Escorting the Actress (The Escort Collection Book 2)

by Leigh James

  I felt the stirrings of an erection, but I willed it to go away. When the time came, maybe I could try. If she'd felt what I'd felt back there, she wouldn't say no to me.

  They never said no to me.

  Don't get too far ahead of yourself, dude. This was Lowell Barton I was dealing with. She wasn't someone who gave in to her baser instincts. I'd tried many times to get her to drink her first beer at one of my parties—mostly as insurance that she wouldn't rat me out for having said party—but she'd always said no. I was sure she was curious about alcohol, and probably much more, but her caution and sense of responsibility had won out every time. She'd only gone on a bender last night because she'd had a damned good reason.

  I told my erection to forget it, so it withered away, baffled by the lack of instant gratification. I shoved the thoughts about my dick aside and checked the gossip sites on my phone as we drove home. XYZ already had tons of pictures of us posted, laughing and smiling, our arms wrapped around each other. The headline read: Lowell B Debuts Secret Boyfriend. Not a word in any of the headlines about her run-in with the cops, which was pretty amazing. I examined the pictures more closely. We looked excellent together, all muscles and white teeth and perfect grooming.

  We looked as if we belonged together, which, at one point, we sort of had—but not in the same way. I remembered the one picture I had from when our parents were married. In it, I was tall, reedy, and sulking, my arms crossed. Lo was smiling earnestly, braces glaring, her puffy face yearning to be pretty.

  The new pictures were a solid improvement.

  "Look," I said, showing the phone to her, "they love us. Even XYZ loves us."

  She took the phone, her brow furrowed as she looked at the screen. "That's because you were flirting with their reporter, and you told her we'd give her an exclusive."

  "It was a nice jacket," I said. "Vintage. And I never promised her a thing. It's all a part of my master plan."

  "Excuse me," Lo said, shoving the phone back into my hand, "but it's my master plan."

  I was going to argue, just for the fun of it, but my phone vibrated. It was a text message from Eric, my father's personal assistant. Call me immediately. My stomach dropped. The last time I'd received a message from Eric, it was because my father had frozen my bank accounts and cancelled all of my credit cards. I'd gone to the bank and tried to get money from my trust, but I was informed that the provisions had been changed and I wouldn't be seeing a dime of it in this lifetime.

  My palms broke out in a cold sweat. Can't talk now, I texted back.

  As soon as you can, Eric responded immediately.

  Great. Just fucking great. Just when I thought things might finally be looking up.

  * * *

  After Lo had agreed that I could stay—for now—and shown me back to the guest room, I took a deep breath and called Eric.

  "Kyle," he said, picking up before the phone even had a chance to ring, "your father's very unhappy with you right now."

  "What else is new?" I flopped down on the bed and tried to sound more casual than I felt.

  "Your girlfriend, apparently," Eric said.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Yes, you do. I have an alert set up online—any time your name is mentioned or your image is posted, I get a text."

  "Great," I said, wincing. .

  "So you know exactly who I'm talking about—that actress. Lowell Barton."

  "Mmhmmm. Yep. That's her, all right."

  "She's your stepsister," Eric said.

  I didn't know Eric personally, but I heard what clearly sounded like contempt in his voice. "My ex-stepsister. Emphasis on the ex."

  "You can't date your stepsister." Eric's voice was flat, non-negotiable.

  "I'm not dating her," I said, finally thinking of a way out. I was going to one-up my father for once.

  "What does that mean?" Eric asked.

  "Tell my father to ask me that himself," I snapped and hung up.

  I sat there and fumed for a minute until Lowell poked her head in. "You want a snack?"

  "And a drink," I said.

  "Okay," she said.

  "Okay." I followed her out of my room.

  She'd changed from her cocktail dress into a pair of sweats and an old Cal Tech sweatshirt. She'd scrubbed off her makeup and was barefoot. I could almost see the girl I'd known underneath the current-day babe. Almost.

  "What's the plan?" I asked, settling in on the couch. I gratefully accepted the glass of red wine she handed me. Thinking about my father could give me a headache like nobody's business.

  "Well… I had every intention of firing you when we got back here," Lo said, adjusting her feet on the coffee table.

  "That's not good."

  "It actually would have suited me fine." She yawned. "But then I looked online again. It isn't just XYZ gushing over you—it's all the sites. We got picked up by everyone. They loved you. In some of the articles, they were even being nicer about my puke-formance. Gigi and Shirley are in their glory."

  "And you think that's because of me? Because of my brilliant work earlier?" I asked, allowing myself to feel an echo of my former smugness.

  "I think it's because of me. Because of my brilliant plan, in which you are a mere pawn."

  "But I'm an awesome mere pawn. Admit it," I said.

  "I admit nothing."

  "That's not surprising." I swirled the wine around in my glass. "After all, you never admitted that you bashed in my face with that textbook." I laughed until I saw her face, which looked both ashamed and livid.

  "You just had to bring that up, didn't you?" She sat up straighter and took what looked like an aggressive sip of her wine. "I knew it wouldn't be long. But you know the truth—you deserved it. You actually deserved a lot worse. For a lot of things. You were lucky that I had proper Southern manners. And that I was a chicken shit most of the time."

  I bit my tongue. I wanted to argue with her. I wanted to make her feel bad about almost breaking my nose all those years ago. But the thing was, she'd been right to do it. The things I'd said to her that day came back to me in a rush.

  "I'm sorry I brought that book up," I said stiffly.

  She looked at me for a bit, and I saw her anger bubbling just below the surface. I wasn't sure if it was just because she was around me, but she seemed angry sort of a lot.

  I blew out a deep breath and decided it was time to be a big boy. "But I'm more sorry that I was that mean to you in the first place. I was pretty awful back then."

  Lowell's hand wobbled her drink a little, almost spilling it, as if I'd knocked her off balance. "You were pretty mean." She was quiet for a second, seeming to think it through. But when she looked back at me, the anger was gone from her face. "But all kids are—they're cruel. Teenagers are even worse."

  "I know. But I shouldn't have teased you about being from Texas. Or that training bra."

  She laughed then clapped a hand over her mouth. "I can't believe you remember that. And by the way—it was not a training bra."

  "That's what you said." I felt the anxiety drain out of me. "But I still want to say I'm sorry. You were, like, eleven."

  "Thank you for the apology." She was quiet for a second, taking another hefty gulp of wine. Then she laughed again. "You got what you deserved anyway. Bang bang." She giggled.

  I had to laugh too. I remember feeling stunned that she'd whacked me like that. Then we were just sitting there, shaking in a fit of giggles and trying not to spill our wine.

  Finally Lo wiped the tears off her face and calmed down. "I did not expect to ever have this conversation with you, especially under these circumstances."

  "I hear that," I said.

  We were both lost in our thoughts for a little while after that.

  "So you were saying," I said. "About the paparazzi."

  She nodded. "They loved you. My agent and my so-called PR team loves you. So you're in."

  I beamed at her. "I guess you're stuck with me. I am a b
it of a keeper, you know."

  "We'll see." She put her half-full glass of wine on the table and stood. "I gotta go to bed. Early shoot tomorrow. Unless Lucas fires me before we start."

  "Want me to come with you?" I asked.

  She raised her eyebrows and backed away. "Um... no."

  I laughed. "I meant to the set tomorrow, not to your room right now. Unless that's an option. That is what you're paying me for, after all."

  Lo's face flamed. "No to tonight. As in no way, no how, no sir. You can come with me tomorrow if you want, but you'll just be sitting in my trailer all day. If I'm lucky enough to still have my job."

  "Sounds good. It'll be just another opportunity to express my undying devotion for my sexy, talented, remorseful girlfriend."

  She nodded, the blush still hot on her cheeks. "Okay. You're good at this, you know that, Kyle? You might wanna think about a major in marketing when you finally go back to school. I think you have a real future in PR."

  "Thanks for your vote of confidence," I said, feeling simultaneously flattered and patronized.

  "Anytime." She smiled at me uncomfortably. "G'night, Kyle. Thanks for saving my ass." I smiled, but she frowned at me. "Not grabbing it. Saving it."

  "You know you liked it," I called after her as she backed toward her room. "At least more than you thought you would."

  * * *

  I lay in my bed that night—Lo's posh guest bed—and thought about the day. It had been most unexpected. I'd never imagined Lowell Barton would get herself into this kind of trouble. I certainly never imagined I would be the one to help her out of it.

  Especially not as her male escort.

  Not in a million years.

  But now that I was there, in her home, with our pictures splashed all over the Internet, I smiled.

  It was the most awkward family reunion of all time.

  But that was okay. This job could save both of us. I couldn't turn tricks anymore; it wasn't for me. I'd gotten into hooking for the reasons I'd told Lo—I needed the money. When I told her about meeting Elena and getting hired on the spot, that was also true. But I'd left out what had happened right before that. The thing that had made me desperate enough to become a prostitute.

  My phone buzzed. I warily picked it up from the nightstand.

  I understand you want to talk to me, it read. Tomorrow.

  I turned my phone off and scrunched my eyes closed, wishing that tomorrow would never come.

  Lowell

  I locked the door to my room that night. I wasn't sure if I was locking Kyle out… or locking myself in.

  I was being silly. He would never come in unless I invited him. And I knew that I would never invite him.

  But he was here, in my house, just a few rooms away. Sleeping. Probably in his underwear. I clapped my hand over my eyes as if that could block out the picture in my head.

  The picture in my head looked good. Too good. I could just imagine his abs, rippled and defined from all of his years surfing and lifting weights. So yummy…

  I suddenly realized that I was ravenous. For all sorts of things.

  And I was going to have to starve myself for the foreseeable future.

  At least I'd make my director happy.

  * * *

  I checked my phone first thing in the morning, like always.

  Nice work, read a text from Shirley. Keep it up.

  Almost as good as Channing Tatum! Tori's text read. Call me when you can—I want details!

  I could just picture her, heading out on her run first thing this morning, a bundle of nervous excitement and optimism. I needed to call her and let her know the truth about Kyle and who he was to me. Besides just being my escort.

  I groaned inwardly and kept reading.

  The producers have decided that you can come to the set today for a meeting, Lucas texted. But I'm not promising anything.

  I sighed and put my phone back down. The good news was, I got to go back to work. The bad news was, it was because of a lie.

  Coffee. I pushed everything else aside. Must. Get. Coffee.

  I dragged myself out of bed and rummaged around in the kitchen. Kyle padded out a few minutes later in nothing but his boxer briefs, looking just the way I'd imagined. His pectoral muscles were large and carved over his six-pack… or was it a twelve-pack? I looked at it quizzically, pondering this important question, while I examined the chiseled lines of his abdomen and simultaneously tried to count the packs. My mouth pooled with saliva. I was literally a Pavlovian dog, salivating over the hot man in my kitchen.

  "Hey, Lo," he said, the shit-eating grin back on his face.

  "Hey." My voice was dazed.

  Starving. I'm starving, and I can't have anything I want. Not a croissant, not a bagel with cream cheese, not a… Kyle.

  "Kyle!" I yelped, coming to my senses. I spun toward my coffee machine so I couldn't look at him anymore. "Good morning. Please go put some clothes on."

  I heard him yawn, and it sounded as though he was stretching all of those packs. Good lord.

  "Can I have some coffee first?" he asked, sounding chipper.

  Great. Not only was he hot and half-naked, he was also a morning person. I punched the start button on my Keurig, but I wanted to punch myself instead.

  "Aw, come on, Lo," he said. "It's not like you've never seen me like this before."

  I handed him the coffee without turning around. I'm pretty sure you didn't look like that the last time I saw you.

  "Clothes," I insisted, starting a cup for myself.

  "Fine," he said. I heard him shuffle out.

  I hurried into my room, gulping my coffee. I had bigger problems than Kyle's abs to deal with. I had to go face the firing squad today—my director, my producers, and all the other men connected with the film I was working on. Who were the very mansplainers I'd complained about… in that little video that had been viewed all over the Internet.

  Closely followed by the video of me oversharing my personal problems and bodily fluids, there were the new pictures of me. Making out with my mysterious, sexy boyfriend who came out of nowhere. Who was secretly my escort. Who was also my stepbrother.

  Shit. I was going to need another cup of coffee. Stat.

  Usually I dressed for work in sweats and an oversized grey T-shirt; I rarely, if ever, wore makeup because the makeup artists plastered so much on when I got there. Today I pulled on a pair of capri leggings and a pretty pink tank top, and I put on just a little makeup. Just a dab, along with some mascara. For the producers, of course.

  A few minutes later, I poured two more cups of coffee in to-go mugs and found Kyle waiting for me by the door. He was dressed in a tight-fitting T-shirt (which I refused to think about), sexy cargo shorts (and I refused to think about why they were sexy, because I was pretty sure I had no idea), and leather thong flip-flops (the words leather thong throbbed in my brain, and I wished that I could punch myself so hard that I would shut up for a long, long time).

  "You ready?" I asked, trying to pretend I was normal.

  "Is that coffee for me?" he asked. I handed it to him, nodding, and he smiled. "Then I'm absolutely ready." I went to open the door, and he stopped me. "There are at least ten different photographers out there." He smoothed down my hair and turned my face into the light, inspecting it. "You look good."

  "Thanks," I said, pulling back from his scrutiny. I pushed by him to get to the window.

  Kyle was right. I saw four plainly visible photographers on the sidewalk, looking bored. My neighbors couldn't be happy with me. There were other actors living on the street, and they guarded their privacy jealously. Our little neighborhood was for up-and-comers—we didn't have a gated community or security to keep out the paparazzi. We only had our best behavior for that.

  My best behavior had gone rogue. "Ugh."

  "Look at it as an opportunity," Kyle said. "We can show them that we're a legitimate, well-behaved couple that leaves for work early in the morning. Not an angry, tequila-swillin
g starlet and her disinherited escort-stepbrother." He grinned at me.

  "When you put it that way," I said, staring out the window, "I just want to throw up."

  "You're a good actress, Lo," he said. "You can do this."

  "I know."

  He just raised his eyebrows at me.

  "I mean, thank you." I grabbed his hand, annoyed that part of me felt excited by his touch. "Let's do this. And it's okay for me to be confident about my job, you know."

  "Oh, I know—that's why I couldn't believe you let that mansplainer director upset you. You should be beyond that."

  "I'm not beyond needing a paycheck," I said.

  "I hear that," Kyle said, leading me out the door.

  We pulled our sunglasses down at the same time, simultaneously balancing our coffees. Then we clasped hands again. If I'd been in a different frame of mind, I might have thought we looked cute.

  "Good morning," Kyle called to the photographers. "Nice to see us all up and at it so early. Must mean good things for the economy."

  "Good morning, Kyle. You were a big hit last night!" one of the photographers called. "Quick question—what do you do for work?"

  Kyle nodded at him. "I'm in SEO consulting. In New York."

  "Where'd you two meet?" called another one.

  Before I could even try to answer, Kyle was flashing his blinding-white teeth at them. "I gave her a surfing lesson. I surf in my spare time."

  "Cool!" one of the other guys called.

  "It was totally cool. She was wearing a bikini," Kyle said, his teeth glinting mesmerizingly in the early-morning sun.

  "Smile, Lowell!" one of the photographers called. "No reason to scowl when you have a man who loves you like that! No matter who you threw up on earlier this week!"

  I smiled at the photographer even though I would have been thrilled to just dump my coffee over his head. We posed for more pictures then got into the safety of my car before I let the scowl settle onto my face.

  "Asshole," I said.

  "Well, he complimented me," Kyle said. "Which by extension—as I'm your better half—is a compliment to you too."