Now I was the one stalling.
He jerked his thumb to Nicole. “You don’t want me to talk about what I’m going to do to your body in company.”
I had the professional demeanor thing down to a science until then, because I wanted to hear what he was going to do to me in fine detail.
I cleared my throat and focused on my circle of coffee.
“It’s not appropriate. None of this is. We shouldn’t even be talking about it.”
“When your time’s up, that talk’s getting real. Mark my words.”
He took a swig of coffee that had a serious finality.
“I do a lot wrong,” he said, rinsing out his cup. “But when I decide something, it happens.”
“Do I get to decide?”
It was a rhetorical question. Of course I got to decide. And I was going to let him tell me what he was going to do, and then I was going to let him do it. I could barely breathe thinking about it. I hadn’t thought about the bulge in his tuxedo pants by sheer force of will, but at the counter with his promises heavy in the air, I let that vision move me.
Yeah. I got to decide. And it was yes. All the way yes.
I must have been wearing my feelings all over my face, because he smiled at me in a way that made me blush, and I had to work not to smile back like a teenager.
He came around behind me, and I remembered the first salvo of dreams where I couldn’t see him. I could only feel him behind me. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “See you in a couple of weeks, Miss Cara.”
CHAPTER 34
BRAD
This was a setup. Mike didn’t go to Ken’s office unless he had a good reason, and the reason this time was Mr. Fuckup. Me.
Ken had called me to his office to talk about security at Disney, which I admit, I didn’t call him about until Cara left for the day, because it hadn’t occurred to me until she mentioned it. I bolted to my publicist’s office downtown, around the back way where I wouldn’t be seen by anyone who wanted an autograph or a picture, and up to his office, which was decorated in about forty-nine shades of gray.
Ken told me he’d take care of security in one sentence on the way to his office. Then, once I stepped in, he closed the door. Michael Greydon was on the couch in a navy jacket and white shirt. Mr. Neat. My friend. Didn’t call. Didn’t text. Just sitting there with an iPad on his lap. He hugged me and slapped me in the chest with the tablet.
That was where I saw the cell phone shot of me by my pool. I had a beer, but I was wearing pants, so fuck them.
“Tell me why I care,” I said.
“Because I care,” Ken said, snapping up the iPad.
“And you brought this asshole in to talk sense into me? Dude married a paparazza. A hot paparazza . . . but still.”
Ken flicked his finger over the screen. Another picture of me with my shirt open. My pool. Geraldine Mancuso in a green bikini bottom. Her tits had been blurred, but the blur was flesh color, not green. She held a long glass bong in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Behind her, another topless girl had her back to the camera.
And of course, me mooning Nicole’s nanny.
You know what I thought?
I didn’t think fuck them, even though, fuck them. I didn’t care what the public thought. Didn’t care that my publicist was about to use my friendship with Mike as a way to get me to be someone with a more manageable life.
My first thought?
Cara was out of the frame. I was relieved.
“Fuck this. Tracey Shim got busted doing lines at the Thelonius Room.”
“And she hasn’t had a magazine cover since,” Ken interjected.
I handed the iPad back, but Ken didn’t take it.
“Read it.”
I froze. Michael took the tablet and read from it.
“And The Father of the Year Award Goes to . . . Literally Anyone but Brad Sinclair.” Michael paused, looked for my reaction, and continued. “His press release has him so graciously taking a strange child in, but instead of devoting himself to the foundling, he retains his playboy ways. Just last night, he was photographed amid a stunning constellation of alcohol and string bikinis. Where is the baby? Right in the same house with the nannies, of course. To make the whole situation more deliciously complex, there are actually two nannies. One’s a classic Hollywood daddy-jumper, vaulting from Josh Trudeau’s bed to Brad Sinclair’s House of Debauch. The other is fresh as a daisy. She’s managed to not have a single printable scandal in her entire career. Let’s see how long that lasts, shall we?”
He put the tablet down. “There’s more. But you get the idea.”
“This?” Ken said, “I can’t fix this for you. If people think you’re partying in the house, they’re going to start wondering why Child Protective Services isn’t at your door.”
“Let them wonder. I don’t care,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. Nope, just heard Cara’s voice telling me how hard it was. How I had to pick a god damn lane or get off the highway.
She’d never said that exactly. But when I said it to myself it was in her voice.
“Is this where I talk?” Michael asked Ken.
“Go ahead. Talk your little heart out. But fix him.” There was a knock at the office door, and the shadow of Ken’s executive assistant appeared through the frosted glass.
“I’m sorry I personally offended you,” I snapped, because screw Ken and his busy little life with the kids his wife took care of 24-7.
“Nothing’s personal. Do you understand? As far as I go, I don’t have a personal to get offended about.” He pointed to Michael, then me, while looking at my friend. “I have to take a call. Fix him.”
He left with the phone to his ear as if he’d already moved on. The glass door clanged then clicked.
“And I’m stuck in the office with Dudley Do-Right,” I said, flopping onto the couch. “You gonna lecture me, I’m right here.”
“Isn’t Dudley Do-Right before your time?”
“My mother used to say that. Was he a real guy?”
“I have no idea.” He shook his watch down until it was below his cuff, then checked it. “Listen. I don’t care about your image.”
“Good.”
“Or your career. If no one hires you anymore, you can just move back to Arkansas. Your parents would be glad to have you.”
“I’m not moving back.”
“I know. It was just a worst-case scenario. For you. Your daughter’s living her worst-case scenario.”
“Dude, give me a break. She has everything a kid could want.”
“I promise you, she doesn’t care.”
“You know what?” I stood up. I’d had enough and he hadn’t even started. “Six foster kids a few months ago doesn’t make you an expert. Not by a sight. It makes you crazier than a shithouse rat.”