Escorting the Actress (The Escort Collection Book 2)

by Leigh James

  We followed her into the living room. Seated on the couch next to Caroline Barton was my father.

  "Hey, Dad," I said, surprised and wary. "Are you here to yell at me like Lowell's mom?"

  He stood and shook my hand, a gesture that stunned me. "No, son. I came out to show my support." He nodded at Lowell. "I'd like to rescind our previous conversation, if that's okay with you. I was… pretty upset."

  "Okay," Lowell said, wary as well.

  "Congratulations on your engagement," he told her. "I know you'll make my son very happy."

  "Th-thank you, Pierce. Isn't that nice, Kyle?" She elbowed me.

  I opened my mouth then closed it. I just looked at my dad. "Do you mean it?"

  "I do actually." He dropped back down into his seat next to Caroline.

  I blew out a deep breath. "But… do you know we taped a major interview that's gonna premiere tonight?"

  "Caroline filled me in," he said.

  "Did she tell you it's a tell-all interview?" I asked, bracing for the worst.

  "She mentioned that, yes."

  I couldn't believe how calm he was. I sat across from him. "Do you know what that means?" My father was brilliant, but he had probably never watched the Entertainment network in his life.

  He shrugged. "It means that you're going to tell everyone Lowell hired you as an escort. They already know that I was married to her mother."

  "That's right," I said cautiously, watching his face. "We told them everything. We want a fresh start, Dad. We don't want to start our lives together pretending."

  "I think… I think that's very mature, Kyle." He looked at me. "I'm proud of you."

  "Huh?" I asked. "I did the opposite of what you asked me—no, what you begged me—to do. I ruined your launch too."

  "My launch is inherently compromised. But at least my Forbes piece will be entertaining." Pierce nodded thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling. "When I spoke to Lowell yesterday and she told me about the truth coming out, I lost it. After that, I sat in my office for a while, fuming… and I realized it didn't matter. If you two really love each other enough to risk your privacy and your reputations, then who am I to stand in the way?"

  "My father," I reminded him. "Who has a vested interest in the situation."

  "I know you went against my wishes, son. But I also know that you did it for the right reasons. And you used good judgment. Which, I might add, I've never seen you do before. So this is sort of a big deal."

  I felt the pinpricks of tears in my eyes, but I willed them away. "So you don't… hate me?" Lowell clutched my arm, giving me the strength I needed to hold back the tears.

  My father's face softened. "You're my son. I could never hate you. Even when I cut you off, I was angry, but I didn't hate you. That's not possible." He gave me a long look. "This isn't how I would plan things, but I've never seen you this happy. I've never seen you this together. I feel like, for the first time since you were a kid, since before things went… wrong with us, I feel like you've been honest with me. And I like you when you're honest and together." He grinned at me. "I actually like you, son. Between worrying that you were going to kill yourself and wanting to kill you myself for so many years, I didn't know that was possible."

  "Gee, thanks, Dad," I said, grinning.

  "You're welcome, son."

  Lowell leaned forward. "And you forgive her?" She jutted her chin at her mother.

  Pierce patted Caroline's knee. "Don't be so hard on your mother. She's been through quite a shock."

  I might have imagined it, but I thought I saw a small smile pass over Caroline's lips.

  Here we go again. For better or for worse.

  * * *

  We were headed to the Hearts Wide Open premiere.

  "I'm nervous," I said as I adjusted the bow tie on my tuxedo for the thousandth time. "And I don't get nervous."

  "Yes, you do, you big lug," Lowell said and swatted my hands away from my neck. She fixed my tie and blew me a kiss. "You look gorgeous, though. Nothing to worry about."

  "Everybody knows I was an escort. They're probably all going to be thinking about this." I motioned to my cock.

  Lowell burst out laughing then clapped her hand over her mouth. "Sorry." Her shoulders were still shaking. "But are you really worried that people are going to be focused on your penis?"

  I shrugged defensively. "Maybe. Probably. Usually."

  "I'll be thinking about it. That's for sure." She grinned wickedly.

  "Don't make me mess up your pretty dress," I growled and chased her around the room.

  Squealing, she ran until I had her in a corner.

  "Kyle, don't!" she yelled, laughing hard. "I just had my makeup done!"

  "Then you better behave," I said, fake-menacingly. "And stop looking at my dick."

  She was laughing so hard, her mascara was going to start running. "I love you, babe," she said when she could catch her breath.

  "I love you too. And I'm looking forward to messing up your pretty dress later, when you can feel free to look at my dick."

  * * *

  On the red carpet, we saw a lot of our normal photographer friends but also a lot of new faces.

  "Lowell! Kyle! Over here!"

  "Show us the ring again!"

  "How does it feel to have everything out in the open?"

  "It feels great," I called.

  "Do you two have any regrets?"

  I looked at her, and she looked at me.

  "I wish we'd slept together sooner," she said so only I could hear.

  "I wish we were getting married sooner," I said.

  We'd decided to get married six months from today, on the beach. Then we were going to Hawaii for our honeymoon. I was finally going to teach my girl to surf. I couldn't wait to see her catch her first wave.

  It would be awesome. All of it, from now on.

  What seemed like a thousand flashes went off.

  "I'm pretty sure they're all looking at your dick," she said, under her breath.

  "Of course they are, babe. I told you so. It's my not-so-secret weapon."

  "Bang bang," she said, laughing and holding me close.

  "So do you?" the reporter called again. "Have any regrets?"

  We turned back to him, both of us flashing our best megawatt smiles.

  "None," we said in unison and moved on to the next question.

  Afterword

  If you enjoyed this book, continue the series with Escorting the Player! Link here:

  Escorting the Player (The Escort Collection Book Three)

  SPECIAL THANKS

  Thank you for reading this book! I truly hope you enjoyed it. It means so much to me that you took the time to read this story—I love Lowell and Kyle. I'm rooting for them, and I hope you are too! If you enjoyed the book and feel comfortable doing so, please consider leaving a quick review here!

  I also want to say thanks and send huge love to my mom, who always helps me and is an enormous source of support for my writing. I love you lots.

  A special shout-out to Wendy Myler and Amy Warren, my first readers and two of the loveliest, most intelligent, most patient and forthcoming women in the whole world. Thank you to my kind and talented editor, Cassie Cox at Red Adept. I would also like to thank my friends at RD and Dana Waganer, who is my final proofreader and who is awesome.

  And always, unending love and hugs to my husband and my three children. You guys make every day the best.

  * * *

  If you'd like to hear about my latest books, sign up for my Mailing List at www.leighjamesbooks.com. I only send emails if I have a new release or want to you to know about a special sale. Thank you again!

  About the Author

  USA Today Bestselling Author Leigh James writes romance with twists and turns, and new adult books with a healthy dose of action and adventure. From billionaires to mercenaries to escorts, Leigh loves to find humor and a Cinderella story in each book she writes.

  She is a magna cum laude graduate of t
he University of New Hampshire’s journalism program and earned her law degree from Suffolk University School of Law in Boston.

  Social Media:

  @LeighJames19

  leighjames19author

  www.leighjamesbooks.com

  Also By Leigh James

  THE ESCORT COLLECTION

  Escorting the Billionaire

  Ex-Billionaire Escort

  Escorting the Player

  * * *

  High-Stakes Billionaires

  * * *

  The Liberty Series

  * * *

  The Bad Judgment Series

  SPECIAL BONUS CONTENT

  If you enjoyed this book, you might also enjoy The Liberty Series, my sexy, action-adventure romance series. Here’s a preview! Enjoy!

  Liberty Begins - Preface

  I didn’t know how long I had been lying on the floor, looking up at the man who had ripped my family apart. In that moment, staring into each other’s eyes, I remembered everything, every lie he’d ever told me. His eyes told me he was afraid.

  He should be. It was his turn.

  “Liberty, you can do this,” a voice said, squeezing my shoulder. That voice filled my body with warmth, with hope. “You’re not alone.”

  I thought about everything that had brought me here, to this dirty floor in this dirty building. I had finally found a home, far away from here. But I needed to let my enemy know that I hadn’t forgotten about him, about what he did. He didn’t deserve to sleep at night, to enjoy a hot meal, to watch baseball. He didn’t deserve normal.

  He deserved justice.

  “Let’s finish this. It’s okay,” that loving voice whispered in my ear, and I knew he was right.

  I closed my eyes and fired.

  Liberty Begins - Almost Perfect

  There was only one thing that had ever made me more nervous than going to work at that club. That was being alone with my mother’s boyfriend, Ray. There were at least some parts of my job that were redeemable. I couldn’t say the same thing for Ray. But I didn’t have time to think about that now, which was good, because I never really could stand to think about him. Right now I had to go to work. And at work, I had to stay alert.

  It was Thursday, our busy night, when the convention-goers were out for their last hurrah and the weekend tourists were just starting out. At The Treasure Chest, we always made our best money on Thursdays. They didn’t have as many girls on as Friday and Saturday, and we all have a lot more opportunity for attention. Not that I wanted it. I knew that didn’t make sense to anybody, but it was the truth. I got to the club at nine and in the locker room the girls were talking, trying on their crazy, tiny outfits, teasing each other. I always listened to them before we went out on the floor; it soothed me to be around the hum of other people after being in my quiet apartment all day. They talked about the crazy things their kids had done that day, the fights they’d had with their boyfriends, how they’d waxed their own bikini lines and how bad it hurt — but how aerodynamic it would make them. I did my own waxing, too, but I couldn’t make up funny stories about it like Adriana or Keisha could, so I just kept quiet. I pretty much always kept quiet. All the other girls had plenty of things to say, to fill up the space.

  The Treasure Chest was considered upscale for Vegas, and we had some of the prettiest girls. There were about thirty of us in total, mostly young with a couple of lifers thrown in. In stripping, you’re considered a lifer if you’ve done it for ten years or more. Most of us, myself included, start at twenty one. So even though the lifers are still relatively young, they’re getting old for this place and they know it. They make jokes about getting traded down to the Gulch, which was a grimier club a few blocks over, where the women were older and the drinks came in plastic cups. “At least the liquor over there is cheap!” Tracy said sometimes, after a shift where she couldn’t get anyone to go to the Champagne Room with her. Tracy is good humored and she always laughs when she says it, but her eyes look hooded. I think she might be scared. You don’t make good money at the Gulch, and from what I hear the management encourages mileage.

  Mileage was something bad when you were a stripper. It meant something like you had to do as much as you could, go as far as you could go, without actually having sex during a lap dance. I’d heard that a lot of the guys still came that way.

  I didn’t want to end up at The Gulch. I didn’t want poor Tracy to, either.

  I was always nervous before I went out, and I didn’t like putting on my outfit, but I did enjoy the makeup. For those few precious minutes in front of the mirror before it was time, it was like I was a little girl again, digging through my mother’s overstuffed makeup bag. I had better makeup at work, more expensive stuff, but I remember the distinct smell of her inexpensive, sparkly eyes shadows and blush. If hopefulness had a scent, that’s what it smelled like, even though her compacts were cracked and plastic. My mother’s makeup promised transformation, something better than what was already there. I would lock myself in the bathroom and rummage through her bag whenever she was napping on the couch, holding my breath so she wouldn’t wake up and catch me. And after, as I looked up at myself in the mirror, all of ten with bright blue eyeshadow on, I thought I looked pretty. Not as pretty as my mom, of course. No one was as pretty as my mom.

  So now, it always comforted me, the sparkly eyeshadow, the black mascara, the hot pink blush, the process of transforming my face into something that made people stare. My beautiful mask. Playing dress-up with my face was so much more fun than playing dress-up with my body; because if you looked at just my done-up face, I could be anybody. I was almost perfect. I could be one of those girls in town for the weekend, out to dinner with my fiancé, having a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine and not even blinking when the bill came. I could be any one of those girls at a club, from a suburb across the country, who just came in for the weekend. With a face like this, I could be waiting for my boyfriend to bring me a twenty-dollar drink that I might not even finish. I could be wearing a beautiful dress and a thousand-dollar watch, have a decent apartment and good job to go back to, parents and siblings somewhere, all hoping I’m being safe and waiting to hear about my crazy weekend in Vegas.

  But I don’t actually have any girlfriends, and my watch is a cheap plastic glow-in-the-dark one I bought at Walmart. I’m not from the suburbs, and I’ve never had one of those nice, ridiculously expensive dinners at a five-star restaurant with anyone. I don’t know who my father is and my mother, rest her soul, is dead. My sister’s gone. No one cares if I’m safe. The only place I’m going after work is to my cheap apartment in the scary part of town, with my mask off before I even leave the building. I will eat macaroni and cheese that came from a box and go to bed, alone. So no, I’m not wearing a nice dress tonight. In fact, underneath my white button-down shirt and short plaid skirt that resembles a schoolgirl’s uniform—a slutty schoolgirl’s uniform—I’m wearing a leather thong and a black bra that has cut-outs for my nipples. And hot pink fake-suede sky-high spike heels.

  Maybe I’m a little bitter. But I know I shouldn’t complain, because a lot of people have it so much worse.

  I tried to concentrate on my sparkly eyeshadow in the mirror until Alex tells me it’s time to go out. I was first tonight and being first on a shift meant you were a warm-up act; the girls that came on later were usually the prettiest and got the biggest tips from the late-night, liquored up crowd. The Treasure Chest was different from most other Vegas clubs this way — girls actually wanted to dance onstage here. At some of the other, bigger clubs there were over a hundred, sometimes two hundred, girls who worked there. A lot of the dancers didn’t want to bother going out on stage when they could let the newbies do it and they could go into the crowd and do lap dances, where if they hustled they could make a lot more.

  All of the other girls at the Chest were big on going out into the crowd, too, but because there were less of us and it was a smaller club, we all wanted to dance onstage. It’s what we w
ere known for. The other girls used that stage time to leverage the crowd, to give them a little taste so they’d want to buy an appetizer, an entree, and dessert. Of them.

  Going out first, before the club was really crowded, meant that you were either in trouble with management, the crowd didn’t like you, or both. Usually it was both.

  Tonight, for me, I was going first because I was in trouble. Alex was punishing me by making me dance for the college boys who only drank light beer and could only afford happy hour. There were enough girls tonight that I wouldn’t be on stage when the conventioneers and post-steakhouse crowd showed up. Those guys got bottle service and tipped in tens, not ones. If you didn’t get that stage time you wouldn’t be able to get them interested, thinking about you, and clamoring for individual dances.

  When I was first hired, six months ago, I got all the best shifts, all the best slots. When Alex interviewed me he asked if I had any experience. “No,” I said, looking at the floor, hoping it was dark enough inside that he didn’t see the blush creeping up my neck to my face; strippers couldn’t blush.

  “Who needs experience?” he asked, and laughed. “You’re a perfect ten.”

  People had always told me I was pretty. I got stared at a lot. I had long, thick, dirty-blond hair, big blue eyes, and perfectly smooth skin. My sister Sasha, especially, used to get so mad that people were always nice to me. She said it was just because of the way I looked. She was pretty herself, and very smart, but she said none of it mattered when she was next to me.

  “But look at Mom,” I would say. Mom was more beautiful than me and Sasha and every supermodel ever put together. She was tall and thin, with alabaster skin, long raven hair and beautiful, thick, naturally long black eyelashes. It was like living with Snow White. Wherever we went, complete strangers, male and female, would gape at her. Men would trip over themselves to open doors for her. Sasha and I used to joke that small birds and butterflies would follow her around. None of it mattered, though. Sometimes I think her looks made it worse. It made it too easy for her to get what she wanted, and what she wanted never seemed to be good for her.