Fiancée for Rent by Elizabeth Grey

Chapter 3

Kylie

My nail clicked against my phone screen in a fitful walk as I scrolled through the headlines, each one worse than the last about how Liam had kissed some no-name girl—namely me.

Liam is Dating a New Girl Again!

Liam Hendrix's Dating Life is Out of Control!

Liam Hendrix's Newest Gold Digger is Kylie Davis Who?

With each cruel word, I hit the phone harder, practically begging it to break for the sheer satisfaction of the act alone.

It seemed to me that the more famous one became, the more the vultures loved to tear that person down. I fumed, raged at the media until my phone buzzed. My agent’s name lit up the screen. Cynthia. I planned to ignore it, having already addressed her multiple texts about the news.

When my cell buzzed on the heels of Cynthia’s fifth call, I’d lost my patience. I slammed my finger down against the screen, swiping it to answer. “Did you accidentally hit redial, Cynthia?”

"Kylie!" her sharp pitched, shrill voice shrieked over the speaker.

“What now?” I let out a heavy sigh.

"What now? Are you kidding me? I don't get why you're in such a bad mood when your name is all over the news!"

"Have you seen what they’re saying? It's not like it's good news splashed everywhere," I countered as I rolled my eyes at the mirror.

"Any news is good news!"

"So says you," I managed, the words sounding odd to my ears, out of sync as I felt, but I had made my point in anxiety speak.

"Yes. So says your agent. You should reach out to him. Can you imagine what would happen if you two started dating?"

"I don't date," I yelled, then winced as the sound echoed back at me.

I ran my fingers on the pendant hanging against my chest. The crooked heart with a small stone in its middle caused a familiar sting in my palm. The forever pendant—a gift from my best friend, my first love, the man who'd died in a car accident five years ago—served as a constant reminder of why I didn't date.

"And so it's about time you started again, Kylie. Can you imagine the headlines if you dated Liam Hendrix? You would become a household name overnight! Everyone would know you. Better roles would be offered. You might even get your film looked at."

"Hard to argue with logic like yours," I mused, my voice deep, my throat tight, though the last line she'd spoken had softened me into consideration of her lunacy.

"You know it always is! I seriously don't know why you try. I mean, look at the facts. No offense, darling, but before last night, no one knew who you were. Sure, you've had a few minor roles, but you were far from famous. Now, you're one of the most searched names on Google! Your social media followers have jumped from seventeen thousand to five hundred thousand overnight!"

"Take that, Isabelle," I huffed.

"Who?" Cynthia inquired. "Wait, do you mean Liam's ex?"

"Yes, we got acquainted," I grumped as I glanced at my nails, which were painted a nice red to match my gown.

I'd been reluctant at first to wear red to such an event, but in pictures, it had truly set me apart from the others, accented and sparkled beyond the carpet—a perfect accent to my creamy skin.

"What did she say?" Cynthia urged, and I could imagine her sitting on the edge of her seat, back straight, mouth open as if to gobble up the gossip.

"Who is she? Some B-actress?" I parroted in my best mean girl voice.

"What a bitch!"

"That’s what I said. I have no respect for women who tear down other women. She showed her true colors."

"Spoiled. Everything handed to her, including her every role, thanks to her parents’ fame. You are so much better than that. An actual actress," she said, punching the last word for emphasis. "Let's have some fun pissing her off more. Date Liam!"

"You're like a kid begging for candy here," I huffed, unable to hold back a laugh at the image of Cynthia, her forty-eight-year-old body stuffed into a too-tight dress, her overly-processed locks, begging like the kid at Christmas her voice sounded like on the phone.

"I do what I have to, dear. Tell me you don't want to kiss Liam Hendrix again. If you don't, you're dead."

The kiss played out in my mind. The heat of his lips, the hardness of his body, both pressed against mine, caused a tremor to zip through my core. A knock at the door not only snapped me out of my memory but took that tremor to a full shake.

"We're ready in five," a male voice sounded.

"Listen, Cynthia. I have to go. I'm wanted on set."

"Okay, kid. Call me."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," I said as I ended the call.

She'd call me back before I could. The woman had goals. I appreciated her drive, though she could be a lot to deal with on a daily basis.

As I walked to the set of the show she'd managed to get me a guest role on, I practiced gratitude to soothe the still raw edges of my anger. I may have only been cast as a one-time possible date of the show's lead, but I went to the set with the idea to do a little improvisation, attempt to give the nameless role a bit of personality.

Minutes into the shoot, the director yelled, "Cut! What the hell was that?" so loud my hand flew to my heart.

I turned to the voice, finding the director’s red face.

"I was...,” I paused, trying to come up with the right words.

“You were what? Spit it out?”

“I was trying to give my character a bit of depth," I spewed out, my tone capturing my frustration enough that all eyes had turned to me.

"Can we have a chat, please, Kylie? Over here," he said, his voice deep, words short and controlled.

I followed him to a dark corner behind his chair. I knew every ear strained to hear what the man had to say to me. Invading his personal space, I hoped he'd whisper what came next. Good looks don’t intimidate guys like this. They'd seen all the beautiful women in their day and had long ago called it quits on finding us intimidating.

"Listen, I just want you to look good. I don't need you to do all of this acting. Just stand there and look good," he said, his arms waving above his head as if he could conjure the next phrase from the air. "Be... attractive. You know what I mean? Or, I can cut your two lines and force it. Pop a hip. Show some legs. Work your beauty like you did in your audition."

I nodded as I swallowed hard past the lump that had formed in my throat. Heat rose from deep within, reddening my cheeks to match the director’s. My stomach tightened as I silenced the scream inside. Long before that moment, I'd grown tired of being stereotyped, of my talents being suppressed in roles like this one. Pretty Girl in a Bar Number Two.

After a deep, lengthy breath in, I nodded to his back as he walked away, having not given me a chance to answer. My urge to fire back was stifled only by my need for professionalism. My eyes burned as I fought back the tears, reminding myself that a tantrum could ruin my career. Hollywood was unforgiving, especially of any woman who stood up for herself.

I turned my anger inward as I stood frozen in my corner, observing the frantic workers maintain the set and refresh makeup for distraction. As my makeup artist descended upon me, I set myself straight.

Throughout my career, I'd nurtured one skill, and one skill only, to stimulate men's vital signs. I may not have been the most beautiful woman in Hollywood—nose too thin, eyes a duller blue, breasts average. I'd worked with what I had and enhanced with bras and contacts what I didn't. Package complete, I'd mastered the craft of walking, sitting, standing, and even talking to make men drool. I called it acting!  Still, as a woman aged, her looks slipped with only so much packaging could do.

The breath I'd held rushed from my frantic lungs when she stepped back to evaluate her work. I let my shoulders slump a second as I wondered what would happen to me once society no longer thought I was gorgeous.

Temporary. The word slithered through my thoughts. I'd intended for this while acting thing to be temporary, a way to make money, make connections, get my films produced. Temporary. The word sliced through my skull now. Temporary had taken over my life.

I mulled over where the years had gone as I stood pretty, accenting the right curves, poising my lips, making love to the camera until the director called for a break. Pleased with the way I had handled myself, I guessed, as the yelling and lecturing had stopped.

That idea turned out to be a short-lived delusion.

"Can someone please touch up Kylie's make-up? Her wrinkles are showing. And wardrobe—who the hell chose her dress? Her boobs look too small."

Something like a growl emerged from my throat, not that anyone could hear it for the commotion the director had caused. Everyone scurried to do his bidding. A foot fell hard on the ground as a boy tripped over a cord, startling my already electrified nerves. The smell of a half-eaten greasy donut carried by a girl who'd passed me made my stomach roll. Sweat broke out on my neck as my every muscle tightened. The pressure in my head grew to the need for aspirin.

Nearing a meltdown, I made my way to my dressing room so fast I prayed my heels wouldn't break right off as each step sent ripples of pain up through my tight calves.

I punched at my phone, bringing up Cynthia’s number.

Her chipper tone added to my rage, and I let the fury deepen my voice until my throat hurt to force out each word.

"I am smart. I am funny! And, I know I can act! But, when I stand on these sets, I am none of those things. I’m just an attractive bimbo with too small boobs and wrinkles. I know I have more to offer the world than looks. If I could only be given a chance."

"Oh, honey, I agree with you a hundred percent," Cynthia gushed, but I knew it was only her way to appease me, to shut me up.

When I sighed, she continued, "So, while you were working, I was, too. I spoke to Liam's manager. He's a good friend of mine."

"By good friend, you mean you slept with him," I muttered, the gold and brown pattern on the wallpaper in this old Hollywood glam dressing room blurring before my eyes.

Cynthia cleared her throat and continued, "I can arrange for you both to meet if you’d like."

"Break's over. Back on set," a voice yelled over a rapping of knuckles on wood.

"Yeah, whatever, Cynthia," I said as I glared at my reflection in the mirror, letting go of my need to care what the woman had to say any longer. "You get me a better role, and I’ll do whatever you want."

As I hit the red end button, a little white email notification popped up. A big production company, the one I had sent a film to over three years ago. Hitting it with a trembling finger, I scanned over the words as fast as I could, only stopping when I realized they'd loved my film and wanted to set up a meeting.

"No freaking way!" I exclaimed.

My arms shot out from my body so fast I swore I came off the ground. From awful to best day ever in seconds. My shaking took a turn from bad to good.

"I told you to be patient, that things would eventually fall into place," I admonished my reflection in the mirror. Turning to walk back to the set, I added with a flip of my hand, "Best get this over with."