by Lauren Rowe
“CeeCee won’t care about your grades once she meets you,” Alessandra assures me. “Just come right out and explain why your grades tanked last year. She’s known for being really active with cancer charities. Oh my God! Georgie! I’m looking at the event flyer, and it says—”
Bam.
After turning a corner, I walk smack into the broad chest of the one person I have no desire to see: UCLA football god, Bryce McKellar. I first met Bryce months ago, while waiting in line for coffee on-campus, and sparks instantly flew. He wasn’t just physically gorgeous, but charismatic and cocky, too. Best of all, he had a bit of a dark edge to him. A dick-vibe. Which, unfortunately, is my thing, I’m not proud to say. But since I stupidly thought my relationship with Shawn, the biggest dick of them all, was still intact, I took off after getting my coffee and didn’t stick around to flirt with Bryce.
Of course, once I found out Shawn was a lying, cheating dirt-bag dick, I kept an eye out for Mr. Football, hoping to bump into him again. But, unfortunately, I never did... until a few days ago... which was when, out of the blue, like manna from heaven, I spotted Bryce standing outside Royce Hall, looking even hotter than he had at the coffee place months before. And, to my thrill, when Bryce’s eyes landed on mine, they lit up, every bit as much as they had during our first encounter at the coffee place.
Immediately, Bryce jogged over to me that day on-campus, and we made flirty small talk. “I’ve actually been keeping an eye out for you,” Bryce told me, flashing me his dazzling smile. But since we were both in a rush—Bryce to get to class and me to get to the campus gym to teach a spin class—he quickly got my number and promised he’d text me “really soon.” Which he did. Ten minutes later, as a matter of fact. And then again that same afternoon. And, again, later that night. But each time Bryce texted, he’d caught me at a bad time, and I could never text with him for long. “Damn, you’re even busier than I am,” Bryce texted. To which I replied, “Hustle beats talent, when talent doesn’t hustle, baby.”
We agreed to touch base the next day with an actual phone call, so we could compare our busy schedules and find a time to “connect”... which I prayed was code for “find a good time to have sex.” Because, Lordy, I’m ready to have some good, fun sex with a smoking hot guy. No strings attached. I haven’t had sex since Shawn, and I think I’m suffering from physical withdrawals. But since the last thing I want is another relationship right now, especially with another athlete, “no strings fun” is the only thing on my menu.
Unfortunately, though, things didn’t go according to my big plans. When Bryce and I finally had that phone conversation the following day—for a full hour, in fact—it quickly became apparent we weren’t on the same page. Not at all. As it turned out, Mr. Football wasn’t the sexy, cocky, bad boy I’d been projecting onto him. In fact, much to my dismay, he made it clear during our call he’s been raised by his God-fearing momma to be a one-woman kind of guy. To always, always look for a girl who, get this, is “wife material.”
And it only got worse from there. As I sat there silently freaking out on my end of the line, Bryce went on to proclaim he’s not looking for an “easy” woman, like all the girls who throw themselves at him, day in and out, but, instead, wants a faithful, loyal girl who’ll “support him religiously” through the NFL draft and beyond. Someone he can trust. Someone he can lean on. Someone who’ll love him, unconditionally, and not care about all the money and fame coming his way. All of which I thought was a bit much to say during our first phone conversation. I mean, come on, is it really so wrong for a young, horny girl to want a smoking hot guy for nothing but his dazzling smile and hot body?
But Bryce had more bombs to drop during that crazy-ass phone call. As I sat in stunned silence, thinking maybe I was being punked, he asked, “Do you believe in love at first sight, Georgie?
“Uh, no,” I replied honestly, my insides knotting at how badly I’d misjudged him. “Why? Do you?” Obviously, I shouldn’t have said that last part. Indeed, the moment my question left my lips, I knew I’d messed up.
“Not before I met you,” Bryce replied. And I swear I threw up, just a little bit, into my mouth. Just like that, the lady-boner I’d had for Bryce McKellar at the coffee place sagged to my knees, and I couldn’t get off the call fast enough.
I knew in that moment I’d have to come clean with Bryce and confess I’m not the future wife he thinks I am. That, in fact, at this particular stage of my life, I’m probably closer to the “easy women” who throw themselves at him, thanks to the past couple of years that have left me emotionally drained and determined to fly solo for a while. But right then, I was too stunned to make that particular speech to Bryce. And so, I got off the phone without saying any of it—and also without confirming any plans to “connect” with him any time soon.
But now, Bryce is here. Holding my shoulders so I don’t crumple to the ground after bouncing off his hard chest. And, this time, I can’t simply hang up my phone to avoid him.
“Bryce,” I gasp out, teetering in his firm grasp.
“Are you okay?” he replies, chuckling.
“Yeah. Sorry. I was running.”
“I could see that.” He grins. “I was just about to text you, actually.”
“Oh, yeah? Wow. Hang on.” I pick my phone up off the ground—noting, thankfully, that the screen didn’t crack upon impact—and breathlessly tell my stepsister I’ve got to call her back.
“Did you say Bryce?” Alessandra says.
“I did.”
“As in, Mr. Football?”
“Correct.”
“Only pretend to hang up. I want to listen in.”
“Okay, bye.”
As instructed, I pretend to disconnect the call, and return to Bryce, my stomach churning and my mind racing.
Bryce says, “I was going to text and ask what you’re doing tonight.”
“Sorry, I’m working at the bar until about two thirty.”
“Hey, that works for me,” he says. “I’m a night owl.”
Shit. Fuck. “I can’t. I’ve got class on Friday mornings, so I always race home after my Thursday-night shift to catch a few hours of sleep.” I look at my watch. “Shoot. I’m running late for an event in North Campus. Gotta go!” And off I go, resolved to call Bryce tomorrow to tell him the truth: I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m not looking to support any guy’s dreams “religiously” or otherwise at this particular time. In summary, I’m just not feeling it.
The moment I’m out of earshot of Bryce, I bring my phone to my ear. “Ally?”
Alessandra laughs. “Coward.”
“I know. I’ll call him tomorrow and set him straight.”
“You realize you’re the only girl at UCLA who’d ever turn that boy down, right?”
“Dude, he’s looking for a freaking wife.”
“Running away all the time, you’re only going to make him want you more. I’m sure he’s used to girls throwing themselves at him.”
“Oh, he is. And they can have him. He’s way too big a momma’s boy for me.”
“Oh, the horror. A genuinely nice guy.”
“You know what I mean. I’m still in my bad-boy phase, as I should be. It’s what’s going to make me ready for Mr. Right whenever he finally comes along in six point five years.”
“I’m shocked you don’t want to give Bryce a quick test drive before you cut him loose. Even if he’s a Cling-On, why not at least hit that hard body hard before turning him away? He’s panty-melting, Georgie. I looked him up after you told me about him, and almost had a stroke at his hotness.”
“I know. If only he’d played it the least bit cool with me, the way he did at the coffee place that first time, I would have been hitting that hard body hard as early as this week. As it is, I can’t run away fast enough.” I sigh audibly at the heartbreaking situation. “Now, what were we talking about before I bumped into Mr. Love at First Sight?”
“Reed Rivers. I was freaking out he’s liste
d as one of the panelists.”
“I didn’t hear any of that. Who’s Reed Rivers?”
“The founder of River Records—the record label.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, you’ve sure as hell heard of their bands and artists. Hang on. I’ll consult the mighty Google.” Alessandra pauses briefly. And then, “Holy shit. The River Records roster is insanity. They’ve got both Red Card Riot and 22 Goats. Plus, Danger Doctor Jones, Laila Fitzgerald, 2Real, Aloha Carmichael, Fugitive Summer, Watch Party... ”
“Holy crap.”
“Right? The list goes on and on. That’s only the top tier of the roster, but the next tier down is still pretty damned impressive.”
“Those are all my favorites.”
“Those are all everyone’s favorites. It’s why every student at my school would sell their soul to get signed by River Records.”
“Including you?”
“Dude, I’d sell my soul, kidneys, and freaking virginity to get signed.”
I cringe. “Please, don’t joke about selling your virginity. I took a class on sex trafficking this quarter that was horrifying.”
“I was kidding. Obviously.”
“I know. But that would be a disgusting way to lose your virginity—to some pervy old guy you don’t even like. Also, careful what you put out into the universe. From what I’ve heard, the music industry is full of predators, every bit as much as the movie business. Creeps who’d happily promise a sweet little virgin like you the sun and moon, just to get into your pants.”
Alessandra laughs. “Interesting your momma bear comes out to protect my virginity, but not my soul and kidneys.”
“Only one scenario seems like a real-world possibility.”
If I know Alessandra, she’s rolling her eyes at me right now. But smiling, too. “Okay, Georgie,” she says. “I promise I won’t sell my virginity to anyone, okay? Well, except to Reed Rivers. I can’t make the same promise when it comes to him. That man can have anything he wants.”
“Stop.”
She giggles. “Google him, and you’ll see what I mean. Honestly, Reed wouldn’t need to promise me the sun and moon in exchange for my V-card. Just an Uber ride home. Actually, not even that. I’d demand nothing from him. Take my virginity, Reed Rivers! Please!”
I can’t help giggling with her. “How old is he?”
“Mid-thirties, I think. No older than forty.”
Oh, my sweet Alessandra. The girl’s got daddy issues, that’s for sure, every bit as much as I’ve got mommy issues. When our parents got together, Alessandra had just lost her father in a hit and run, and I’d just lost my mother in a car accident. And both our parents wrongly thought they could find comfort and solace and a fresh start in marrying another grieving person.
Unfortunately, they quickly found out that was a bad idea. That marriage in the midst of deep grief, especially to a person with whom they had nothing in common, actually made both of them feel ten times worse in their times of need. But, whatever. As confusing and chaotic, and short-lived, as the marriage of my father and Alessandra’s mother turned out to be, I wouldn’t undo it, even if I could. Because it brought me my beloved sister, Alessandra.
By the time I reach the lecture hall for the music event, my breathing is slightly elevated from jogging across campus, so I take a nearby seat on a bench to finish my phone call. “So, which three songs of yours do you want me to load onto a flash drive to give to the record label guy? I’m going to get you signed to River Records, baby. Absolutely no selling your virginity required.”
Alessandra sighs. “Oh, Georgie. You’re so sweet. But getting me signed to River Records, especially at an event like this, would be like hitting a golf ball on Earth and landing a hole-in-one on the moon. Last year, the most amazing singer-songwriter at my school won a contest where the grand prize was having Reed personally listen to her music. And guess what? He listened and turned her down.”
“That’s because she’s not you.”
“She’s better than me.”
“Impossible. But for the sake of argument, let’s say she’s as good as you, then the reason she got turned down was she didn’t have a hype-woman, like me, singing her praises.”
“The odds are miniscule you’ll get the chance to talk to him at all. And, if you do, it’ll be four seconds where you won’t have the chance to dazzle him with your patented Georgina Ricci magic. If the situation were different—if you were going to be meeting him one-on-one, I’d put money on you being able to charm him, like you do everyone else. It’s a well-known fact he loves beautiful women, so I’m positive you’d be able to grab his attention. But, as it is, this event is going to be packed with hundreds of music students, all of them toting flash drives in their pockets.”
My shoulders droop. “Maybe, but there’s no harm in me at least trying, right?”
“Wrong. I don’t want you speeding through a conversation with CeeCee because you’re preoccupied with trying to talk to Reed for me. I’ve got two years before graduation. You’ve got a week. Just this once, kick my dreams to the curb and look out for number one, girl.”
I watch a group of students enter the lecture hall and glance at my watch. “Ally, I hear what you’re saying. But I can’t be in the same building as a man who could literally make your dreams come true, and not—”
“Stop,” Alessandra says firmly. “You need a good-paying journalism job, Georgie. Not just for yourself, but for your dad, too. Now, stop arguing with me about this and go in there and get CeeCee Rafael to take your writing samples and make all your dreams come true.”
Chapter 3
Reed
As I park my car in a structure at UCLA, I continue grumbling on the phone to my longtime attorney, Leonard. The entire drive here, we’ve been talking about the latest batch of frivolous lawsuits and settlement demands leveled against my various businesses—my record label, real estate holdings, nightclubs, and more—and I’m beyond annoyed.
“It’s the way of the world when you’ve got extra-deep pockets,” Leonard says. “These plaintiffs’ attorneys are hoping you’ll settle their bogus claims quickly for a nominal sum, rather than paying me quadruple the amount to fight them.”
“Well, they can suck my dick. I don’t settle meritless claims, Leonard.”
“Yes, I know. And as your attorney, may I say it’s the thing I like best about you.”
“Not my sparkling personality?”
“That’s a distant second.” I hear papers rustling on Leonard’s end of the call. “Okay, let’s talk about that copyright infringement suit against Red Card Riot for a second. Also bullshit?”
“Total and complete. That same chord progression can be found in everything from Mozart to Bruno Mars.”
“Well, then, it should be easy to get the case dismissed on a motion. I’ll just need to attach a declaration by a musicologist, explaining what you just said. Know anyone?”
“Angela McGavin. She’s the head of UCLA’s music school. Coincidentally, I’ll be seeing her at an event on-campus in about a half-hour. I’ll chat with her about it then.”
“Perfect. Lemme know. What’s the event?”
“I’ll be speaking on a panel, telling wide-eyed music students about the business side of the industry.”
“Look at you, giving back to the college kiddies who are hoping to follow in your illustrious footsteps.”
“I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart. I got roped into it by CeeCee.”
Leonard chuckles. “Ah, the indomitable CeeCee Rafael. I find it hard to say no to that woman, myself.”
“Hard? Try impossible, thanks to all the publicity she’s given my up-and-comers over the years. The feature she wrote about RCR in time for their debut release is what bought me my first house.” My phone buzzes and I look down. “I’ve got to take another call, Len. Don’t forget to text me how many tickets your daughter wants for the RCR concert. I’ll make sure she and her friends get
backstage to meet the band.”
“Wow! Thank you. You’re going to win me Father of the Year with this birthday present.”
“Show me some mercy on my next bill, and we’ll call it even.” I disconnect the call and pick up with Isabel. “Well, if it isn’t ‘America’s Sweetheart.’”
Isabel giggles. “Oh, you saw that interview, did you? Wasn’t it amazing?”
“I wouldn’t call the interview ‘amazing,’ no. The headline was amazing. That’s the kind of nickname that’ll stick. But the interview itself was only okay. You laid on the ‘relatability’ factor a bit thick. The photo spread was smokin’ hot and on-brand, however, although I’d have told them to lay off the photoshop, especially on your face. You’re not twenty-two anymore, but why would you want to be? Overall, though, I’d say the piece was a win. It was certainly well timed, considering the studio’s big announcement last week. Congratulations on that, by the way. I’ve always said you’ve got superpowers, haven’t I? And now, it’s official.”
“Holy fuck, Reed. A simple ‘Yes, Isabel, the interview was amazing’ would have sufficed.”
“You want me to lie to you?”
“Absolutely.”
I scoff. “Don’t ask for my opinion if you don’t want to hear it.” I check my watch. “Why are you calling me? Aren’t you filming pick-ups in Toronto?”
“I’ve got a few days off, so I flew into LA for a meeting with the studio head. Unfortunately, though, he had a family emergency while I was in the air and needed to reschedule. Which means, lucky you, I’ve just landed in LA with zero plans for the next thirty-six hours. Let’s fuck like rabbits! I’m a horny bunny.”
“Sorry, I’m booked solid between now and the break of dawn, when I’ll be boarding a flight to The Big Apple.”
“Break all your silly plans. It’s been way too long and I miss you.”