by Leigh James
She looked at me miserably. "I can't dance to this type of music."
I dragged her onto the crowded dance floor and carved out a small space for us. "You don't have to do anything. Just follow my lead."
I wrapped my arms around her, swayed in time to the throbbing hip-hop beat, and moved her with me. She moved easily and elegantly.
"See?" I asked, leaning down. "You don't give yourself enough credit."
She frowned and shook her head, looking embarrassed.
I wrapped my body around hers, protecting her and moving her more urgently to the music. Heat radiated through me as I felt her body against mine. I pulled her tighter against me, where I'd been aching to have her. My body notched against hers, and she pressed back against me. Lowell's body was saying one thing, but when she looked up at me, her face looked guilty. I knew her head was saying something else entirely.
I ran my thumb across her bottom lip, stroking it. Her eyes met mine, and I leaned down and kissed her slowly.
She pulled back almost immediately. "Kyle, stop."
A yearning grew so fierce inside me that it was almost scary. But I took a deep breath and pushed the heavy feeling away. "Okay, boss." Trying to make light of it, I smiled and pulled her back to me. "But at least dance with me for the rest of the song."
She frowned, then she rested her head on my chest. I ran my hands over her, guiding her to the music and wishing desperately that she wanted me as much as I wanted her.
It was honestly the first time in my life I'd ever felt this way—unsure.
* * *
We smiled for the cameras and didn't say a word on our way home.
Later, back on her couch, I looked at the latest pictures of us together and tried to forget what it had felt like to have her body pressed against mine.
"We look so good together," I said, slurring from all the champagne I'd drank at the club after she rebuffed me.
Lowell leaned over me and looked at the pictures. "I know. It's ironic, isn't it?"
"Why's that?" I asked, facing her.
"Because we're pretending. And because we couldn't ever actually be together." She sounded as though she was forcing her voice to sound neutral and matter-of-fact. But her eyes were searching mine, as if she wondered if I agreed.
"Why not?" I asked, sitting up. I was suddenly alert, the slurring erased from my speech.
"Because we're related. That's why we shouldn't have been dancing like that. It's not okay."
"We aren't related," I said hotly, watching her face. "We weren't ever related."
"Close enough." She shrugged.
"If we actually wanted to be together, we could, you know." I felt a knot forming in my stomach as I waited to hear what she'd say.
She shook her head. "Not really. We lived together when we were kids—that makes it icky. Besides, your father hates me. And my mother hates you."
"So what? Icky is subjective. I don't think it's icky. And I don't care what either of our parents have to say." Again, I waited on edge to see what she'd say. I felt like a lovesick teenager, and I'd never even been a lovesick teenager.
You've got all the cards, Lo. Show me one. Not having the upper hand sucked balls.
She just looked at me, as if she wanted to ask me a question but wouldn't.
"What?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing. All that's bad enough—about our families. Then there's the fact that you're a male escort. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but can you imagine what the press would do if they found out?"
"No," I lied. "I can't."
I knew exactly what would happen. Her reputation would be ruined, my father would reach the emotional state beyond livid, and I would never escape the reality of the bad choices I'd made. My story would be available forever, courtesy of a little technological advance called the Internet.
I stood and noticed I was clenching my fists. Frustration and sour disappointment coursed through me. "I'm really tired. I'm going to bed." I walked out of the room before she could see my face.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Just tired," I called and slammed my door. Of everything I'm not.
I clicked open my phone and stared at the picture of the two of us, wishing it wasn't a lie. If I'd been looking for an answer from her, I'd just gotten it.
It just wasn't the one I wanted.
* * *
The following morning, I got up before Lo and called Elena at AccommoDating.
"How's it going, all-star?" she asked, picking up after the first ring and sounding slightly out of breath.
I looked at the clock, incredulous. Five thirty in the morning. "Do you ever sleep, Elena?"
"I just finished my Kundalini workout. Why're you calling me if you thought I'd be asleep?" She was quiet for a second. "Oh no, Kyle. Do not fuck with me. Not now."
"What?" I asked innocently. "I didn't even say anything!"
"Why're you calling me at five thirty in the morning, Kyle? After you were out dancing with my client until midnight?"
I made a fist and watched my knuckles turn white.
"I don't have time for this. My girls are gonna get up in twenty minutes for school. Speak," she commanded. I could just picture her short hair spiked with sweat, a pristine white workout towel draped around her neck.
"I can't do this anymore."
She sighed. "But you're doing a great job. The press loves you. I haven't received communication from the client, but she wired in another payment on top of the retainer. She must be pleased, or I would have heard something."
"I think she's happy with my services," I mumbled, watching my fist.
"You two look ah-mazing together, and everyone loves your story," she said encouragingly.
"I can't be an escort anymore. I have real-life issues."
Elena snorted. "Honey, you don't have to tell me that—everybody who works for me has real-life issues! It's almost a professional requirement."
"I mean, I have real-life issues at the moment. I have things going on. It's no longer possible for me to fulfill the requirements of my job."
"Kyle." She was silent as, I assumed, she got her anger in check. "You can't quit on me. If you walk out on that girl right now, it'll ruin everything. For her and for my company."
"You can keep all the money Lowell's given you. I don't want it. Then we'll be even, right? If you don't have to pay me, it'll be as if you got paid in full. Even if I quit right now."
"Why are you going to do that to this poor girl?"
"I'm not doing it to her. I'm doing it for her."
Elena sighed. "I'm not giving you a dime of this money."
"Good," I said. "Then maybe it'll be like this never happened."
Lowell
The traffic to LAX was insane, as usual. Wishing I'd brought coffee with me, I watched the throng of vehicles from the back of our hired Town Car.
"Do you think we're going to miss our flight?" Kyle asked.
I checked the GPS; even with the traffic we'd make it to the airport in an hour. "We should be okay. I'm worried that there'll be a ton of reporters we have to get through, though." Our regulars knew where we were heading, and there was usually a group that camped out at LAX, waiting to snap pictures of disheveled or perfectly composed celebrities departing and landing.
I was probably looking more on the disheveled end of the spectrum, although I'd dressed carefully. My nerves were frayed, and I was running on nervous adrenaline; the dance I'd shared with Kyle last night, followed by the conversation we had, had unnerved me. If we actually wanted to be together, we could, you know. His words rang in my ears, leaving me a jangling mess.
Maybe it was a good thing I'd left my coffee at home.
On top of that, we were headed to Boston for Kyle's mandatory meeting with Pierce. I was happy to go and support Kyle, as he'd been supporting me, but I was petrified of his dad. The last time I'd seen Pierce Richards, he'd been white with anger, shaking at the sight of my mother e
xiting the courtroom with buckets of his money. Ugh.
I pulled out my compact and looked at my traitorous reflection. I looked as though I hadn't skipped a meal in weeks. Because I hadn't. Lucas was going to kill me. "Ugh."
"Don't say ugh when you look at yourself—that's sacrilege." Kyle squeezed my hand. "And don't worry about the photographers. We'll get through them, and this time, we won't tell them where we're going."
He squeezed my hand again, making my stomach lurch with excitement.
I pulled away from him. "You don't have to do that right now."
He sat back and grimaced. "You don't always have to pull away from me. Maybe you could, like, relax. For once in your life." He stared at me, forcing me to confront those green eyes and that square, luscious jaw.
Luscious? WTF's up with the word choice, Lo? Like you don't have enough problems already?
Kyle narrowed his eyes at me. "I enjoy being with you, Lo. I've had fun with you. I can't remember the last time I had fun that didn't involve getting so drunk I couldn't see straight."
"Disneyland was great. It was fun," I agreed quickly. I wanted to keep my distance from him for a variety of reasons, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings. "You're doing a great job. Thank you for everything. Really. You've turned a bad situation into a redeeming success, and you even managed to keep me from looking like a total klutz on the dance floor. You're like a miracle worker."
His face relaxed into a smile. "Yes. Yes, I am."
He threw his arm around me. I looked at him pleadingly, not wanting to hurt his feelings, as I scooted out from under it.
"I'm not used to people touching me," I explained lamely. "Can we just save that for the cameras? Is that okay? It's just… easier for me that way."
Easier for me to keep from hopping onto your lap and straddling you when your arms aren't around me.
I grimaced, digging my nails into my palms, desperate to get a grip. Mental slap, Lo. Mental. Fucking. Slap.
"Of course it's okay," he said too easily. He turned away and looked out the window. "Lo... I know you said it's 'cause you work all the time… but really. Why no boyfriend?"
I blew out a deep breath and stared out the window at the traffic. "You want the truth?"
He looked at me expectantly.
"I have a hard time trusting people. If a guy's interested, I never know if it's for me or for the publicity. I've just heard too many nightmare stories—girls who thought their boyfriend was all about them, then suddenly they're trying out for commercials, calling the paparazzi to follow them so they can be in the magazines, all sorts of horrible things. And after seeing my mother go through guy after guy, I guess... I guess I'd just rather be alone. Build my own empire. If I meet somebody at some point, okay. But if not, it's not the end of the world. There are other things in life."
"That sounds awfully lonely."
I turned back to him, my eyebrow raised. "How about you? When was your last serious relationship?"
"Never. But it's not like I've been lonely, if you know what I mean."
I shook my head. "Sometimes I think being around people you don't really care about is a lot lonelier."
Kyle's eyes went dark, and he turned back toward the window. "You're smart. Must've been all the books you read growing up."
* * *
The LAX terminal was teeming with yelling paparazzi.
"Lo! Where are you guys headed?"
"Kyle, are you taking her away to propose to her?"
"Are you in trouble with your director?"
"Are you pregnant?"
"Are you two really a couple? Or is this a publicity stunt?" a female voice called.
I saw that damned Katie from XYZ, watching us with her brow furrowed.
I furrowed my brow back at her and inwardly cursed. "I'm not sure why you're asking that, but it's real." I turned to Kyle. "I'm going to kiss you, okay?" I whispered a little breathlessly.
He didn't even hesitate. He swept me into his arms and kissed me tenderly, running his hands down my back and sending shockwaves through my body.
He pulled away and grinned at the press. "Did you guys get that? Or do you need me to do it again?" He looked at Katie, challenging her. "For more evidence?"
There were whoops and hollers from the majority of our onlookers, but Katie just watched us skeptically. Kyle put his arm around me protectively, and now I welcomed it. He smiled at the press and squeezed my shoulder.
"We're taking a quick romantic getaway." Kyle pulled his sunglasses up on top of his thick hair and grinned at them. It seemed as if a thousand flashes went off. "Emphasis on the romance, for you non-believers. We won't tell you where we're going—that'd just spoil the fun—but we'll see you when we get back. Behave while we're gone."
"Lowell, what about that exclusive?" one of the reporters called.
"Call my agent, Shirley Reeder," I called. "She'd love to book it."
"Who's gonna get it?"
Kyle beamed at them again. "Whoever asks nicest." His eyes found Katie's. "We've narrowed the list down quite a bit."
He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the security line, waving good-bye to all the photographers and grinning madly. I shook my head and laughed at him.
"What?" he asked, sounding extremely pleased with himself.
"You've got a gift." He was still holding my hand, and that made me feel warm and protected; I pulled my hand away.
He pulled his sunglasses back down and gave me a little frown. "Don't look now—they're right behind us." He took my hand back possessively.
I didn't turn and look. I just stood with him in line, my fingers twined through his, and tried to ignore all the feelings rushing through me. There was heat, yes, but it was something more than that—something even more terrifying.
I was having fun. I liked him. And I didn't want to stop being next to him.
It was our turn at security, and I took the opportunity to disengage myself from Kyle to get my identification. I felt Kyle look at me briefly, but I didn't look back.
It was clear to me, now: I knew what I wanted. It was what I could never have.
Now I just had to get my shit together and accept it.
* * *
First class was almost full, but we still managed to find a little corner all to ourselves.
"Why was Katie asking us that?" I asked, playing the scene over and over in my mind.
Kyle shook his head. "I don't know where that came from. I do know it can't be good."
"Maybe we're not doing a good enough job pretending?" I asked in low tones.
"Who's pretending?" Kyle asked innocently. He laced his fingers through mine, then he just sat there, stubbornly holding my hand.
"We're clear. No one followed us," I whispered, pulling away from him. "You don't have to do that."
He wouldn't let go of my hand. "I want to do that." He jerked his chin toward our hands.
"Why?" I asked, my heart pounding.
"My hand feels lonely without your hand," He grinned at me. "So deal with it. If you don't want to hold my hand, then don't."
I just sat there, looking at our entwined hands as if they belonged to aliens. "But what… but why…" I was flustered, unable to decide which question to ask.
"Talk to the hand, Lo," Kyle said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. "You want to get into semantics? Talk to it. Tell me if you get the response you're looking for." He didn't let go of me for an instant.
I bent down toward his hand. "You are being very stubborn," I whispered at it.
With his eyes closed, Kyle smiled briefly. But he didn't budge. Sighing in defeat, neither did I.
Because I didn't want to.
Shortly thereafter, the plane took off, and Kyle fell asleep. I watched his handsome face, turned toward me, completely oblivious and innocent. In my past dealings with Kyle, he'd never been innocent. But really, he seemed as though he'd changed.
Hitting rock bottom can do that to you. I looked at our entw
ined hands. I ought to know.
I looked out the window, grateful that he was next to me. I listened to his even, regular breathing and clung to him in a way I never would have had he been awake.
I was dangerously close to having real feelings for Kyle. I'd always wanted him to like me when we were kids, but this was different. And much worse. Because now we were adults. I was in a precarious situation to start with—publicly shamed and about to be fired from my movie. Kyle had saved me, at least for now. But if the press found out the truth about our circumstances, they'd crucify me, and I'd never work in Hollywood again. I was still too new to be inoculated from the fallout. If they found out I'd hired an escort, I'd be done for. If they also found out that he was my ex-stepbrother, my walk of shame would last all the way back to Texas.
But it wasn't just that. It was his father and my mother. If my mother were Stateside right now, she'd probably have to be involuntarily held at a yoga retreat so she wouldn't attack him. She'd never forgiven him about those drapes. Knowing my mother, she never would.
I looked at Kyle. His face was relaxed in sleep, belying none of the stress I knew he felt about seeing his father again. I was glad that he was here with me, but it was a sharp feeling. I was so glad it hurt.
I went back to looking out the window, not letting go of his hand.
* * *
I woke up a few hours later when I felt water dripping down my chin. I sat up straight and wiped it… only to realize I'd been drooling. I shot a surreptitious look at Kyle, who was unfortunately wide awake and reading the sports section of the Los Angeles Times.
"Hey there," he said, smirking, as he handed me a napkin. "It looks like you were dreaming about me."
"Ha ha." I furiously wiped my reddening face.
"We're almost there," he said.
I noticed he was no longer holding my hand.
"Missing something?" he asked, wriggling his fingers and flashing me a mischievous grin.
"No," I said, scoffing and still wiping my face. "You wish."
He put his head on my shoulder. I tried not to notice how good he smelled. I didn't even know what it was—some sort of mixture of shampoo and sleep and… virility. I shivered as my mouth filled with saliva again. I was literally drooling over him.
