My pulse is a booming drum in my ear. I stare at the side of Carter’s face so hard I hope his cheekbones begin to ache under the force of it.
As the woman from catering comes in pushing a cart laden with fruit and fat-free, taste-free bran muffins, I think of my delicious doughnut and wonder what everyone would do if I just reached into the trash can, brushed it off, and went to town. I’m so hungry I’m tempted to try. Instead, I abandon hope of sugar and delicious carbs since, by the looks of it, we’re all about to be subjected to Brad’s fifty-year-old-man breakfast. Great.
Of course, everyone is too polite to go get anything to eat until Brad does first. And he seems to be in no immediate hurry.
My stomach gnaws at itself like a starving wolf . . . so, fuck it.
I stand and walk to the food, bypassing the muffin-bricks to pile a bunch of berries on a small paper plate. When I return to the table, Brad is eyeing me like I’ve just broken a cardinal rule. Rose’s smirk is aimed at her hands folded on the table. Rose and I don’t always have the same sense of humor, but I know that if we make eye contact right now, she will lose her shit.
“Let’s get started.” Brad taps a few papers in front of him and leans back in his chair, glancing at Rose. “How did it go with Tom on Monday?”
“Good,” she tells him. “Paramount contract’s signed. Everything’s moving along.”
He nods, pleased. “Carter, what’s going on for the Vanity Fair shoot?”
Carter slides his eyes to me. “All set.”
“Who’s doing the photography again?”
Hesitating, Carter pretends to need to look at his notes before he says, “Ah, it’s Jonah. Jonah Aaron.”
“No relation?” Brad asks distractedly. Assuming.
“Relation. Brother.”
Brad looks up and considers Carter frankly for a few seconds. “The photographer is your brother?”
And this is it—this is when Carter will finally get what’s coming to him. I didn’t overreact. This entire situation is bullshit. And the best part is that I won’t need to do a thing because Brad will do it for me.
Doughnut incident forgiven, I settle into my seat, wishing I had some popcorn instead of berries for the show.
Carter’s face slowly blooms red. “That’s right. My younger brother. I assure you he’s fully qualified.”
Brad’s expression remains unreadable and I think I can hear Carter sweating. I could kiss Brad for this. Come to think of it, I think I missed Bosses’ Day. I make a mental note to send Brad a card.
“You might have even seen some of his work in Rolling Stone,” Carter continues. “I can get you a list of references if you’d like.”
Silence. You could hear a pin drop and I gleefully swing my eyes to Brad, waiting for the explosion. Here it comes . . . any minute now . . .
But it doesn’t. Instead, a smile worthy of the Grinch slowly spreads across Brad’s face, until I can see every one of his perfectly capped teeth.
“Now that is what I’ve been talking about!” he says, and slaps a hand on the table.
Son of a bitch.
“Carter rallying the troops and giving us an inside edge.” Brad all but leaps across the table to give Carter a bro-pal high five. “I’ll tell you something, I am not surprised. Everyone watch this guy,” he says, pointing around the table. “This is how you get shit done.”
I sink down in my chair, furious. We already had a photographer, so I’m not sure what, specifically, Brad thinks has gotten “done.” Carter shouldn’t have made the switch without asking me, and he knows it. That Brad is now giving him a verbal hand job is infuriating. It sets Carter apart in a way Brad never has before at these meetings. There is an unspoken pecking order in agenting, defined primarily by who brings in the most publicity and money—and this year, that is likely to be me.
But there are other factors, too. Such as: having a penis. Apparently that’s a big one.
There’s some awkward shuffling around the table—either people don’t like being told to emulate the newest newbie around town, or they agree with me that hiring your brother for a cover shoot is a screaming mile past Sketchy Town—but I make a point of not looking up, refusing to make eye contact. Taking a calming breath, I lift my coffee to my lips, truly enjoying it as I imagine it scalding Carter’s lap instead of my tongue. I glance down when my phone buzzes with a text.
Can you make sure to follow up with Seamus about the start time next week?
I blink, staring at the screen. Brad has moved on from his gushing over Carter, and now Ashton’s voice is a nasal lull in the background.
Did you send this to the wrong person?
Is this Evelyn Abbey?
Why would I forget to follow up with my own client?
I was just making sure.
Just contact Jess with the list of information you need.
Beside me, he snorts out a dickish little laugh and shakes his head, sliding his phone onto the tabletop.
Livid, I type one more thought.
You could have given me a heads up that my shirt was unbuttoned.
Your shirt was unbuttoned?
You’re sitting right across from me.
It would be impossible for you to not have noticed.
Well, I didn’t ;-)
Holy shit. Did Carter just type the bird-flip of smiley faces? Did Carter just give me the smiley-finger?
My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely hear what Ashton is saying. I’m sure I look like a mouth-breathing wrestler, but my thoughts won’t budge away from how much I despise Carter this very second.
I’m not entirely sure what this feeling is, because I’ve never had it before . . . but I think it’s unmitigated rage.
I think my brain has just declared war on Carter Aaron.
? ? ?
In my office, I descend upon my other two doughnuts with a kind of desperate, two-handed, open-mouthed vigor. Coffee and berries long gone, these doughnuts are my entire life now.
But because the universe is a cat, and I am but a fuzzy ball of string, Carter walks in right when I take down half of one doughnut in a single bite.
“Hey, Evil,” he says, eyes on his phone. “Jonah needs to start at eleven next Friday. Does that work?” He looks up and startles at the sight of my face, both cheeks bulging with food. “I’ll . . . give you a second to answer.”
And then he just stands there, watching me chew behind my hand, his eyebrows raised in amusement. When the chewing takes me longer than either of us would have liked, he adds, “You must have been starving” with a mocking half smile.
Swallowing, I say, “You may have noticed Brad knocking my breakfast into the trash.”
He eyes the sugar crumbs littering the bag on my desk. “Good thing you had spares.”
I make a point of walking to my door and dramatically motioning to where Jess is sitting in front of her computer, next to the other assistants.
Carter follows me and looks out. “Yeah?”
“That is my assistant, Jess. Talk to her about scheduling.”
He peeks out again, offering Jess a wave and an adorable smile. “How’s your mom’s cat doing?” he calls out.