Hooker (L.A. Liaisons Book 2)

by Brooke Blaine

  What…the…

  I toed my way around the papers littering the floor. “Did I miss something? What’s going on?”

  Nicole gave me a glare so frigid I was surprised icicles didn’t pop out of her eyeballs. “Where the hell have you been? Your line has been ringing off the hook, and I don’t have time to take your messages all day long. I have rather important things to do.”

  “Where have I been?”

  “That’s what I just said,” she sneered. “Val’s freaking out, and we’ve been calling you. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Calling me? But my phone hasn’t—” Wait…where was my phone? I hadn’t seen it all morning, come to think of it. Surely I didn’t leave it yesterday in—

  Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitballs.

  My.

  Fucking.

  Pants.

  My eyes closed as I took a deep breath and counted to five. Will deal with that later. When I opened my eyes, Nicole was sweeping the mess on her desk into a pile.

  “You mind giving me a heads-up?” I asked, but I may as well have been Patrick Swayze talking to Demi Moore in Ghost with the way she ignored me. I mean, hello? Who ignores Patrick Swayze when he’s trying to get your attention? Sighhh. Best movie ever. But I digress.

  When I still didn’t get Nicole’s attention, I smacked down on the stack of papers she was lifting. “Speak clearly and in complete sentences. What. Is. Going. On?”

  Nicole huffed, and the escaped tendrils of hair covering her face flew up, as if they knew to get the hell out of her way. “Do you not read the news? Ace Locke is back on the market. Val’s going nuts trying to snag him for our new campaign.”

  A laugh chock-full of “yeah right” came out of my throat then, but it was cut off quickly when I caught a glimpse of her no-bullshit expression. “Wait, you’re serious? Ace Locke? As in…the actor that only dates supermodels?”

  Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “No. The Ace that is starring in the biggest action blockbuster series of the last decade who also happens to be drop-dead gorgeous and currently in Celebrity Weekly’s top fifty bachelors in the world issue. That Ace Locke.”

  You’ve gotta be kidding me. This was a little too coincidental after yesterday’s conversation with the girls.

  “Uh…what makes Val think she could possibly land supermodel guy for our little agency?” I asked.

  “Only the fact that she met him at a party last week and he expressed interest in our ‘little’ services. Seriously, how do you not know this already? What is it you do all day long?” She snatched the papers out from underneath my hand and click-clacked her heels back to the fax machine.

  “Shayne! Is she here yet? Where the fuck is Shayne?” my boss’s voice thundered down the hall, and it had Nicole and Jenna freezing and looking in my direction.

  Yep. That was my cue. I flew past them, tossing my bag on my neatly organized desk as I went by. It was the only thing organized about this place this morning.

  The door was wide open, with Val holding court in the center of her enormous corner office, a bubblegum-pink dress in her hands held out as far away from her body as she could manage, as if she wouldn’t deign to touch it.

  I cleared my throat as I stepped inside. “I’m here, madame. What is your will?”

  Val’s shrewd, heavily lined eyes focused on me. “Don’t be cute with me, little Juliet. I need you to please tell Xander that I will not be wearing this pink monstrosity he picked out for me for the dinner tomorrow because it makes me look like a giant vagina.” She whipped her head back to Xander. “Is that what you want? For me to look like a worn-out, flappy pussy? I should fire you.” She tossed the dress into a heaping pile of clothes on the floor. “Next!”

  I stayed close to the exit and watched as our poor man of the office rummaged through the rack of clothes for a more flattering option. “Does this dinner have anything to do with trying to land playboy of the year?”

  “Ah, look whose brain decided to come to the cocktail party,” Val said, waving her hand at the next ensemble option. “Yes, Ace will be coming to dinner, where I’ll be doing some heavy-duty…convincing.”

  I wasn’t about to ask what her version of heavy-duty convincing entailed. She was licking her lips in a way that said exactly what was running through her head.

  Ew.

  Val snatched the red sequined gown Xander proffered and held it up. “What do you think, Shayne? Cherry-poppin’ red for his first night?”

  “Gorgeous. But do you really think this is a good idea? I hardly think a guy who drapes himself in Sports Illustrated models is looking for a serious—”

  “Stop.” Val’s heels pounded on the hardwood as she sauntered over to me, her hips throwing off a bunch of Jessica Rabbit, screaming confidence, both sexual and otherwise.

  With the point of her blood-red nail, she lifted my chin up and assessed my face as though she were checking for wrinkles. From the way her skin remained blemish free, even as she tipped the fifty scale, I got the feeling she assumed this position with her Botox injector often. “You don’t actually doubt my abilities, do you?”

  “No—”

  “And don’t you think he would be a fabulous little fuck to plaster all over the billboards of Los Angeles?”

  “He would, but—”

  Her lips curved into a wicked smile. “And doesn’t director of client relations have such a sexy ring to it? Shayne Callahan, director of client relations. Hmm. A step up from matchmaking coordinator, don’t you think?”

  Director? Me? Yesssssssssss! Long-awaited promotion, here I come.

  “Of course, if I don’t land this account, that won’t be possible. Such a shame. You really are quite talented. Now,” she said, dropping my chin, “I need to choose an ensemble that’ll make him come in his pants.” Then she called over her shoulder to Xander, “And not the pink taco.”

  * * *

  AFTER HELPING VAL pick out a dress that properly showcased her assets, I headed to my work area. The chaos up front had died down a bit, but Nicole’s laugh rang out every now and again, and it was enough to make your ears bleed. I’m not kidding. Have you ever heard pigs squealing toward an orgasm? Me either, but I imagine that’s what it would sound like. The other tenants on the floor had sent the building manager so many noise complaints regarding her laugh that it was shocking she didn’t get slapped with a restraining order for assaulting everyone’s eardrums.

  And that was only one reason I wanted to muzzle her.

  Even with just a clear privacy divider and no door, the square office that comprised my work area still felt like a safe haven of sorts. The rug was black flokati, the chairs an ebony and white damask that had been my favorite design for years. To my right was a small window view of downtown, and behind me, a black wall with a collage of wedding announcements and invitations from couples I’d worked with. And my favorite thing in the office—the new amethyst-colored desk Ryleigh had gotten Hunter to make for me as a birthday gift a couple of months ago. It was adorned weekly with fresh calla lilies, courtesy of my visits to the flower market a few streets over.

  The office itself was an homage to the city—I’d found everything in the fashion district on super sale, and I could never resist buying local, especially when it was a bargain. If you’re going to spend the majority of your time at work, you may as well make the space you inhabit pretty, no?

  After powering up my computer and kicking off my joggers—yes, commuting required those if I actually wanted to be able to walk—I traded them in for a pair of work flats. I rarely ever wore heels, and not just because I was tall. After all my super-embarrassing run-ins, I’m sure you can guess why.

  Scrolling through my email, I starred the ones with the subject line “Ask the Matchmaker” so I could come back to those when I started my weekly column. I responded to the rest in a matter of minutes, mostly requests from local media for Val, as well as advertising proposals, which I redirected to Jenna to deal with.

  My phone buzze
d.

  “Yes, Nicole?”

  “Your nine o’clock is here.”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s eight fifteen.”

  “So?”

  I sighed. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Clicking open the eager client’s file, I made a note: Forty-five minutes early. Prompt in L.A. traffic or overenthusiastic due to desperation?

  As I headed toward the front desk, I noticed the frazzled energy had further dropped to a simmer and the mess was cleaned up. The man sitting in one of the fine white Italian leather pavilion chairs that Val had picked up on vacation last year had a head of slicked-back inky hair, a finely pressed suit, and a superior smile on his face.

  Oh God. I knew the type right off. Please don’t let this guy hit on me. Not this early in the morning. My hangover can’t take it.

  I forced a pleasant smile on my face and held out my hand to introduce myself. His eyes roamed up and down my body, and his hand lingered a little too long on mine. His body language screamed “too confident,” but his limp, clammy handshake said quite another thing.

  “Miss Shayne Callahan, I was expecting an interview, not a date.”

  His smile broadened, and I was instantly blinded by the bleach job he must’ve paid his dentist thousands of dollars for. It was harder than it should’ve been to keep from squinting.

  “This is definitely just an interview. Please follow me, Mr. Harburger.”

  As I turned, I shot a death glare at Nicole, who sat there with an innocent look on her face. No doubt the little twatbag had scheduled this one on purpose. Screening coordinator, my ass. If you couldn’t tell, we had a hate-hate relationship going on. She routinely sabotaged me with clients that weren’t a good fit for HLS, and there was not one thing I could do about it. Not to mention there was the God-awful hyena laugh. It was enough to drive you batty.

  I could feel my backside burning from the holes the eyes of the greasy Hamburger—as I now thought of him—were boring into it. He was exactly the kind of guy that kept me from wanting to date or ever put anything on besides sweatpants. But, shocking as it was, there would probably be a perfect match out there for him—and I would have to find her. God help us all.

  “Have a seat. You’re early, so we’ll go over your application together, if that’s all right with you.” I motioned to the chair in front of my desk and took my seat behind it before maximizing his online profile once again.

  “I’d love to tackle this thing together.”

  I suppressed a groan and kept my eyes on my screen, frowning when I reached the section describing his background.

  “It says here you’re twice divorced, no children. We have a strict policy regarding divorced clients—no more than one previous marriage. I also see that you’re a friend of Val, which explains why she overrode that policy.” And explained a lot about the kind of people Val associated with, didn’t it?

  “Yes, well, I made a generous donation to her last business venture, so you could say I’m calling in a favor from a friend.”

  “Of course. So, Mr. Ham—Harburger, could you tell me what it is you’re looking for in a potential partner?”

  He studied my face for a moment before answering.

  “Well, I don’t mind a feisty redhead with grey eyes,” he said, his eyes scanning down. “Thin. Mid to late twenties, preferably.”

  And wearing black trousers with a white collared shirt like mine too, no doubt.

  “That’s a bit specific.”

  “I’m sure you can find someone who fits the bill. I hear you’re the best.”

  Ignoring his advance, I continued with my questions. “According to your application, you’re seeking a female with a steady job…no kids…common interests would include traveling, wine tastings, sailing, and…sex.”

  “Saved the most important for last.” He winked at me.

  I glanced again at his age. Fifty-four. He should probably add shopping and sugar daddies to that list. I decided to play a hunch.

  “Mr. Harburger, when was your last relationship?”

  “Well, I’ve never been a big relationship kinda guy—”

  “Then can I ask why you’re wasting my time?”

  The smile left his face. “Pardon me?”

  I leaned forward and clasped my hands together. “From what I’ve gathered about you in just the short amount of time we’ve had together, it seems as though you’re looking for something a bit more casual than what our company offers. I understand you have a personal tie to our CEO, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  I got the feeling it took a lot to shock the man, and I’d succeeded—he looked flabbergasted. I was normally a bit more patient, but my head was throbbing, my schedule was full, and I wasn’t in the mood today for time wasters.

  Peeling off a large sticky note, I scribbled the names of a couple of escort services that catered to his crowd and handed it to him as I stood.

  “These will be more helpful to you in your search. Make sure to let them know I sent you.”

  He briefly looked at it and shook his head, anger boiling beneath the surface if the under-the-collar flush was anything to go by. “Unfuckingbelievable. Is Val here? She’s going to have your ass when she hears about this.”

  “Val is out of the office for the day, but I’ll be sure to give her that message.”

  “The hell you will. I’ll be giving her a call now, so you might want to start packing your desk, Red.”

  “That won’t be necessary. You see, our company caters to those looking for long-term relationships, not casual sex. I was going to invite you to come back once you’d decided you were ready for more than a fling, but I’ve just changed my mind. Now, you can exit the way you came, or I can have our security guard escort you out.” I gave a nonchalant shrug. “Your choice.”

  He crumpled the paper in his hands and then thought better of it, sticking it in his pocket instead. I stood there, unblinking as he turned on his heel, muttering obscenities. Once I heard the front door slam, I made my way to Nicole’s desk.

  She was chatting with what sounded like a friend on the main line—a stark difference to her demeanor than when I’d come in earlier—so I reached around her and hit the button to end the call.

  “Hey!” She whirled around in her chair.

  I bent down and placed my hands on her armrests, my voice low. I hadn’t worked for a no-nonsense boss like Val for years and not learned anything, even if my ballsy side rarely came out.

  “You are not irreplaceable. You pull a stunt like that again, and I’ll make sure the only job you can get is scrubbing the loos at Taco Bell. You got that?”

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  “Filter. The. Applications. Say ‘Yes, Shayne’ if you understand.”

  “Yes, Shayne.”

  “Are there any other whack jobs coming in today that I should know about?”

  She shook her head.

  “And if by some chance there was, you’d go ahead and cancel them or risk Val’s wrath?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course.”

  “Glad we understand each other.” I straightened up and headed back to my desk, not even bothering to stop when I heard her mutter “bitch.”

  * * *

  THE REST OF the day passed uneventfully compared to the first interview.

  My second prospect was a sweet woman in her mid-thirties looking for a decent guy who could not only keep a job but keep his pants zipped. Easy enough.

  My one thirty went a little something like this:

  “Mr. Fisher, you wrote that you enjoy photography, collecting rare coins, and taphophilia.” I furrowed my brow. “I’m not familiar with what that is. Could you tell me a bit about it?”

  “It’s a term for those of us who enjoy and are passionate about cemeteries and graveyards. We call ourselves ‘tombstone tourists.’ I’ve got a website devoted to the gravesites of all the famous celebrities buried in Los Angeles for the last sixty years if you wanna check it
out. Gets about ten thousand hits a day.”

  I blinked.

  “And you would like to find someone who shares those interests…?”

  And my three o’clock:

  “What I’m really looking for is someone outside of the entertainment industry. And preferably not a lawyer, either. I’ve had bad experiences with those.” The woman flipped her platinum locks and pulled the strap of her brand-name purse back onto her shoulder. “Someone with a respectable job. But not anyone in the medical field, since they work too many hours. Not a cop, either, that’s too dangerous; I don’t want to worry every day like that. Oh, and no army guys. I don’t want to relocate anywhere, and I’ve heard they have a girlfriend on every continent from what my friends have said…”

  By the time six thirty came around, I was beat. I’d made complete profiles for all the candidates (bar the Hamburger), put together a few potential matches for each, and even scheduled a first meeting for taphophilia guy with a woman I’d met that worked at her family’s funeral home.

  So there you go—a successful day in the life of a full-time matchmaker. Glamorous, I know. Are you starting to see why being a single girl in the city is the smart idea?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Meals for One

  THURSDAY NIGHT AND there I was again. It wasn’t like I planned these things. They just…happened. Just happened four weeks in a row now, so this was starting to border on pathetic. Actually, pathetic would be having to escape my cramped apartment to avoid the rich-bitch reality show marathon my twin roommate pains in the ass had blaring in the living room.

  After my longtime roomie had moved in with her boyfriend a couple of years ago, I’d been desperate to find someone to make up the other half of the rent, and damn if I didn’t get a two-for-one deal straight from Miami. Just out of high school, super mouthy, and with a wardrobe that consisted solely of glitter bikinis—you can probably guess I couldn’t wait to get the hell away from the Doublemint twins.