Click.
Oh, yes I can.
4
REED
Ten years ago
Ipick up my cell phone... and then immediately put it back down on my desk, my pulse pounding. I look around my garage, at the large cardboard boxes stacked against the walls, all of them filled with merch samples for RCR’s upcoming debut tour. All of them requiring my approval by tomorrow. And all of them reminding me I’m going to be up shit creek if this massive gamble doesn’t pan out.
I glance at the notepad on my desk, its pages covered with the furious editing notes I’ve scrawled for the director of RCR’s debut music video. I glance at the documents stacked on my desk—licensing deals I’ve been chasing down for all three of my bands for the past four months. But, mostly, for Red Card Riot, the band I’m betting the farm will put my fledgling label on the map when their album debuts in two months.
Yeah, I’ve got to make this call.Go big, or go home.
“Majestic Maids,” a female voice says, answering my call.
My heart pounds even harder. “Is this Francesca?”
“Yes. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to book an escort for later this month—for an important event.”
“We’re a cleaning service, sir. Not an escort service.”
I tell her the name of the guy who referred me, a star midfielder for the LA Galaxy whom I met last month at one of Josh’s raging parties, and the woman quickly changes her tune.
“To whom am I speaking?” she asks, her voice suddenly light and bright.
“Reed.”
“Your last name, please?”
I pause, nerves tightening my belly. Am I being reckless here? It’s technically illegal. But, oh well. I’ve come this far. Stolen from Peter to pay Paul for months now. I’m so close now, I can taste it. Which means now isn’t the time to start playing it safe. I mean, come on. If a star soccer player and his teammates, plus a whole bunch of his famous friends, can trust this woman to be discreet, then I can, too.
“Rivers,” I say, my tone surprisingly calm, despite the thundering of my heart.
“Hello, Mr. Rivers. I’m glad you called. When and where is your event?”
“The twenty-first, at Greystone Mansion in Beverly Hills. It’s a black-tie event, so my date will need to rock a designer gown. Something that makes her look like ten million bucks.”
“Not a problem. Tell me about the kind of woman you’re envisioning. What type are you most attracted to?”
“Curvy brunettes always turn my head the most,” I admit. “Even more than that, though, it’s women with lots of confidence and sass. Actually, though, in this instance, sass maybe wouldn’t be such a good idea. I don’t think what personally attracts me is relevant here. For this event, the woman needs to be whatotherpeople covet. Someone who looks like she could walk a Victoria’s Secret runway. You know, the kind of woman who looks like she could get any man she wants.”
“And yet, she’s chosenyou. And what about later that night, after the event? Would you like to spend time with her, in private—perhaps enjoy some intimate, one-on-one time? It would be a good idea to choose someone you’re personally attracted to, in case you’d like to leave yourself that option.”
I lean back in my leather chair and gaze up at the ceiling of my garage. At my surfboards and snowboards and kayak resting above the wooden rafters. If everything goes according to plan on the twenty-first, if I find a way to meet CeeCee Rafael at that party and pique her interest in RCR enough to secure a well-timed mention inRock ‘n’ Roll, it’ll be a whole new ballgame for me. I’ll finally be able to move my operations into an actual office space—hopefully, that amazing one on Sunset Boulevard. I’ll be able to hire a couple full-time staffers. Maybe even buy myself a condo, if I catch a few other lucky breaks. Yeah, if I hit a grand slam at the party, then I’ll surely be in the mood to celebrate with at least a BJ from my smoking hot escort. On the other hand, though, if thingsdon’tturn out the way I’m hoping, if I leave that mansion on the twenty-first in the same position I’m in now—crossing my fingers and toes I’ve done enough to squeak RCR onto the bottom rung of the fucking alternative rock chart, then I’ll surely want to be alone after the party.
“I’ll play it by ear on hiring my date for ‘intimate services’ after the party,” I reply. “I want to be certain there’s sufficient chemistry between us to move forward on that.”
The woman snorts, like there being a lack of sexual chemistry is a ridiculous notion.
“Look, I’m not calling because I can’t get laid,” I say, annoyance flashing through me. “I can. And by exceptionally beautiful women. I’m calling because this is going to be a critical work event for me, possibly life-changing, and I won’t have the time or bandwidth to deal with a date who’s pissed at me for God knows what. For not paying enough attention to her. For not introducing her around or trying to help her career. I want someone on my arm who understands I’m building a fucking empire here—abrand. And that means I need to communicate my place in the hierarchy the second I walk through the fucking door.”
“I understand, Mr. Rivers,” she says soothingly. “I think you’re brilliant to realize an exceptionally beautiful woman on your arm is a must-have status symbol in this town. But how about I tell you the pricing on intimate services, just in case?”
Without waiting for my reply, she quotes me a number for “unlimited services.” It’s a number I consider to be ludicrous, and tell her so. So, she offers to take twenty percent off her price, if I book now.
