Beautiful Series Boxset, books 1-4

by Lilliana Anderson

  “Why do that? Theo loves you. He spent his entire life in your shadow, lifting you up. Why begrudge him his happiness?”

  “Because he stole that happiness from me.”

  She frowns, pulling her head back like she thinks I’m fucked in the head. And maybe I am.

  “I was never yours, Marcus. You never loved me. You loved the thought of winning, of beating your brother once again. It was always a competition with you. But to me, there was never a question. You were my friend. Theo has always been my heart.”

  “You didn’t even give me a chance,” I spit. “We could have been something. There was something between us.”

  She presses her lips together in a pitying smile and I almost crack a tooth. “How? You were obsessed with putting your dick into everything with a pulse. How was that behaviour going to make me choose you?”

  She’s so fucking self-righteous. I narrow my eyes at her. “I didn’t fuck around that entire tour.”

  “Yeah. For two weeks you acted like a decent human being before you threw it all away when your brother got what you wanted. You’re a child, Marcus. Perhaps it’s time you took a good long look at yourself.”

  “I’m just fine. Thank you very much.”

  “Hey, if fucking an endless line of girls is what you really want, then great. The best of luck to you. But if you could stop being angry at your brother for five seconds, you might find a soulmate of your own.”

  I scoff. “You’re soulmates?” Of course they are.

  She nods. “Theo didn’t steal me. I was always his. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have more than any of us could have possibly dreamed of and you’re just using it to stay miserable. I came tonight to remind you that you have parents, and you have a brother. All of whom love you despite your shit dick attitude. Call them, Marcus. Go and visit your parents at least, and if you ever truly cared about me; forgive your brother. For some reason, despite proving you don’t give a shit about his, he still cares about your feelings. He isn’t willing to marry me until you’ll give us your blessing.”

  I shake my head and scoff again. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “Then I guess we don’t have anything else to say to each other.” She sets her jaw and opens the car door, getting out before leaning down to say one last thing. “I hope your fame keeps you warm at night.”

  “It doesn’t. Naked women draped over my body do,” I retort, feeling mighty.

  She looks at me, narrows her eyes and shakes her head. “I feel sorry for you.”

  “Don’t. I have everything I ever wanted.”

  “Yeah. Except love.” And with that she spins on her heel and stalks off, leaving the car door wide open while I sit there like a fuckwit with my mouth open. Ouch.

  Two

  Lisa

  Bang, bang, bang.

  With my head under the hairdryer, I’m not sure if I heard the door or imagined it. I switch it off to listen.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. Who the hell turns up at someone else's house at seven in the morning? I place the hair dryer on the vanity and try to smooth my dark brown hair with my hands so I look somewhat presentable.

  My visitor bangs again. "Hang on. I'm coming," I call out.

  When I make it to the door, I peer through the peephole to find my friend Sandra on the other side. Why didn’t she just call? Or text. Texting would be significantly better.

  “Open up, Lisa. I’m desperate, and I need your help.”

  The moment I turn the lock, she tumbles through the door, almost knocking me off my feet. “What the hell? What’s wrong?”

  She turns to me, breathless, her blue eyes wide and frantic as she clutches a manila folder to her chest. “I need you to do an interview for me.”

  "What? No way. I'm no reporter," I say, shaking my head as I walk past her to return to the bathroom and continue getting ready for my actual job—in the advertising department of the magazine she reports for.

  Sandra follows me to plead her case as I decide my hair is dry enough and begin applying my makeup. “Come on, Lisa. I’d do it for you.”

  “That’s really awesome, Sandra. But you’d never have to do it for me. I don't interview people for a living, remember? Why are you so upset about doing the interview, anyway? Did you sleep with the guy or something?”

  “Yes,” she answers immediately, and my mouth falls open.

  “Oh, my god. I was joking when I said that!”

  She grabs my arms and looks at me pleadingly. “Please. It was this random thing I did. It was a year ago, but I’m so embarrassed by it. It happened when I was working for that music show and I don’t want to interview him again.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Marcus Bailey.”

  I shake my head and pick up my black eyeliner to accentuate my honey-coloured eyes. “I have no idea who that is.”

  “Which is what I love about you and why I’m asking you. I know you can interview someone as famous as he is without going stupid over him.”

  “That’s because I don’t go stupid over anyone. Who’s his manager?”

  “Craig someone. It’s in the file. Just, please. Pretty pleeeaase.”

  I sigh. “Not taking away from your sexual prowess or anything, but if he’s a famous musician, it’s likely all the women he sleeps with are just one big blurry face with a pussy.”

  Pressing her lips together, she reaches up and pulls her long blonde ponytail over her shoulder and smooths it over as she gives me a slightly unimpressed look. “I don’t care if he remembers me or not. This is about me feeling like a fucktard because I screwed him like a groupie. I'm scared that he'll remember me and expect me to do it again. But I'm even more afraid that he’ll have absolutely no idea who I am. And that will feel so much worse.”

  “Oh honey,” I say, feeling my resolve slipping.

  “Don't feel sorry for me. Just help me out… please?”

  I lean towards the mirror and concentrate on applying mascara to lengthen my already dark lashes. “I'm not saying no. But why can’t you ask one of the other girls to do it for you?”

  “Because, I still want the story. If I get one of the others to do it, they’ll snag the by-line too. Please do it for me.” She holds the folder out while she pouts her full lips and bats her eyelids. She looks like a cute puppy and I can’t resist.

  Reaching out, I take the folder from her. “Fine.”

  “You'll do it?”

  “Yes, Sandra. I’ll interview your rock star for you so you don’t accidently screw him again,” I deadpan.

  She throws her arms around my neck and squeals. "I knew I could count on you."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. What time do I have to be there?"

  "In forty-five minutes."

  "Forty-five minutes? Are you fucking mental? How the hell am I supposed to get there in time?"

  “It’s not far. If you leave now, you’ll make it there with maybe fifteen minutes to spare.”

  My eyes bug out and I almost ruin my mascara. “Fucking hell, Sandra. This isn’t cool. Why couldn’t you have asked me this last night instead of dropping it on my lap this morning?” Feeling rushed, I select a pale rose lipstick and run it over my lips before twisting my slightly damp, wavy hair into a bun on top of my head.

  I look in the mirror. That will have to do.

  “Because I thought I could do it. But look at me. I’m all splotchy just thinking about it. I’ll fuck it up and start accidentally saying ‘cock’ or something.”

  As I spritz my perfume in the air and let it fall over me, I take a moment to look at her properly. She’s right; she does look all splotchy. To the point where I think she might have given herself hives. Instantly my annoyance dissipates as I realise how distressed she really is.

  “I’m sorry for snapping at you. Just do me a favour? Lock up for me and let the office know I might be a little late. Tell them I have an appointment or something.”

 
“Done. Thank you, Lisa.”

  “Hey, what are best friends for?” I slip my feet into my black peep-toe heels, check my appearance in the full-length mirror then grab my bag and car keys and head out the door. As I walk to my car, I open the folder to get the address I need to drive to. The moment I’m in the driver’s seat, I press the voice command button on my phone and tell it to navigate to the studios where Marcus Bailey is supposedly filming a music video.

  Great. Just what I need to start my day; a cocky muso who thinks he can bed any woman he pleases. I fucking hate famous people.

  Marcus

  “How many interviews do I have today?” I ask my manager, Craig as we leave the set of the latest music video for my single ‘Animals’. We’ve been staging a massive costume party and I’m the entertainment, singing on stage while the partygoers gyrate in front of me. It’s the typical storyline; there’s some hot chick who catches my eye and we’re drawn in by each other’s ‘animal magnetism’.

  Doing this kind of stuff used to be fun. But after my recent bout of self loathing, I’m tired of the fanfare. I was already feeling crappy about my life choices before Naomi threw a few truth bombs my way. And now I can’t stop hating everything about this job I so desperately wanted.

  When I first started in this industry, I never dreamed there would come a day when I’d grow tired of the constant parties, tired of the constant women, tired of the fake friends. That’s the part I hate the most. Fake friends. I need people to be real with me, but when you have all the money and the power, people tell you whatever they think you wanna hear.

  As badly as I reacted to Naomi, seeing her the other night reminded me of everything I used to have. I may not like what she said to me, but at least she was real. Honest. I don’t get a lot of that these days.

  And there’s nothing real about what's been in front of me all morning. My ‘love interest’ for the music video is a plastic Barbie-doll model with the personality of a gnat. I’m not even sure what her name is, but she’s been giving me the look all morning. I’m starting to wonder exactly when my music career started being more about sex than music. When I think back, sex has always been what I saw as a perk of the industry. But it wasn’t my driving force. These days, it seems all I do is fuck. Even my dick needs a break.

  “You have five reporters coming,” Craig explains after consulting his smartphone. “They’re spread throughout the day between shooting. The first one should be here any moment.”

  “And what time are we finished here?”

  “Four. Maybe five. Then I have you booked to do a radio interview and spend some time in the recording studio.”

  “Can’t I spend tomorrow in the studio?” I’m sick of having every moment scheduled. I’m like a puppet with somebody else’s hand up my arse.

  “You have more interviews tomorrow.”

  I drop my head back and groan. I’m so sick of this.

  “Everyone wants a piece of the golden boy. You’ve barely been in the country this past two years. They’re all lining up to talk to you.”

  “Can’t we do one interview and send it out to all of them?”

  “You know that’s not how it works, mate.”

  Mate. Looking around the room, it’s packed with people. All of them here for me. But, I can count on one hand how many of them are actually my friends. Zero. So I guess I don't really need a hand for counting at all…

  “I’ve had enough,” I blurt, placing my hands on my hips.

  Craig splutters. “What? Enough what?”

  “Of this.” I gesture around the room. “I’ll wrap up the album. But I want some time off. No shows. No interviews. Nothing.”

  “But…” Craig holds up his phone and points at the screen.

  “Sort it out, would you?” I drop my stance and take a step away.

  “You’re under contract,” he blusters after me.

  “Yeah. And I’m rich enough to pay it out. Don’t threaten me with that shit or I’ll go independent.”

  “You’re not that rich.”

  “I don’t care. Sort it out or I’ll go AWOL, and then you’ll be fuckin’ sorry.”

  He releases a few strangled vowels while I offer him a smile and a salute then walk away, feeling lighter already. Time off is exactly what I need to get my head straight. I went over my contract last night and it asks for five albums in five years. We’re at the two-year mark, and I’m wrapping up the third. I’m not the greatest at maths, but I’m pretty sure that puts me ahead of schedule. Craig can just deal with it. It’s what managers are for.

  I stop moving when my eyes land on a woman who looks lost. She seems out of place in her business attire. I’d guess she’s around five-foot-eight when she doesn’t have a pair of heels on. She’s wearing a navy business skirt and a crisp white blouse. Dark hair, piled on top of her head, gorgeous eyes—I can see them from where I’m standing because they’re really light and kind of shine out of her—nice looking body too. She’s not rake thin like most of the girls I see. There’s a bit of meat to her, but in a good way if you know what I mean. A guy likes something to grab onto. So curves are hot, and this chick is definitely hot. She’s rocking the sexy office manager look. I wonder if she’s a lawyer or something, but then I notice the ID around her neck announces she’s press. Interesting.

  Pausing, she opens the folder she’s holding and scrutinises something inside before scanning the room again with her eyes. I should go and help her out, but honestly, I’m enjoying watching her flounder. Does that make me an arsehole too? Probably.

  She moves across the room slowly and elegantly, looking for some sort of guidance. She reaches an arm out to get someone’s attention, but they walk right by her, obviously too busy feeling important to bother with a woman who looks like she’s from HR. Keep walking, sweetheart. I see you.

  My dick twinges a little in my pants. Maybe it doesn’t need a break as much as it needs a change of scenery.

  You know those women who carry themselves really well? The ones who don’t even know how gorgeous they are? Yeah, that’s what she’s like. I can tell by the way she's walking. She's not strutting like a lot of these other girls do, and my god it’s sexy as hell.

  Craig is next to me again, saying something that I’m not paying attention too. I'm too busy waiting to catch her eye. I haven't thought this for a long time, but I want to know who this woman is. Like, have a conversation with her person to person. Crazy.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Craig demands, just as the brunette meets my eyes without showing a hint of recognition.

  I place my hand on his shoulder, dazed. “No, mate. I haven’t heard a fucking word,” I say, breaking into a grin. I don’t think she knows who I am.

  Lisa

  Oh god. There are people everywhere. Each one seems busy doing something, and I can’t seem to get anyone’s attention to ask where the hell I’m supposed to go for this dumb interview.

  As I move across the room, I find two men talking quietly to each other, but as I approach, one of them glances at me and breaks into what most would consider a ‘million-dollar smile’. He’s probably one of the best-looking men I've ever laid eyes on. He’s tall and well built, perfectly tanned with fashionably messy brown hair and shining light-brown eyes, a perfect smile, a strong jaw and a roman nose. He’s the whole package of gorgeousness women go for. He’s not covered in tattoos and leather like every rock god I’ve ever seen, so I don’t think he’s this Marcus guy. I’m thinking he’s an actor or model with something to do with the actual music video. But since he’s not running away, seems he’s my best bet for directions.

  While I move closer, his eyes scan my body, showing obvious interest. Jesus. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I didn’t come here to get hit on by some wannabe.

  I can appreciate his looks, but I’m not a fan of overly attractive men. They always know how good-looking they are, and they take advantage of women because of it. They seem to think they can do whatever and whome
ver they choose, just because they were blessed at birth with attractiveness. Well, that's not how it works in my book. Not anymore.

  My last boyfriend was one of those beautiful men. I was naïve enough to think he only had eyes for me. For two years I believed my bed was the only one he shared. How stupid can one girl be?

  Eventually one of his 'women on the side' educated me on his 'business meetings'. He'd been sleeping around on me the entire time. It makes me sick to think how foolish I looked. How gullible I was. I'll never allow that to happen to me again. I’d rather be single than insecure in a relationship.

  “Hey there, you look lost,” Model-boy says, his smile touching his eyes.

  Instead of smiling back, I just focus on the business of why I'm here. “I’m looking for…” I check my notes again to make sure I have his name right. “Um, Marcus Bailey. Can either of you point me in the right direction?”

  The man who had his back to me, turns and scrunches his brow so tight I think he might go cross-eyed. “Are you serious?”

  The other one starts laughing and places his hand on the annoyed man’s shoulder. “Don’t mind, Craig. He thinks the entire world revolves around his clients. What do you want with Marcus?”

  Butterflies threaten to take flight in my stomach as my gaze connects with his. But I squash them down, imagining a pair of heavy boots jumping up and down and keeping them firmly in place.

  “I have an interview with him. I’m Lisa Russell, from Voyeur Magazine.”

  “You’re here to interview Marcus and you don’t know who he is?” Craig asks, and suddenly I’m cursing Sandra for pressuring me to do this. I knew I wouldn’t be able to pull this off.

  “Um, yeah. I’m kind of covering for a friend though. Sandra Haegen? She was supposed to come today, but she had a last-minute appointment… We can reschedule if you want. I’m just trying to help her out.”