A-List F*ck Club: Part 3
Page 1
Table of Contents
❤️READER NOTE❤️
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Also by Frankie Love
About the Author
A-List F*ck Club
Part 3
Frankie Love
Contents
❤️READER NOTE❤️
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Also by Frankie Love
About the Author
❤️READER NOTE❤️
Thank you for reading Part 3 of A-LIST F*CK CLUB!
I decided to serialize this story as it is a format I enjoy reading and writing.
I hope you do as well!
Each part of the story is about 15,000 words and there are 4 parts in all—just wanted to make sure everyone knows what to expect … and yes—there are cliffies in each part!
#sorrynotsorry!
xo, frankie
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Copyright © 2017 by Frankie Love
Edited By:
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1
When my mom died, I remember my daddy pulling me to him as we sat in the hospice room. Our tears streaked our cheeks, even though we knew the moment was coming. Even though we knew she was finally free of the pain that had wracked her body for so long.
I hated that we were there in that sterile room, and not at the farm. The place where she got married, where she gave birth to me, where she planted her flower garden every spring. My mother always smelled like honeysuckle—but there, in that room, the fragrance that will forever remind me of her was missing. There was nothing about my mother in that place.
It only smelled like death.
I haven’t cried the way I cried for her back then in any of the years since her passing.
But then again, I haven’t been confronted with death since she took her final breath.
Grandma is getting older, but she’s still hanging on to the land of the living, and I’m doing my damnedest to work here in LA so that we’ll have enough money for in-home care for her before she passes. So that when she leaves this life, her perfumed sheets will be covering her, and her eyes will linger on the whitewashed walls of her childhood.
I’m crying now. Crying the way I did those years ago when we buried my mom, confronted with the fragility of life once again. Holding on to a man I barely know, but who has somehow been thrust into my life.
At the place where Sawyer jumped, we watch as police cars and fire trucks surround the blocked bridge. Helicopters are in the air, reporting the death of a major Hollywood celebrity.
They haven’t found his body, but they found his clothes and his watch. There is a man here, stating he saw the jumper as he was driving, and that he called 911 straight away.
Cal has covered his mouth with his hand, unable to absorb the shock of this reality.
And when Sawyer Bennet’s parents arrive, they embrace Callahan the same way my daddy embraced me all those years ago. Through tears, Sawyer’s mother clings to Cal, as if unable to let go because he is the closest thing to a son that she has left in the world.
My heart, it breaks for them, knowing there is nothing anyone can do to blot out their pain.
There is nothing to do but weep for a life that is lost.
2
The next few weeks pass in a blur. Sawyer’s parents hold an incredible private service, only his family and I are there, and I understand.
A suicide is not like someone going softly in the night.
It carries a weight none of us are prepared for.
And there is no body, nothing to bury, nothing to burn—except for the flame of his memory. Goddammit, I’ll hold onto it for the rest of my goddamned life.
He was a brother to me, the only family I had left.
Now?
I’m fucking alone.
And increasingly obsessed with finding the person who took those photos, that video. The person responsible for pushing Sawyer over the mother fucking edge.
Jordan shows up at my place in the middle of the afternoon, carrying a file box, wanting to get to the bottom of this as badly as I do.
Sawyer had his doubts about Jordan, and maybe I’m a fucking fool to trust him after everything, having nothing to go off of but a gut feeling—but hell, if I can’t trust my gut, what can I trust?
“Any leads?” I ask as he eyes me with pursed lips. I’m wearing sweats and a hoodie, nursing coffee with a hefty amount of Jameson. “Because I keep googling the fucking Russian mob in LA and I gotta say, the dirt I can find isn’t as incriminating as I’d like it to be.”
Jordan snorts. “You aren’t going to find shit on the internet, Cal.”
I ball my hand in a fist and punch my open palm. “I’m going fucking crazy here, Jordan. I don’t need an answer right this moment, but a fucking lead would be helpful.”
Jordan raises his hands in defeat. “Man, I get it. This is all pretty messed up, but—”
I cut him off. “Messed up? Sawyer is dead because of the photos leaked at my club.” It’s not fair to lash out at Jordan, but dammit, I’ve been pacing my loft for days, trying to get a grip.
Just then a call from the ground floor comes through my intercom. “Cal? It’s me, Jules. Can I come up?”
I run my hands through my hair. I haven’t returned Jules’ calls in days. I’d feel bad, but I haven’t had time to think it through. My mind’s been on Sawyer and the people whose choices brought him to such a fucking desperate place.
I let her up, and Jordan looks at me with raised brows.
“What?” I say, defensive. “She was with me the day he died.”
Jordan shakes his head. “You owe me nothing. I just know you have about seventy employees that are hoping to keep their jobs.”
“We can’t open now.” I head to the coffee pot and refill my mug. “Not until we know.”
Jordan raises a folder he’s taken from the file box, showing me pictures of the men our private eyes have found; the men who came to club a few weeks ago and punched me. “We need to draw them out,” Jordan says. “Those thugs need some bait. We open, we tell people the owner will be there. They come, we search.”
I smirk. “Right, because they’ll do that willingly.”
Jordan tightens his jaw. “I never said willingly. I just said we’d do it. We haven’t involved the cops yet, and I know it’s the last thing we want to do—”
“I’m glad you know that because we aren’t going to. It’s not up for discussion.” The cops came sniffing around clubs like ours in the past—it always gets them press they didn’t want. I can pay for my own goddamn intel.
The elevator door opens, and Jules walks into our discussion.
“Everything okay?” she asks tentatively as the elevator closes behind her, glancing between Jordan and me. She’s wearing ripped blue jeans and a white tee-shirt. The simplest attire, but I swear even with California sunlight streaming
through my windows, this room hasn’t been this bright in a long ass time. Just looking at her calms me down, brings my anger from near boiling to a low simmer.
Jordan huffs. “As fine as it’s gonna be. Callahan just needs more time to recover from losing, you know...” He doesn’t say Sawyer’s name and regardless of Jules’ calming effect on me, I hate that he can’t say my oldest friend’s name.
“Sawyer,” Jules says. “Recover from losing Sawyer.” She walks into the loft and sets three casserole dishes down on the counter. “The thing is, Jordan, it’s not gonna happen anytime soon. Death changes you... and the Cal you used to know? He doesn’t exist anymore.”
Her words stun me. And it’s like she knows me better than I fucking know myself. I want her to stay by my side because for the first time since I lost my best friend, it’s as if I can breathe. She’s the fresh air I didn’t know I needed.
She sets her purse down on the counter next to the food that is making my stomach growl. I’ve been eating take-out for days. As she peels back a layer of foil she reveals a home cooked meal.
“Looks good,” Jordan says.
Jules smiles warmly at him. “I’d invite you to stay, but I’m only here for Cal. He’s been avoiding me, which I get,” she says throwing me a raised brow, “but he needs some TLC tonight.”
Jordan laughs. “Lucky man. I wouldn’t mind some TLC tonight myself.”
“Oh yeah?” Jules asks. “Are you seeing someone?”
I shake my head. “Yeah, ass-hat, when are you going to settle down?”
“I’m not settling for anything less than not one, but two supermodels. Anything other than that and I’d rather be alone.”
Jules meets my eyes and we share a smile. I need that smile.
Jordan puts the folder he’s holding back in the file box. “You know, you should take him away for a few days. Give him get a change of scenery. He needs to—”
“Don’t tell me what I need,” I tell him. But Jules nods, ignoring me entirely. She opens a cupboard door, closes it when she sees only stemware, and opens another where she pulls out two dinner plates. I watch her moving around as if she owns the place.
And for some reason, it feels damn good. Maybe I need to be taken care of. Maybe I just need Jules.
“It’s okay, Cal. He’s your boss. It’s his job to give you time off when you need it.”
I scoff at the pair of them, wondering when Jules became a fixture in my life that I don’t want to lose. Wasn’t I just saying I didn’t want anything serious?
“I’m not leaving the city,” I tell them.
Jules sighs. “If I could use my next three days off to go somewhere that would relax me... I’d go in a heartbeat. You’re crazy, Cal.”
I twist my lips, suddenly wanting to make her happy. Make her goddamn day. Make her mine. “And where would you go, Jules?” I ask, watching her dish up homemade mac and cheese and then add slices of meatloaf and green beans.
“Easy,” she answers. “Home.”
“Indiana is a long way from LA.”
“You didn’t say where I actually get to go. But dream-scenario, money’s-not-an-issue kind of fantasy? I’d go home and see the sunflowers in bloom.”
“Sunflowers?” I ask, raising a brow. I guess you can take the girl out of the country, but can’t take the country out of the girl.
“You should take her, Cal. Use the private jet and go breathe in that farm-fresh air.” He shrugs. “We can handle it back here.”
Jules squints, confused. “Private jet? What kind of bartender has a private—”
Jordan shakes his head. “Sorry.”
I wave him off. “It’s fine. She knows I come from money. Maybe it’s just not exactly clear on how much we’re talking about.”
Jules digs around in the silverware drawer and produces knives and forks. “Sounds like a make-believe life. Just jetting off whenever it strikes your fancy.”
“Nothing fancy about my best friend killing himself,” I tell her, sharper than I intended.
Jordan raises his eyes. “Exactly. You’re strung out as hell. Go breathe for a few days. We can talk when you come back.”
A part of me wonders if this was Jordan’s plan all along. Get me out of town so he can cover up his tracks. Fuck, maybe he is the reason all this has happened, and I hate not knowing who I can trust.
But then Jules hands me a plate of perfection, not hinting at annoyance that I haven’t called her back, or responded to her texts. She doesn’t acknowledge hurt feelings at all. It’s like she sees this isn’t about her.
And in the midst of all that— she bakes me a goddamn meatloaf. No one has ever done that for me before.
“Will you take me home?”
“Wow,” she says smiling softly. “You already want to go home and meet my daddy?”
“Daddy?”
She nods. “Yeah, also known as the greatest man I’ve ever known.”
“No pressure.”
She doesn’t placate me with words like you’re the best, you’re just as good—no. She just smiles at me, then at Jordan. “Right, no pressure. Just bring your A-game and don’t fuck it up.” She walks around me, her hands on my shoulders, working out my tension as she massages them.
Her word choices make me laugh. A laugh. The first laugh I’ve made since Sawyer died. I grab her arm, pull it in front of me, planting kisses from her wrist to her elbow.
Hearing her cuss sounds so foreign, especially when she comes off so innocent all the time, and damn, it makes me want to kiss more than her arm.
But then I remember our night in the Fuck Club... and I know there is more than innocence about Jules.
And I want to spend a few days discovering it all.
3
“Who is this guy, exactly?” Gretchen scowls at me, standing in the doorframe of my bedroom.
“Cal. Callahan. He’s the bartender at the A-List. And the guy who, um, you know.”
“Fucked your brains out?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Basically, yeah.”
“And you don’t even know his last name but you’re going to take a flight with him in his private jet. Doesn’t that sound sorta sketchy? I mean, what bartender has a private jet?”
I grab an extra bra and a few pairs of panties and throw them in my suitcase. “He comes from money. And the last name thing, yeah, I know that sounds kinda bad. I should know that by now. But it’s kind of awkward to text and be all, ‘BTW what’s your last name?’ Right?”
Collette moves Gretchen aside and walks into my room, plopping down on my bed with a bag of raw spinach in her hand. Danny has not so gently reminded us we have to stay slimmer than slim if we want to keep this gig up. Except for my cheat meal at Cal’s earlier. Meatloaf and green bean casserole aren’t exactly diet-approved.
“So, where are you going?” Collette asks, shoving spinach in her mouth like she’s a rabbit.
“She’s going on a rendezvous with her lover-boy.”
“You are going to have so much fun.” Collette groans, tossing the spinach aside. “I’m so jealous. Gah.”
Sighing, Gretchen falls onto the bed next to her. “I know, babe. This whole viral video has been a clusterfuck and so not the way our time in LA should have started.”
“It’s just stupid. The only reason we have the next three days off is because our photo shoot with Glamour was canceled. Apparently, I’m too controversial and I haven’t even started my career.”
I zip my suitcase, trying to figure out what to say to make my friends feel better. The truth is, there is no easy answer. They are now associated with tabloid scandals, and there is no going back once that’s happened. Their faces are no longer their own. They will forever be owned by those magazines.
“I’m glad that photo shoot was canceled. It gives us all a little breathing room... the past few weeks have been so rough. And I know you think I’m flying off to go have fun, but one, I’ll be under my dad’s roof. And two, Cal’s best friend jus
t killed himself. It’s more about him getting a chance to heal than it is about us having sexy times.”
Collette frowns. “Sweetie, no one says sexy times.”
“That’s what you got out of what I just said?” I roll my eyes. These girls are fun and all, but their priorities are seriously whack.
“No, I get it. It is insane what happened. The talk shows haven’t stopped playing clips of Sawyer. And his fake girlfriend keeps getting interviewed, and she’s milking it for all it’s worth.”
“That’s disgusting,” I say, unable to restrain my feelings. “I’m grateful for a paycheck, but God, I really hate this industry. Isn’t anyone worth more than a few good sound bites?”
Gretchen stands, tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. I think we’re playing a messy game whether we like it or not. And honestly, I’d do the same thing if I were in Sondra’s shoes. Those interviews she’s giving could pay for a villa in the South of France.”
I shake my head. “Maybe this game’s too dirty for my tastes.”
Collette shoves another handful of spinach in her mouth and raises an eyebrow. “Let’s see how you’re feeling after you go home and remember how badly your dad needs this money; until you see how your Gram’s holding up.”
Collette’s right, of course. She isn’t saying any of that to be mean... the truth is we all have a price. We all have a limit to what we’re willing to do in order to get what we want. I would never have believed that I’d pose in string bikinis for Sports Illustrated if you’d asked me a year ago. But then Gram got sick, we nearly lost the farm for the second time and my priorities changed.
Suddenly, I saw the world in a different light.
Facing it is hard, and everyone’s line in the sand is different.
I’m just not sure I want to know where my line is.
Sondra has decided giving bullshit interviews for a paycheck is worth the lies. Sawyer had decided a staged relationship was worth the studio’s favor. As for Gretchen and Collette and me?