Fiancée for Rent by Elizabeth Grey
Chapter 2
Liam
"This is why I don't trust beautiful women," I muttered to myself as I scrubbed the vomit on my suit. "They're nothing but trouble!"
Slamming my fist against the lever to turn off the water, I tossed my crumpled towel into the basket the restroom attendant held out for me.
"Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Hendrix?" the man inquired.
I shook my head and grimaced at his scrunched-up face, something more akin to disgust rather than the sympathy I assumed he'd gone for in hopes of a bigger tip. Walking towards the couch, I contemplated its existence in a restroom at all. Yet, in upscale places like these, every building tried to outdo the others. The dark walls, elevator music, and strange, fake woodland scent of the place led to the cave-like feeling I needed to settle the tension in my head.
My stomach clenched as I sat down, thoughts of all the gorgeous yet wicked women I’d come to know swirling in my brain. My sister, Angela, was one of the most notable. She possessed my mother's Irish, dark red hair and my father's German ice blue eyes. A lethal combination she'd used to grab whatever she wanted her entire life. Women envied her. Men loved her. Both, blinded by beauty, fell prey to her manipulations.
And then there was Isabelle. Isabelle. The name hissed through my mind like a knife to the brain. The most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on. The thought of her classic dyed blonde hair, chocolate eyes, and golden skin manufactured to perfection morphed into a memory of her with her legs wrapped around another man.
My tense jaw yelled at me as my lips curled into a sneer. In hindsight, I'd loved her too much to see her obvious affair for two years. The man she’d replaced me with, Andrew, was a real estate and entertainment mogul. Filthy rich but a total scumbag.
A suppressed scream caught in my throat as rage set in motion a montage of my year of pain and humiliation that followed our split. Barely able to function, unable to neither write nor perform songs, I'd managed to jump from one woman's bed to another. My hands curled into fists so tight I thought I'd break my thumb as the realization of Isabelle thriving took hold. A new man, new roles, new awards, one not possible without the other. I fumed. Beautiful. Wicked. Wanton. Women.
I relaxed into the bathroom couch, just noticing how it shared its red hue with the woman’s dress who threw up on me. That long, slim leg of hers revealed by a treacherous slit had tempted me. I should've turned away the minute I saw her porcelain skin and piercing blue eyes. If I'd been stronger, the media wouldn’t have another thing to talk about. Who knew what the pariahs would come up with, how many would be happy to hear about me covered in puke.
I took a deep breath before rising and heading towards the door. On my way out, I paused to slip the attendant a bill as we exchanged an empty smile.
The minute I hit the room, I found myself accosted by the strong scent of mint and gin, the drunk woman trying to cover up puke breath.
"Liam, I'm so sorry. I never drink. I…," the woman in red satin stumbled through the words much like she did her steps to keep up with me.
"It's fine," I hissed, cutting her off as I tried to push past her with as much gentleness as I could muster.
I stopped when I caught sight of my ex, though, clenched to Andrew's arm like a spider to a fly. Thoughts of what the press would say flooded my brain as I tried to remove the woman’s hands from my lapels. My airways constricted, making my collar too tight. I could feel all eyes on me. They watched, waited, wrote out their next headline before it even happened. As the air grew stale, I could hear their thoughts. Poor Liam, so easily replaced. Isabella is glowing. Liam looks like hell. The song Isabelle wrote with Liam's help for her last movie was actually about Andrew!
Real or imagined, I knew I would read them all in the next day's news, rehashing last year’s drama.
Isabelle's heels clicked against the floor. Once she got close enough, she asked, "Who's your friend?" her hand gestured toward the woman standing beside me, although her eyes stayed on mine.
The woman released her grip on my jacket. On impulse, I snatched up her hand just as it was falling. "She's my date for the evening," I replied before the words even registered in my brain. I strained a smile at the woman, thinking of just how wrong the next seconds could go if she didn't play along.
"Kylie Davis," the woman said as she wiggled free from my tense hand, only to grab it right back and intertwine her fingers with mine. "It's nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you." She extended her free hand to Isabelle.
Isabelle’s mouth opened and shut. When she opened it again, all she could say was, "Nice nail polish." Her pitch higher than usual met up with her level of sarcasm.
“Right,” Kylie withdrew her hand from Isabelle and placed it over my bicep. She continued, “I’m a big fan of your last movie, as an actress I-”
"Listen," Isabelle interrupted. The words were meant for me, though her eyes were glued on Kylie, scanning her from head to toe. I couldn’t help but feel slightly cocky. Kylie was a knockout. She may not be my actual date, but Isabelle didn’t know that.
"If you are going to replace me,” Isabelle said icily, “don't do it with some B-actress. It's humiliating."
She assessed Kylie one more time before turning away. She moved towards Andrew, her steps slow, deliberate, working every curve in her body in a flow of movements. She acted like she was born in heels, owning the floor, stealing all attention.
"What a bitch," Kylie grunted.
I nodded, struck in the gut by the fact I had not seen the two of them as a couple before.
Isabelle, as if sensing us talking about her, turned. I shook my head at her hateful gaze and started to leave, but before I could move, I felt Kylie’s warm fingers sliding along my neck, her slim figure against mine.
"Kiss me," she whispered, her breath brushing heat over my lips.
A quick glimpse over Kylie's head showed Isabelle's appalled expression like a star-struck fan.
I brushed my lips over Kylie’s, my eyes still on Isabelle. Kylie, not appreciating my divided attention, slipped her tongue between my lips. My muscles tightened, grabbing onto her body, pulling her to me until her curve met my every valley. Once I opened to the invitation, sensual, slow movement met with a tender pressure, producing the perfect Hollywood kiss.
A flash of light saved me from getting lost in the fantasy. I blinked into focus the now reddish color of her once pink lips. As my stomach tightened over the way the slight flush of color outlined her perfectly cut cheeks, the barrage of flashes began, blinding me. The murmur of voices around us grew. Nothing new in my life, I searched through all the eyes focused on Kylie, and I found Isabelle among them.
The smirk on her face, the pop of her hip, seemed all as if to say, "Is that all you got?"
I took the bait. Hook. Line. Sinker.