Escorting the Actress (The Escort Collection Book 2) (4 page)

"And all you have to do is have sex?" I asked.

He took a sip of his drink. "Sometimes it's more than that. Sometimes I go to dinner with my client, or we go hiking… sometimes they like to talk. Some of the women are just lonely. But yeah, once they see me, they usually want to have sex with me." He stared at me. "Okay, they
always
want to have sex with me."

And who could blame them?
I wondered, looking at his bulging biceps and massive chest. The worst was his face. He was just so handsome, he looked as if he might almost be… nice. In any event, he was so handsome a person would definitely wish he was nice, so that he could be her real-life boyfriend. Forever.

I clenched my fists. I was really looking forward to that self-slap later. "And do you… like your job?"

Kyle shook his head. "Of course not. It's uncomfortable. But I'm hoping to make enough money off this assignment with you that I can quit. Then I can maybe go back to school."

I took another sip of my drink. "Kyle, this assignment's not gonna happen. You cannot be my pretend boyfriend. You're my stepbrother."

"I'm your
ex-
stepbrother. And besides, nobody but you and I know that."

"They'll find out. Your dad's a Silicon Valley executive. I'm a Hollywood actress. You're a bad-boy-surfer-playboy-trust-funder escort. They'll find out everything. This"—I pointed at him then back at me—"is a no-go."

My phone beeped. It was a text from Shirley:
PR on its way.

I cursed under my breath.

"You have a press event in ninety minutes," Kyle said, checking his watch. "And it takes over an hour to drive to Santa Monica at this time of day. You puked on a police officer's shoes last night, and as Elena explained it, you're on the verge of getting fired from your movie. You might not ever work in this town again if that happens. I'm the only option you've got, Lo."

"No," I said firmly.

"No one knows who I am. Only my friends and my dad, and none of them will say a thing. My friends won't 'cause they're loyal, and my dad won't because he's wrapped up in his latest project in Boston. He's completely clueless. No one will know. There're no pictures of us together—we lived together back before everybody had an iPhone. We only ever lived in Orange County. That's practically the other side of the world to most of the people around here." He looked at me pleadingly. "I need this. Please. Nobody has any idea who I am or who I am to you. And they won't find out."

"How can you say that?" I asked.

"I'll tell them my name's different. Kyle Jordan." He reached out to shake my hand and smiled, revealing his dimples. I gave him my limp hand, and he pumped it enthusiastically. "Pleased to meet you."

I finished my drink, clutching the glass in my spare hand. The hand that wasn't making a deal with the devil himself.

"Kyle Jordan." I sucked on an ice cube and resigned myself to the fact that I was making the stupidest decision of my life. "It's nice to meet you."

The doorbell rang, and I cursed again. "That's my new PR agent. Stay here."

I hustled to the door and checked the window. A stunning blonde was on my doorstep.

"It's Gigi," she called through the door. "Your agent sent me. I'm your new PR team."

I begrudgingly opened the door, and she sailed through, all legs and clicking high heels, her sleek ponytail swinging, and deposited herself squarely in my living room.

"Lowell! It's such a pleasure! That video doesn't do you justice." She air-kissed my cheeks and beamed at me, but I could tell she was inspecting me head to toe.

"Um... thanks," I mumbled. "I told Shirley I was all set..."

"But you know Shirley, right? It's not like she's gonna leave you alone after that stunt you pulled last night. Now, I understand you've agreed to attend an event tonight—smart move. No sense in hiding. I would caution you strongly, however, to not drink a thing and to try to avoid direct questions. We want you to be seen looking gorgeous, sober, and contrite, but we don't want you to say too much. Not yet. You're going to do an exclusive later. It'll be a very controlled message, very tight."

"Did someone say tight?" Kyle asked and strode into the room with that grin splitting his face.

I clenched my fists. First of all, he was being crude. Second of all, I'd told him to wait in the other room. My hired boyfriend and I already needed a serious heart-to-heart.

"Well,
hello
," Gigi said. "I'm Gigi, Lowell's new PR agent. And you are?"

"Lowell's boyfriend. Kyle Jordan." Kyle threw his arm around me, the grin never leaving his face—even though I was standing like a rock, immoveable, cold, and jagged.

A smidgen of jealousy bloomed in Gigi's eyes, and I wanted to tell the lanky PR socialite that she was more than welcome to my so-called boyfriend. Instead, I smiled, pretending that I was thrilled to have him beside me.

"Shirley didn't tell me you had a boyfriend," Gigi said, her thought process ticking almost audibly.

"Shirley doesn't know."

"I'm Lowell's secret weapon." Kyle changed his posture so, I swear to God, he was sticking out his dick at her.

"Well,
bang bang
. I like it." Gigi smiled at him appreciatively, either completely undeterred by his dick or approving of it. "I assume you're attending the event tonight too?"

He pressed himself firmly against me. "Absolutely."

"Well, I must admit—I'm impressed. The debut of a new boyfriend—especially one like Kyle—will do wonders for you after last night."

"I know, right? That's exactly what I told her."

I would have elbowed him in the ribs, but he was holding me too tight.
Grr.

"Let me just bring Shirley in on this." Before I could protest, Gigi was already on her phone, FaceTiming my agent. "Shirley, it's me. I'm with Lowell and her
fabulous
boyfriend, Kyle."

"Since when does she have a boyfriend?" Shirley screeched.

She always wanted to know every little detail about my life, and now I'd hidden something from her. Except not really. Well, sort of—ugh, I was still too freaking hungover to think this whole thing through.

"Give me the phone," I snapped. Shirley scowled at me from the screen, and I smiled at her, my face a lying mask of calm. "I have a boyfriend. His name's Kyle. Tori set us up." That was the story I decided on, in all of its lackluster detail, right on the spot.

"Why am I just hearing about him?"

"Because I wanted to keep it private. I didn't want the press hounding us."

"And now?" She arched her carefully waxed eyebrow.

"The press is already hounding me. I want to give them"—I looked at Kyle—"a nice, juicy piece of meat to gnaw on."

"Let me see him."

I held up the phone so she could examine Kyle. I heard her clucking in approval as he beamed at her. I practically threw the phone back to Gigi.

"He's perfect, right?" she asked Shirley, her voice all sparkly approval.

"He'll do nicely. I hope. Tell them this is do or die, Gigi."

Gigi hung up and looked at us. "Right. Like Shirley said, this is an important night. Get out there and show your best side." She beamed at Kyle. "Not that you have a bad side."

"Bye, Gigi," I said and hustled her out the door while she eye-fucked Kyle. "I'm pretty sure we've got this." I slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. I felt as though the walls were closing in on me. "We absolutely do
not
have this."

"But you have me, your secret weapon. Everything'll be fine.
Bang bang.
" Kyle grinned, looking completely at ease.

"
Bang bang
," I agreed weakly. All I wanted to do was bang my head on the door.

But since this was my show and I was about to go on, I went and got dressed.

For better or, most likely, for worse.

I
'd never thought
that my geeky stepsister would grow up to be a hot Hollywood actress, but over time, I'd gotten used to the idea. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that Lowell would hire an escort. She'd always been a good girl—annoyingly good when we were growing up. Her public image had been squeaky clean, aside from the occasional scowl at the paparazzi. That was why that video of her puking was so shocking—she was America's up-and-coming sweetheart.

And now she needed help. My help. I just had to convince her that I was the right person for the job, our past notwithstanding.

When I'd pulled up to her Mission-style house, my mind had been racing, trying to figure out who the actress who'd hired me could be. Elena had been clear it was someone who needed to stir up positive press, but I never would've guessed that it was my uptight ex-stepsister, trying to recover from going off about body image and sexism in Hollywood then tossing her cookies all over YouTube.

But now I was here and I wanted to earn my keep, to show Lowell that I was worth the money. I wanted to show her I was worth keeping around. I wanted to be worth keeping around.

It was also really nice to have some breathing space, literally, from Mrs. Plastic Housewife's thigh clamp.

"Let's get changed," she said, dismissing me. "This is a casual event. I'm wearing a sundress, and you can wear whatever you want. There'll be press at the entrance. They'll be taking pictures and… asking questions." She looked grim at the prospect.

I went outside and grabbed my suitcase, then I put my things in the room Lo showed me. I picked out my clothing with care. The cameras weren't the only thing I was dressing up for.
Holy shit. She looks even better in person than she does on the big screen. How is that even possible? And where's the little twerp I remember?

She didn't look like the puffy, pasty fourteen-year-old I remembered. Of course, I'd seen all of her movies, but she looked even prettier in person.

I'd studied her face in darkened theaters, trying to see the sulky, tattling nerd I'd known growing up. The one who had almost broken my nose with the sex textbook she'd stolen from the library. But in her movies, I never saw the girl I remembered. I just saw a beautiful young woman who happened to be a great actress. I'd been jealous of her then. When we were growing up, I always thought of her as an annoying bug, buzzing around me and my friends, ratting me out, reading her books and looking down on me for partying. I'd been the cool one. She'd been the nerd.

And now she was a famous, talented, successful, sexy nerd. With money in the bank.

And I was her deadbeat, disinherited male escort.

I looked at myself in the mirror and adjusted the collar of my shirt. At least I looked good. That was one thing we had in common. I tucked my white shirt into my jeans and ran my hands through my hair. Satisfied, I went out and met her.

"You look… good." It sounded as if the statement had to be extracted from her like an abscessed tooth.

Lowell looked good too, but I didn't tell her that. I didn't want to make her any more uncomfortable than she already was.

"I called for a car," she said as we headed out the door. "I didn't want to drive after having that drink. I'm in enough trouble as it is."

"You always were responsible," I said.

"Except for last night," she muttered.

The driver opened the door for her, and I caught a flash of her tanned thigh as she climbed in.

"We'll make everyone forget about it," I said, climbing in after her.

"
I'm
not gonna forget about it. My guilty conscience isn't going to pardon me any time soon," she said.

She moved to the other side of the car, as far from me as she could, and looked out the window. I didn't know if she was lost in her thoughts or just trying to ignore me. Either way, it gave me the opportunity to examine the twenty-two-year-old version of the girl I'd known.

Lo's hair was long now, blond and wavy. Her black, strapless mini-dress showed off her curves and muscular legs. In real life, I could see that she'd grown into her body in ways I hadn't fathomed. Her skin was smooth and lightly tanned. I knew she hiked a lot in the canyon—the press was always snapping pictures of her there, making comments about her weight. They were an insidious, ridiculous bunch. Lowell was normal and healthy. Looking at her up close, she was perfect. She looked strong and vibrant, unlike so many other actresses, who were so skeletal they looked as if they lived on nonfat Starbucks and Diet Red Bull.

She turned to me with her brows scrunched up. "What?"

Her face was so pretty that it hurt to look at it.

"Nothing," I said and quickly looked away. I heard the guilt in my voice.
Busted.

She put the privacy pane up between us and the driver. "This is insane, Kyle. I can't believe we're in this car together right now."

"I can't either."

"It's been eight years, right?" she asked. "I was thinking about it when I was getting ready…"

Eight years ago, our parents had stood on opposite sides of a courtroom, listening to the judge recite the terms of their divorce. Lo had sat across the aisle, never looking at me. When I heard how much money her mother was getting in a lump sum settlement, I'd snorted loud enough for Lo to hear. Our parents had only been married for four miserable years. Her mother didn't deserve a fraction of that money, in my humble, seventeen-year-old opinion.

When it was over, her mother had grabbed Lo's hand and led her out. Neither one of them said good-bye. That was fine by me. All I was thinking was
good riddance.

"I never thought I'd see you again," I admitted. "Even though we were both in LA, I didn't think we'd run into each other."

Lowell raised her eyebrows. "Probably not."
Since you're an escort,
she kindly left out.

"I saw all your movies. You're a really good actress—it surprised me."

She raised her eyebrows and hiss-sighed. "Thanks. I think."

"I didn't mean that in a bad way," I scrambled. "I just don't remember you having an interest in acting when we were growing up."

"I don't remember you ever actually paying attention to me. Except to torture me."

That was certainly true. I had been so busy with my friends, partying and being popular, that I rarely noticed her. Except to occasionally torture her or swat her away like an annoying gnat.

"A lot's changed in eight years," I said, which was a massive understatement.

"Everything's different," she agreed. "My mother's divorced from Husband Number Four. I'm an actress—that is, if I still have a job. You're… employed. Your father's moved on too." She turned and gave me a rueful smile. "This is beyond awkward, right? I'm sure you don't want to be here as much as I don't want you to be here."

"I don't know about that. I'm pretty happy to have a job—even though it's with you." I smiled at her, teasing.

"I'm not that bad anymore."

"You got that right," I said under my breath.

"Ha," she said, choosing to ignore that I'd intended it as a compliment. "You should talk. You weren't exactly a pleasure to be around."

"You still followed me around though. I couldn't have been
that
bad."

"Oh, you were that bad, all right." Her cheeks were getting red. "I used to follow you around to make sure you didn't break your neck. Seriously, you were always doing stupid things. I felt like no one was watching you."

"That's because no one
was
watching me."

My mother had passed away, and after that, my father mostly left me alone. Not because he didn't care—I knew he did. But it was hard to be a hands-on single parent and run a technology empire. I'd had nannies then a stepmother, but no one could keep me in line. I remembered my teenage years as a red period. I'd felt out of control and angry all the time, which I masked by getting smashed.

"Lo, I didn't know you cared." My tone was sarcastic, but I was actually curious.

She shot me a look, her brow furrowed. "I… cared. I mean, I didn't want you to end up dead." She jutted out her chin. "That's all."

"Well, if
that's
all." I smiled at her. "Sorry I closed all your books on you without your bookmarks."

I laughed at the memory, but Lowell looked as if she was trying to practice yoga breathing while scrunching her hands into fists. Apparently I still got under her skin.

"Let's just concentrate on what we're doing," she snapped, back to business. "We have this one event. We're here to shop for sneakers and have our pictures taken. It's good press for the designer and the celebrities who show up. All the proceeds from the event go to the local animal shelter."

"This'll be a piece of cake. I look great in photos."

She sighed, her brow still furrowed. "They're going to ask us questions too." She sounded as if she was talking to a first-grader. "You're going to say you're Kyle Jordan. That's the
only
thing you're going to say. I'll do the rest of the talking."

She was insulting me, but for some reason, I wasn't offended. I was only amused. The idea of what we were actually about to do was sinking in, and I realized how crazy it was.

"What else are you going to tell them?" I asked.

"That you're my boyfriend… that you're from New York… and that we're madly in love." The last part came out so muffled, I almost couldn't hear her.

"Huh? What was that?"

She groaned. "We have to play this up.
All
the way up. We have to act like we're nuts about each other. It has to be a big deal." She turned to me. "By the way, no one knows you're an escort except for my best friend, Tori. She's also my personal assistant. She's the one who let the press know we're going to be here tonight."

"I got it." I sat up and straightened the collar on my shirt.
"We're a big deal."

"That's right. And no talking."

I pretended to zip my lips but then immediately said, "What sort of work should Kyle Jordan do? I'm guessing being an escort's not gonna cut it."

She fidgeted. Nervous energy rolled off her in waves. "I don't know. Any ideas? It shouldn't be flashy. It has to be under the radar so no one can find out you don't exist."

"I'll just say I'm in consulting. SEO or something." I shrugged. "Nobody knows how to talk about that."
Including me.
But I had faith in my ability to bullshit.

"That works." Lowell sounded mildly impressed.

"So"—I threw my arm around her shoulder—"if we're in love, we better act like it."

"Knock it off!" Lo ducked out from under my arm and pressed herself against the opposite side of the car.

I fake-pouted. "Well, are we in love or aren't we?"

She grimaced and adjusted her dress, making sure that not an ounce of cleavage was showing. "We're in love, all right. And you can put your arm around me—
at
the event. I'm an actress, remember? I can put on a show when I
have
to. Not until then."

"Fine. Your rules, your show."

"That's right," Lo said, and her voice wobbled a little.

I looked out the window; we were almost there. "Are you nervous? You seem a little anxious."

Lo blew out a deep breath and fidgeted some more. "I'm nervous. Last night was really, really bad. But tonight's gonna be worse."

"What happened last night anyway?"

"I drank too much tequila," she mumbled.

"That part was pretty obvious. But what made you do that? And what was that about mansplainers? Something bad must have happened. Getting that hammered really doesn't seem like a nerdface kind of move."

She stiffened. "I'm not that nerdy girl I was when we were kids."

I held up my hands in surrender. "I know. That's pretty obvious too." I motioned to her dress. She groaned and slumped her shoulders, so I added, "I'm not trying to be offensive—I just meant that you look nice."

She raised her eyebrow. She looked offended anyway.

"Not that you didn't look nice when we were kids… but yeah, you weren't hot back then." I stopped in horror, wishing I hadn't said that, wishing I could swallow the words back. "I mean—I just didn't think you'd end up
this
hot."

She raised her other eyebrow. I felt as if I'd stuffed both of my feet in my mouth and swallowed them whole.

"This isn't coming out right," I said.

"It's really not." She groaned then seemed to collect herself, composing her face. "Please don't flake out on me tonight. This needs to be a solid performance. Otherwise, you're out."

That was all I had to hear. I never wanted to go down on Mrs. Plastic Desperate Housewife again.

"I won't flake out," I said quickly. "I promise. But… will you please tell me what happened? What brought this all on?" Two things I could never picture Lo doing were: one, getting so drunk she barfed and, two, hiring an escort. Actually, the third would be having me show up on her doorstep as said escort and not kicking me out.

Only desperate times called for measures this desperate.

She looked at me. "My director told me yesterday that my ass is too big and that I need to make it less big before we start filming our next set of scenes."

"Seriously?" From what I'd seen of it, her ass was perfect—round and firm and luscious.

"Nope, I'm not," she said, her voice flat. "So I made the mistake of letting Tori take me out and buy me an endless supply of margaritas. Then we got pulled over because her registration was expired, and then the police officer told me I was prettier in person than I was in my scowling photos, and then I lost it. I got out of the car and started arguing."

"I heard you say
y'all
, and that's when I knew you must be really shit-faced."

Growing up, Lo had fought against her accent, which was courtesy of her early childhood in Texas. She controlled it fiercely; you only ever knew she was Southern when she was really pissed. One night, our parents had dragged us to dinner. In the car, Lo told her mother that I'd been lighting firecrackers under bottles to see if they'd explode. In retaliation, I took the book she was reading and chucked it out the window. I heard a lot of her Texas drawl after that, yelled right into my face. She'd been so close I could even see the little elastic bands in her mouth.