by Katie McCoy
“My logic was sound then, and it’s sound now,” he countered. “Marry a friend, and you’ll be happy.”
That had been his logic then. Jax had made it clear that the last thing he wanted was a marriage like the one his parents had. According to him, they had been in love once—a quiet, British kind of love—but it had quickly morphed into something that resembled disgust and distrust. Jax saw that and wanted nothing to do with it.
“Well, even if that’s true, we’re not really friends anymore,” I said, not really seriously thinking that he was still considering the pact as an option.
“I bet you haven’t changed that much.” Jax lifted his chin. “You’re still smart and funny and easy to be around. Can you still whistle?”
I gave him a look. He had been the one to teach me the classic two finger whistle. And just to wipe that smug smile off of his face, I lifted my fingers to my lips and blew. The piercing sound quieted the whole bar. For about a second.
A few people glared at me, and I got some middle fingers thrown in my direction, but Jax just laughed.
“OK, can still whistle. Check.” He leaned forward. How do you feel about air hockey?”
It had been our game of choice at the mostly abandoned pier.
“I’m pretty sure I can still kick your ass,” I told him.
He laughed. “That’s what I’m talking about. Even now, you still don’t give me an inch.”
“That’s not enough to base a marriage on,” I told him. “I still think you need love.”
He shook his head. “It’s overrated. And it fades.”
“Well, you at least need attraction,” I countered.
“Are you saying you’re not attracted to me?” Jax puffed up his chest and flexed his very impressive arms. “Because I don’t believe that.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not really the issue,” I demurred.
“No?” he asked. “Because I’m attracted to you.”
The room seemed to get very hot all of a sudden.
“Stop it,” I said, feeling a little in over my head.
“It’s true,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”
My breath was gone. Was a famous movie star really telling me that I was beautiful? Was he really telling me that he wanted to marry me?
This was crazy. Completely, utterly crazy.
Then his phone buzzed on the table.
Before I knew what I was doing, I glanced down at the screen. He had gotten a text. A sext, to be exact: a picture of a naked woman with some very attractive . . . assets.
The phone buzzed again. Another photo. Same woman, same nudity, different angle.
“A friend of yours,” I said dryly, nodding my head down at the image.
Jax at least had the decency to look a little sheepish.
“Hazards of the job,” he said.
“Or perks,” I offered. Literally. She was so perky, she had to have had some surgical help with that.
The spell was broken, and the temperature in the room had returned to normal. Jax had been doing what he was good at. He had been acting.
I wasn’t good at acting. Or pretending. Or being someone that I wasn’t. And I wasn’t someone who spent her evening in dive bars with gorgeous men who were completely wrong for her.
“I should go,” I said.
He didn’t stop me, and I finished my drink and headed home. Alone.
3
Jax
I was hungover. And while it wasn’t that unusual of an occurrence, I wasn’t often woken from my attempt to sleep off said hangover by my irate PR guru, Stella, aka the queen of mean. Who hated when I called her that. But waking someone up early on a Friday morning when they had spent the entire night in dive bar drinking cheap whiskey was basically the definition of mean.
And Stella didn’t even care.
“You care to explain this?” she asked, standing at the foot of my bed, holding up her tablet.
“It’s an iPad, Stella.” I flashed a smile before throwing my pillow over my head, hoping that she’d get the hint and go away.
“I’m talking about what’s on the iPad.” She yanked at the bottom of my blankets.
For a moment, I worried about my modesty, until I realized I was still fully dressed from the night before. Ugh. No wonder everything still smelled of whiskey. Had I even managed to get my shoes off before climbing into bed? I wiggled my feet. Nope. I was still wearing the expensive leather shoes that some designer had sent over to my hotel room the night before in hopes that I would be photographed wearing them.
Well, I had definitely been photographed last night, but I doubted that any of the paparazzi had gotten a good shot of my shoes.
Bugger.
I sat up, realizing that those paparazzi shots were likely the reason Stella was here at this ungodly hour.
Then I looked at the clock next to my bed and saw that it was well past noon.
Double bugger.
“Let me see.” I gestured for the iPad, which Stella handed over.
“I want an explanation and a name,” Stella demanded. “Please tell me you at least have a name.”
I peered at the screen, waiting for my eyesight to focus. Yep. It was a picture of me and Penny in the bar. We were standing close together, and it was clear from our body language that we knew each other. I was smiling and she was smiling. It was actually a pretty cute picture. Or at least, it would have been if it wasn’t sitting side-by-side with photos from when I had entered the bar with several blonde models that I had met at the photoshoot the previous afternoon. The headline for the website read:
Jax Hawthorne: The British Playboy Explores All New York Has to Offer. And Then Some.
Triple bugger.
For months now, the tabloids had created this man-whore persona for me, one that they backed up with pictures of women I dated. Sure, I liked beautiful women, and I was lucky enough to meet plenty, but they made it seem like all I did was fuck anything that moved.
“That’s Penny.” I handed the iPad back to Stella and flopped back onto my pillows, closing my eyes, wishing my hangover and resulting headache would go away. My PR manager as well.
“And?” Stella prompted.
“And, she’s a friend from childhood,” I told her. “We ran into each other last night.” I opened one eye. “Nothing happened.”
“So this isn’t her jacket?” Stella held up a jean jacket.
I groaned and closed my eyes again.
“She left it at the bar.”
No surprise that Penny had forgotten it, since she had gotten out of there as quickly as humanly possible. Not that I blamed her. Naked texts from other women weren’t exactly the best thing to see when you were on a date with someone. Not that we had been on a date; we had just been two friends. Catching up and having fun.
And it had been fun. More fun than I’d had in a long time. Because Penny was pretty much the same girl she had been at twelve. OK, not exactly the same. She was still thoughtful, and sweet, and with a wicked sharp tongue, but she had obviously grown up.
She was all woman now.
I remembered the feel of her body under that super-sensible outfit. Damn. I hadn’t been lying when I told her that I was attracted to her—but part of that was her complete lack of artifice, something I desperately missed after years in Hollywood, where pretending was literally everyone’s job. I got that feeling that Penny never pretended about anything. And it was terribly refreshing.
Also refreshing was her lack of polish when it came to her looks. I was used to Hollywood starlets and models who were shellacked within an inch of their lives—thick makeup standing between me and their actual skin, complete with fake tans and giant, glued-on eyelashes.
Penny was completely natural. I had been able to see her freckles last night, even in the dim light of the bar, and I had a hard time keeping from imagining if they were all over her body, or just her face and shoulders. She was tall and slim, her auburn hair left loose at her shoulders, be
gging to be touched. And her mouth was full and lush, covered in just a thin layer of lip gloss. Even her clothes had been relatively modest.
Except for her shoes.
When I had caught a glimpse of those stilettos, all the blood in my brain had rushed downward. Because Penny had a great pair of legs and her shoes showcased them to perfection. It told me that despite her shy exterior, there was something in Penny that wanted to be noticed.
And I’d definitely noticed her.
“Is that it?” Stella asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Just that she’s an old friend and that’s all?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” I said.
Stella threw up her hands. “I don’t want you to tell me anything, Jax,” she sighed. “I want you to stop ending up in the tabloids with a different girl every single night.”
I ran my hand through my hair, uncomfortable.
“You know that the Captain Atom people aren’t going to like this.” Stella waved the iPad at me. “They specifically said that your personal antics are the reason they’re unsure about offering you the part.”
I flashed another grin. “Can’t you just tell them that I’m method acting?”
But Stella was immune to my charms. “They just don’t want your personal life overshadowing the role,” Stella reminded me. “They want you to be more of a blank slate. Boring in real life so you can be exciting on the screen. You’re a long shot as it is, compared to the Chrises, or Leo, or Matt, but if you keep up this bullshit . . . You won’t even make the shortlist! Anyone would think you don’t want the role.”
“I want it.” I rubbed my aching head.
“It doesn’t look that way to me.”
“So look harder!” I felt frustrated. The studio had been dangling the part for months now, always just out of reach. I’d done screen test after screen test, met the director, even done chemistry reads with the actresses up for the other lead role. I wanted it, and I wanted it bad. It wasn’t just that it was a massive superhero movie, the one that would put me on billboards across the globe and take my career to the next level, it was because it was good.
Really good. The script had blown me away: funny, dramatic, and with the kind of flawed, nuanced hero any actor would kill to play. The line of A-list actors stretched around the block, but rumor had it, they were looking for a fresh face, and I was determined for that face to be mine.
Except every time I thought I was coming close, all that gossip bullshit got in the way.
“It’s bollocks,” I told her. “My personal life shouldn’t have anything to do with my professional life.”
“Then do a better job keeping your personal life private,” Stella shot back. “Besides, if you want the Captain Atom role, you’re going to have to deal with a lot more attention then you’re getting now.”
I sighed, and Stella’s face softened.
“I know it sucks,” she said. “But it’s the price we pay for glory.” She patted my foot. “Now come on, you need to get dressed. We’ve got a press junket to get you to.”
Unlike every other actor in town, I actually liked press junkets. Sure, I was trapped in a room for eight hours giving sound bites to a revolving parade of reporters, but I was always excited to talk about the work I was doing, and the actors and directors I had worked with.
Plus, all that time in the spotlight didn’t hurt, either.
“OK.” Stella slid into the town car and buckled up next to me. “Let’s go over our plan of attack for getting the Captain Atom people’s attention.”
“Stripping naked and running through Times Square?” I suggested, putting my shades on.
“Very funny.” Stella shot me a look. “I think we need to change your narrative,” she said. “We need to remake you. Playboy to doting boyfriend. You need a serious relationship to get people to take you seriously.”
“I’m going to be on location in the English countryside for the next few months,” I pointed out. “Surely, we’ll be able to avoid the paparazzi during that.”
Stella laughed. “You’re the newest Mr. Darcy in the latest Pride and Prejudice remake,” she reminded me. “There’s no way you’ll be able to avoid paparazzi. They might be banned from the set, but you can guarantee they’ll all be holed up in the same small town that we’ll be staying at. It’s invasive, but it’s also the perfect opportunity to show your grown-up side.” She gave me a sideways look. “You do have a grown-up side, don’t you?”
”Sure,” I quipped. “I keep it in my closet next to my Batman outfit. But the whole point of a secret identity is that nobody knows it’s me.”
“Is there anyone you could see yourself dating?” Stella asked. “At least for the duration of the shoot?”
I immediately thought of Penny. At least she’d be fun to be around.
“I’m not faking a relationship,” I told Stella.
“I’m not saying fake it,” she argued. “Just . . . give something a chance. More than three dates. Get to know somebody.”
Thankfully, I didn’t have a chance to answer before we arrived at the hotel where the junket was taking place. Immediately I was shepherded out of the town car and sent upstairs, where I was set in front of a poster for my last movie, with cameras and microphones set up all around.
I settled in, getting comfortable for the day ahead. Thanks to a quick once-over from the makeup artist, all hints of my hangover were magicked away, and an intern quickly came running with my regular rider: bottled water, fresh fruit, and coffee. Lots of coffee. “Thank you, Jane,” I said, flashing her a smile.
She blinked, looking surprised I even knew her name. But I make it a rule never to be an asshole to the assistants. They’re the ones who make my day bearable, and I hate those wankers who think that just because they make the A-list, they can treat people like shit.
“I, um, thank you, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Jax, please.”
She blushed harder. “OK . . . Jax.”
“And Jane? If you keep these coffees coming, I’ll love you forever.”
“Yes, Mr.— Jax.” She rushed out, almost bumping into the first interviewer—someone from Entertainment Weekly. I quickly checked my phone to remind myself who the reporter was—and what they’d written about my last movie. That was the other thing I liked to do, so I knew what they were interested in, and could have a real conversation—instead of repeating the same old lines all over again.
This one was a Jane Austen junkie—and I’d heard from my actor buddies that she liked getting personal. Very personal.
“It’s been a busy year for you,” the reporter said, crossing her legs slowly, her voice sultry.
“I’ve been very lucky,” I said. “Great opportunities have come my way.”
“It’s more than just luck, isn’t it?” she cooed. “Your Oscar nomination last year really put you on the map.”
It had been a war drama that I had been damn proud of. My first real, serious acting gig after years of paying my dues playing second fiddle to action stars and being the best friend in romantic comedies. It had been a supporting role, but it had been a good one, and I couldn’t believe it when I’d heard my name announced on the nomination shortlist.
I hadn’t won, but I didn’t mind at all. One day, that trophy would be mine.
“It was a really special part,” I told her. “I was grateful to have the opportunity to work with such an acclaimed director.”
“And now you’re reteaming to work on a new adaptation of Pride and Prejudice,” she commented, leaning forward and showing off some impressive cleavage. I did my best not to look.
“When Declan Rogers calls, you answer,” I said.
The war drama had been Declan’s first big feature and it had been a risk. He had a gritty, edgy style, and Stella had warned me that it might not go anywhere. But during my audition, we got along like gangbusters and I could see that he knew what he was doing. I trusted him, and so far, he hadn’t steered me wrong
.
“So what drew you to Mr. Darcy?” she asked. “He’s an iconic character, and those are some big boots to fill.”
“Britches, more like,” I quipped, and she laughed.
“No, the truth is, I wasn’t really familiar with the role before Declan reached out. But when I sat down and read the book, I saw what an incredible part this is. Darcy is someone who’s pulled between duty and love, trying to resist Elizabeth while also painfully aware of the social structures of the era . . .”
The reporter looked surprised, but quickly started taking notes. At first, that used to piss me off, how everyone expected me to be some dumb pretty-boy, reciting scripts I knew nothing about, but after a while, I realized it was an opportunity. They would always walk into the room with low expectations, but I had the chance to change their minds, and show them that I cared about my work.
I was lucky to be there, and I wasn’t going to forget it.
The next few hours were a blur. All of the reporters started to look the same, and I was doing my best to keep my answers fresh and interesting, which wasn’t easy.
“Who are you dating?”
“What do you think of your reputation?”
“What do your parents think about your reputation?”
I tried to make it clear that the tabloids weren’t an accurate representation of my life. That they exaggerated. That I was young and dating, but I wasn’t as cavalier with women as people were led to believe. And my parents wanted me to be happy.
That last part, of course, was complete and utter bollocks. My parents had no interest in my happiness. I was pretty sure it was because they didn’t even remember what the sensation felt like. They were both motivated by revenge and reputation. Those were the two things they cared about, and happiness never really mattered with either.
They were the whole reason I made that promise with Penny all those years ago. To marry a friend had always seemed like the best option. I wanted a family—at some point—but it seemed like a foolish idea to make such an important lifelong decision based on something as unstable as love. Friendship was solid. Love wasn’t.