by Lauren Rowe
He looks at me blankly.
“Alessandra’s demo? You’re required to listen to the first minute of all three songs.”
“Aren’t you forgetting a little something? Before I’m required to listen to a single song on that demo, you’re required to give me two lap dances and a striptease.”
I scoff. “I’ve already paid my debts to you, and then some. Letting you eat me out at the stadium was the equivalent of five stripteases. And the way you fucked me in that closet was the equivalent of ten lap dances. Plus, regardless, all bets were off the minute that PA walked in on us, and saw my tits and wahoo hanging out, and you camped between my legs with shiny lips. That was the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me, Reed. I get a free pass for that.”
Reed chuckles. “Fair enough. All right. I hereby release you from your debts, on one condition: I’ll listen to the demo in bed—while lying next to you.”
I raise my index finger. “If we’re on top of the bed, yes. Not in it. And if we’re fully clothed.”
He chuckles. “On top of the bed, but in our pajamas.”
I pause. “Agreed.”
He winks. “Tricked ya. I sleep in the nude.”
I giggle. “You’ve got to wear sweatpants, at least, or we’ll get too distracted and never make it through the entire demo.”
“I’ll wear briefs. That’s my final offer.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, but I’m wearing my actual pajamas.”
He grins. “Always such a fierce negotiator. All right. Our contract is hereby amended. Sign here.” He puts out his palm and I mime signing my name across it. And then, with a charming, seductive smile, he slides his hand in mine and leads me away from his swimming pool to continue the tour.
***
“And here I thought only guys with small dicks had a thing for sports cars,” I say. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
We’re standing in Reed’s expansive garage, which is filled with not one, not two, not three, but six gleaming sports cars. As we’ve walked down the line of them, Reed has waxed poetic about all of them—although none more so than his Bugatti, parked at the far end. His pride and joy.
After Reed has finished telling me about his car collection, we come upon an elaborate shelving unit on the far end of the garage that’s filled to bursting with outdoor-adventure and sporting equipment. I ask him a few questions about all of it, just to be thorough, and he talks enthusiastically about his love of fitness. I gesture to a surfboard, and he tells me a few stories. I gesture to a set of golf clubs and ask if he’s a big golfer, expecting him to nonchalantly dazzle me with his prowess on the links. But to my surprise, Reed says he hates golf. “I’d actually rather get a root canal than spend a day golfing.”
“Then why do you have a fancy set of clubs? Just in case you wake up one day with the nagging impulse to torture yourself?”
Surprisingly, the question elicits a contemplative expression from Reed. A deep furrow in his brow, followed by a deep exhale. “Okay, Intrepid Reporter,” he says. “I’m going to throw you a bone, kid. I promised CeeCee I’d let you unpeel one layer of my onion during this interview. So, let’s unpeel it now, and get it out of the way—like ripping off a Band-Aid. That way, we can relax the rest of the week with no stress.”
“Sounds great,” I say, even though I’m thinking, Oh, honey, if you think I’m stopping at one layer unpeeled, then you don’t know me at all.
For a moment, Reed runs his fingertips over the gleaming head of a golf club, looking lost in thought. Finally, he says, “When I was growing up, my father was obsessed with golf. So, of course, since I idolized my father, I wanted to be obsessed with golf, too.”
Holy crap. I didn’t see that coming at all. I can’t believe Reed is talking about his father, without any coaxing.
Reed says, “My father used to golf every weekend. And, of course, during the week, he was busy with work and his mistresses. Although I didn’t know about that second thing until much later. All I knew was, if I wanted to spend time with my father, which I did, then I had to pick up golf and tag along with him on the weekends.”
My pulse is thumping in my ears. My fingers feel like they’re physically itching with the urge to take notes. But I stand still, holding my breath, afraid to do or say anything that might break this unexpected spell. I don’t know what’s prompted Reed to give me this scoop, and I don’t want to do anything to make him change his mind.
“Finally, around age twelve, about a year before my father got arrested, I could finally hit from the back tees, where he teed off. And, man, he was so proud of that. In the clubhouse, my father would tell anyone who’d listen, ‘My boy, Reed, is only twelve, and he’s already hitting off the back tees!’” Reed looks wistful for a beat, before his face darkens. “And then, out of nowhere, the FBI raided our house at dawn one morning and dragged him away. Suddenly, his face was all over the news. The press was saying he was some kind of monster. But since I knew he was innocent, I kept playing golf every weekend by myself, so I’d continue making progress, and continue making him proud once the trial was over and he came home.”
Oh, Reed. The look on his face is making my heart squeeze.
With a deep sigh, he frowns at his golf clubs like they’re flipping him off. “Obviously, nothing worked out the way twelve-year-old Reed thought it would. The jury convicted my father on all counts. He got sentenced to one hundred sixty-seven years in federal prison. And, for the first time, I devoured all the articles about him. I learned about the mountain of evidence against him. And I realized the jury had gotten it right. My father had done all of it. He’d lied and cheated and stolen, over and over again, while pretending to be a pillar of the community.” He sighs. “And, all of a sudden, I felt ashamed to be me. Ashamed of my name. I worried people would think I’m just like him. A liar and a thief.” His dark eyes find mine. “And I sure as fuck didn’t want to play fucking golf anymore.”
My stomach clenches at the hardness in his eyes. “I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through in your childhood, Reed.”
“Everybody’s got shit from their childhood. Terrence Rivers just happens to be mine.” His Adam’s apple bobs. He manages a thin smile. “All right, Intrepid Reporter. My onion has now officially been peeled, in accordance with my promise to CeeCee. How about I show you some memorabilia in my home office now?” He gestures to a side door. “From there, I’ll show you the gym upstairs, your room... and, finally, mine.”
Chapter 3
Reed
“This is so cool!” Georgie says, shoving her nose into a framed gold record on the wall. For the past ten minutes, I’ve been showing her various items of memorabilia in my home office, figuring it’ll go into her article. And, as expected, she’s been geeking out over all of it.
“That one was for RCR’s debut,” I explain, chuckling at Georgina’s enthusiasm. “It was my first gold record, so I keep it here, rather than with the others at the office. When I got that first one, I didn’t even have a full-time staff yet. River Records was just me, hustling my ass off. So I feel like it belongs here.”
“You must be so damned proud of everything you’ve accomplished. Hell, I’m so damned proud of you.”
I try not to smirk like an asshole at how adorable she is right now. So fresh-faced and excited. But, truly, in this moment, Georgie being “proud” of me is like a cute little house kitten congratulating the king of the jungle on a kill.
“Have I said something that amuses you?” she asks, resting her hand on her hip.
I pause. Shit. Apparently, this girl can read me like a book. “Only in the sense that I find your enthusiasm and adorableness slightly amusing.”
“See, the thing is, though, when you look at me like I’m a silly little girl when I’m simply talking, it comes off as condescending—like you think I’m stupid or you’re somehow better than me. I mean, yes, I realize you’re wildly successful. But that doesn’t make you an inherently better or smarter person
than me.”
Oh, for the love of fuck. “Georgie, I don’t think you’re silly or stupid whatsoever. On the contrary, I think you’re wickedly smart. And I don’t think I’m better than you, or anyone else. I mean, yes, of course, I think I’m better than ninety-nine percent of the world’s population in terms of my business acumen, at least in my industry. And, yes, I know I’m better in bed than any man you’ll ever sleep with in your entire life. But, other than those two areas, I’m fully aware I’m just a humble, ordinary guy making his way through life, as best he can.”
She rolls her eyes. “There are many adjectives to describe you, Reed Rivers. But humble and ordinary aren’t two of them.”
I cross my arms over my chest, beaming a huge smile at her. “You know, Georgie, when you roll your eyes at me like that, when I’m simply trying to have a conversation with you, it comes off condescending. Like you think I’m silly and stupid and you’re better than me.”
“Good. I’m glad you’ve understood my body language to a tee.”
I chuckle.
“But, don’t worry, I only think I’m better than you when it comes to a few distinct things: brains, beauty, and emotional intelligence. Other than those three areas, I’m fully aware I’m just a girl—a silly, adorable girl, who’s play-acting confidence in her mommy’s heels and doing the best she can to make her way through life.”
I shake my head. “You’re never going to forget that ‘mommy’s heels’ comment, are you?”
“Never. Brace yourself. You’re going to hear it a lot this week.”
“Lovely.” I perch an ass cheek on the edge of my desk. “Look, if I come off as condescending or arrogant at times, it’s only because... I am.”
She chuckles. “Well, points for honesty.”
“I couldn’t do what I do for a living, and have the success I’ve had, without sincerely believing I’m the best. But that doesn’t mean I think I’m an inherently more valuable human than anyone else. In a lot of ways, I still feel like that same college kid who couldn’t afford to fix the slipping transmission and busted window on his shitty-ass Honda.”
“Well, that explains your six fancy sports cars.”
“Seven, actually. My beloved Ferrari is in the shop.”
“Oh, no. So sorry to hear that. Whatever will you do until your seventh sports car is returned safely to you?”
“Barely survive? Cry into my pillow every night? It’ll be tough, but I’ll soldier on.”
“I’m sure the Bugatti will help get you through.”
“Barely.”
“So, what’s wrong with your beloved Ferrari?”
“The front right fender got bashed in a couple weeks ago. It broke my damned heart.”
“What happened?”
“It was the craziest thing. I was driving on Mulholland, taking a curve a bit too fast, when a tree jumped out into the middle of the road, right in front of me. Too quick to swerve.”
I’m thinking she’ll return my joking demeanor, but she looks concerned. “Were you hurt?”
I shift slightly on the edge of my desk. “No. But I can’t say the same for the front right fender of my Ferrari. It was smashed up pretty badly.”
Without warning, Georgina beelines to me at the edge of my desk, nudges her way between my thighs, and kisses me. I don’t know what’s prompted this sudden, urgent display of affection from her, but I don’t question it. Without hesitation, I wrap my arms around her back and return her kiss with passion, every cell in my body exploding with desire for her.
Finally, when we break free from our passionate kiss, Georgie nuzzles her nose along my jawline and whispers, “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt in that crash. The world would really miss having Reed Rivers in it.”
Goosebumps erupt on my arms and neck. Where did this come from? “Hey, are you okay? I’m fine. Really.”
She nods. “It just scares me to think everything can change in the blink of an eye. That someone as young and fit as you could have been gone, just like that.” She snaps her fingers. “Sorry. Was that too dark?”
I smile sympathetically. I’m sure Georgina’s thought a lot about mortality these last few years, with her father fighting for his life. Far more than most people her age would think about it. “No, it’s a good reminder. I was cocky driving around that corner. Going way too fast. It was a good wake-up call for me that I’m not actually invincible.”
She nods her approval and then resumes looking around the room. She looks at a framed magazine article—a Forbes “30 Under 30” piece featuring me. She runs her fingertips across the spines of the books on my shelf. Self-help, motivational, business, and fitness titles, mostly. And then she notices a small framed photo on my desk.
“Is this you?” she asks, picking up the frame.
It’s my favorite photo from when I was a kid. The one shot from my childhood where my smile, and my mother’s, too, seemed genuine and not put on for the camera. It’s also the one shot I’ve got that includes both my mother and Amalia. Also, a shot from my one and only childhood birthday party—the one time in my life when my mother, still grieving Oliver, somehow pulled her shit together enough to do that thing all the other kindergartners’ mothers had done that year for my classmates: she threw me a big birthday party with balloons and a cake and paper plates bearing images of my favorite cartoon. It never happened again. But, to this day, I remember how much fun I had at that once-in-a-lifetime party. How much fun Mom had, too. Truly, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven that unique, carefree day with my mother and Amalia and the kids from school—the mysterious place my mother had always told me my big brother Oliver had gone to live.
“Yeah, that’s me with my mother and Amalia. That shot was taken on my fifth birthday.”
“Amalia, as in, your housekeeper, Amalia?” Georgina says in surprise. “I didn’t realize you’ve known Amalia your entire life.”
I gaze at the photo in Georgina’s hand. “Amalia was already working for my family when I was born. She only stopped when my father went to prison, when I was thirteen.”
For a split-second, the chaos of that time flickers through my mind. I remember the shock of it all. The early morning raid by the FBI that took my father away from me forever. The shock I felt at being ripped away from Amalia and sent to live with some distant relative I’d never met before, since Mom was already living in a facility by then, thanks to the stress of the custody battle a few years earlier.
“And when did Amalia come back into your life?” Georgina asks, still looking at the photo.
I clear my throat. “About ten years later. The minute I could afford to pay Amalia a salary, she was my first ‘purchase.’ Long before my first sports car. I think I hired Amalia right after I’d turned twenty-four?”
“Aw, that’s so sweet, Reed. That makes my heart go pitter-pat.” She returns the photo to its spot on my desk, her face aglow. “What a lucky little boy you were to have not one, but two, mothers growing up.”
I try to return Georgina’s easy smile, but I can’t. The little boy in that photo wasn’t lucky. Far from it. And he didn’t have two mothers. He barely had one. But only because two halves make a whole. In truth, my mother has never been fully functional. Not like other kids’ mothers. And nothing like the kickass, nurturing mothers I’ve observed as an adult, like Henn’s mother and my sister’s mother-in-law. Hence, the reason my father hired Amalia in the first place: to help my woefully ill-equipped mother with Oliver when he was born. And, as much as I love and appreciate Amalia, and can’t imagine life without her, I can’t honestly say she’s a “whole” mother to me, either, simply because she’s my employee. In reality, I pay her to mother me. I pay her to love me. I’m literally the woman’s job. What would it be like to have a mother like Amalia who’s not on my payroll? I can’t even imagine it.
“You and your mother aren’t close?” Georgina asks tentatively, apparently reacting to something she’s seeing on my face.
Shit. Is
this woman a mind reader? “No, we’re close,” I say. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I don’t talk about my mother. She’s an aspect of my life I don’t share with anyone, other than the staff at her facility. But Georgina’s looking at me like she’s unconvinced. Like she saw something on my face that doesn’t jibe with my words. My cheeks flush. “It’s just that my mother lives on the East Coast, so I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like.”
“Oh,” Georgina says. “That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, I visit her whenever I get to New York on business, though. Which I do about once or twice a month.”
Georgina looks thrilled by that response. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re able to visit your mother so much, Reed. Both for your benefit, and hers. What do you do with your mom when you visit her?”
Fucking hell. Seriously? How did our conversation about my music memorabilia and the Forbes “30 Under 30” list wind up here—with talking about my mother? And, more importantly, how do I steer it back to the stuff I actually want her to write about?
“Um... well. My mother and I do all sorts of things when I visit her. We play Scrabble. We watch Jeopardy and eat chicken pot pies. We do yoga.”
“Yoga? You do yoga with your mom? Oh my gosh, Reed. Swoon.”
I bite my lower lip. She’s swooning over that? I can’t help returning her beaming smile. Actually, she looks so damned cute right now, so over-the-top adorable, I’m momentarily forgetting to be annoyed by this topic. “Yeah. We do yoga. Play ping pong and gin rummy. My mom loves to paint, so she’s always got her latest masterpiece to show me, too. Whatever Mom wants to do, I’m always there for it.”
Georgina puts her hand on her heart and sighs like a Disney princess looking into a wishing well. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I love that you’re so close to your mother. It makes my heart hurt, it’s so sweet.” Georgina flashes me another beaming smile that makes my heart physically palpitate before she says, “My father always told me, ‘If you want to know the measure of a man, look no further than the way he treats his mother.’”