Page 1 of False Start: Chicago Engines (Gridiron Warriors #3)
Gia
Why wouldn’t it sit right?
I glared at the single curl that looped in the wrong direction, making the end stick up as though the whole red mess was giving me the finger.
“Gia. Are you listening?” My agent, Lydia, was a weapon when it came to finding me auditions and opportunities to mingle so I could see and be seen. She was also a ballbuster who didn’t understand the anxiety that came with needing to appear perfect.
“You need to move your ass, or you’ll be late. Again. Do you really want to keep the casting director for Shifting Sands waiting?”
The daytime soap was my dream job. A recurring role that would make me a household name, while hopefully opening the doors to future filming projects. If Tori Redding could go from Shifting Sands regular to multi-platinum artist with a movie franchise contract, so could I.
If I wasn’t sabotaged by my stupid hair first.
“Who’s the casting director?” I asked absently as I sprayed and combed the dark red lock into submission and grabbed my mascara for a final coat.
Makeup and hair products littered my bathroom counter in a chaotic mess that made me itch. Why couldn’t I keep my shit clean?
Keeping my cell pressed to my ear, I used my other arm to sweep all the products closest to me into the top drawer. I’d hate myself later when I couldn’t find anything, but sometimes, out of sight, out of mind, was all that got me through the day.
“Denny Hayes.”
At the sound of his name, my messy bathroom ceased to exist as phantom sweaty hands glided over my skin. The rasp of body hair against fabric dug at my skull. My heart thumped hard in my chest, and I grasped the basin in front of me.
“Lydia.” My voice came out on a soft plea as I fought the rising memory.
“This is why I didn’t tell you. Take a breath, and a Xanax if you have to, but don’t let your history get in the way of this opportunity. I convinced him to meet you in public, so instead of getting your panties in a wad, say thank you Lydia and get in the damn Uber out front.”
Nausea burned my throat, and I swallowed hard as I forced the words out and ended the call. My hands shook with the urge to wipe my face clean and restart my makeup from scratch, to create a perfect mask so no one would see the cracks in my psyche.
Thank god I was one hell of an actress.
Instead of surrendering to the impulse, I gave my reflection a practiced grin and strode out of my ensuite before I could catalog all the flaws.
The Uber was exactly where Lydia said it would be, and I slid into the backseat with my resting bitch face firmly in place.
“Got a hot date?” the driver asked as he pulled into late afternoon traffic.
God, I hoped the meeting didn’t run into dinner time. Dinner led to drinks. Then to hotel invites that couldn’t be turned down, if I knew what was good for my career.
Denny Hayes was the kind of creep that made good men hold their daughters a little closer, and I was about to sit across from him and pretend he didn’t already take things from me I wasn’t willing to give.
“You know, you should smile more. Pretty girl like you.”
Shit brown eyes flicked up to me in the rear-view mirror.
The look in them was the same thing I’d seen in a hundred other glances from a thousand men who thought they had the right to my time.
Taped above the dash was an Illinois state license that told me his name was Donald.
Seventy-three years old. A pale band of naked flesh on his left ring finger told me he was recently divorced.
My gut told me this was going to be a long-ass ride.
Focus on the goal.
“Are you deaf, sweetheart?” The car swerved as he cast a disapproving glance over his shoulder.
Almost there.
Instead of answering, I focused on tugging my skirt over the small crescent moons my nails left on my thighs, and tried to stop my mind from running through the statistics of women attacked by men in positions of power.
Not an easy feat when I was already one of those statistics.
“Stuck-up bitch,” Donald muttered, stopping the car across the road from my destination. He clicked on his hazard lights and flipped off the driver behind us as they expressed their displeasure at his sudden stop.
“Thank you,” I said, shuffling across the seats and slipping out onto the road. A horn blared, and I flattened my body against the car as the truck got impatient and pulled around, almost crushing me in the process.
A fine tremor crawled through my body as I finally made it to the front door of the restaurant. I could do this. A quick meeting — hold the food, unless I wanted to vomit all over him — and then back home to safety.
I didn’t know if it would be better or worse if he remembered me.
Two large windows broke up the red brick facade of Bar 103, a high-end restaurant that had been making headlines since it opened five years ago.
Reservations were a must, unless you were part of the who’s who of Chicago high society.
Apparently sleazy casting directors were counted amongst the elite.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the shine of one of their gorgeous industrial pendant lights off a bald pate through the window.
My legs seized.
A single bead of sweat rolled down my spine.
Run!
The directive pounded uselessly through my head as the tremors turned into a full body shake. I folded gracelessly to the sidewalk, one hand clawing at my rapidly closing throat.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I can’t breathe.
The invisible vise around my lungs cranked tighter and sparks danced across my vision.
The revving of cars passing on the street threw me into a deeper memory.
Tail lights glowing on a truck turning out of our street, taking away my chance of escape. Leaving me with her .
Tears burned my eyes, and a whimper worked its way out of my aching throat.
I was alone. A broken doll who had limited use beyond what others took from me.
“Hey. Look at me.”
The voice was rough and deep. Commanding in a way that broke through the panic that coursed through my veins. Warm hands cupped my cheeks, encouraging my head up, drawing my eyes away from the slate gray sidewalk to a mammoth of a man crouched in front of me.
I’m dying. I wanted to tell him.
“Breathe with me,” he said. His right hand slid down my jaw to loosely collar my throat, while his left brushed over my arm, guiding my fingers to rest on an impressively wide chest.
“Breathe in,” he commanded, gently tapping out a beat of four on my fingers.
“And out.”
His eyes were hazel with tiny flecks of yellow and green closer to the pupil. I concentrated on the colors as his voice forced me to find my breath and calm the fear hijacking my system.
After what seemed like a lifetime but must have only been a handful of minutes, a shudder passed through my body and my limbs went loose.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“How are you feeling?”
I huffed an exhausted laugh. No way was I about to tell him the truth. It was messy. Inconvenient. No one wanted the real answer to that question.
“I’m fine now, thank you. I’m sorry about that.” I forced a smile and drew my legs in, willing my muscles to support me to stand.
A huge hand appeared in front of my face, and the second I slid my palm against his, he hauled me to my feet like I weighed nothing. My knees folded, but he was right there, one hand gripping my hip tightly while I found my balance.
“Do you need me to call you a car or something?”
His lips were set in a tight line. His top lip almost invisible, while the bottom one seemed too full for such a masculine face.
“I’m ok, thank you. I was just heading inside.”
Shit. Denny would still be waiting, and the last thing I wanted was to give him an excuse to expect more from the negotiations. Being late to a meeting would make him feel entitled to compensation. A shudder tightened my shoulders, and I took a deliberate step back from my rescuer.
“Actually, I’m late for a meeting. Thank you again for your assistance, but I really need to get inside.”
His brow tightened, jaw working like he was chewing on an opinion.
The problem was, I was an opinion magnet when it came to men. Instead of giving him a chance to speak, I brushed past him, reaching for the door. His hand landed on the handle before I got there, and I braced for an insult. A snide remark about owing him for his time.
“Can I know your name?”
The implied request for permission gave me pause. He wasn’t demanding it; he was asking for the right to know. Who the hell was this guy?
“Georgia.” Not Gia. Not the persona I used to keep myself sane in the outside world.
Even my mom called me Gia, not that that was saying much, but I couldn’t overthink the reveal, because through the glass door, Denny Hayes had caught sight of me, and the feeling of his eyes sliding over me was worse than cold, dirty dish water.
Reaching deep, I shook off Georgia and became Gia as I left my giant savior at the door and walked into my personal nightmare.
All for the sake of a role.
No wonder they called it a deal with the devil.