Escorting the Actress by Leigh James
Kyle
We wereboth quiet on the rest of the ride home. I didn't know what she was thinking—aside from her obvious annoyance at some portions of my commanding performance—but I was processing what felt like a triumph. The press had eaten us up. XYZ had taken a particular liking to me.
Lo was a smart girl. She'd said she didn't want me to stay, but she'd backed off. She knew we'd been successful in obfuscating the ugly, vomit-filled truth about last night with the sexy, promising glory of today.
And when I'd kissed her—it was brief but wow. Just wow. It was as if her whole body had lit up beneath me.
When I'd cupped her fine ass—I shouldn't have just put my hand on her like that, but Jesus. It was so firm and curved, just begging to be squeezed. My hand still felt hot from touching her.
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 alreadyhad 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 agreedthat 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 bit 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 layin 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.
