Grabbing my carry-on from the counter, I quietly walk back into the room. Sophie is naked, sleeping on her side, her long brown hair tumbling behind her. The sheet is pulled up, covering her breasts, but her entire bare back is on display. She looks like an angel, and I pull my phone out and allow myself this one secret snapshot of her unguarded beauty. I take the picture, stuff the phone back in my jacket, and head over to the bed. I sit down on the side and run my finger down her arm from the shoulder to her hand, where I hold it. She sleepily blinks open her eyes and smiles softly.
“This is goodbye?” Her words are low and roughened from sleep.
I nod. “This is goodbye.”
She lifts up, allowing the sheet to fall to her waist, and wraps her arms around me. “You be safe in your travels. Call me when you are settled so that I know you are home.”
I chuckle into her neck. Sniffing her scent from the source is even better than the bottle, and I’ll take what I can get. “Yes, Mom.”
She laughs and nuzzles against my neck, laying a kiss there. Her hands curl around my head. “Friends for life.” Her words are filled with hope, trust, and love.
I rest my forehead against hers. “Friends for life, SoSo.”
“Okay, Park.” She uses the nickname the boys call me and eases back, kissing both of my cheeks, not my lips. The sentiment is not lost on me. We are friends now. No longer lovers. “Au revoir.”
I get why she did what she did, so instead of kissing her lips, I press my lips to her forehead and hold them there. “Goodbye.”
With that, I pull away, stand, and head out of her bedroom, not looking back.
Goodbyes, even when the circumstances are good . . . suck.
The beer is icy cold going down my throat. My pops claps his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Good to see my boys back home. Good trip?” he asks. We’ve been back a couple of days, and my pops was ready to see our familiar faces. At least that’s what he said when I first entered.
Roy answers first with a big white grin. “We’ll always have Paris.” Leave it to the big bald manly man to quote Casablanca.
I toss a peanut at him, but he’s too fast and bats it away, a cocky eyebrow lifting as if to say, “Bring it on.”
“Paris rocked. The women . . .” Bo shakes his head and rubs at his goatee. “Experienced, man.” He waggles his eyebrows in a seductive gesture. “Can’t wait to go back.” Bo lifts his beer and takes a long pull.
I howl with laughter. “Bro, there are no women you haven’t touched left to score.”
He grins wickedly. “I know. I always did love second helpings.”
Roy cracks a smile and shakes his head. “Shoot, one day that dick of yours is gonna get you into trouble. Lord help the woman who casts her line and catches you by the pecker.”
“I’m gonna need a shot of tequila for this conversation,” Pops chimes in, tossing his towel over his shoulder before he slaps the table and heads back to his regular position behind his bar.
I look around at the comforting bar and notice all the little touches that make this more than just my pops’s workplace, but a home away from home. More so than my own apartment even.
“What’s on your mind?” Roy lifts his chin. “Missing the sweet thang?”
I sigh. “Yes and no. We said our goodbyes, and we parted as friends.”
“Friends? With a chicklet?” Bo’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Not possible, man. Friendship and women do not go together. Like oil and water, bro.”
“No, you and women don’t go together. Sophie’s cool. We actually had just as much fun hanging out with one another as we did fucking.” I grin and remember back to our last time, taking her wild from behind, her hand between her legs, my hands on her ass. “Though the sex was stellar.”
“And you didn’t fall for her?” Roy asks, sincerity in his tone, no judgment.
I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. We connected on a level, a deep one, had our fun in the sack, and that’s that. I’ve already talked to her once, no hard feelings. She went on and on about the work. She’s neck-deep in a project that she feels good about. We’re fine. Definitely friends. Hell, I consider her one of my best now.”
Bo’s head turns to me. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Dig her friendship, man. Never had a female friend before. It’s different, but I like it. I get a unique perspective on a situation from her. Women are incredible when it comes to seeing the emotional and heartfelt side of life. She’ll be a good sounding board for me, and hopefully, me for her.”
Roy nods. “I can see it. I mean, I knew you were into her, but I could also see you weren’t into her for the long haul.”
“Was mutual too,” I add, enjoying another swallow of my beer.
“So what’s next?” Bo asks. “Where to?”
I open up my planner on my phone and notice the slight shake to my hand. They are not going to believe who our next potential client is. I still can’t. In order to get right down to business—because once I tell them who our next client is, I’ll never hear the end of it—I start with the easy topic.
“First and foremost, we’ve got to start interviewing the five candidates Andre found for the executive assistant job.”
Royce nods and sips his whiskey. Bo scowls and grumbles under his breath.
“You’re meeting them.” I point at his chest accusingly.
“Brother . . . when you pick the one you want, I’ll meet him or her. Best I can give you.” Bo pops a pretzel into his mouth and munches away.
Part of being in a partnership with one another is picking up the shit the other doesn’t want to do. This is not something Bo is interested in doing, nor does he have to do it. I can pick the person, and he’ll go with whatever I decide. For now, I let it slide. When something comes up that I don’t want to do, payback will be a bitch, but he’ll do it because he owes me.
“Fine,” I agree.
“’Preciate it.” He sucks back his beer, leaving the dregs.
“Next, I got a really surprising email about a new job.” I’m surprised I’m able to hold it together and keep my voice steady.
“Yeah?” Royce questions, and Bo leans forward.
“From an agent.” I clear my throat.
“What type of agent?” Bo asks.
“The type that manages A-list actors.” I twirl a coaster around in a circle.
“A-list?” Roy’s eyebrows rise up on his forehead.
I purse my lips. “Turns out, the agent for Skyler Paige wants us to help with something special.”
“Skyler fucking Paige. You’re shitting me!” Bo knocks the pretzel bowl, and the contents go flying, scattering along the floor.
Pops yells out over the bar. “I’ll get the broom.”
“Thanks, Pops,” Bo calls out.
“Hooooleeee smokes. Skyler Paige is big time . . . and she’s also your Hollywood crush of all time.” Roy sips his drink and smiles wide.
I scowl and point at him. “Don’t you dare give me any crap! If Halle Berry’s agent called and asked for us to work for her, you’d lose your shit and cry like a little baby!”
Royce laughs. “Not even close. I’d fall to my knees and thank the Lord and count my many blessings. Then I’d work every last move I got until that woman had my ring on her finger. Shee-it. That would be the day.”
This time I crack up. Once we’ve settled our mutual love of all things Skyler Paige and Halle Berry, Bo jumps into the convo.
“So why does the woman who has everything—fame, fortune, and looks that could kill—need us?” Bo frowns.
“No kidding. Especially since she’s brought in a hundred million in movie sales alone.” Thank you, Google. I shake my head. “Not sure yet. I’ve got a face-to-face with the agent.”
That brow of Roy’s is working overtime as it cocks up once more. “Face-to-face? In Boston? I don’t imagine this agent lives here.”
“Nope, flying in from New York. Apparently that’s where
Ms. Paige’s primary residence is too. Apparently she wants to keep the situation on the down low.”
Bo splays an arm out across the back of the booth. “Skyler Paige. Woman’s beautiful, stacked, and talented. I’ve seen all of her movies.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “She does mostly chick flicks.”
“Yeah . . . so? I’ve also got a dick, and it likes to get wet. Therefore, when a woman I want to get into wants to see a flick, I take her. Gives me a chance to get in the foreplay early on in the date. You know, dark theaters.” His face contorts into one that basically says, “Hello.”
Bo never ceases to amaze me. Instead of digging into his comment, I forge ahead. “All I know is that the agent wants to hire IG.”
“How did they get our info?” Roy asks.
I smile wide and give them one name. “Sophie.”
“Girl’s already scoring us recommendations? You must have given her the biz-ness something fierce,” Roy compliments.
I chuckle. “Be that as it may, she’s got a lot of high-level relationships in the beauty industry, which apparently includes Ms. Paige. She just completed a perfume ad for Rolland Group. When the agent spoke to Sophie, she recommended us for whatever it is Ms. Paige needs. Now I have no idea what that is, but I’m not going to turn down a meet.”
“Damn straight,” Bo says. “I’d love to meet Skyler.” He grins wickedly.
I shake my head, my hackles already rising. She’s mine. I think it, but I don’t say it. The guys already know I’m hot for the blonde superstar. “No way. You are not getting anywhere near Skyler Paige until we know what our job is. Even then, you’re steering clear. Like Sophie, Skyler is not one of your chicklets. She’s a client. A very wealthy client who needs our services.”
He groans under his breath, but I can still hear him. “I see how it is. You can bang them, but I can’t.”
“Yes, that’s right. You see Sophie crying in her espresso over me?” I wait until my point seeps into Bo’s head. “No. You don’t.” Another scowl. “Is she cursing out International Guy?”
“Point made. Carry on.” Bo waves his hand in the air.
He knows that he does not have the best reputation when it comes to mixing business with pleasure. Still, he usually makes it work out for us in the end.
“When’s the meet?” Roy asks as my pops comes by with the broom and a tray of refills. Whiskey for Roy, pint for me, bottle for Bo.
Pops sets down the drinks, and Bo jumps up out of the booth. “I got this, Pops. My mess, I’ll clean it.” Bo takes the broom from Dad.
We grab the drinks, and my father takes off to man his bar.
“End of the week,” I answer Roy. “I’ll keep you boys posted. In the meantime, let’s close out some open files on the smaller things. I’ll review pending requests and make assignments as well as get those prospective new hires in for interviews.”
“Now, we chill.” Royce sits back and sips at his whiskey. He closes his eyes, a serene, blissful vibe settling over him.
“Raise ’em up.” I lift my glass. Roy opens his eyes and places his tumbler against my drink. Bo sets the broom aside, grabs his fresh one, and nudges it next to ours.
“To scoring another sweet client that gets me closer to my silver baby,” Roy says, referring to the Porsche 911 he’s salivating over.
“I’ll drink to scoring Skyler Paige as a client,” Bo adds.
I ignore Bo’s comment about Skyler, trying not to let it bother me, even though it does. The word score coming out of Bo’s mouth anywhere near her name has me grinding my teeth.
“To another success with my brothers.” I clink their glasses, bringing it back to what we are.
Brothers, first.
“IG all the way . . . baby,” Roy adds.
“IG.” Bo clinks his glass.
“Hell yeah . . . International Guy.”
SKYLER
“Get out of bed! I mean it this time, Skyler!” The shrill timbre of Tracey’s voice pierces my eardrum painfully. I pull up the blankets and tuck my head under the pillow to muffle the sound.
“Damn it, Skyler!” I hear, right before the comforter is whipped off my mostly naked body. Gooseflesh ripples across my exposed arms, legs, and bare back from the air conditioning. I like it cold. Frosty. Reminds me I’m still alive, when very few things make me feel that way anymore.
Indignant, I lie there pretending to be asleep, even though she knows I’m not. Tracey may be my ball-busting agent, but she’s been my best friend since grade school. While I dove headfirst into drama and acting classes here at NYU, she tore the roof off business administration, graduating at the top of her class. I barely graduated. Between photo shoots, commercials, TV appearances, and the small parts I scored on the big screen, I had to beg, borrow, and plead just to get my diploma.
My professors at the time were pretty cool. Most of them ecstatic to school an actress that was actually working in the industry. A lot of extra-credit assignments and extended deadlines later, I have my bachelor of arts degree. And that’s something. Actually, it’s one of my prized possessions.
Life was so much simpler before I hit it big. My craft was about the acting. The love of the story. How well I could portray a character. What new traits I could bring. Whether I could find that deep place inside of me and bring her to life on the screen.
Now it’s about being the perfect shade of blonde. Whether my teeth are white enough. If I’ve gained a pound, and could I lose two in its place. What designer I’m wearing. Whether or not the guy I’m dating is cheating on me. They always are. At least that’s what the press says.
I haven’t had a real boyfriend, a man in my life, since college. A couple of attempts at a relationship taught me that lesson the hard way. Give a little of yourself to a man, and what do they do? Turn around and sell your secrets to the highest bidder. Nope. I’ve had enough of the lies. No more men for me.
Though I sure as hell miss sex. I can’t even remember the last time I had an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced. Honestly, I can’t remember when I had one that was. Why bother? It’s quick, meaningless, and empty. Like my life.
A resounding slap slams against my ass cheek through my tiny panties. Heat and pain zip up my body like a lightning bolt. I sit up like a rocket, boobs bouncing free, nipples tightening at the shock of cold air.
“Ouch! I can’t believe you spanked me!” I screech, and rub at my sore cheek.
Tracey points a blunt manicured finger my way, her honey-brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her expression lethal. “You act like a child, you get treated like one. Now get your ass out of this bed, dressed, and down to the Versace shoot in . . .” She pulls up the sleeve of her blazer and checks her Rolex. “Two hours.”
I shake my head, grab my pillow, and tuck it to my naked front. Not that she hasn’t seen it all before, but it’s weird having a conversation with someone who’s in a fierce business suit and you’re lying in bed wearing only a pair of underwear. “I’m not going, Trace. I just . . .” My voice cracks, and the acid in my stomach swirls at the thought of doing one more bullshit shoot where I’m made up to be a perfect woman. A woman that I’m not. Nowhere near. “I can’t,” I whisper. “You have to cancel it. They need to get someone else.”
Tracey places both of her hands on her hips. “Skyler, I thought you’d be out of this funk by now. Usually you just need a couple of weeks off between movies and photo shoots to get geared up for the next round.” Her voice lowers to a soft, more gentle timbre. “Birdie, I’m worried about you.”
Birdie.
My nickname since our childhood. Birds fly in the sky, and I’ve always lived in the clouds. Always needed to have the wind beneath my wings to feel free. Plus, my name says it all.
“Flower, I can’t do it. I’m not sure when or if I can again.”
Her lips twitch at the use of her own childhood nickname. Flower because she’s rooted to the ground, enjoying the soil with which she’s planted. We don’t
use our nicknames often, mostly when we need to be reminded it’s just us. Sky and Trace. Not Hollywood’s most sought-after “It” girl or the CEO of the largest talent agency in New York City. Just us. Birdie and Flower.
Tracey sits on the bed and grabs my hand. “You know this is not uncommon in the industry. It’s called burnout for a reason.”
I bite into my bottom lip and run my hand through the tousled blonde waves, the layers a mess from tossing and turning all night. Sleep comes few and far between these days, which is why she often catches me sleeping at noon. I have to catch some z’s where I can, and I refuse to self-medicate. The last thing I need is to dull the world around me more than it already is.
“Trace, I’m not sure I have it in me anymore. That place inside me that gets excited for a new part, for the thrill of stepping into a new script . . . it’s gone. Poof. I don’t know where it is or how to find it. All I know is that it’s not there. The desire to act is gone.” Tears prick at the back of my eyelids with the admission.
My best friend squeezes my hand reassuringly. “You’ll find it again. I promise you will. This has always been your dream, and you’re living it.”
I cringe. “Am I? By countless fake interviews with the press telling them things about me that aren’t real? Spewing the crap my publicist says I have to say in order to get the best ratings for a current movie, or to keep my fans interested in me?”
“Your fans love you.”
“And I love them. But they don’t know me. Not the real me!” I slap at the pillow over my chest.
Tracey has the good grace to look down at her lap, a note of guilt or shame in her curved spine and fallen head. “Maybe. Your job is to give them an illusion. You give them hope and something to look up to.”
I huff. “By doing shoot after shoot. Eating barely anything. I got on the scale the other day and almost threw up because I’d gained three pounds. Three pounds. It was as if I’d been shot. Almost immediately I ran to my elliptical and spent two hours on the devil machine. Then did weights until I thought my arms would fall off. That’s not normal. It’s unhealthy!” I fire off, and press my thumbs into my temples, where a headache is starting to throb.
International Guy: Paris, New York, Copenhagen (International Guy Volumes Book 1) Page 12
