by Leigh James
She just looked at me. "Wine has too many empty calories."
"Fine. I'll drink wine and relax. You can sit there and scowl."
She scowled at me, and I rolled my eyes at her.
"Let's not worry about dieting right now—let's worry about the next couple of weeks. We should make plans," I said. "We should go to the gym together. Go to Jamba Juice. Hit a different hot spot every night. Work the reporters into a frenzy and make your agent and director happy."
"I'd actually love to just get out of here for a while. I haven't had this much time off in forever," Lo said wistfully. "Can we pretend to go on an exotic vacation?"
"Can we just go on an exotic vacation? My favorite beach is in Hawaii. I'd offer to take you, but... I'd need you to front me some cash." I smiled at her, humbled. I'd had all the money in the world for so long, I thought nothing of jetting off to Hawaii for a weekend. I used to do it all the time. But I never brought anyone—I always wanted a fresh island hookup.
I didn't think I realized how gross I was until lately, when I was the fresh hookup.
Lo sat up straighter. "We should totally go to Hawaii. The magazines always have pictures of the stars vacationing there. You can teach me to surf. Perfect photo op."
The idea of her standing on the board in front of me, my hands around her waist as I showed her how to get her balance, made my cock twitch. Down, boy. The days when I answered to it were over.
But I would really like to have my hands around her waist.
But more than that, I needed to be a responsible, competent professional. For once in my life.
"Hawaii is my favorite place in the world. Let's say if we turn this situation around and emerge victorious, we'll treat ourselves and go. When this is all over and you've paid me, so I don't have to borrow money from my hot Hollywood actress girlfriend," I said, winking at her. "But right now? I think we should stay here and work the press."
She nodded. "It's a deal. If we pull this off, I'm going to get back in Lucas's good graces. As long as your dad doesn't rat us out and the press doesn't find out anything."
"Crossing my fingers," I said. My father wasn't an easy man to evade, and the press was just as interested in us as we were hoping—which was both a blessing and a curse. "But do you promise? Hawaii? Someday?"
She smiled at me. "Sure. If we 'emerge victorious' like you said."
"We will." We have to, if I'm gonna finally turn my life around and you're gonna stay in the game. "Can I have some more wine? And will you please have some too?"
She grimaced. "I already ate dinner and had a beer. A big beer, remember? Do you know how many carbs that has?"
I sighed. "Do you think I give a fuck how many carbs it has? Do you need me to tell you how hot you are?"
"No," she said, that blush creeping up her cheeks again.
I grinned. "Are you sure? 'Cause I really don't mind."
Lowell
I took his glass and headed to the kitchen, pretending to give in. The reality was, I wanted a glass of wine. The reality was, I'd like to drink a whole bottle of wine and have an excuse to throw myself at Kyle, to run my fingers along that strong jawline and finally know what those lips tasted like… just once.
Just once, and nobody ever had to know.
Mental slap, I told myself harshly and slammed the glass on the counter, almost breaking the stem. Mental fucking slap.
* * *
The next few weeks fell into a surprisingly easy routine. I supposed that was because we'd lived in the same house before. Strangely, I didn't remember ever being as comfortable around him while we were kids as I was now.
Like a lot of other things, I was choosing to ignore that.
Every morning, we had coffee in our pajamas. Kyle and I took turns going out and offering hot coffee and baked goodies to the paparazzi. There were always a plethora of them out there, even early in the morning.
Then we got dressed in our workout clothes and held hands as we walked to my car, smiling for the press.
After a punishing two-hour workout—Kyle always made me post pictures to social media so Lucas knew we were working up a sweat—we headed over to Jamba Juice, always holding hands, followed by the press. We'd all gotten used to the routine—even the Jamba Juice attendants. They knew our regular orders and usually had our drinks waiting for us.
After that, we'd head home, shower, and eat lunch. Then I would read scripts and check email while Kyle checked social media sites for news about us.
Then we'd change and head out for our next public spectacle.
We went to Whole Foods. We went out for (fat-free) frozen yogurt. We hiked in the canyon. We went bowling. We went to dinner.
We held hands everywhere we went, and Kyle often kissed me in public. Just little kisses, but still.
But still. If I was being honest with myself, I would admit that I really looked forward to those outings.
Of course, I was being anything but honest with myself.
We'd come home after dinner, put on our sweats, and binge-watch the first season of True Detective. Kyle would have one glass of red wine while I had a seltzer.
Kyle's good behavior was impressive. He had comprehensively reformed—the Kyle I remembered would never have had just one glass of wine and gone to bed at a reasonable hour. When he was a teenager, he partied until dawn on a regular basis, sneaking back into the house while our parents slept in their own wing, oblivious to what was going on.
Having him around really was like having a live-in boyfriend, except we didn't kiss or hold hands when no cameras were around. And we didn't sleep in the same room and never had.
And never would.
Otherwise it was exactly like Kyle was my live-in boyfriend.
I still locked my door every night—to lock myself in. Of course I knew that was ridiculous. Like I would ever go find him at night.
Caroline hadn't called, and neither had Pierce. It was eerily quiet on the parent front. I knew that couldn't last, but I was choosing not to think about them.
No one had run a story about Kyle being my stepbrother or my escort—or both, God forbid. But I felt as if I was holding my breath every day, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I got multiple daily texts from Lucas, Shirley, Gigi and Tori. Everyone agreed that we were doing great. I even got a note from Officer Scott and Officer Deborah, thanking me for the gift cards, balloons, flowers, coffee, and doughnut bonanza Kyle and I had personally delivered to their precinct. I'd also given them, and all law enforcement in general, a long-winded, teary, and heartfelt apology.
All in all, considering I'd hit rock bottom only a short time ago, things were looking immeasurably up.
So of course I knew it wouldn't last.
* * *
Kyle was waiting for me to go to the gym. We were running late, which he hated. I got into the kitchen, and whatever he was about to say died on his lips as he inspected my lycra workout pants and snug-fitting tank top.
"Sweet baby Jesus in the manger," he said.
I laughed, blushing as he stared at me. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, his eyes raking over me hungrily.
I felt myself blush deeper, in pleasure and in anger at myself. I was playing a dangerous game, and I knew it. I craved his eyes on me. I craved more than that, but in my heart, I knew his eyes were all I could ever have.
"You look nice," he said, his voice strained.
"Thanks." I flashed him a grin in spite of knowing better.
He held out his hand for mine, and I took it, my eyes tracing the lines of his biceps, visible from beneath his T-shirt.
"Let's do this," he said, and my insides clenched.
"Okay. Let's do it." It. All sorts of It.
We went outside for the flashing cameras and the myriad of questions, and I found, quite unexpectedly, that they no longer bothered me at all.
* * *
Kyle made me do weights, which made me scowl, but he put his hands on my waist to hel
p me, which made me smile.
Which made me scowl.
"You don't need to touch me like that," I whispered. "We're inside."
"You never know who's taking a picture," he said into my ear. "Like that guy? The one who keeps checking himself out in the mirror? He could totally be an XYZ informant."
I looked at the huge, fake-tanned man Kyle was talking about, and I giggled. He was watching his reflection in the mirror as he lifted enormous weights over his head; it seemed as though he only had eyes for himself.
"He doesn't look too interested in us," I said.
Kyle kept his hands on me. "Better safe than sorry."
Resigning myself to the garbled emotions running through me, I lifted the heavy weights again. He kept his hands on my waist, and heat rushed through me. For once, I just let myself enjoy it.
* * *
As we were leaving the gym, Kyle threw his arm around me.
"Ew, I'm all sweaty," I said, recoiling.
He gave me a wicked grin. "I know, and I don't mind one bit. Besides, you know our friends are waiting outside."
I excused myself, running to the locker room to quickly wash up and put on a small amount of makeup. I told myself it was for the photographers, but the deodorant was definitely for Kyle.
He whispered in my ear before we went through the door, "You look gorgeous, and we're going to show them all that I love you even when you're post-workout. That I love you for better or for worse." He pulled me closer to him, and my breath hitched. I felt the heat blooming between us, and it wasn't because we were hot from our workout. "Although I'm not sure there's a worse here. You look great amazing when you're all hot and lycra-ed up."
I gave him a small, bewildered smile. "You are good at confidence building."
"You shouldn't need it, Lo. You're perfect."
With that, we went through the doors to meet the press, all sorts of hot flashes going through me to match the flashes from their cameras.
"You guys look like you had quite the workout!" Rob, one of the regulars, called. "Is Kyle a good workout partner, Lowell?"
"He's the best," I said, giving the reporter a megawatt smile. "Looking at him's a good incentive."
"A good incentive to work on losing weight?"
I gritted my teeth and turned to find Katie, the annoying reporter from XYZ, looking at me expectantly. Of course it had been her question.
"A good incentive to work on having a healthy body." I'd decided, without telling anyone, that I wouldn't promote losing weight to be skinny. I didn't think that was a responsible example to set for young women, many of whom would never be model-thin. Just like me.
I inspected Katie. She was stick-thin, her collarbones jutting out beneath her patterned blouse. No wonder you're such a miserable bitch. You need to go eat something and stop being so angry.
"I thought you were required, per your contract, to lose weight," Katie called, not giving up the point.
Anger bubbled up inside me, but I made sure I kept my face neutral. I'd learned the hard way that XYZ was not an entity to be messed with. "My contract requires me to be fit for my role in an action-adventure film. My conscience requires me to act as a healthy role model for young women around the world." What felt like a thousand flashes went off. I put my hands on my hips. "And now that I've had a great workout, I'm gonna go have a Jamba Juice, if you don't mind. Feel free to check the nutrition information."
Kyle put his arm around me and led me to the car. "Katie, that exclusive's not looking too good," he called back to her, grinning.
I saw the sour look on her face as she packed up her equipment and followed us with the rest of the reporters.
Trouble. It seemed that trouble was following us again.
Kyle threw his arm back around me. "I'm very proud of you, young lady."
I grimaced. "Lucas might not approve of what I just said. That might have been a mistake."
"It wasn't. Doing the right thing's never a mistake."
I gave him a nervous sideways glance. "Thanks."
He was becoming too indispensable. I liked him too much for my own good. I'd known from the beginning that this would end badly, but this added a whole new layer of bad.
"You're welcome. Now let's go get some overpriced juice. Overpriced juice makes everything better."
* * *
I called Tori before I went to bed that night.
"Oh my God, Lowell! You've finally met the perfect guy! I am dying over these pictures of you two! It's too cute!" my best friend gushed.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. I loved Tori, but she had an issue with looking at the bright side of everything—sometimes to the detriment of reality. "He's an escort. Remember?"
"I know," she said defensively. "Doesn't mean you two can't actually like each other. And it looks like you do—in the pictures anyway."
I sighed. "I'm an actress, remember? It's an act."
Tori hesitated for a second. "Don't you at least like him? A little?"
I looked at the picture of my mother and Pierce on my dresser and sighed. "I like him. A little."
"So why do you sound sad?" she asked. My best friend knew me too well.
"Because I know him. From before this." I was dying to tell her and wishing it wasn't true all at the same time. "You have to promise not to tell anyone."
"The fact that you already knew him can't be worse than the fact that he's an escort, and I'm already keeping that secret," she reminded me. She was silent for a second, as if thinking through her words. "Unless you mean you've hired him before—is that it? Do you have a history of hiring escorts? Oh my God, I never would have guessed—"
"Tori?" I waited while she continued babbling about escorts, how you never really knew anyone, and how much she hated it when I kept secrets from her. "Tori!"
She finally stopped.
"Of course I've never hired him before. I grew up with him. His dad was married to my mom. His dad was Husband Number Three."
Tori made a couple of unintelligible noises, as if she was trying to speak but the words kept canceling each other out. "What? What the heck did you just say?"
"He's my stepbrother, Tor. He used to be anyway."
She took several deep breaths. "That is unfuckingbelievable. Of all the luck. Your hot escort is actually your brother. Gross."
I felt my hackles rise. "Stepbrother. And actually, he's my ex-stepbrother, so it's even more removed than that."
"So it's not gross? Or is it just less gross?" Tori asked.
Sometimes, I wasn't sure she'd actually gone to Stanford.
"No, it's not gross! It's not even less gross—it's just not gross. I mean, I don't think it is anyway. It's unfortunate. But it's not like I've done anything with him, anyway."
"You kissed him at that shoe event," Tori reminded me. "And in every other picture of you two, he has his hand on your ass."
"It's an act," I said, trying to sound superior.
"I'm pretty sure he likes having his hand there," Tori said. I could just picture her twirling her curls and giving me a you-are-so-busted look. "He does it all the time."
"He does sort of do it a lot." I didn't want to agree with her, but I wished she was right all at the same time.
"But you're not sleeping with him?" she asked, still sounding a little hopeful.
"Of course I'm not sleeping with him," I snapped. "Jesus. That's the last thing I need. Sleeping with my escort ex-stepbrother."
"But you're pretending, remember? That he's your boyfriend."
"Uh, yeah, I remember. It was my idea, wasn't it?" I asked, exasperated.
"So you could actually sleep with him. Like he's your boyfriend. It'd actually make your story tighter." She snickered. "Emphasis on tighter."
"What does the word 'tighter' have to do with anything?"
"I don't know." She giggled. "It just sounds dirty."
I shook my head and snorted. "Tori, you're gross. And I know you're smart, but you m
ake no sense. I gotta go."
"So go! But try to have fun. Try to have sex! See if you remember how—it's just like riding a bike!"
I hung up on her, disgusted. Whether I was disgusted with her or with the fact that I was actually considering what she said, I wasn't sure.
And I couldn't afford to find out.
Kyle
"You wanna do something different today?"
"Like what?" she asked, peering at me over her coffee mug.
This was one of my favorite times of day. We were in her kitchen, having coffee, so her hair was pulled up in a messy bun and her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She was adorable, and it was becoming a real problem.
"Something… fun," I said, grinning. "The most fun. That doubles as a great photo opportunity."
She grinned back, even though I felt certain it was in spite of herself. "How can I say no to that?"
"You can't. So go get dressed. Wear something casual, with sneakers. I'll meet you at the front door in ten."
Ten minutes later, she came out in a tank top, baseball hat, and denim shorts, her long legs tanned and gleaming. I just stared.
"What?" she said, blushing underneath the brim of her hat.
"You're sort of cute," I admitted.
"Well, thank you. Sort of." She smiled and grabbed my hand; it had almost become automatic for us. "Where are we going?"
"Not telling." We went through the door and greeted the throng of photographers.
"Are we headed to the gym? The usual?" one of the photographers asked, scratching his head and yawning.
"Nope," I answered. "We're mixing it up today."
"Where are you going?"
I beamed as I hustled her to the car. "I can't tell you—I'm surprising Lowell. But so we don't lose you and end up causing an accident with some sort of high-speed chase, I will tell you that we're headed to Anaheim."
They perked up a little.
"Are you going to you-know-where?" one of them asked.
I grinned. "Exactly."
"Cool!"
