by T Gephart
#1 Lie
Published by T Gephart
Copyright 2018 T Gephart
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover by:
Hang Le
Editing by:
Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing Services
Interior Design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
Contents
#1 LIE
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by this Author
To the women who checked in, emailed, texted, messaged me. I don’t know what I would have done without you, this book is for you.
I HAD A DREAM.
Not like a Martin Luther King kind of dream—Lord, don’t get too excited. But a dream nonetheless, and a girl had to start somewhere.
Born in Shreveport, Louisiana, the less sexy cousin of New Orleans, excitement didn’t come easy. And while our city didn’t have the allure or craziness that Bourbon Street offered, Shreveport had the third largest film industry right behind California and New York.
Yep, you heard that right.
We were number three.
And I wasn’t sure how, but I wanted in on that.
All through high school, those film trucks rolled into town. And while I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, the sight of a new production crew setting up would make my excitement spike. Other girls dreamt of hooking up with the leading man but I had another fantasy that kept me up at night.
And no, I didn’t want to be an actress.
Please, the good Lord had a hard enough time directing me, so there was no hope a mortal man could.
Plus, while I wasn’t ugly by anyone’s standards, my auburn hair, porcelain complexion and small frame didn’t exactly scream Hollywood material. I swear I must have been the only person in L.A. who wouldn’t have a tan.
I wanted something different, to be part of the noise in another way. And I knew that if I wanted to be involved at a grassroots level, then I’d have to go to where number one was.
California.
Try telling your Southern Baptist parents you want to skip town and move out west. Yeah, that conversation was fun. You’d have thought I was confessing to joining a cult, to become one of the many wives to a serial killer with bad teeth and even worse personal hygiene. Ewww, just because you’re a sociopath doesn’t mean you can’t visit a dentist every six months and have a shower once a day.
But all of that aside, my relocation of course had them horrified. So we compromised, I agreed to stick around through college—LSU as previously attended by most of my family—and then if I didn’t change my mind they would give me their blessing.
Spoiler alert. I didn’t change my mind.
So with my communications degree in hand—and the thirty million prayers uttered by my parents—I moved to Hollywood, landing an assistant job with Jeremy Levin, one of the biggest agents in town.
Crazy.
I know what you’re thinking, that I’d slept my way to the amazing job opportunity. How else could a girl with zero experience end up working for such a prestigious company? Well, save your judgment. I was a lot of things, but whore wasn’t one of them. I was brilliant and able to handle chaotic while still maintaining a smile; they had no choice but to hire me. And I may have embellished my resume. But a few little white lies never hurt anyone, right?
And over the last four years, those tiny lies had faded into insignificance because, despite what I hadn’t done, I was an amazing assistant.
Life was awesome.
Or at least it was, until it wasn’t.
“Shit.”
Like a Martha Stewart version of anthrax, a million tiny foil hearts exploded onto my desk as I opened the envelope. I didn’t need to read the ivory linen cardstock to know what it was, the panic setting in before the tiny hearts had a chance to settle.
It was my cousin Lana’s wedding invitation, and I was in a shitload of trouble.
It wasn’t that I hated my cousin or her future husband; in fact I loved every member of my family. And I was genuinely happy for Lana and Clay. My issue wasn’t even with the institution of marriage, hoping some day—when the time was right and I found the perfect guy—I too would take the walk down the aisle.
No, the chill that travelled down my spine was from additional script that would undoubtedly be written next to mine.
I took a deep breath, hoping a serious and freaky unexplained case of amnesia had rocked the entire state of Louisiana as my fingers slid out the invitation. Or maybe Lana and Clay decided they were going to be cheap and keep the numbers down.
But no, there it was, my worst fears confirmed in embossed gold lettering.
Jessica plus one.
Double shit.
My head shook as I evaluated my stupidity, wondering how someone who was at the top of her game in her professional life could have made such an epic misstep.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t such a mystery.
The reason I was staring at plus one instead of just my name was because I hadn’t wanted to disappoint my gran.
Shelly McClain—my gran—wasn’t an inch over five-feet tall and weighed less than a hundred pounds. I was a carbon copy of her when she was younger—although I’d gained four more inches on her height and at least twenty more pounds—inheriting her fiery personality. She was never without her signature bright pink lipstick, balanced perfectly on high heels even though she needed a walking frame and swore like a sailor whenever the Saints took the field.
And those weren’t even half of all the reasons why she was my most favorite person in the world.
For the last four years I had called her every other week religiously, possibly even more than my own parents. I’d tell her about the people I’d met and the places I’d been, and she would tell me about the new Catholics who had moved in down the street. They were from New Jersey, and she didn’t trust northerners.
So naturally, when I was summoned home with news of Gran on her deathbed, I was inconsolable. I would have done or said whatever I had to in order to guarantee the woman I had loved and admired my whole life would be able to rest in peace.
And her dying wish was to know I had found my soul mate.
Out of eleven grandkids, I was the only one who hadn’t been tied to a significant other. Dated a pl
enty sure, but settle down? Um, no.
Looking for a man to be my “forever” wasn’t a priority, at twenty-six, I had plenty of time for that. But as I looked into her pale blue eyes, the grey lashes that framed them straining to stay open, I did something I never thought I was ever capable of.
I lied to my gran.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t lied before, generally speaking I had no problem with a few little white lies, and at work it was an almost daily occurrence. Hell, in Hollywood it was harder to come by honesty than it was to find real freaking boobs.
And while most of the lies I’d told could be fixed by a few Hail Mary’s, this one was on a whole other level. Lying to my family was something I’d never done. I was positive I was going to burn in Hell for it, but I did what I had to do. And I’d take eternal damnation if it meant Gran would go happy.
And as my fingers caressed her frail pale hand, I whispered tales of a man who made my heart stop. Filled her head with fiction on how wonderful he was, kind, considerate, funny. I spun untruths of his incredible talent, love for his family and how amazingly handsome he was—all the things I knew she would want to hear. And as the wrinkles around her eyes crinkled and a faint smile spread across her lips, I didn’t have it in me to stop.
By the end, I had almost convinced myself of my mystery man’s existence and was almost disappointed he wasn’t real. Spared from giving his name because she was too tired to keep her eyes open any longer.
Although it seemed her meeting with Jesus would have to wait, with the Heavenly Father insisting Gran needed to be on earth a little longer. It was either a miracle, or Gran was just too stubborn to die. And knowing her, my money was on the latter.
But with this seriously awesome reprieve came the realization of what I had done. The tiny lie I assumed would have no consequences ended up biting me in the butt. And now, with my cousin’s wedding next month, I was either going to have to fess to what I had done, or find a solution.
And confessing wasn’t an option.
My family was loud and boisterous; they loved hard and were loyal to a fault. Things were more straight forward for them. It was either black or white, good or bad—there were never any shades of grey. You worked your ass off, you lived well and you went to church on Sundays. But making up stories of fictional boyfriends to tell your dying grandma? Well, I might as well have killed her myself and rode through town wearing her head as a hat. Slightly dramatic but no less accurate.
No.
I couldn’t tell them the truth.
There had to be another solution. One that allowed me to somehow emerge from this relatively unscathed and not be disowned by my family.
I refused to admit defeat.
Besides, I was a girl who could get things.
And when I said things, I meant anything.
While my job title was Assistant to Jeremy Levin, my real role was in procurement.
Whether it was finding a director who was shooting in the Siberian Tundra, a rare bottle of wine in the cellar of a forgotten French vineyard, or an elephant—I was your girl. There was no challenge too great, with the thrill of it giving me a reason to get up in the morning.
Sure, I did boring stuff like set meetings and answer phone calls, but underneath my cute pencil skirt and business jacket, I wore a superhero cape.
This was what I was born to do, and Jeremy—who took the lion’s share of the praise—knew exactly how hard I worked, rewarding me handsomely for my efforts.
So instead of hyperventilating at my desk like a loser, I needed to treat it the way I would if this were someone else’s problem dropped into my lap with the directive to “fix it.”
“Jessica, you get those tickets for the Laker’s game?” Jeremy’s head popped out of his office. “I want courtside and a late dinner reservation at—”
I waved the envelope in my hand, stopping him from finishing his sentence.
The envelope wasn’t the one housing the offending wedding invitation—its vision in my periphery making me nauseous—it was the other one that had been sitting on my desk since ten a.m., exactly an hour after he’d mentioned he might like to take a client out this Friday.
“Courtside.” I watched as he strode over to me, taking the envelope from my hand and checking the tickets inside. “And you have a reservation at ten for Madres. Back corner table as always,” I added, not missing a beat.
His smile was slight but apparent as he tapped the envelope on his palm. “Good.”
“Also, your anniversary is Saturday.” I stood up from my desk and handed him a red gift bag. “You bought Hilary a pair of Cartier diamond earrings, and there’s a suite booked for the two of you at the Beverly Wilshire.”
Stress spread across his face as he looked to the bag dangling from his fingers in horror and then back to me. “Are you fucking with me, Jessica? My anniversary is next week.”
“That would be a negative, Jeremy.” I shook my head, remembering last year when his wife had tried to surprise him. She’d organized Pierre Moreau, a famed chef, to come to their house and cook them dinner. Jeremy not realizing the significance of the date had blown her off and had dinner with a client. They were still in couples counseling. “Your anniversary is Saturday and Hilary will have your balls if you forget another one.”
Ordinarily the words “fuck” and “balls” were frowned upon in the workplace. Even a misplaced “ass” would get you a visit to HR. But working with Levin Murphy Talent Agency had taught me that there was nothing ordinary about my job. Not only did we bend the boundaries of acceptable workplace conversation, but half the things that came out of my mouth were either seasoned with well-chosen expletives or full of shit. The ability to be a proficient liar was necessary when you worked in the entertainment industry, and clearly I was pathological.
His hand tightened around the gift bag, nodding his head. “Fuuuuuuck. She would not only have my balls but she’d have our friends at Cartier make them into a necklace to match the earrings.” He leaned across my desk, the look of gratitude easing across his features. “I owe you. Go out and get yourself something and charge it to my account. Just don’t get too crazy and buy a car or yacht. And dinner is on me tonight. Pick anywhere you want and we’ll go out, my treat.”
“Thanks for the offer of dinner, but I have plans tonight.” I looked down at my desk, the menacing invitation not forgotten. I figured it was going to take at least one evening to come up with a solution.
While augmenting the truth was fine in my professional dealings, it wasn’t cool when it came to my family. Maybe I’d been in Hollywood too long, my dad had always worried I’d end up worshiping the Devil.
“And I am going to need some time off next month to attend my cousin’s wedding in Shreveport. Just a few days, four at the most.”
He screwed up his face, giving me the same look of distaste he always did when we talked about the other LA. “Awesome, you’re heading back to the armpit of America, how exciting for you.”
“My family is there, and it’s not so bad.” I smirked, unsurprised by his response.
“Yeah, not so bad if you don’t like civilization,” he scoffed. “Please tell me your cousin isn’t marrying another cousin.”
I laughed, well versed in most people’s skewed view of the South. While some of us were a bunch of backward hicks who rode in pickup trucks with missing teeth, that wasn’t always the case. Although, my cousin Trevor was once arrested drunk while in his underwear shopping for toilet paper in Big Lots. But that wasn’t because he was from the South, that was because he was stupid. There was one in every family.
And while I could bat my blue eyes and bless-your-heart as much as anyone, I had toned it down since moving to L.A.
“No, you’ll be happy to know they are unrelated. I’ll be sure to give them your best. I can probably wrangle you and Hilary an invite so you can see for yourself. I’m sure y’all would looooooove it.” I let my accent thicken on the last part.
He bar
ked out a laugh before turning serious. “Yeah, I’d rather slam my dick in a car door. But you enjoy Shitport, just don’t get any wild ideas about moving back. I know your parents hate that you live here and will put the hard word on you. And I don’t want to have to go down there to drag you back, you know I hate gators unless they’ve been turned into luggage.”
“My life is in this L.A., I’m not moving back.” I rolled my eyes, tempted to give him a heart attack and tell him I was considering it. “And the last time I was there my grandma was about to die, it was natural my folks tried to talk me into staying.”
He shook his head, taking a step back. “Yeah, sure whatever. Go, enjoy your hick wedding and schedule Katrina to cover for you while you’re gone.” He nailed me with a hard look as he paused in the hall. “But tell her that if she cries like she did last time, I’m going to hire a fucking temp.”
“Roger that.” I saluted, watching him again retreat to his office.
Katrina was not only one of our secretaries, but she was also one of my best friends. She was dying to be promoted, wanting more excitement than her admin job gave her. But as much as I loved her, I wasn’t sure she was ready for the 24/7 that came with being an assistant.
Still, I’d let her fill in for me whenever I needed cover, hoping to help her aspirations along. Sadly, Jeremy wasn’t too fond of her, finding her too chatty and emotional. God forbid anyone show human traits. He only forgave mine because I could think on my feet and pull his ass out of a fire.
So while she was more than competent to do the work, her downfall was her inability to deal with the stress involved in our day-to-day. The last time, one yelling client later and she was in tears in the bathroom. Which is why you needed to not only be qualified to work at Levin Murphy, but to have nerves of steel as well. Something that would hopefully serve me well if I ended up hiring an escort to be my date for the wedding.
Okay, that was a terrible idea.
I really needed to work on it some more.
“Hey, Jess.”
While there was nothing sexual about the words, his voice curled around my name erotically all the same. Then again, it wasn’t like he could help it; sex appeal was so deeply ingrained in his double helix, it was as much a part of him as those gorgeous chocolate-colored eyes.