“Why do I have to be on the show for you to get the big part?”
“Trudi knows we’re together now. She’s already sold the powers-that-be on the idea of you. You as my girlfriend. Everyday girl gets the Hollywood star. They think this will be a great angle. It will help me and—”
I hold up my hand to stop him. “I still don’t see how my being your girlfriend on this reality show helps you land a part in a movie.”
“Hollywood is a closely connected place. Everyone knows somebody, and if this is what the producer, Barry, wants, then this is what Barry gets. Or he might just mention how uncooperative things were with me and my people, and word gets out, and it snowballs into a fucking nightmare for me.”
His turquoise eyes are worse than any puppy’s.
“God. I hate your face right now.” My grip on what I want to do and what I don’t want to do is slipping. First, I’m his fucking whore, and now I’m this damned show’s bitch.
The wrinkle between his brows deepens. “What? Why?”
“Because, you give me that look, the one that always got you whatever you wanted, especially from me—and I know I’m going to give it to you, because I can’t seem to tell you fucking no. Even when I should. Because I should.”
That grin—the one I used to love, but hate right this minute—pushes his dimples deeper.
* * *
I’ve been wrangled by one perky, little producer, Trudi Parks, and one handsome devil of a Hollywood bad boy into signing the release forms for them to use footage of me on their ridiculous reality television show, Celebrity Fuck-Cuming or some shit.
I scrawl my name across the dotted line, my gut wrenching into a ball of stress and frustration.
Trudi snatches them from my hand before the ink is even dry. I’d like to ram these papers down her scrawny throat, but Buck catches my eye and shakes his head. His brow wrinkles just enough to tell me he knows what I’m thinking.
He’s always known what I was thinking. Fucker.
* * *
Trudi insists on me allowing her to tame my hair and paint me up with freaking make-up. She even went out and bought some more appropriate attire, so I look like someone Buck would date. Because I’m not at all like the girls he’s usually seen with.
I’m the exact opposite, in fact. I’ve never seen him in the papers, or even his movies, for that matter, with a woman who isn’t blonde and blue-eyed—maybe brown eyes, but never dark hair or skin. They’re always beautiful, delicate, pale flowers. I’m none of those things.
So, not only am I now whoring myself out to Buck, but I’m also being made over into something I’m not. I can hardly breathe; it chafes so hard against everything I am.
How the fuck did I end up here?
Aunt Delores. She needs me. I need money to help her. Buck has fucking money. He wants this, and here I am.
I follow him down the steps of the RV bus. Thugs One and Two flank him, holding the throngs of people at bay. A surge of bodies pushes closer.
Buck wraps his arm around me, pulling me against his side, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
I shrug him off. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Squaring my shoulders, I stride forward away from him. The crowd isn’t interested in me. They just want a piece of Buck.
A camera is shoved into my face as the flash goes off.
I throw my hand up, too late to protect my eyes. “What the fuck?”
His strong hand lands on my shoulder, dragging me back into his arms. “Damn it, Lou. Stay close.”
Once we get into the Rec Center, where Buck and I spent so many afternoons as pre-teens, the crush of bodies dissipates as the local cops close the doors behind us. Two of the three cameramen wait for us in the gymnasium, the third still outside, filming the throng of locals who showed up to see Buck.
Buck turns to Trudi. “How the fuck did they know I was coming today?”
Her eyes widen and she turns up her palms. “Beats me.”
He shakes his head. “Well, let’s try to keep a bit more of a watch on who gets our schedule, eh?”
He turns to me. “And you.”
“Me, what?”
“You need to listen to me. You’re not used to mobs and how the paparazzi work. They’ll eat you for lunch.”
I lean in to him and whisper, “As opposed to being eaten for breakfast?”
He breaks out with a loud laugh. “You’re something else, Lou.”
I cross my arms. “I can handle a few cameras and fans who don’t give even a half a shit about who I am.”
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “That’s the thing. You’ve been seen with me, so now they do care who you are. They want to know every last detail of your life.”