CHAPTER ONE
The only thingworse than nobody recognizing me in a place known for celebrity-watchers is when people are whispering and snickering behind their hands.
Okay, fine, so there are worse things, but right now, as people whisper and snicker behind their hands when I walk past, this feels like rock bottom. Dammit, dammit, dammit! Things were going so well for me—finally,finally, I landed a supporting role on a new sitcom that actually got some traction. Season one got great ratings, season two got me an Emmy nomination, and now that we’re about to kick off the third season, my career seemed like the thing I didn’t need to worry about. The days of people not recognizing me in restaurants like this were past, and my agent’s getting calls about movie scripts. She’s been talking about renegotiating the terms of my contract for the show when it comes up for renewal. I’m getting invitations for premieres and fundraisers and all the other things that will keep my face in the media and my name on people’s lips.
And all it took for those things to flip from good to bad was a few awful outfits.
Sighing, I look myself in the eye in the mirror. “Time to stop hiding in the men’s room,” I mutter. “Just face it down. Someone else will do something attention-grabbing soon.” I hope.
I wash my hands, even though I didn’t use the facilities—because you never know who’s watching in these places, and the last thing I need is a headline about me lacking basic hygiene—and head back out into the restaurant, my face smoothed into a relaxed expression. Tami, my favorite co-star and bestie, agreed to this public lunch that our shared publicist suggested, and I can’t look worried or upset in case people think it has to do with her. She’s doing me a favor—after all, it’s not her being called “the worst-dressed actor since time began.”
“Excuse me.”
The cool, almost disinterested voice is surprising. Not because someone is trying to get my attention, but because they sound like they wouldn’t care too much if I ignored them. I look over at the table of four men and whip out my public smile. “I don’t mind signing autographs, but I’m not taking pictures tonight.”
The one who looks like he thinks he’s better than everyone says, “I don’t care. You should know there is help available to you.”
There’s… what?
The guy sitting next to him groans and buries his face in his hands, even as one of the others mutters, “Uh, dude…”
“What?” I should probably just walk away, but I’m a little curious. If he tries to get me to join his religion, though, I’m calling the manager.
“You are a very attractive man, but I believe your staff are misleading you.” Asshole guy looks across the table at the one who called him dude. Come to think, that guy looks a little familiar. “Who would be best to help him?”
Familiar guy swallows, then gives me a half-assed, apologetic smile. “Kane, hi. You probably don’t remember me—Charlie Martin, Allegra’s son?”
That’s where I know him from! Allegra Martin runs a charitable foundation, and her events are a goldmine for making contacts. “Oh, sure! From the fundraiser. Good to see you again. Is your mom planning another event? I know my publicist will want to hear about it.” God, please, let me get an invite. It would be such a setback if I start getting dropped from the lists for events like that.
“We’ll make sure you’re on the guest list,” Charlie promises. “Sorry about my friend—he’s kind of blunt. But, ah, if you ever find yourself looking for a new stylist, I think Damian could work wonders for you.”
Oh. My. God. Heat creeps up my neck. This is peak humiliation. The worst part is that Idoneed a new stylist, and I woulddieto have Damian take me on, but the chances of that were pretty much zero even before my picture was splashed across the internet and magazines with the caption “What not to wear.”
I’d be less embarrassed if this was all my stylist’s fault, but I can’t blame her completely. Sure, this last fiasco was the straw that broke the camel’s back, but until a few months ago, the only thing anyone said was that my clothes were boring. I was the one who told her I wanted people talking about my style, and I was the one who didn’t rein her in when her choices got some questionable reviews. Things have been going downhill since awards season ended, but I didn’t take steps to stop them from hitting disaster level.
Still, it’s a new kind of low when someone I barely know and someone else I don’t know at all stop me in public to recommend a new stylist. What the fuck am I even supposed to say?
Something that’s not going to end up online. Charlie’s not malicious, but I don’t know his friends.
“Thanks for the advice, but I’m happy with my current team.” It sounds rehearsed and flat, but I can’t manage better right now. I do muster up another smile as I take the first step to get away.
I don’t know why I stop. Maybe because Charlie and his friend both look movie-star great in their suits, and I feel like mine—which is one of the boring ones I was wearing before the shit hit the fan—makes me invisible. I’m a five-foot-eight, slim, openly gay actor in Hollywood. Talent is only going to get me so far, and I’m not the kind of guy studios love at first sight. If I can’t use fashion to make me a household name, I’m never going to land a leading role, and they clearly know more about fashion than I do.
“Damian’s client roster is full, anyway.” The words fall from my mouth before I can change my mind about saying them.
But nobody points out that I sound like a petulant child.
“He’s good friends with my mom,” Charlie says. “I could give him a call, feel him out. If you wanted. Nobody would need to know.”
My mind and heart race. Is this a good idea or a bad one? Would it seem pathetic for me to use this very slim connection I have to beg Damian for help? I don’t want to seem desperate.
On the other hand, Iamdesperate. At this stage, my options are to find a stylist who’s still establishing themselves and begin a long process of rebuilding my image astheybuild their career,orto hope that one of the established big-name stylists will take me on and turn things around faster. The first… well, even a lot of those won’t touch me right now, for fear of being dragged down with me, and as for the big-name stylists… I’d need a huge favor from someone to make that a possibility, and even then, it’s not likely to be someone like Damian.
So there’s really no question what I need to do.
I turn away toward the table Tami’s waiting at and say over my shoulder, “You’ve got my number.”
CHAPTER TWO
