“She’s good . . . baking her ass off,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice; this one lights up his whole face. My parents met in junior high. He fell in love with her during homeroom and hasn’t left her side since. He loves her even more now, and he tells her every chance he gets. Every single time he talks to her, whether he’s on the phone or walking out of the room, he ends it with, “Love you, Liza.” She always turns around and nods at him, her own smile filling her face. “She’s worried about you.”
“Me?” I ask in shock. “What is that all about? There haven’t even been any stories in the media about me lately.” My leg bounces, thinking about the upcoming tour.
“Yeah, something about you being thirty-five and single.” He laughs. “She thinks you need someone to take care of you.”
“I have plenty of people who take care of me,” I tell him, taking another pull from my water bottle, my mouth suddenly going dry. I mean, it’s not like I can actually date anyone. The minute I date someone, their life is dissected and put under a microscope, and everything from when they were in high school to now is blasted across every tabloid and social media page. I only usually date women in the industry so they know what they are getting into. But then it’s all about them dating me for what I am and not who I am. Yeah, a complete recipe for disaster.
“Not that kind of taking care of you. Meaning someone who takes care of you by sharing your life with them.” I roll my eyes at him even though he can’t see it. He means get a woman to make sure you get your clothes washed, cooks for you, and holds your hand while you sit on the deck outside watching the sunset. He means a woman who will have my back, no matter what happens.
“Dad, it’ll happen when it happens,” I tell him like I tell my mother. “It’s a different world where I live. People want me for what I have to offer, not for who I am. You know this. Remember Tina?” I mention my ex-girlfriend. We had met through friends, and after being together six months, I could never pinpoint how the press knew where we would be. I never understood how they knew fucking everything until one day when she was in the shower, I picked up her phone when it buzzed and saw a message from a paparazzi guy. Bingo!
“Then you need to come live in the country. We can find you a nice girl,” he gruffs out while I groan. “Whatever. Just call your mom. She worries about you.”
“I will. I’m leaving for a month on a press tour all around the world. I want you and Mom to come to the premiere . . . it’s in Paris.”
“Fancy,” he says with a chuckle. “You going to put me in a monkey suit?”
“Probably.” I laugh, thinking of my dad in his favorite pair of Levi’s. “I was thinking,” I say, my voice going low, “of coming to stay at the ranch for a couple of months when I finish this tour.”
“Not going to lie, son,” my father says softly. “Your mother would kill to have you home, and so would I.”
“I’m still thinking about it, but I’ll need to decompress after a thirty-day prison sentence around the world, and the ranch is the perfect place to do that. Okay, I have to go. My trainer will be here soon, and I have to get ready.”
“Be good, son, and don’t forget to call your mother, yeah?” he says. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I tell him, disconnecting the phone and then getting up and walking to my bedroom. The fucking house is bigger than I need, but it’s an investment. I walk up the stairs to my bedroom and head straight to my closet to change into my workout clothes. After I make my way down to the gym, I get on the treadmill while I wait for the trainer to get here.
Chapter Four
Jessica
Pictures and details are surfacing this morning of the “tour plane.” Sources say that no one knows anything except when to be at the airport.
“If you need anything while you are away, don’t be shy. Give me a call,” Stephanie says, and I roll my eyes. She just called to wish me luck, and I groaned. Literally. I’ve tried everything I could think of to get off this press tour, but she’s brushed me off, ignoring every excuse I’ve thrown at her.
“I need you to put someone else on this story,” I say, tossing the charger to the laptop on top of my luggage. I’m not ashamed to say that if this doesn’t work, begging may be my next plan of attack.
When Mary came over on Saturday—carrying no food, I might add—she did bring four bottles of wine. I want to say we didn’t finish them, and I also want to say I didn’t do an impromptu fashion show of outfits to bring with me. Now I’m nursing the hangover and groveling on the phone with my boss, along with the feeling of dread of spending a month away.
“No one else can do this story justice,” she says. “Who knows? You could break through and finally get the story of who Tyler Beckett really is.”
“I know exactly who Tyler Beckett is. He’s an asshole; a condescending asshole who doesn’t even want me on this press tour, I might add.” I walk into the bathroom and toss my toiletries into my bag. “I don’t even know where we are going. Do you know we aren’t given any information until we board the plane?”
“Jess, make the best of it,” she finally huffs out. “There are people dying to be on this exclusive opportunity. You are touring the world on someone else’s dime!” I don’t even bother answering her. It’s falling on deaf ears anyway.
“Okay, I have to go. We have to be at the airfield by three,” I say, looking over and seeing that it’s almost two. “My ride is expected to be here at two fifteen.”
“Stay in touch,” she says and disconnects.
“Stay in touch? I’ll fucking stay in touch,” I mumble to no one in particular. Walking to my closet, I grab my scarf off the rack and then the jean jacket. I look in the mirror and take in my outfit. My tight blue jeans mold me and are torn at the knees. I have a white cotton button-down short-sleeve shirt that is tucked into the front, displaying my Gucci belt. I grab my rose-colored Tory Birch sandals and slip my feet into them. Then I walk to my bed and finally close my extra-large suitcase. I huff, and my hair flies everywhere when I pick it up off the bed. Grabbing an elastic from my wrist, I tie my hair up on the top of my head in what I perceive as a cute, messy bun. However, with how I’m feeling right now, I’m pretty certain the bun is less messy and more on the struggle spectrum. I’m in a foul mood, though, so what do I care? The noise of my Tiffany bracelet hitting my watch further irritates my hangover.
My phone chirps at me, letting me know that my ride to my thirty-day incarceration is downstairs. I grab the laptop, tossing it into my large Louis Vuitton tote bag along with the two phones. I roll the luggage to the door, turning around to make sure everything is turned off and closed. I will be gone, but Mary said she will come by a couple of times a week to water my one plant and make sure everything is okay. I lock the door after me and break a sweat as I drag the oversized, overstuffed luggage down three flights of stairs. The driver just waves at me when I get near the car and pops open the trunk from inside the car. Opening the back door of the car, I toss my purse on the seat and turn around to wheel the luggage to the trunk, straining to put the bag in the rear. What the fuck is the purpose of my driver? Surely, he can’t just be a driver. Doesn’t he know that the chivalrous thing to do would be to get out and help me lift this damn gargantuan bag? I slam it down with purpose, so he knows I’m even more pissed than I was already as I make my way into the back seat. Grabbing my purse, I dig out the water bottle I tossed in there at the last minute and drink half the bottle without making small talk or eye contact. I want this asshole to know I mean business with my pissed-off-ness, anger-fueled hangover.
The car zigzags through traffic. Leaning back into the seat of the town car, I grab my phone and scroll through it. I open my texts to send Mary one last hail Mary, and even I’m giggling at that since her name is Mary.
Me: Why am I doing this again?
She doesn’t take long to answer.
Mary: I woke up on my bathroom floor. You need to be more specific with this questi
on.
I laugh, thinking about how I told her not to go home last night and to stay and sleep it off on my couch. But nope, she had to go home.
Me: Why did I agree to go on this tour?
Mary: Because it’s your job?
Me: I should quit.
Mary: But you like to sleep in a bed and have things like a cell phone and eat and drink all the wine.
Me: This is true.
Mary: Hey, you just might be surprised. Tyler could maybe change your mind.
Me: Umm, I’ve met him a bunch of times. There is no hope.
Mary: One can always have hope.
I put the phone away when I feel the car come to a stop, looking up to see we are at the airfield. Opening my door, I see that another car has arrived at the same time as me. I grab my bag and get out of the car, then place it on the ground as I lift the trunk lid and grab the bag. Even though I try not to fuck up his bumper, I honestly give zero fucks if I do since the driver couldn’t be bothered to help me. I move my foot right before the luggage hits the ground.
“I’m sure there is a weight limit on this plane. And I’m pretty sure, based on the sound that bag made when it hit the ground, you’ve exceeded your allotted luggage weight.” I hear from behind me, and I don’t even need to turn around to see who it is. I close my eyes and count to ten, not slow like I should, but fast, so fast that I’m not the least bit calm before I turn around and face my nemesis. Sure enough, there he is—the bane of my existence. I take him in, seeing his dark jeans resting low on his hips with a black belt holding them up. He’s tucked in his black long-sleeved V-neck sweater but only in the front. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, displaying his black Rolex watch. His gold-rimmed aviator glasses cover his dark blue eyes, and he has his black leather backpack slung over one shoulder, while he holds his jacket in the other.
“Thank you for being chivalrous and helping a lady out,” I tell him, grabbing Louis and putting it on top of the luggage to wheel it toward the plane.
He looks around, and I stop walking when he says, “I don’t see a lady anywhere around me.”
“Asshole,” I mumble under my breath as he continues to walk toward the plane, nodding at two men standing by the stairs leading up to the huge ass plane. I see his body plastered across the plane, and I about vomit in my mouth. Though I will admit it’s a cool shot and looks like he’s hanging on to the door of the plane.
“This is going to be nuts.” I hear a man’s voice next to me and look over to see Jonathan Divers, the journalist for Entertainment Hollywood. He is co-anchor of the nightly show, and his face is model-worthy; in fact, he’s actually really good looking. He is dressed in slacks and a white button-down shirt, perfectly pressed and tucked in. We started in this industry at the same time, so we are friendly with each other, and both of us realize the gravity of this prison senten- I mean, job assignment we’ve undertaken.
“It’s a shitshow,” I say honestly, knowing he isn’t going to tell anyone. He will dish all about the gossip in Hollywood, but he will not be the one gossiping.
“You know who else is coming with us?” he asks as we make our way to the plane.
Stopping at the luggage rack waiting near the plane, we find the rack is almost full, the top of the rack fully open, leaving one spot on the bottom open. He grabs his bag and lifts it to the top, leaving the one on the bottom open for me. I’m about to grab it and put it on the bottom when he does it for me. I smile at him. Finally, an actual gentleman in this world full of testosterone.
“Lifesaver.” I laugh when he grunts. “I overpacked. I know it, but it’s so hard to decide your stuff when it’s thirty days, and you don’t even know where you’re going.”
“Yeah, I don’t really understand that whole thing.” He shrugs as we walk toward the stairs leading to the plane. Two women wearing headsets and holding clipboards stop us.
“Hi there, my name is Yolanda,” the tall, thin, and beautiful woman with short hair starts, “and this is Yamina.” She points at the other woman, who is a mirror-image of her but sporting a bob cut. “We are going to be the ‘cruise directors.’” She literally uses her fingers to make air quotes. “Everything is set for the trip. All hotel rooms have been booked, and you will receive the room keys as soon as we get there. We requested king-size beds for everyone.”
I smile at Yolanda. “Can you tell me when we will be getting the full itinerary of the trip?”
Yamina smiles at us. “We will issue an itinerary each morning while we travel.”
“But . . .” Jonathan starts, but she puts up her hand.
“If you guys will take this sheet right here,” Yolanda says, “it should answer any additional questions you might have.”
I lean into Jonathan. “I think we have been dismissed.” Then I look at the women. “Thank you, ladies, for all your help,” I say, hoping they catch my sarcastic comment. After I take the paper from them, I walk up the steel stairs and through the plane door. A flight attendant wearing a blue shirt and light blue short-sleeved silk top with blond hair greets us with a huge smile. “Good afternoon, my name is Cynthia, and I’ll be with you this whole trip.”
“Hi there,” I say. Looking into the plane, I’m expecting to see rows of seats like I would in a normal airplane but not in this one. At the front of the plane looks like a restaurant setup with four tables and four big leather chairs around each one.
“You can sit anywhere you’d like up front,” she says to us and then points down the aisle. “There are four sections to the plane, so please make yourself at home.” I walk down the aisle past the tables and then walk into the second section, which has two huge seats on each side, ten rows deep. I spot five other journalists I know, each sitting in their own chair. I put my purse in the first row, next to a lone backpack.
“I guess this is how you reserve your seat.” I laugh, looking back at Jonathan who tosses his bag in the first available seat. I take in the five journalists already seated.
Kendall works for an online publication, and she has been around for about five years. She sits with her blond hair curled perfectly right next to Autumn, another up-and-coming online journalist. This could actually be her big break if she plays it right. She looks up from her phone and smiles at me, her blue eyes bright. She is what the California girl is all about. Across the aisle in the same row are two guy reporters who have been around forever, like ever and ever. Both are looking down at their laptop while they wait for the plane to take off. Jake Watson with his salt and pepper hair and goatee. He’s so good looking it’s almost a shame . . . What’s even more shameful is that he bats for the other team. He also has more knowledge than anyone I know. Jim Pearson sits next to him, his black, wavy long hair tied in a man bun on top of his head. Where Jake is handsome, Jim is rugged; they work for the same television station, just on different shows.
“Gentlemen.” I smile at them as I walk by, and Jim looks up first.
“Well, my dreams have finally come true,” he says. “A whole month away with you. This is my chance to sweep you off your feet.” I shake my head, knowing he’s full of shit. He just wants my contacts. You learn really fast in Hollywood who your friend is and who isn’t, and let me tell you, I can count on one hand the number of people I trust, and Jim isn’t one of them.
I pick up my hand and cross my fingers. “Here’s to hoping.” He smirks at me and gives me a sly smile after, my eyes traveling to the ink on his arms. He’s inked on both hands. His chest is huge, and you know he spends a lot of time at the gym, which means he’s too worried about what he looks like to care about anyone other than himself.
Jake looks at me. “I owe my producer a hundred bucks,” he says, smiling at me, and I look at him in question. “I thought for sure you would have been left off the guest list for this one.”
“I am just as surprised as you are,” I tell him, and he just nods.
“Let’s catch up,” he says, and I nod at him. I hear commotion coming into the
plane and turn around to see that it’s the last three journalists come barreling in.
“Who invited the sorority girls?” says Peter, the other guy sitting behind Jim and Jake. I shake my head, trying to hide the laugh, but he isn’t wrong. Ella, Erin, and Evelyn are all giggling and posing for selfies. They all have the same bleached blond hair with matching bleached teeth. If you were to tell me that other places on them are bleached, specifically places where the sun don’t shine, I wouldn’t be surprised. I walk out of the room and enter the third part of the plane where thirty-six bed pods are set up.
“Well, this could be difficult . . . My summer sleepaway camp nightmare come to life,” I say to myself. I look at the closed door in the back of the plane, wondering what treasure could possibly be behind that magical door, but then it opens, and Tyler stands there, a bed serving as his backdrop. “Fabulous. One person’s trash is another one’s treasure, I guess,” I mumble.
Trying to assuage an awkward encounter, I’m forced to address him. “I guess you aren’t staying with the commoners when it’s time to sleep?” He walks toward me without responding, and now that he isn’t wearing his glasses, I can’t look away from his bright blue eyes. He finally reaches me, and his musk fills my senses.
“It’s pretty safe to say you know that I don’t want you here,” he says, folding his arms over his chest and puffing it out more.
“It’s safe to say I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.” I lean in to him, trying not to hiss. “The last thing I thought I would ever do was be stuck with you for thirty seconds, much less thirty grueling days.”
“You could always not come.” He looks down at me, my eyes looking up at him. I have never been this close to him. In the past, there’s always been obstacles between us, obviously in more ways than one.
Hollywood Playboy Page 3