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She rolls her eyes and leaves, and Holly walks in, closing the door behind her. I still need a shower pretty badly, so I’m hoping we can wrap this up soon. It’s hard to get whipped into a frenzy about picking up yet another job with early call times or…anything having to do with Philadelphia, really.

“Any word from Val at Aspen on the fragrance shoot?” I ask.

“I called her this afternoon. She says they’re still looking for a female model to pair you with. The one who did their last denim campaign has a fragrance non-compete.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Your mother called. Twelve times. Which is why I’m here.”

Shit. “My mother called you?”

“Apparently at least one of you thought it was relevant to tell me that you’re signed on for a reality show.”

“I’m not,” I assure her. Not until I get desperate.

“Well, she seems to think that you are, as long as you’re living in their beach house. You are still living there, aren’t you?”

I don’t say anything. She already knows the answer.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Josh? I’m your agent. Dealing with your work is my job.”

“Because I’m not doing it, and this doesn’t count as work. She’s just desperate for attention now that her show’s been canceled, and this is the only way she can get it. They won’t give her the show unless I agree to be on it.”

Holly raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

Statement, not a question. Which means she definitely has a very bad idea brewing right now.

“Don’t even think about it, Holly.”

You need to work, Joshua. If you can line something else up, fine, but until you start taking your auditions seriously, I don’t know what else to do with you. If you want to keep me on as your agent, you’re going to need something to show for your efforts. Even if it’s reality TV.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Or, you know, you can just read the Wings script and call me when you’re done. You nail that audition, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Ugh, so that was her plan — blackmail me into the stupid audition. I should’ve guessed. “Yeah. Fine.”

She heads out, but stops in the open doorway. “And Josh?”

“Yeah?”

“Get a publicist.”

* * *

It’s always been one of my biggest fears that one night I’d be out at a club and realize I’m completely over this shit. I’m not quite there yet, but right now, buzzed on drinks I’ve had a billion times before, chick in my lap who looks exactly like the last three who’ve been in my lap, I’m pretty fucking bored.

I have to adjust the girl to reach the phone in my pocket, but I’m pretty sure she’s too blitzed to care. She’s been alternating between touching my junk and tossing back shots for I don’t even know how long, and if she’s noticed that I’m not paying her any attention, I can’t tell.

Of course, Holloway’s not even here. He’s off at James Gallagher’s in-fucking-credible estate in Napa, getting wooed for yet another huge-budget movie. Because locking in the Lassiter role wasn’t enough. For someone who hates attention, he’s getting a shit-ton of it all of a sudden; I can’t even remember the last time I saw him for more than five minutes. I know he’s just keeping himself busy to keep his mind off the fact that Ally’s gone, but fuck, where did my best friend go?

I whip out my phone and text him. R u back yet? Bored.

His response comes back thirty seconds later. No, I’m not back. I’m in the Gallaghers’ guest house, hiding.

Well. Whatever’s going on there sounds more interesting than my night. “Sweetheart, time to go,” I tell the chick in my lap, pushing her up lightly. Then I flag down the waitress, tell her to surprise me, and text Liam back. Imma need more than that.

He’s got a 25yo wife w/busy hands. Groped me @ dinner, grabbed my ass on the way out, and now she wants to meet up in the hot tub.

Yet another thing to hashtag #LiamProblems. The guy gets more unwanted potential ass than anyone I know, and it’s completely wasted on him. She hot?

Yup.

So stop hiding, I write back, because I know there’s no shot in hell he’d ever screw around on Ally, and I like being a dick.

Don’t be a dick.

I laugh. He’s so fucking predictable.

The waitress returns with a flaming shot of I don’t even know what. I stick a twenty in her bra, hold up the glass for her to blow out the flame, and toss it back.

“Good?” she asks, her voice low.

I hadn’t noticed one way or the other, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “You tell me.” I pull her down to me and let her taste my tongue, and when I sit back, she looks a little dizzy.

“Pretty good,” she blurts out, and even in the dark lighting of the club, I can see her blush.

Too easy.

“Josh Chester.” The smug way the voice says my name makes my skin crawl, and I watch a tall, skinny, vaguely familiar-looking guy make his way toward me. I have no recollection of who he is, and the drinks I’ve already put away tonight aren’t helping.

“Do I know you?”

“Chuck. We met at one of your parties a little while ago.”

“If you were at one of my parties, shouldn’t I have already known you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He laughs. Fearless prick. “I’m the guy who works with Joe Perotti. You weren’t so thrilled to see me then. I’m hoping you’ve got better feelings about it now.”

I’ve always been able to hold my liquor, but suddenly, I feel sick. “And why would I be any more excited to see you now? I didn’t want you or cameras in my face filming my life then, and I don’t want it now.”

He hands me a small, sealed envelope, which I’m tempted to ignore, but have a feeling I’d be sorry about. I open it up and see one of my mother’s personal notecards. Joshua, it says. I have locksmiths set to arrive at the Malibu house at 9:00 a.m. You will not be given a copy of the new key unless Chuck returns to me with these papers — signed — tonight. Love, Mother.

“Love?” I mutter aloud. “Really?” I look up at Chuck, wondering if he’s banging her. “What papers?”

He reaches into a pocket on the inside of his cheap jacket and withdraws a folded-up package that I see is a contract, complete with waiver. This is so, so fucked up. “You’re serving me?” I ask as I flip through.

Chuck grins, his crooked teeth flashing neon colors in the light of the club. “See it however you like. But sign them.”

“Are you doing my mother?”

His smile doesn’t falter; he just waits patiently. I decide he probably isn’t. Even my mother would never bang a lowly hired hand.

“I have an agent,” I tell him. “I can’t just sign these without her taking a look.”

“So call her,” he suggests.

This is getting exhausting. I love my house, and a reality show would be easy money, and it’d be nice to stop having this guy ambush me every second. Plus, then I could skip that stupid Wings of Phoenix audition I have no desire to go to. But Holly would probably chop off my balls, and she’s already my fourth agent. I’m not sure I’ll get a chance at a fifth.

“There’s no way she’d agree to me signing this without her seeing it,” I say flatly.

“Then don’t call her.”

“You’ve got really stellar business sense.” Shit. What do I do? If I don’t sign on and then I don’t get the movie, Holly’s gonna drop me. “Give me a minute.”