But the note brought everything back, ugly memories flooding my head like a cesspool. I knock back another scotch. I know Dad wrote that shit, and he did it to push my buttons. I’ll be damned if he succeeds.
Elliot peers at me. “You okay?”
I should be working off my frustration with hard partying, overdrinking and getting laid, but right now, all that stuff feels like superfluous bullshit.
Look at me. Not even thirty and already a cynical, bored bastard.
The slightest encouragement from me, and all the women on the floor will do anything they think I want. They’ll strip down, grind against each other, get on their hands and knees, put on a fucking live porno show and suck my dick. They’ll do all sorts of things and afterward, brag to their friends about having me, like it was some achievement on par with finding a cure for cancer.
I never let it bother me before, but now it does. It makes me feel like I’m Dad, leveraging my stardom to make them do what they wouldn’t normally do so I can get off on it. An orgasm provides great stress relief. Reduces tension too.
But the effect seems to be wearing off, like I’m developing a tolerance for it.
“You’re brooding,” Elliot says. “Look, this isn’t rocket science. Just find someone to marry for a year. Simple.”
“Easy for you to say.” I reach for another scotch. The fiery liquor burns my throat, but my belly stays cold. “You’re going to marry the first dumb, hot stripper you run across.”
“Yup. And even easier for you since you don’t have to leave home.”
I give him a look. “What are you talking about?”
“That sweet secretary of yours. Marry her.”
Holy fuck.
My scotch burns like hell as I choke and it explodes like a gas tank next to a lit match. My nose feels like it’s on fire. Half a mouthful ends up on my pants.
I cough, while glaring at him over the rim of my glass. “Asshole,” I gasp. “I’m not marrying her.”
“Why not? She’s not your typical Hollywood H&D, but who cares? Bosses always marry their secretaries when they’re stuck like you.”
“That’s so fucking cliché. Not even Hollywood makes movies with plots like that anymore. Actually it’s so bad, calling it a cliché is an insult to all the other clichés out there.”
“Sometimes a cliché is exactly what you need.” He leans forward, warming to his topic. This is going to be a long night. “And this isn’t some corny romantic comedy setup. It’s a classic Hollywood Cinderella romance.”
“I’m no Prince Charming.” But as soon as I say it, I know I’ve made a mistake.
“Well, you were. What was the title?”
I sigh. “Charming Forever.” A Cinderella remake. It exceeded expectations at the box office. Mira was pissed she didn’t ask for more money. “And in case you don’t know how movies work, I was playing a role.”
“Dude. You don’t get it. Pretend you’re making a movie for a year with Paige as your costar.”
The idea is so stupid I actually don’t have anything to say.
“See? Pretty good, huh? Bet she’d be down with it, too. Everyone in Hollywood wants to act.”
“Not her.”
“She probably just never had the right offer. So make her one. Besides it’s got a nice side-benefit. You get to bang her.” Elliot lifts his eyebrows.
I snort derisively, even as my hormones perk up at the idea of naked Paige. She’s always been straight with me, and I know her passion in bed would be genuine, not the exaggerated stuff some girls pull to look like they’re into you. As much as I know it’s wrong, I imagine her nude and flushed with desire in my bed, glistening with sweat as she spreads her plump thighs wide. I take a quick swallow of my scotch to drown the groan lodged in my throat.
“What about the chick I banged at Mark’s wedding?” I say.
“A frog you kissed on the way to your Hollywood ending.”
I laugh and shake my head. “There’s no frog in Cinderella.”
“It’s called a subplot. And stop avoiding the issue. You want the painting, don’t you?”
“Of course I want it.” I want it like I want to keep breathing. “I want all of us to have them.” I give him a meaningful look.
“Don’t worry about Lucas. He’ll come around. All you have to do is ask Paige. No woman is going to reject you. I think the last time was Ms. Dubinski, right?”
I sigh again. She was my second grade teacher. I used to think the sun rose and set on her gorgeous dark head. I asked her to be my Valentine. She smiled, hugged me and told me to try again when I was older. Then she told my mother and the story got around.
Elliot taps his lower lip. “Come to think of it, maybe you should call Ms. Dubinski. See if she’s interested now that, you know….”
“Fuck you.”
He’s having trouble keeping a straight face. “At least she’s respectable.”
“Were you serious about marrying a stripper?”
“Yup. That’ll show Dad.”
I snort a laugh. “Sure will.” If Elliot really follows through, it’ll put a huge crimp in Dad’s efforts to keep up with the Pryces. Nobody from that family ever married a stripper.
“And the bride search will be hella fun.” Elliot grins.
“Your birthday’s coming up,” I say. “If you haven’t found a decent one by then, I’ll send you one in a cake with a ribbon around her neck.”
“Make sure she’s hot and either really dumb or really bright.”
“I’ll get you the dumbest one money can buy. You deserve the best for your birthday.”
Elliot chuckles. “Maybe I should hit Z when I’m back home. I heard Anthony’s in town, which means all the hot women are going to show.”
My gut clenches at the mention of Anthony Blackwood. We used to be best friends, but things went south fast, partially due to me being stupid. Now Anthony hates me. He’s promised to make me suffer as much as he did.
Elliot keeps talking as though he doesn’t notice my tension. “Come on. Let’s crank this evening up. Otherwise we’re going to get labeled as boring old farts, and I’ve got a rep to maintain. Besides, I’ll be damned if Dad’s gonna hear that we’re sitting here like losers with nothing but overpriced drinks in our hands.”
At that, I get up. I too will be damned if I give Dad an ounce of satisfaction knowing that he’s causing me worry or that he brought a funk on.
Because all this? It’s not me.
Nope. It isn’t.
* * *
Paige
I spend the evening in the suite next to Ryder’s. It’s actually bigger than the apartment I share with Renni. Lots of white and custard cream color decor with blue accents to brighten your spirit and lighten your day.
It’s peaceful to order room service and just laze around in the opulent space, while reading up on what to expect now that I’m expecting, before hitting the stately four-poster bed.
I hug a fluffy pillow and roll onto my side. The D.C. area feels different. It’s slightly cooler and wetter than L.A. More formal, too. Must be all the politicians and their people. You don’t see a lot of flamboyant congressmen on TV.