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“I saw Jackson with you.” She rolls her eyes with exaggeration. “Be glad you left early. His face was spewing more shit than a sewer—talking about how you never broke up with him.” She sticks her finger in her open mouth. “Gag. No one wants to be around that asshole when he’s drunk.”
Pain lances through my chest, and I make a noncommittal sound. I remind myself I’m no longer Jackson’s keeper. He wasn’t any better when I was with him anyhow.
“But your date was hot. Holy shit.” She waggles her brows suggestively.
I’ve known Emily since middle school. We lived in the same shitty neighborhood in San Fernando Valley. I stayed home after graduation when she moved to LA to pursue something big. I watched with envy as she posted pictures from ritzy nightclubs with celebrities and professional athletes while I worked two waitressing jobs to get by.
She’s the one who convinced me to try escorting when my grandparents were struggling. After I left Jackson and had nowhere else to go, she let me live with her. My grandfather had died, and my grandmother was transferred to a state-run facility. I lost everything, all within a month.
Not much has changed. When I returned home tonight, she was still with the hockey team, and I was alone. For obvious reasons, hanging with the guys is no longer my thing—it never was.
I quickly recognized that my envy of Emily was unwarranted. I don’t enjoy partying. It’s pointless, loud, overstimulating, and I’m…awkward.
I’m a nervous wreck wrapped up in a pretty package.
After I slammed the door on Ethan, I walked eight freaking blocks from our meeting spot to my condo in Redondo Beach. In the dark. In stilettos.
The second I stepped inside, I kicked off my heels, grabbed a bottle of wine, and headed straight to the balcony—my usual sanctuary. I love the ocean. The symphony of crashing waves lulls me into serenity.
The wine is an added bonus.
I’d drunk half the bottle by the time Emily got home, life and the night’s frustrations clinging to me like stale, secondhand cigarette smoke.
“Let’s see.” I wave a hand dramatically and almost knock over the wine bottle on the table. “Between Jackson’s public meltdown and my date’s ceaseless worry over hiswife, it’s safe to say it wasn’t a pleasant evening.”
I dread the inevitable negative review Ethan will leave with the agency, and I don’t blame him. I regret arguing with him, but something inside me panicked when he asked for aproperdate. Reality hit me. This is my life. I have to work.
If there’s one thing Jackson taught me, it’s that there is no knight in shining armor in my story.
AndEthan had the audacity to circle back to the whole “I’m married” bullshit after the way we fucked? Seriously? What a fucking asshole.
Emily purses her lips. “You allow too much headspace for these guys. They’re clients, nothing more. Smile, flirt, stroke their egos. Listen to them bitch about their ‘oh so terrible wives,’ and then collect your paycheck and move on to the next so we can afford this view.” She gestures to the midnight sky over dark ocean waves. “Or hook up with one of the other players. Then we can go to dinners and after-parties together.”
She puts on that Cheshire cat smile, excited about the prospect of us double-dating athletes we care nothing about.
Unfortunately for me, pretending and socializing isexhausting. And let’s not forget the absolute nightmare Jackson would become if I dated another player. Could you imagine? It’s laughable, not even worth contemplating.
“Em, my date had the nerve to ask me on a ‘proper date’ when all the while he’s quaking in his boots at the thought of his wife catching us.” I shake my head in disbelief. “You want me to give up my job before you give up your wife? Get the fuck out of here.” Disgusted, I pick up the bottle and take a swig. “Maybe extinguish one fire before igniting another.”
She breaks into a fit of laughter. “I swear, men don’t think things through. Seriously, though, pass the wine. You have a photoshoot tomorrow. I hope you haven’t overeaten.”
I gasp. “Damn it! I forgot about the photoshoot!” Probably because they’re a waste of time and lead nowhere.
“This is a major talent agency,” she chides. “Invite only. It was pure luck I secured us a spot. This could be a new chapter. You wouldn’t need to deal with these men anymore—unless you want to fuck around with sad, married dick?”
“Hell no.” I wave my hands in front of me to fend off the mere idea. “Ethan was enough, thank you very much.”
She stands and stretches her arms over her head. “Good. Chug some water and go to bed.”
My heart swells with wine-laced gratitude. “Thanks, Em. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Thank me by landing this next contract and getting Grams out of that shitty nursing home.”
With renewed purpose, I set down the almost empty wine bottle and forget all about Mr. Big Dick Married Guy.
Tomorrow arrives,and my courage is nowhere to be found. I’m nauseated with anxiety and have thrown up twice.
My eyes are adorned with dark, heavy bags, and my stomach is bloated from yesterday’s indulgences. Not ideal, considering this is a bikini shoot on the beach with one of the most well-connected photogs in LA.