by Nicole Snow
I gave him my body for one insatiable night. He gave me secrets, heartbreak, and hatred.
Friends, to lovers, to mortal enemies. Our tragic destiny.
But I survived. Adapted. Moved on.
Fate doesn't care.
Luke's back, and I have to pretend we still have a Cinderella romance to save my career.
Hate never fades. It rages when we lie to the world, when we lust, even when I'm begging for his baby.
What if hate can't save me anymore? What if the man I swore I'd never give a second chance gives me baby fever for real?
LUKE
I was her first, and I'll damned sure be her last. I made a promise.
Robbi's an addiction I can't quit. A million of her icy looks won't make me forget what we had.
How delicious she looked when I brought her to her knees. How she ached for more. How she ripped my heart out when vicious lies ended us.
This isn't over. Love never fades. I'll make our fake kisses real.
It's not too late to have it all: my ring on her hand, my name on her lips, my baby in her.
She'll beg for me again before we're done playing pretend. Oh, how she'll beg.
1
Hello, Again (Robin)
Every girl knows about reckless men.
Reckless in the best ways, when they pick you up like a glass paperweight and hold you high, tilting fate just right until you're glowing in the light of their kiss.
Reckless because they always let you fall.
Always, I said. No exceptions.
Sometimes they let go, gently watching as you drift down like a feather after they've had their fun. Other times, they hurl you down as hard as a stone skipping over water, shattering everything you thought you were into a hundred vicious smithereens when you hit their world at full breakneck speed.
Reckless with hearts. Reckless with life. Reckless in the good, the bad, the ugly, and the oh-so-irresistible. Reckless because they'll never, ever be tamed.
I fell for a reckless man once.
He was my first, and deep down, I think I knew he'd be my last. He put me through hell, and he still hasn't left my side.
He taught me there's not much difference between the words reckless and forever.
“Seven percent, Robbi, just like we agreed. Frankly, I think it's a crime my cut for making you the happiest little bird on earth is so low. Drinks are on you tonight.”
Little bird. I hate when she uses that nickname because I instantly recall where I've heard it before.
Of course, she doesn't mean anything by it. She doesn't mean it like him.
Words shouldn't bother me. I'm used to Bebe Silk's antics after working with her the past six months. But nothing could've prepared me for today, when she's sitting across from me, more smug than a Cheshire cat.
I reach for the thick stack of papers she's pushed in front of me. The Berkland Studios logo gleams forest green in the header, brighter than emerald. My hands are shaking.
“Holy shit. I can't believe this.”
“Believe, doll. The world's about to know you as the hottest little starlet since...well, since anything, if Mr. Pierce Rogan has anything to say about it. The film simply can't fail in his capable hands. That man could make a mouse swoon after a cat on the silver screen. This is the big break we've been waiting for.” Like I don't know it. Her grin gets wider, and she clasps her hands, leaning over the desk while she beams. “Congratulations, Allison Evers.”
“Allison Evers,” I repeat the name, wondering how many times it'll take before it doesn't feel strange on my lips.
It's almost as incredible as hearing a legend like Pierce Rogan is directing the film. He's made classics, works of art, and entire careers. Bebe isn't exaggerating this time, as she's often prone to do – Pierce's talent means people will be talking about Allison Evers and the woman who played her when I'm in my wheelchair.
I can't believe it's happening, but it is. The miracle I've been hoping for ever since I clawed my way up the Hollywood heights has officially arrived.
It's the sexiest, strangest kind of hocus pocus a plucky young actress could ask for. I'm playing the female lead in Bare.
Hundreds of millions – hell, maybe billions – of women worldwide are going to fill the seats for earth's biggest erotic thriller. The book only sold enough copies to rival the Bible, after all, and fan legions will line up to see how well the movie edition jives with their imaginations.
Bebe wags her finger, several thick rings on her hand jostling underneath the dull office light. “Initial in the corner of every page, please. All fifty. There's a line for a proper signature on the last one, and one for me as your very talented agent.”
I run my finger down the first page, tracing legalese I can't possibly comprehend in this excitement. Bebe laughs, slaps my hand away, and guides the pen in my fingers down to the corner.
“Let's move this along, Robbi. I promised the studio I'd have it sent back by closing time. Don't you worry about the fine print, I've proofed it all myself this morning. Ran it by the lawyer I work with. No nasty surprises. Just a whole lot of fortune and fame, exactly the way mama likes.”
For a second, I hesitate. My saner side says I should take my time, read through every last sentence, make sure I'm not being trapped or cheated in a lead role bigger than anything I've had before.
But if it wasn't for the shark in the red blouse and jacket across from me, I wouldn't have it at all. Someone else would be playing Allison Evers, and it would be their bare ass taking a paddling on the screen instead of mine for stardom.
Oh, God. The whole world is really going to see my ass, isn't it?
I swallow, promising I'll make peace with the sex scenes later, and start initialing.
I knew what I was getting into when I auditioned for the part. No one who hasn't been stuck in a cave has any illusions about Bare by Isabella Frieze.
They know about the sex, the scandal, the dirty, kinky things that are probably going to break all kinds of world records by showing up in a mainstream film for the very first time. They know how sheltered Ali loses her virginity and half her soul to the most powerful man in Chicago, how he breaks her, and how she surrenders everything by the end.
They know about Frieze's fanatics. Millions of adoring readers who made her book a global hit, and at least one ocean of money for her and her publishers to swim in.
They also know they're not really there to see a virgin go through losing it on her way to baby fever, or to stroke Ms. Frieze's enormous ego.
The real star is Miles Black, the tortured, broody enigma. Cold, domineering, completely covered in tattoos. I can't remember whether I melted or burst our laughing the first time I read the scene where he grabs her chin, presses his forehead to hers, and stares into her eyes for ten minutes like an obsessed maniac.
Okay, so I'm not the target demographic for sexy romance. But it still made me wet when I read the sex, rolling the paragraphs over in my mind where the billionaire finally claimed his prey, and took her night after night, flinging her body against his as they fucked like the earth itself had to be repopulated.
I'm thinking about how I had to close the book and reach for my nearest vibrator when another question grabs me.
“So, who's playing Miles? Have you heard?” I'm halfway through the papers, slurring my initials with the pen. I bite my cheek, expecting Bebe to tell me I'll be working with a household name sculpted like a Greek God.
That adds a whole new layer of anxiety, of course, but I don't care if I have to work with Zeus himself. I'm not screwing this up for anything.
“Oh, wait till you see him!” she chirps, spinning in her chair, reaching for the folder behind her. “He's a name I don't recognize. New to a major lead, but I guess the studio chose him for other qualities. Like you, he's only had a few supporting roles. He's hot, of course, and I saw his social media has quite a presence. I expect that's why the studio decided to take a gamble on another newcomer.
Ah, here he is!”
She pulls out a photo, and pushes it over to me. It's a tall, dark, and very handsome looking young man in a leather jacket. Something about the glint in his eye causes my stomach to fold in on itself. It isn't until I hold the photo up, catching the full brilliance of his trademark blue eyes, that my heart comes to a screeching halt.
No. No fucking way.
“Jesus!” My fingers slip while I sputter a one word prayer. The picture drops from my hands and slides down to Bebe's desk.
She snatches it up with a frown on her face, giving me a concerned look. “What's this? Hey, are you okay, Robbi? Don't tell me you've worked with him before?”
If only work was all it had been.
If only my nightmare, my heartbreak, my reckless and stupid first crush weren't staring at me from a glossy printout, wearing the same icy blue eyes and soul destroying smirk as the day I last saw him.
“Robin!” Bebe pats my hand like she's tenderizing a piece of meat. “Do you need some water? Maybe a little fresh air?”
“It's nothing. I'm fine.” Falser words were never spoken. I'm sure all the blood has left my face. I contort my lips, forcing a smile. “Sorry. It's just the excitement, that's all. I really can't believe I'm sitting here, signing a contract to play Allison freakin' Evers.”
“Believe, doll! You've earned it.” Relieved, she reaches under her desk, and comes up smiling with a water bottle. “Take a few swigs. I insist. Can't have you collapsing before I've gotten the contract out the door.”
I obey, taking a few precious extra seconds to chug the water. I'm not sure whether they're a relief or pure torture, amplifying the claustrophobic feel of the world closing in around me.
I'm putting the ink on my greatest success. I should have known these kinds of wins always come with hellish challenges.
I try to turn my eyes away from the photo I've pushed back toward my agent. Look anywhere. Anywhere except him, damn it.
Just get through this.
Easier said than done. I think I'll manage to finish signing my contract today without letting Lucus Shaw ruin me for a second time.
But when it comes time to actually film with him, to pretend we're professionals? When I'm supposed to act infatuated, in love, and totally not bothered by him shoving my wrists into handcuffs while he whispers how he's going to 'fuck the baby fever straight out of me?' No exaggerating, that's one of Ms. Frieze's most memorable lines from the book.
I stop, I try to breathe, and I wonder. What sin did I commit in a past life to deserve this?
Bebe taps her long red nails impatiently. I pull the water bottle away, realizing I've drained it. I give her an uneasy smile before I set it down, pick up my pen, and finish the signature party.
“Perfect!” She practically jumps out of her seat when I push the documents into her hands. She bends over the scanner behind her, feeding in page after page, never giving me a second glance until the machine is done.
Plenty of time to promise myself over and over I'm not going to throw up all over her office. When Bebe turns around, her hands are on her hips. She's looking at me like a concerned mother.
“I'll have the details in the morning. Now, go home and get some rest, Robbi. Just between you and me, you look like shit. Hell, are you running a fever?”
I cringe as she presses her palm to my forehead. She lets out a low whistle. “You're freezing, dear. My God, don't tell me you're allergic to success?”
“Obviously, this much takes some getting used to,” I say weakly.
She starts laughing, falling back into her seat, folding her arms in a self-embrace. “It's a joke, for heaven's sake. I'm serious about the rest, though.” She sits up straight, leans forward, wagging her finger in my face. “I need you in tip-top shape when everything starts moving next week. Give me sexy, doll, and I'll give you the whole damned universe.”
“I've worked too hard to get here. I won't let you down, Bebe.” I shake hands with my agent, questioning her sanity for the thousandth time, and then head out the door.
The Uber ride home to my apartment is just a blur. So is crawling into bed, hugging my body pillow tight, and doing my very best not to press my face into it, screaming.
The walls here are paper thin. Plus I'm going to be a world famous actress soon, if bad memories don't kill me first. I don't need to invite any surprise recordings from nosey neighbors, happy to beam fresh weirdness into the world for nothing more than Likes and Retweets.
I'm slumped and fuming for about thirty minutes before I walk to my kitchen, grab the half-depleted vodka bottle, and slam down a couple shots so straight they make me gag.
The buzz doesn't help.
I doubt anything can. A hundred twists of hell couldn't have prepared me to face what's coming, and Luke did them all.
The bastard destroyed me once. In any just universe, that ought to be enough.
Not here. Not now. If I want to make my dreams come true, I have to give him a second chance.
How does that old saying go? Maybe I should add my own twist.
Ruin me once, shame on you.
Ruin me twice...shame on everything.
Five Years Ago
It's the loneliest place in the world, and I'm supposed to live there.
I never thought I'd miss Chicago. I never liked the twenty-four hour lights, the constant whoosh of traffic, the three a.m. thunder of trains pounding through Union Station. When my parents first told me we'd be moving out of the city to Shaw estate almost an hour into rural Illinois, it sounded like a dream come true.
That was before we moved into the empty servants' quarters about several acres from the billionaire's sprawling palace. If I only had to hang back and look through the overgrown gardens at their sleek modern castle, it wouldn't be so bad.
But mom won't stop hounding me over working part time inside the house. She wants me dusting, cleaning toilets, washing dishes, whatever makes easy money for a girl going into her senior year of high school.
Saying no isn't an option when she acts like she's done me a massive favor. I'm expected to be on my best behavior, too, with both my parents on the Shaw payroll.
Their name is all over Chicago. They've built landmarks and soaring skyscrapers in the city and God knows how many other places for generations. By some stroke of luck, mom fit the bill for Mr. Shaw's new head of household management, and dad moved up in personal accounting.
Not corporate, but the kind that lets him oversee running the property. He moves their money to pay invoices owed to every service under the sun, ensuring no Shaw ever needs to lift a finger again. He executes the household shopping lists, processes maintenance requests, and does his best to satisfy everything at the lowest prices.
Yes, these people are so damned rich they don't even do their own shopping.
As for mom, she's taken over the head cleaner role. It's her job to make sure the Shaw's hygiene needs are met efficiently. One look at the place tells me her job is important, and at least one member of the family probably lives up to the germaphobe stereotype I've seen wealthy elites have in so many movies.
It's spotless. Pristine. Empty.
The place seems deserted the first week I'm working there after school. I never see Mr. Shaw or any of his sons.
I meet the full time maids, and take on their extra work. One of them guides me to a wing of the house that looks more like a museum than anything lived in.
“The first two rooms, you're welcome to walk through, tidy up, and wipe down,” an older woman named Valerie tells me. “They belonged to the older Shaw sons, and they've both moved on. If they come home to visit, you'll have plenty of notice. It's the last room, down at the very end of the hall, that's...shall we say, off limits.” She hesitates.
“Oh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Master Lucus lives there, the only Shaw boy left who still lives here full time. Don't worry, you won't be seeing much of him,” she says, taking her hands off the cleaning cart she
's helped me put together. “But if you do, if you're smart, you'll stay the hell out of his way.”
Her face looks puckered, like simply mentioning him leaves a sour taste in her mouth. I wonder if this is a joke?
Some kind of hazing ritual the girls put new people through? This place is uber-creepy enough with everything looking picture perfect. If she's trying to make me jittery, well, it's mission accomplished.
“I'd better go,” Valerie says. “The gardener needs an extra hand today. Find me out there if you need anything, Robin. Give my best to your mom if you see her.”
She takes off, leaving me alone. That's how it goes for the first week. I walk through the old bedrooms, empty except for their furniture, toiletries, and a few photographs. I call them rooms, but each one is more like its own private condo, complete with a kitchen, a balcony, and a bathroom bigger than our living room.
I'm cleaning the wing I've been assigned for the fourth time when I think I hear music. At first, I stop with my duster against the intricately carved wooden mantle in the huge library.
No, not my imagination. It's real, and it's coming from the room down the hall, the one Valerie warned me about.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I walk back through the cavernous library and stick my head around the corner, listening to an amp growling jagged electric guitar notes. I think it's the radio until I get closer, taking tentative steps down the hall.
No radio. It's too clear to be coming through any speaker. It's sad, it's loud, and it's being played by someone who clearly has some idea what they're doing. I flatten myself against the wall, just a couple feet from the door, my ears prickling when I hear a young man's voice between the wailing chords.
Go ahead, so go ahead.
Bleed for me. Bleed down there in your smoking crater.
Bleed like the day you left forever.
Bleed, bitch, bleed. Hotter than my tears.
Can't you hear me through the red wave?
Well, I still love you anyway.
This just might be the edgiest thing I've ever heard. I'd wrinkle my nose and laugh at the strange absurdity, if he didn't sound so damned serious.
