Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren

chapter six

carter

Saturday night, Michael Christopher and I have been put in charge of food prep, which is just code for me doing the cooking and Michael keeping Morgan from pulling out every pot and pan in the house. He’s at the table and she is happily pelting him in the face with Cheerios.

Steph comes in, carrying with her the scent of freshly cut grass, and a rush of cool air slips in through the door behind her. Although it’s the weekend, she’d gone into work when a huge up-and-coming actor landed himself in jail. It reminds me of what Evie said about being married to her job, and I know this kind of thing—the late nights and missed dinners—is exactly what she meant.

She looks at us, impressed with the dinner spread, and sits down. “Wow.” She doesn’t even have to ask to know how it all materialized in front of her. “Well done, Carter.”

“It’s nice to cook in an actual kitchen with actual cookware.”

Steph gives me a sympathetic smile while MC glares at me, envious.

“So how’ve you been?” Steph asks.

“Busy. Emil Shepard is moving to my list and it’s creating a little paperwork headache in-house.”

She winces. “Oh God. Is Blake losing his mind?”

“You’d think so. But honestly, he barely blinked.” I shrug and spear a piece of chicken for my plate. “Maybe he’s getting laid. Old Blake would have ripped off my legs and beaten me with them.”

“There’s something in the air. It has been such a shit show of a day.” Steph cringes, glancing to Morgan. “Oops! Earmuffs, baby!”

We all wait in tense silence, wondering whether Morgan is going to gleefully sing out the words shit show! It’s happened before with dammit, motherfucker, and asshole.

This time, she refrains.

Relieved, Steph turns back to me. “How was your date?”

MC perks up. I take a bite of my dinner and chew while I think, hoping my face doesn’t betray me. My heart jolts noticeably when I think about last night. I haven’t had this kind of physical reaction to a woman in years.

“It was great,” I say. “She’s just . . . she’s fu—” I glance at Morgan midsentence. “Fu-reaking great.”

“Great,” Steph agrees slowly, with a smile to match her tone. She watches me like I’m going to elaborate, but in reality what more can I say? I want things with Evie to go somewhere, and I really think that they can. It’s why I told her I didn’t want us to have sex yet, even though I really, really wanted to.

“She was similarly bare bones on details.” Stephanie stabs her chicken with a fork. “You’re both brats.”

“Am I supposed to tell you about our first kiss during study hall?”

She shoots up, eyes glimmering. “You guys kissed!”

“All right, crazy.” Michael puts his hand on her forearm. “Let’s not scare the nice boy away. They’ll tell us what they want us to know when they want us to know it. I mean, at the very least they’ll remember who brought them together when they’re deciding who’s best man at their wedding.”

“Is this what happens when you’re married with kids?” I grin at each of them in turn. “You have nothing to do but pair everyone off?”

On cue, they both lean in, voices erupting in unison.

“We haven’t slowed down.”

“We have a crazy social life!”

Morgan, who clearly finds the synchronized outburst cause for celebration, blows bubbles in her milk until it’s foaming over the sides.

“No, no,” I say, “full of youth. Of course. But you’re also sort of . . . settled.”

“ ‘Settled’?” Steph scoffs. “Please. We”—she points between the two of them—“are crazy. We can party with the best of them. Trust me.”

“You still hit the clubs sometimes?” I give them an encouraging nod.

“Of course we do.” She points to her arm and after a bewildered moment, I realize she’s wordlessly reminding me that she has a flower tattoo, and that people with tattoos are obviously likely to be found at clubs. “There’s this place called Foxtail that’s so cool. You should definitely take Evie there.”

“Or he could take her to Orchid, right, Steph?”

“That place is pretty good,” she agrees. “Craft cocktails, right? Or there’s that other one.” She snaps her fingers as if this will help her recall the name.

“Areola,” Michael finishes for her. “Now that place”—he whistles—“that place is insaaane,” he says, dragging the word out into about four syllables.

Steph is nodding.

I have to ask: “There’s a club called Areola?”

“Oh yeah, it’s like—the hippest place in LA,” she says. “Oh.” She deflates a little. “No, babe, I think it’s not Areola, that’s a nipple, right? I think it’s Ariela?”

“I mean, that’s a pretty big difference,” I note with a serious nod.

“Ariela,” Michael agrees, laughing as he avoids my gaze.

“Have you two gone?”

“Us? Come on,” MC says with a tight cough like of course we have. “We—well—no. We wanted to, but they don’t even open until like nine? I think, babe? Is it nine?” Steph nods as she attempts to extract crushed garbanzo beans from Morgan’s hair. “And that’s . . . that’s really late. I mean, not for us, but you know, for Morgan.”

“She doesn’t sleep well with a sitter, or God we’d be all over that place.” Steph does a grinding little dance in her chair. “It would be off the hook.”

“Off the hook,” he agrees. “Causing some trouble is what we’d be doing.”

“Areola,” I say, grinning. “Amazing.”

•  •  •

My phone chimes on the seat next to me as I make a left onto Santa Monica Boulevard. I ignore it, letting another Monday-morning commuter in front of me and waiting for the light to turn green so we can all move another twelve feet before it changes again. It will never stop bewildering me that a four-and-a-half-mile trip takes almost an hour.

I’m just about to reach for the dial on the radio when my phone chimes again . . . and again . . . and again. I glance over at it, the screen facedown on the seat, and mentally calculate the rest of my drive. In California it’s illegal to use a cell phone while driving, so it’s against the law to read or reply to any text messages. I’m about to tell myself I can wait when it goes off again.

And again.

When the light turns red, I slip my phone onto my lap and unlock the screen to reveal a slew of missed calls and messages from Becca.

My passcode isn’t working and I can’t get in the building.

Security says he can’t let me in.

Ok Tarah and Kyle can’t get in either.

What’s going on?

I can’t get into my email???

CARTER

911 EMERGENCY FIRE WHATEVER.

CALL ME NOW

I dial, listening to the phone ring through my Bluetooth.

“Carter.”

“Hey.” I accelerate, moving through the intersection. My heart is doing a weird dance in my chest. “What’s going on?”

“No idea.” Someone says something in the background, and Becca gives a quiet “Okay.” Louder, she says to me, “Check your email. We have a meeting at a building in West Hollywood. I’ll see you there.”

And then she’s gone. Bewildered, at the next red light I open my email program and find a two-line company-wide memo from CTM containing an address and instructions to be there by nine thirty.

Beyond that, nothing. Instead of heading straight, I turn right onto La Cienega.

•  •  •

Parked in an underground lot, I emerge and stare up at the glass-and-steel building. It looks like any other sleek new office structure; no identifying names or logos mark the front courtyard.

The only thing I can imagine is that we’re moving offices, or that something horrible has happened to our own building . . . but I’ve heard nothing on the news. And Becca—calm, collected, and immediately responsive ninety-nine percent of the time—hasn’t answered my follow-up call.

I’m hit in the face with a blast of refrigerated air as soon as I step inside, and combined with the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, it awakens something instinctively New Yorker in me.

It’s settling, oddly.

Turning down a marble hall, I check my phone a final time before slipping it into my pocket. A circular reception area is just ahead, topped by a set of large screens with the words Price & Dickle, and the logos and movie posters of some of the actors they represent, moving in and out of focus.

My pulse trills in my throat.

P&D recently moved. Is this where they’re located?

Off to the side is a smaller, temporary table with a paper sign that reads CTM sign-in taped to the top, a beautiful blonde sitting behind it, and two uniformed security guards hovering nearby.

Are we moving offices into the same building as P&D? The whole scene is odd enough to make me slow my steps; a red flare has just been shot up into the sky.

Warily, I approach the table and catch the attention of the blonde wearing a headset. Through my nerves, I attempt my best smile. “Hi, this is going to sound crazy, but—”

She’s all business: “You’re with CTM?”

I nod.

She looks down at her list. “Name?”

“Aaron,” I say, giving her my last name, then quickly clarifying, “Carter Aaron.”

She hums, flipping through a few pages. “Here we are, Aaron Carter.” She hands me a clipboard with several pieces of paper trapped there. “Did you know you have the same name as a Backstreet Boy?”

“Actually, you’re thinking of Nick Carter,” I say. “Aaron Carter is his younger brother. My name is Carter Aaron, not Aaron Carter . . .”

I can tell she’s already lost interest as she looks up at me beneath a set of gravity-defying false lashes. And who could blame her? I should not know the name of a Backstreet Boy’s younger brother. Except I do, because it’s something I’ve had to explain at least a dozen times in my life.

I push on, covertly glancing down at her list. There are a few names I recognize. Cameron from Literary, Sally from Foreign Rights, and a handful of others.

“Can you tell me why I’m here?” I ask.

“Fill out those forms,” she says, nodding to the clipboard in my hand, “then head to the second floor. Oh, and sign in, here.”

She hands me a badge with my name written across the front, and I reluctantly fill in the log. With a bland smile, she points me in the direction of the elevators. A guard swipes his badge to let me past the security gate, and once inside the elevator, I press the button for the second floor.

Pulling my phone back out, I send a quick message to Evie.

I think I’m in your building?

Something weird is going on.

Call me?

After a moment, a vibrant elevator chime tells me I’m on the next floor, and when the doors open I’m met by a smiling middle-aged woman and another set of matching security guards.

Okay . . .

I’m instructed to have a seat in the lobby, and, after peppering the woman with questions, I’m assured that someone will be along shortly to explain everything. The space is bright and expansive, with a number of plush chairs in small clusters that line a long bank of windows overlooking Beverly Boulevard.

There are already a handful of people milling about; I recognize only a few. Nobody seems to have any idea what’s going on. The lobby slowly fills and yet somehow manages to remain almost eerily quiet. Someone will walk in, invariably make some sort of squeak on the floor or some other noise that draws everyone’s attention, and then nothing. It feels a lot like we’re all thirteen years old and waiting around to be called into the principal’s office.

“Carter.”

I turn to see Kurt Elwood from Features walking toward me, hands in his hair and the usual grim expression on his face.

“I thought I saw your name downstairs.” I take in his appearance. “You okay, man?” He’s a little on the green side and there’s a hint of perspiration dotting his upper lip.

He pulls a roll of antacids from his pocket and pops one in his mouth, grimacing as he chews. “You know what this looks like to me?”

I follow his gaze and survey the room. Everyone looks confused, but nobody seems on the verge of outright panic. “No?”

“Like a company-wide layoff. Get us out of the building, away from our computers, where we can’t access our files.”

“What?” I say, a bit taken aback by his suggestion, and look around the room again. I’ve just assumed we’re moving. We’ve been hiring like crazy; layoffs have been as far from my mind as they could be.

“You don’t think they’d do something like that?” he asks. “Features aren’t paying the bills anymore. People aren’t going to the movies like they used to. Pirating is up, profits are down. Not even you guys in TV are safe—P&D are packaging monsters.” He stares at me. “What? You think they’d hand us all parting gifts and send us on our way? No, they separate us from everyone else to keep the drama to a minimum. Why do you think not everyone’s here?” He pulls another Tums from the foil wrapping and looks at it before putting it between his lips and biting down. “The signs have been there for weeks.”

I’m torn between wanting to look away from the chalky pink antacid coloring his teeth and wanting to hear more. Every odd, unexplained event plays through my head, and I wonder if there could be some truth to his words. Emil Shepard has been less than thrilled with CTM for a while now. If he somehow got wind of this, he could move to me and when I was let go he’d have the option to transfer to someone else, or leave altogether. Only a few boats rocked and he’s free. If Blake knew about this, it would explain his surprising nonreaction to everything with Emil so far.

Kurt breaks into my thoughts. “Jesus Christ, I am forty-two years old. Nobody wants a middle-aged, mediocre agent these days. They want sharks. They want agents as good-looking as the actors. I can’t compete with that! Oh my God,” he groans, “I just bought a boat!”

“Okay, let’s take a breath.” I hope I sound calmer than I feel. “We don’t even know what’s happening yet. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Why would they bring us to P&D if they’re laying us off? Why not just hold us in our own lobby?”

I try to steer him away from the rest of the group and he laughs, clapping me on the back of the shoulder.

“Young, hopeful, naive Carter. Maybe you should take one of these,” he says, turning my hand over and placing the last of the Tums in my palm. “You mark my words: we’ll all be out of a job by lunch.”