Mark?”

  A guy a few seats away who looked like he just rolled off a wave in SoCal clicked his pen, obviously used to the limelight because he waited until all eyes were on him before speaking. “I think we just bring her in and have her talk to some other clients. Make up an all stars list of people we brought from D-list to A-list. Show her what we can do.”

  All good ideas.

  All very...predictable.

  Missy leaned back in her seat, mulling them over. I had a feeling she’d go with door number 3 and not because Mark was batting his eyes at her. It just seemed like her style. Confrontational; almost like we were politely sitting her down and telling her she was at the bottom of the barrel and we were gonna upgrade her. It could work, done right. I just felt like every idea was just...too much.

  “What do you think, Leila?” Missy glanced at me curiously.

  I shifted in my seat, wondering if I should use something a little less maverick-y then silencing that nonsense. I wanted to be heard. Now was my chance.

  “Nothing,” I said simply.

  “Nothing?” Missy repeated slowly.

  “Pampering her, spoiling her, showing our list of accomplishments?” I nodded agreeably. “They’re good. But after the first meeting and everything that’s happened since, she’s spooked. We can’t do something good. We have to do something she won’t expect.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Nothing.”

  The murmurs that rippled across the room when I gave my suggestion were decidedly louder now and from the eyebrows rising skeptically, they thought I was completely nuts.

  “Here’s the thing,” I explained, my voice a whip that cut through the chatter. I looked at Paul. “I loved your idea. I think it would have been relaxing.” Kara was next. “What girl doesn’t want to be spoiled?” I settled on Mark who was eyeing me warily. “And I think she’d benefit from seeing what we’re capable of.”

  I sat up in my seat, remembering the first time Mia sauntered into this very room, already putting a wall up. Already making up her mind that she thought very little of Whitmore and Creighton and what we could do. The fear disguised as anger in the bathroom. The shaky mask in place at the hospital.

  “Mia Kent has had a charmed life, even before Carolina, California. She was the only child, raised in a small town where she was treated like royalty. She was an unknown actress, but her talent made her a fortune nearly overnight. Her fans violently adore her.

  Every day is filled with her being pampered and catered to. There's nothing new or remarkable about glitz and glamour to her. She doesn’t trust us, so any sort of blow by blow of what we are capable of would fall on deaf ears. We don’t need to chase her or woo her. She’ll come to us when she’s ready."

  I was done. It was the most words I’d said aloud to anyone since I’d started working here and it was surprisingly not 90% uh’s and um’s. I could tell from the downturned looks on Paul, Kara, Mark and Sia’s faces that I'd stepped on some toes but the majority of the murmuring was that of approval. But the person in charge was Missy--and the verdict was still out.

  She put her pen down, picked up the piece of paper in front of her and balled it up. “I think you’re right, Leila. We need to give her some room to breathe.”

  She stood up, the Missy sign that the meeting was over. “Nothing it is.”

  I broke into a grin in spite of myself, not even caring that people filed out of the room without giving me any props or show of support. We were all driven, wanted to be the one called on, the one that gave the right answer. But Missy standing at the front and following through with being more receptive meant everything.

  She had a one on one with another client so she hustled out, leaving me alone when my phone buzzed to life.

  Mia K.

  Can u come over? No W and C stuff.

  It was the middle of the workday but I didn't hesitate, plunking out a yes and asking for her address.

  Section Six

  Everything in the building on 1567 18th street screamed new money. From the bordello red walls with glittering white crown molding and larger than life marble statues to the security guard who nearly tased me because I wasn’t on Mia’s approved list, it was too much. When I took in the hipsters lounging in the ground floor cafe reading Nietzsche and young socialites staring at their iPhones very seriously, I instantly felt an otherness that was different from my prior experiences with the filthy rich. Sure, I’d felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb when I went to Jacob’s apartment the first time and I still felt awkward at some of the more exclusive restaurants we went to, but this was a different feeling. Where old money looked down their noses at me, these people couldn’t even be bothered. I didn’t even exist.

  I stepped up to the oversized door, swallowing a ‘wow’ as I gripped a knocker and rapped twice. I cleared my throat and got ready to call out her name, but stopped when I heard the lock disengaging.

  The door swung open and Mia cocked her head to the side, bright eyes twice their normal size as she took me in. “You came?”

  “Of course,” I said, flashing a grin.

  She didn’t return it, but I saw something in her eyes that looked a lot like relief. She held the door open and let me step inside. As loud as her personality was I expected neon walls, a wooden chandelier, Warhol prints, and furniture that was more fashion than function. Instead, the walls were bare. The open concept floor plan just looked vast and empty except for a cluster of cardboard boxes and shopping bags in what I suspected was supposed to be the living room. The only real color was the array of wine and liquor bottles lining the island. Well, that and the lime green leggings Mia had on.

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder, walking over to one of the boxes labeled ‘K stuff’. “Want something to drink? I have water, wine, beer, club soda?”

  I shook my head and she abandoned the cardboard box and went to the fridge. She emerged with a Miller Lite, studying me as she popped the lid.

  “Scott had some stuff to do, that’s why I--” She turned her back to me, chugging it like she was in the Sahara and just found a bottle of water. Once she was done she dropped it in the trash can with a metallic crunch that told me she drank booze like a fish drank water. As much as I wanted to find out the truth about her sheisty friend, it was fairly obvious she didn’t want to talk about him. Besides, I was there to support her, not make her more uncomfortable which meant it was probably time for a subject change.

  I walked to the island, running my fingertips across the granite countertop. “You just moved in?”

  “Sure, six months ago.” She leaned on the opposite side of the counter and shrugged her denim clad shoulders. “I’m kind of a gypsy. No use unpacking because I just can’t stay in one place. It’s in my blood.”

  And my attempt at steering the convo out of dicey territory put me right in a pile of awkward. Everyone knew about the show moms who made Mommy Dearest look like mother of the year. They were driven and if you stood in the way of the direction they believed their kids’ career should go, they would plow right over you. School, family, even childhood was put on the backburner as they worked for their lil' one’s big break. And once that break came, they were right there; pulling the strings, acting like their ability to turn their children into a commodity meant they were owed respect and gratitude.

  If all the show moms in LA were put on a single team, Charlene Kent would be the MVP. Before I even started following Mia closely I remembered news articles about her mother nearly costing her starring roles because producers refused to deal with her. Before her fourteenth birthday there were rumors that Mia was thinking about emancipating herself. She’d laughed them off, but from the way her face hardened as she talked about blood, maybe there were some truth to it.

  She tossed a look at me and snorted. “You can stop looking at me like I’m gonna break into a million little pieces.”

 
; I let out a nervous chuckle, swatting the truth away. “I wasn’t--”

  “You were,” she glowered, standing upright. “Worried bringing up my mom would send me spiraling back into the dark pit. Ask me anything about her. I’ll show you how fine I am.”

  This whole thing was proof of how fine she wasn't. “Mia...”

  “Ask me.”

  “How’s your mother doing?”

  “No idea. I haven’t talked to her since my birthday.”

  The photos of Mia smiling, happy on her eighteenth birthday took on a whole meaning.

  I met her gaze slowly. “You were free.”

  She was the one that broke away first, turning back to the fridge. Back to the booze. Besides the fact she wasn't legal, it was nowhere near the socially accepted time of getting plastered.

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  The hiss of the gas escaping from the bottle and her prompt guzzling of it was my answer. She was throwing down like it was Friday night with a tolerance that would impress the most prolific of frat boys. I thought coming over would help her, but right now, I just felt like I was making things worse. After all my talk at the meeting, I wasn’t even following my own suggestions. I was doing the exact opposite...I was driving her to drink.

  I stood up, at a loss for what to do. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate--”

  “Huh,” she interrupted, gesturing around the quiet expanse of her apartment with her empty bottle. “It looks like I have nothing on my plate. My personal assistant stopped answering my calls and I’ve been receiving delicately worded emails from producers. They all apologize but they’ve ‘found new talent’ or are ‘going in a different direction”.”

  I gave her a sympathetic nod. “They’re just being overly cautious. They'll be back once everything calms down.”

  “Once everyone finds some new star to stalk? Once the Mia Kent Suicide Watch ends?"

  I cringed, remembering my horror when I saw that TMV, one of the more dick-ish celebrity gossip new sites, actually had a countdown widget on their front page. They docked the time with every new article published about Mia.