Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel)

by Prescott Lane

“My ass is that good,” I tease.

  He grins. “Your ass is that good.”

  “You have to go?” I ask in a whisper.

  He only nods. “In the contract.”

  “We have our own contract,” I flirt. “Involving you having me for breakfast and phone sex.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Knox

  Getting off the plane in L.A. is like walking into the gates of hell. The paparazzi are always camped out, waiting to catch a glimpse of some unsuspecting “celebrity.”

  Celebrity—what a bullshit word.

  Fame—another bullshit word.

  V.I.P.—even bigger bullshit.

  I’m an actor, an entertainer. I’m not saving the fucking planet. There’s nothing noble in what I do. I try to use the money I make for good, to fund various charities, that kind of thing. I support a lot of cancer charities because of my mom, and set up a few scholarships for kids who have lost a parent to cancer. Special needs causes are also important to me, things that would benefit kids like Gracie. But I avoid giving to any political causes. For the life of me, I’ve never figured out why anyone would care who an actor is voting for. It’s not like we’re political experts, for fuck’s sake.

  “Celebrity” is fleeting. I know that. Very few people can hold their A-list status for life. And frankly, I’m not sure why you’d want to. There are far more important things than being recognized on the street.

  Like love.

  Like family.

  Mae.

  There’s an hour time difference between Haven’s Point and Los Angeles. I left really early, and she was cuddled under the covers when I kissed her goodbye. I’m hoping she finally went to sleep after I kept her up all night. It was fun.

  Mae and I have had some epic nights together, but last night is definitely up there. It wasn’t just the sex, although she’s still the hottest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing a bed with. It was more than that. She makes me smile and laugh like I haven’t in a long time.

  I always have a smile for the cameras. It’s my actor smile. The one that says I don’t have a care in the world. The fake one—the one I have on my face right now as I step off the plane. It doesn’t matter how much money or fame I have, that doesn’t equal happiness. Mae equals happy.

  Carrying my duffle bag, I put on my sunglasses. It’s usually sunny in California, but it’s not the brightness of the morning sun I’m worried about. It’s the blinding flash of cameras being shoved in my face.

  I flew on a private plane to avoid the chaos at LAX, but that won’t shield me completely. They’ve caught on to that trick, now staking out the smaller landing strips, as well, armed with cameras and recorders and ready to strike as soon as they catch a glimpse of some celebrity—or you drive by them in your car.

  The pilot, flight attendant, and crew all know not to ask for pictures or autographs. They’ve all signed non-disclosure agreements. Otherwise, everyone in the free world would know I’ve been back to my hometown several times. It helps that Haven’s Point isn’t a hotbed of the entertainment world, either.

  I’m not sure how long I can keep my relationship with Mae under wraps. So far, it’s been pretty easy to sneak in and out of Colorado. Reporters may see me take off in L.A., but they don’t know my destination. And the Denver airport isn’t exactly covered with reporters. Flying on private planes helps keep my comings and goings hidden. I don’t know how long that will last, but for now, it’s working.

  I’ve had a lot of practice sneaking around in the past, but I don’t want to stifle Mae like that. I don’t want to tell her that I can’t go to The Tune Up with her, or see her crazy grandmother dance because we’ll be followed and harassed.

  But there is a price I pay to have this life, to do what I do. I’m not complaining. I made my choice, but I’m not sure Mae fully understands just how different a life with me would be. There is an ugly side to fame, to celebrity. Being recognized in public, hounded for pictures, and the total lack of privacy are just the tip of the iceberg. Then there are the stalkers and crazy letters from deranged people. None of that has forced me to travel around with security, though—I don’t want that. Still, most days, it’s worth it. I have a great life, but other days, it sucks. It’s a tradeoff, but it’s not one I’m totally sure Mae wants to make, and I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t concern me.

  Staring down at my phone, I ignore all the emails, the dozens of texts from co-stars, producers, and the like. I’m only checking to see whether Mae has reached out.

  Nothing. Maybe that means she’s sleeping.

  I walk to the car outside waiting for me, seeing a few scumbag reporters snapping pics. It’s normal for me to have a car service from the airport to my house, but today, my agent, Heath, is picking me up. I think it’s his way of making sure I actually made the flight and came back home.

  Heath sometimes forgets I’m his boss.

  It’s a private fucking plane. I’m the only passenger. I doubt they would’ve taken off without me.

  I take a deep breath, knowing as soon as I open the car door, it’s going to begin—the rush, the stress, the demands on my time. I like acting, making movies, but I hate the rest of it—all the marketing and bullshit that comes along with it. As I see it, my job is to produce a good product. I want no part of the movie world after production wraps. It doesn’t always work that way, though. There are teams of marketing executives, publicists, research analysts, test audiences. None of that is my focus. At least, I don’t want it to be. I want my focus on perfecting my craft.

  But I’ve become a commercial product—a mechanism to sell tickets, put asses in seats.

  What people fail to realize is, I’m one person. Yes, I’m often the face on the movie poster, the star of the show, but there are literally hundreds of people that bring that character to life—costumers, lighting crew, directors, prop makers, craft service, sound crew, producers, directors. It’s a team effort. I couldn’t do what I do without them.

  If you’ve ever been on a movie set, you’d know. That chase scene where I ran up the stairs took two hours to get right—two hours to get ten seconds of film. I spend the ten seconds running, but there are a team of people setting up that shot, making sure it’s just right.

  Making a movie can actually be kind of boring at times. There’s a lot of sitting around and waiting. The editors are really the ones that pull the movie together, make you laugh, cry, or scream. All these people make me look good. I’m grateful for that.

  A rush of cool air hits me as I open the car door, the air conditioning on full blast. Central California doesn’t get that hot, so I’m assuming the air is to compensate for Heath’s stress level.

  The driver pulls away, and some paparazzi give chase. There are always one or two at minimum. That’s just another reason why being in Haven’s Point has been so nice. It’s a break from the chaos.

  “Ryder’s been at it again,” Heath says, tossing me the most recent photos of my big brother. These show him shoving a reporter who got in his face.

  “It’s not like they haven’t been warned,” I say. “They know how Ryder is. They do it on purpose to get a response.”

  “Talk to him,” Heath says. “This kind of shit hurts your reputation, too.”

  I just nod. Ryder doesn’t take advice from me. I can talk until I’m blue in the face. Besides, I agree with him. Most of those guys are scum. I just choose to handle them differently.

  Heath launches into my schedule—interviews, topics to avoid, clothes fittings—but it’s nothing I actually need to know. The car will shuttle me from one event to the next. I’m literally just along for the ride today. Heath will tell me what to do, where to be. A trained monkey could do it.

  My phone dings. Heath continues to talk, and I open a text from Mae. It’s a picture of her with the covers pulled all the way up covering everything but her beautiful blue eyes.

  Mae: My spot for the day. I’m too sore.

  She ends
it with a little wink face emoji. A big fucking grin on my face, I type a response.

  Me: I did my job well then.

  Mae: Oscar worthy.

  “Who’s the woman?” Heath asks.

  Damn it! I can’t have any privacy. Quickly, I turn my phone over.

  “Just wondering if I need to get the ball rolling on you two going public, security for her. That kind of thing.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I say.

  “Where’s your security?” he asks.

  That doesn’t deserve a response. We’ve talked about this a million times. I’m a grown man, and I’m not the President of the United States. I’m not traveling with a security detail. There are times when security is a necessary evil—red carpets, for example. My houses all have state of the art security systems, but I’m not willing to be followed around. I can take care of myself.

  “We’ve gotten a few more letters,” Heath says, showing me the latest.

  I get a shit ton of fan mail. There’s a team of people that sort through it and pass the letters on to me, if they find something particularly special. Most of the time, they send a stock letter with a copy of my signature. Most of the letters I receive are harmless, but there is the occasional nutjob that requires my team to get the authorities involved. They also track letters by zip code to try to identify potential stalker tendencies. It happens, I know it happens. I know fellow actors who’ve had their houses broken into, been held up, received death threats. I’ve been pretty fortunate where my fans are concerned, but that doesn’t stop my team from freaking the fuck out every time a woman sends me a lock of her hair. Yep, that’s happened. And panties are a regular offering, too.

  Heath lives in fear that my luck in these matters will one day run out. I can’t live like that. I keep my life pretty low key, not partying at the latest hot spot or doing reality television. That’s never been my scene. Hunting for attention and fame isn’t why I do what I do.

  “Colorado,” he says, pointing to the postmark. “All of those are from Colorado. Which has raised some red flags, since you’ve been spending so much time there.”

  I shrug. “That’s probably why.”

  “How much do you know about this woman you’re seeing?” Heath asks.

  “Trust me, it’s not her,” I say with a laugh.

  He throws a Ziplock in my lap, a typed letter inside. “You should read this one.”

  I look down at it, seeing the heading. “A thank you note?”

  “Just read it,” Heath says.

  My eyes roam over the words. I read lots of scripts. I’ve gotten good at knowing good writing, what will move people. A few lines into this “thank you note,” and my blood runs cold, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. No threat was made. But it sure as hell is implied.

  Still, it’s not enough for me to turn my life upside down. It’s one letter.

  “Heath, we’ve been through this before. It always turns out to be nothing.”

  “I’m telling you this feels different.”

  “How?”

  “For one, it’s typed.”

  “You’re telling me I’ve never gotten a typed fan letter?”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “Most stuff that comes in the mail is handwritten. You know, cards and stuff. But it’s not just that. There’s no request for pictures or an autograph. The strangest thing is, there’s no return address, no signature. Nothing. Most fans want an acknowledgement, even if it’s the stock letter we usually provide, so they include their return address, at a minimum.”

  I clench my fists then let out a deep breath. I’m coming off a great visit with Mae. This is the last thing I want to deal with, to talk about. But I know Heath isn’t going to be brushed aside this time. He can be like a dog with a bone.

  “Just keep an eye out,” I say. “Let me know if I get any other letters like this one.”

  He nods then gives me a nosy smile. “So do I know her? This woman who has you flying back and forth to Colorado every other day. Is she an actress or. . .?”

  “No,” I say. “She’s not in the business.”

  “Normal, average woman? That’s not your usual type.”

  “There’s nothing average about her,” I quickly say.

  “Can I at least know her name?”

  “Her name is Mae Sheridan,” I say. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

  “Okay,” he says. “First up today is an interview, then wardrobe fittings for the rest of the press junket.”

  *

  The only good thing about wardrobe fittings is not having to step foot inside a store. Having someone bring racks of clothes to your home is certainly not one of the downsides to fame. I hate shopping for clothes or shoes or . . . come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time I even went shopping. I’ve got a stylist that brings me clothes. I have an assistant that does the grocery shopping. My cars were purchased over the phone. I guess the last thing I shopped for was this house, which is hardly the same thing. I haven’t been inside a mall in I don’t know how long.

  Not that I want to go to the mall, but it’s just not feasible. I’ve seen fans get pushed and shoved to the ground when a crowd gets too large. That’s the last thing I want, so this kind of thing is a necessity. I would, however, prefer to select my own clothing. Of course, then I’d never wear anything other than jeans and t-shirts.

  “Leather jacket or blazer?” the stylist, Brynn, asks. Only she’s not asking me. She’s asking everyone’s opinion but mine. There’s a virtual army standing by to decide which jacket will look better on camera, which will photograph better, what kind of lighting there will be in the interview room. My opinion on the subject doesn’t matter. And it’s not her fault. Brynn has worked with me a long time. She’s knows I’d rather be left out of these discussions. And she knows what I like, what I’m comfortable in, so normally it’s a pretty easy process.

  Press junkets work like this—I’ll be in a room, usually at a hotel or some neutral location, and every entertainment source under the sun will come in and ask me the same questions over and over again. Some of the bigger magazines or entertainment shows will get exclusives, insider information, maybe even come to my house, or I’ll appear on their morning or late-night television shows. I need wardrobe for all that. Why I can’t wear the same thing all day makes no sense to me. It’s exhausting, but through it all, I’m expected to be charming and energetic, excited about the movie even if I didn’t like how it turned out, not letting on about the post-production problems, the infighting among the actors, the blowjob the director got from the craft service guy, and whatever else.

  I pull out my phone and text Mae.

  Me: Big debate at the moment. Leather jacket or blazer?

  I see the little bubbles pop up to indicate that she’s responding. I’m anxious to end this circus and talk to her, find out about her day, see if she is still in bed. Of course, her promise to let me watch her get herself off is also a motivating factor—and I’d like to see that sooner rather than later. But it’s more than that.

  Mae: Shirtless!

  “Knox?” Heath says, his voice louder than normal, letting me know he’s repeating himself.

  “It’s summer. Why do I need a jacket?” I ask.

  My comment starts a flurry of discussion. Will I look too relaxed without one or the other? Does a jacket indicate I’m trying to hide something? Is a blazer too formal? How cold will the hotel room be?

  For fuck’s sake!

  With the debate raging on, Heath steps closer to me, leaning in. “I need to know about the premiere. Are you bringing a date? Who? Do I need to arrange a dress for her? Is your brother making an appearance? The usual.”

  “I’m working on it,” I say, turning back to my phone.

  I’m not going to bring it up to Mae again so soon. I told her to think about it, and I want her to. I don’t want to rush her. Sure, I might have pressed fast forward on the sex thing, but she didn’t seem to mind
. I’m not going to rush the rest of it.

  Love can’t be rushed. You can fall fast, or you can fall slow, but you can’t force it.

  What is love?

  Is love swinging from the chandelier sex?

  I hope so.

  But is it more than that?

  Is love up all night talking?

  Is it someone who makes you laugh?

  Is it someone who you can cry with?

  Does it need a happily ever after?

  Or is happy right now good enough?

  Is it all of these things, or just some of them?

  Is love different for every person?

  Are the ingredients that one person needs to fall in love different from those of another person?

  Three parts sex, one part talking, with a dash of laughter and boom, you’re in love?

  Movies would have us believe that love is about happiness, joy, all the good moments in life. But I think love is about the negative shit, too—anger and grief and sadness. Love is about those things. That’s when love is its most powerful.

  Maybe it’s not about what love is, but about what it isn’t.

  Love isn’t quitting.

  Maybe that’s all there is to it. Love is sticking it out no matter what. Love is never walking away. I learned that the hard way five years ago.

  “Suit! Navy!” Brynn says, with a clap of her hand. “Yes, classic. You can never go wrong with a suit.”

  I pull up Mae’s text. No doubt, she is the love of my life.

  Me: I’m in clothing hell!

  Mae: Sinning can be fun!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Knox

  “Put the phone between your legs,” I say.

  “I’m not doing that!” Mae laughs.

  “You promised you’d let me watch you.”

  “I just did,” she says, her head resting on her pillow.

  Through my phone, I see she’s laying on her side, her brown hair falling all around. When I suggested she let me watch her girl’s night in, I was expecting a little less face time and a lot more body. She barely gave me a glimpse of her tits. Sitting on my balcony, I feel so far away from her. Sexy calls are fun, but it’s not the same thing as being there. I didn’t even join in the fun. I watched her, talked dirty to her, but if I can’t have her, I certainly don’t want my damn hand.