Riled Up

by Robin Leaf

  Table of Contents

  EPILOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  RILEY’S PLAYLIST

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Riled Up

  By Robin Leaf

  Riled Up

  Copyright © 2017 Robin Leaf

  All rights reserved

  Robin Leaf, publisher

  Cover art by Marianne Nowicki at PremadeEbookCoverShop.com

  Except for use in a review, no part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, businesses, places, events, or incidents are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  ONE

  “You want to run that by me one more time, Mr. Pickney.”

  “It’s simple, really, Ms. Taylor.”

  “DOCTOR Taylor.”

  “Ah, yes, Dr. Taylor. . .”

  “I earned that title, Mr. Pickney,” Vanessa Taylor interrupted indignantly; she was already tired of correcting so many people who couldn’t seem to believe that a twenty-seven-year-old, 5’3”, 120-pound woman from Texas could be smart enough to have earned a doctorate in psychology from UCLA. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for people to remember it. And if I understand you, which I’m not sure I do, I really don’t think I am the one to handle this particular matter. I’m not a miracle worker.”

  “What’s not to understand? You treat my client for one month, I pay you $10,000.” Charles Pickney leaned over and placed his very large, sausage-stuffed hands on his desk.

  Vanessa took a moment to study the situation. Seated in “Agent to the Stars” Charles Pickney’s very shiny, gaudily-decorated office, she could tell two things. One, Mr. Pickney was doing well for himself. Two, he had not always been. Remnants of his smarmy beginnings remained, like his fake-designer suit and his flashy, knock-off furniture. Although he was dressed for success, his actions and demeanor were still very rough around the edges and lacked the refinement his attire and chosen décor intended to display. His voice may have been smooth, but she noticed a hint of some accent, Bostonian maybe, he tried to cover, probably because it didn’t exactly fit the image he was trying to convey.

  He was large and imposing, not fat, but full-bodied, with full cheeks and round nose, but there was something odd about his face, like it was mismatched somehow. Some would probably say he was attractive; he could have easily passed for Vin Diesel’s younger brother, if the younger Diesel had hair was not as fit. However, she was not captivated by his looks. He seemed more like a hulking bodyguard than an agent, or maybe like someone who would be comfortable doing business in both a shiny board room and a seedy back room. This was not a man who took no for an answer, and honestly, he probably didn’t hear no often. She could tell he was not above bullying to get his way, but he would be smooth about it.

  His long, thinning dark hair fell across the collar of the very seam-stressed, broad shoulders of his almost-too-good-to-be-imitation Brooks Brothers’ navy blue pinstriped suit jacket. The suit was just a bit too shiny to be the real thing. Huh. You’d think a person trying to show off his wealth like this guy would go for a fake Armani. Vanessa smiled, glad that thought didn’t make it out of her mouth. Sometimes she had a hard time keeping her thoughts to herself. Freud would say that her superego didn’t always have a good hold on her ego. She was glad at this moment her superego maintained control. She was momentarily distracted by the swing of his outlandishly shiny purple tie grazing the pencil lying on his desk. His attempt at intimidation was almost working.

  She smiled again and shifted her gaze to his face. “One month is not much time, Mr. Pickney. I need to know more. What makes you think he needs psychological help, especially from someone whose ink hasn’t even dried on her doctorate?”

  “I’ll address the second part of that question first,” he rumbled as he sat back in his over-stuffed chair, turned slightly sideways and placed his right ankle on his left knee. “I need someone no one will recognize. I need someone young and pretty enough to convince the media she is someone he might be dating. And I need someone familiar with treating people in the public eye.”

  “I’m not really familiar with that. My doctoral thesis was on overly aggressive parenting and the detrimental effects to a child in the limelight.” When the confused look covered his face, she added, “Stage mothers, not those who are famous.”

  “Oh, your professor said you worked with famous kids,” he squinted his eyes at her, studying. “But I guess whatever you said is close enough.”

  He swiveled back and forth in his chair, narrowing his eyes at her ankles. With eyes that were assessing, not leering, he slowly moved up her seated body, as if drinking in her petite frame. His gaze traveled up to her small hands resting on her crossed knees and ascended to her torso, skimming over her large breasts, and finally, to her dark honey-blonde curls. He stopped at her dusky blue eyes, giving what she interpreted to be an I-guess-you’ll-do nod of approval.

  He smiled. “I went to high school with your professor at UCLA. When I called him asking for recommendations, yours was the only name he gave me, Ms…” when she lifted her hand in protest, he corrected, “DOCTOR Taylor. He said that your thesis is on its way to getting published. Impressive.”

  “Many accepted theses get published, Mr. Pickney,” Vanessa added quietly, averting her eyes modestly. She took a deep breath to bolster her courage. “But I still don’t see the connection between my thesis and what you are asking me to do.” She swallowed hoping her inexperience didn’t show. She blinked and continued. “Anyway, back to the first question I asked. Why do you feel that your client needs psychological help?”

  “Well, he has suffered some pretty significant blows to his personal life lately. His work is suffering because of it. I asked him to take some time off, but he insists on going forward. Production on his latest project has had to take a delay. They were scheduled to film the next part of the shoot in the Caribbean, but that damned hurricane damaged a large part of their shooting location, and now, I’m worried about him.” He paused and ran his fingers through his hair. A flash of concern washed over his face quickly. He looked down at his desk, pretending to read the paper in front of him, but she knew he did it to carefully measure his next words. “Honestly, I’m afraid without work as a distraction, he will hit rock bottom into full-time depression. His behavior has been increasingly
erratic lately – way out of character for him.” He paused and squared his shoulders toward her. His expression changed back to his no-nonsense, intimidation face. “I want to protect my client, Dr. Taylor. Simple as that.”

  This man was hard to figure out. Something about him had her subconscious screaming not to trust him, yet there was something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Sincerity didn’t seem to be the right word to describe him, and he was certainly not honorable. Usually someone who had her Spidey-senses tingling would have had her walking out of the office in a heartbeat. However, she stayed, willing to hear his attempt to convince her to do this. Then she would revel in telling him no. But until then, something compelled her to at least play the game.

  She smiled. “I’m going to have to call bullshit on that statement, Mr. Pickney.” His surprised expression filled her with glee. To her, there was no feeling like turning the tables on some guy trying to exert power over her. “This goes a little deeper than protecting your client, at least a little bit.” She waited. When he didn’t respond, she asked, “So why would a big Hollywood agent feel the need to hire a psychologist for his client? I don’t know much about the world you live in, Mr. Pickney, but it seems a little beyond the range of duties for an agent to worry about the mental health of an actor. If more agents did, we’d probably have a lot fewer crazy actors in the world.”

  After a long pause, his face frozen in what was probably a well-practiced blank expression, he leaned back in his chair. “Alright, Doctor. You got me. He is different than my other clients.” He shifted, seemingly trying to hide his nerves or discomfort. “Ever since he hired me eight years ago, I have liked him.” He paused, watching her reaction. “He is definitely not like the other idiots I represent. He is a genuinely good guy.” A slight unnamed expression crossed his features briefly, but it was too fast for Vanessa to tell what it was. All she knew is she suddenly felt uncomfortable. “I wanted to find jobs for him more than any other client. I have fought harder for him because I feel like he deserves it. I consider him a friend, too. We share season tickets to baseball games and go together when our schedules permit. Barbecues, fishing trips, things like that.

  “But lately, I’ve noticed him change. He’s becoming a little hard around the edges – treating people differently. He’s the kind of guy who everyone liked – very charismatic. Lately, he’s been. . .” his words trailed off. He looked down at the same piece of paper on which he searched for words earlier. When he looked up at her, she found it odd that no emotions played on his features. “He’s been withdrawing. I want to help him, mainly because he has no one else. I didn’t lie.” His small smile did not go unnoticed. Then he added teasingly, “But I also need to protect my investment. He alone has paid for my winter cabin retreat in Colorado. I can’t afford to lose him as a client.” She could tell that was the most sincere thing he had said the entire day, but something unnerved her. She had to know what it was.

  “There’s more to this story, isn’t there, Mr. Pickney. What aren’t you telling me?”

  His brow furrowed and his already pudgy cheeks puffed out slightly. He glared at her across his desk. After an immeasurable moment, his face relaxed, and he blew a long, noisy breath through his puckered lips. “You know, Dr. Taylor, the more I am with you, the more I realize you are the perfect person for this task. Very perceptive you are.”

  “I read body language fairly well, Mr. Pickney.”

  “Yes, I’d say you do.” A resigned sigh escaped him. “Truth is I feel a little guilty for his current state.”

  “Guilty? How?” she asked, leaning slightly forward in her chair and using her best you-can-tell-me-anything, soothing tone.

  He looked away before he answered. “I have pushed him a lot, getting him a lot of jobs in a short amount of time.” Anger flashed briefly, but once he looked back at her, his emotionless mask had reemerged. “Now, he’s agreed to them,” he added quickly, as if defending his behavior. Then a hint of the defeated tone reappeared. “But... I… I may have pushed him too far. Like I said before, I want him to succeed more than any other client. He makes it easy to want that for him. Now, I fear I may have pushed him too far. This is an attempt to make it better for him.” He opened his hands, palms up, a sign of sincerity. “I want to right my wrong.”

  “An agent with a conscious? I thought you guys were supposed to be all cut-throaty. Interesting.” Crap, that was out loud. Damn superego falling asleep on the job.

  “Usually, I am, Dr. Taylor. It’s just this guy… once you meet him, you’ll understand. Please don’t let it get out that I’m a big softy, doctor-patient confidentiality and all. It will ruin my reputation.” He smiled sheepishly and did the classic one-shoulder shrug (which if she had been thinking clearly, she would have remembered was a “this-guy-is-lying” tell. In fact, she had ignored most of his lying tells.).

  “You aren’t my client, but I think I can keep this to myself.” She knew for certain he was attempting to play her. This whole care-for-the-client, I’m-really-a-sheep-in-wolf’s-clothing sermon was carefully crafted, and although it may not be utter bullshit, she knew it was laid on too thick, especially when she paid attention to the other tells.

  She had to know, though. The question was burning in her gut. Even though she had settled on her refusal to take the job, before she left that office, she had to find out the identity of this good-guy client, simply for curiosity’s sake. But she had to make it look like she was still interested in the job. Therefore, she steadied herself for her next question. It didn’t go unnoticed about how guarded Charles was about the identity of his client. Inwardly, she was about to jump out of her chair to know who it was. She knew he was male, big-enough of a star to have on-location shoots, and one who the media would follow around. One of the Hemsworth brothers? Sumerhalder? Pratt? Efron? Lutz? Excitement grew tenfold as she thought of each name. She really had to rein it in before she asked. Then she thought of the darker celebs, the ones with reputations for their downward spirals into ruin. That thought intimidated her. She really didn’t want to take on someone who was so far down the rabbit hole that she couldn’t help him. It wasn’t worth her career to bite off more than she could chew before she even had a chance to figure out what she wanted to do with her degree. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes just long enough not to raise suspicion, and went for it.

  “Before we go any further, might I ask who you are asking me to treat?” She hoped her question sounded breezy, but she feared she sounded desperate.

  “Not yet, Dr. Taylor.” Dammit. “I must insist on some non-negotiable details before we proceed. Then, only if you agree to the terms set forth on my end, you must be willing to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Then I will tell you who you will be treating.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pickney, but I think I have a right to know the name before we go any further.” She sped up her speech and gathered her jacket and purse. “A non-disclosure agreement is a moot point if I will be treating him in a professional capacity. As you said, doctor-patient confidentiality does cover that. I don’t want to waste either your time or mine. He’s obviously someone I have heard of, and there are some possible people floating around in my head right now that I would not be willing to treat. I won’t do in-house drug rehab, Mr. Pickney. Therefore, if this client of yours has a publicly-known drug problem, the answer is no.” She rose and stuck out her hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pickney, but I think I am not right for this.”

  He stood automatically and stared down at her hand confused by what had just happened. He grabbed her hand and held it firmly, pulling her closer to him gently, yet boring his gaze down at her. Gone was the gentle-giant act, and back was the intimidating beast she first met. She swallowed her panic and concentrated on the freckle on the end of his nose as she breathed deeply, a tactic she learned in one of her undergraduate classes to maintain control. She noticed a trace of make-up lining his jaw right above a slight scar, possibly from some face-lift or
chin implant he received in plastic surgery, and judging from the angry redness of the scar, it happened recently. Mystery of what was wrong with his face solved. Yes, even agents succumb to keeping up appearances in L.A. She couldn’t hide the amusement in her eyes as she bit back the laugh that threatened to escape her throat.

  She let go of his hand and turned to leave. Whatever name he was going to throw at her, whoever it was, she would refuse. Treating a spoiled celebrity, one with a “boo-hoo, woe-is-me, I-live-the-life-about-which-others-can-only-dream, I’m-so-tortured, nobody-understands-me” attitude, was not how she envisioned using her shiny new doctorate. It felt wrong, and the added thrill of telling this man no and meaning it warmed her to her toes.

  Charles watched her step around the chair. “Well, Dr. Taylor. I really feel you are perfect for this.” The flattery is futile; the answer will still be no, jackass. “As long as you promise not to disclose this conversation to anyone, not even your priest…”

  “I’m not Catholic, Mr. Pickney,” walking toward the door, she chuckled, hoping he would interpret it as the ridiculous idea that she was religious rather than her laughing at his expense and at her excitement of telling him no.

  “Fine. Do I have your word that you will not reveal this meeting to anyone should you decide not to do this?”

  But I’m not going to do this, no matter who it is. She paused with her hand on the door. Steadying her expression, she looked at him over her shoulder, letting go of the doorknob and slowly turning to face him. “Yes,” she nodded solemnly, “you have my word.”

  He held her gaze with his steely one for a few moments, finally rolling his eyes and huffing a sigh. He took a deep breath, leaned forward on his desk and locked his eyes on hers once again. “Riley Tate.”

  Holy shit, it’s Riley Tate!

  TWO

  What did I just agree to do? Treat Riley Tate? Riley physically-perfect male Tate? Crap, Nessa. Can you handle this?