After a hot, abusive shower, I dressed and thumbed through my calendar app while shuffling down the sweeping staircase—the same staircase where I’d once threatened to move out during a meltdown with Pop.
Across the open living room, Borya leaned against the far side of the kitchen island, sipping tea as he gazed out the window.
“Don’t try to sneak up on me, Tash,” he muttered without turning.
“Was not.” I was.
My phone vibrated in my high-waisted jeans. I tugged it out. LaShawn. I sighed and answered, “Hello?”
Lachlan’s agent’s smoker’s rasp hit instantly, like a vinyl record skipping straight to the truth. She had that Whoopi Goldberg from the nineties vibe: same sharp eyes, same knack for saying what nobody asked for. She even resembled the actress. “The publishing house needs you in an hour.”
“What?” Deep down, I knew this day was inevitable. The day I’d see Lachlan again. Sure, we talked. Still texted. But this wasn’t a highlight reel. It would be in person. Regardless of mycomposure, seeing him would ruin me. And I wanted Lachlan MacKenzie—with every breath, every bone, every aching half of me.
The Dodgers kicked off the regular season with more wins. They must keep that momentum.
Unaware of my discomfort, LaShawn snorted. “The publisher wants you to take a couple of shots of that nepo baby. The one with the garbage Clippers contract. Doubt his memoir will be better if he doesn’t throw his Basketball Hall of Fame daddy under the bus. Anyway, the photog we booked came down with bronchitis. So guess what? Another nepo baby steps in to save the day. Only difference is—you’ve crap loads more talent.”
Hold up.Did this heifah— “Did you call me a nepo baby?”
“What do you say? One money shot of theNBC?—”
“What?”
“The Nepo Baby Clipper, and your name gets tied to the sports industry. Could lead to Lachlan’s best seller.”
I sighed. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“That’s my girl. Hey? You still live with your dad?”
Rolling his eyes, Borya handed me a cup of coffee. Now was not the time for him to tell me that Russians preferred tea.
I muttered, “Yes.”
“Put your father on the phone. I’ll talk him into a memoir too. Mention his glowing UFC career, ju-just his uh, sports career. Boom! Six-figure advance.”
I caught the hitch in her voice, too afraid to mention what always remained unspoken. The bratva. “Sportsshould be the focus of your discussion. You’re a sports agent. And no. Pop won’t talk. If another UFC OG trash-talks him, you’ll get your viral scandal?—”
LaShawn moaned. “Love it! That Twitter incident from back in the day scored your old man the highest pay-per-view purchases for UFC at that time. Now, Natasha, we need you in anhour. I’m texting you the address. Bring your stuff, don’t bring it—I don’t give a damn. The real photographer shipped their gear days ago.” The call went dead.
Really? Therealphotographer.
Downtown L.A. blurredaround us in a wash of palm trees, sun-glared windshields, and bumper-to-bumper stress. Borya drove like a man trained for war and traffic. My forehead rested against the passenger window.
LaShawn’s words clung to me, itchy and loud. When my phone vibrated and I glimpsed the caller’s name, a sigh of relief escaped. Calls like these had become routine these past months. I answered, a smile in my voice. “I’m onto you, Romeo.”
“Who, me?” The nerve of Rory MacKenzie. His voice oozed Scottish mischief, though it lacked the deeper brogue that wrapped around me like an embrace on a rainy day. Perfect, he’d soothe my nerves over my title as substitute for thereal photographer.
“Yes. You call me once a week. You and your brothers. Y’all rotate.” I smiled, watching the blur of cement structures.
“No … I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, because Little Brody grunts and his‘ellois a little hostile if Justice isn’t in the background to force his cheerful ‘Good Morning.’ Does she smack the back of his head or his shoulder?—”
“His shoulder. What kind of barbarians do you take us for?”
“Mm-hmm. And Leith. He also excels in the charming, muttered‘ello, but usually he’s typing in the background. Camdyn forgets to hang up. Willow’s probably coming into the room in her birthday suit after getting all their kids on the schoolbus. Jamie calls on speaker with Jordyn. They’re so”—my throat constricted and I squeaked—“friggen cute.”
“Ain’t they?”
