Throb(10)

“Helen?” I bark. “Clear my afternoon schedule. Where is my brother filming right now?”



Rounding the turn to my brother’s office in the building we still share, I walk straight into a brick wall of a man. Damian Fry. I haven’t seen the guy in years. Dressed in head to toe black, his bald head gleaming, he looks exactly like what he is—a menace. Untraditional, unethical, a heart made of stone … the perfect private investigator for dirty jobs. It’s no wonder the police force kicked him off ten years ago. They called it excessive force, but Damian called it a waste of talent.

“Damian.” I nod.

“Make sure your brother pays my bill on time,” he sneers and walks away. He’s as friendly as usual.

When I stroll into Miles’s office unannounced and without bothering to knock, he, at first, looks annoyed. Then he remembers he needs something from me, and forces a smile onto his face.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, bro?”

Bro? A month ago he couldn’t stand the sight of me. The last time I was in this office, I’d confronted him about paying Mile High bills through Fallen Rose Petals, our father’s charity for children who lost parents. I’d let it go the first time I noticed it happen, knowing he was struggling financially. But when he didn’t get caught the first time, he got greedy, going back for seconds … and thirds and fourths and fifths. When I called him on it, he didn’t even bother to pretend it was inadvertent. Instead he screamed that he was taking his mother’s half of the charity, since our father hadn’t sought fit to set up one in his mother’s name, and I should get the fuck out of his office.

Miles sweeps together a pile of documents strewn around his desk and opens a thick folder. My eyes narrow on the Fry logo emblazoned on the outside; anything to do with Damian raises my suspicion. A few black-and-white glossy photos spill out, but he quickly gathers the file and puts it into drawer.

“Tell me more about the show.”

Miles’s eyes light up, excited that I’m interested.

“The bachelor is Flynn Beckham. An up-and-coming singer with a pretty decent-size following. The ladies love him. He’s got that rockstar aloof, I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude down pat. There were twenty ladies originally. We’re down to eight. When we get down to four, we go live. So there’s a planned hiatus coming up to let the taped shows catch up with the live shows.”

“Who are the eight?” I’m starting to lose my patience, anxious to find out more about Kate.

“Did you see them? We got a smorgasbord of beauties. One for every demographic. The advertisers are going to love it.”

Right now, I don’t give a crap about the advertisers. I just want to know more about the woman who took all my money, turned me down for dinner, and made my dick come alive, all in the same night.

“I saw them. What’s their background?”

Miles takes out another folder from his top desk drawer. Opening it, he reveals a black-and-white glossy of a woman who looks like she could be Miss California. She’s pretty, but not Kate.

“Jessica Knowles.” He holds up the candid photograph. “Twenty-three, former Miss Teen USA runner-up. Aspiring model and actress. She’s built like fucking Jessica Rabbit. Tits are fake, but huge. Every eighteen-year-old will be having a wet dream when she comes on screen in that white bikini of hers.”

He turns the photograph. There’s another beautiful girl, but still not Kate. “Mercedes Mila.” He smiles like a Cheshire cat. “I’d like to take a ride in this Mercedes. Twenty-four, nurse.”

Ten minutes of résumés later, we’ve covered everything from student to lawyer to stripper. I’m growing impatient. Finally, Miles flips the photo and my eyes land on Kate. “Kate Monroe. Twenty-five. Blackjack dealer. Working on her doctorate in physical therapy. She’s my girl next door. Looks sweet and innocent, but she has a streak of something wild. Father was a hotshot card player.” Miles pauses. “I’m curious if this one’s wild in the sack.”

My brother’s insolent commentary was already wearing thin on my nerves, but his disrespect for Kate gives me the urge to kick him under the table. Jaw clenched, I stare at the remaining headshots, but my mind is a million miles away. I ponder the strange combination … medical student and blackjack dealer. Strangely enough, from the little that I know, it fits her.

“I saw this morning’s dailies,” I say. “What happens next?”

“Tonight he picks his first stranded date.”

“Stranded date?” With my brother’s penchant for risqué, I’m almost afraid to ask.