Turning away from the bed, I go to the closet and grab a Brooks Brothers shirt and dark denim jeans, slipping into my weekend uniform on autopilot.
This is the first Saturday in a long time that I haven’t had to put in at least a few hours at work, and I thought I’d have a relaxing day at home (as much as that’s possible with my father’s trial blowing up), but the text I just received means my day is going to be anything but easy. Still, I guess I’m glad for the distraction it’ll provide from the storm of emotions I’m battling.
I check my phone again, feeling a slight stab of guilt as I see another message from the same woman. Danica Shore. She’s asking where we’re meeting up.
There’s a bang from the kitchen and I freeze with my phone in my hand, mid-text. Mr. Kibbles comes running into the bedroom, and it takes me a second to fully relax. Apparently, the guilt over texting with Danica has me on edge, worried that Brooklyn will come walking in at any second and catch me chatting up her nemesis.
It’s a good thing the dog can’t rat me out to her later.
I’m not going to spend a lot of time with Monica. She’s an old friend, sure, but her career goals and cutthroat ambitions have driven her to disregard anyone she’s had to step on to get to the top, and we haven’t been close for quite a while. Beyond that, I’m married now, and my association with her could have negative PR consequences that I have no desire to deal with.
Though this isn’t exactly a social call to catch up on old times—Monica reached out recently to say that she’s ready to leave Elite and sign with DRM. I haven’t breathed a word of it to Brooklyn yet, since I know my wife would go berserk if she found out and I’m not sure how serious Monica is. And although I don’t need to personally oversee her contract, I do want to know what she’s up to and what her intentions are. She’s never been entirely trustworthy.
Hence our lunch date.
I finish getting ready and take Kib for a quick lap around the block before putting him in his kennel. He whines pitifully, but I know Brooklyn will be home to play with him soon.
After locking up the apartment, I take the elevator down to the street and start walking. I told Monica we should stick to my side of town and gave her the name of one of my favorite Italian restaurants in the neighborhood. I figured it couldn’t hurt to have her on my own turf.
Monica is already standing outside in a wide-brimmed straw sun hat and a huge pair of attention-getting sunglasses by the time I stroll the few blocks to Armando’s. Even without her loud accessories, she’d still be impossible to miss at almost six feet tall, her trademark white-blonde hair gleaming down her back.
“Luka, my love!”
Her face brightens as she greets me with a theatrical kiss on each cheek, her floppy hat almost taking my eye out.
“Good to see you,” I say, mustering up as much warmth as I can. “It’s been a minute.”
“Three years, if I’m not mistaken! The last time we hung out, we got shitfaced on dirty martinis at a VIP bar in Vegas.” She grins slyly. “It was some fashion show afterparty.”
“I’m not sure I remember that,” I say, pulling open the heavy glass door for her.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she giggles. “I don’t think you would’ve remembered your own name that night. We wrapped up at five a.m. after doing body shots off the bartender. I think you went home with her, actually.”
“You have a good memory,” I say. Inside, I cringe at the way I used to conduct myself.
After giving my name to the hostess, we’re led to a table in the back. The window gives me a clear view of the sidewalk and the street, which I’m grateful for. It means I’ll have something to look at other than the pair of perky breasts Monica keeps thrusting in my direction.
“I’m so glad you were free for me!” she says, settling into her chair. She gives me a sneaky side-eye like she has a secret and then taps the edge of her water glass with one long, red fingernail. “Though I have to admit, I’m impressed you got Brooklyn to let you come alone.”
I know bait when I see it dangling. I don’t take it. “So, what prompted you to get in touch with us? Was it the rebranding efforts, or are you just ready to move on from Elite?”
“Hmm…maybe a bit of both?” Her eyelids flicker, her smile falling just enough to show me she’s disappointed that I didn’t indulge her taunt.
She sits back and runs a finger absently along the deep V-neck of her blouse. The waiter comes and she orders us wine before shooing him away with a wave of her hand.
“What were we talking about, again?” she asks, batting her eyes at me.
I smile, turning on the charm. “Business. Yours and mine. That’s why I’m here.”
“All work and no play makes Luka a dull boy,” she teases. “But you always did cut to the chase.” She uncrosses her legs and moves her chair closer, then crosses them again, slowly. Deliberately. “So. I’d like to sign with Danica Rose. Your father offered me a contract ages ago, back when I was new to the scene, but I had stars in my eyes and I wanted to go with a ‘Hollywood’ agency. Looking back, it was naïve. Elite hasn’t managed me as well as I’d like.”
She shrugs noncommittally and I tilt my head in interest, but don’t say anything. I can’t help thinking that I’ve been in this position before, sitting across from a stunning woman who had two irons in the fire. One in DRM, and one in Elite. I never for a moment suspected that honest, sweet Brooklyn would double-cross me, so all bets are off when it comes to Monica.
Truthfully, I’m torn. She’d be a great get for the agency, and it would certainly put another positive spotlight on us, but at the same time I don’t trust her.
Our wine comes and we order. I keep it light so I can eat quicker and end this meeting as soon as possible. I wonder if Brooklyn is home yet. Resisting the urge to check my phone to see if she’s texted, I sip my wine instead and wait for Monica’s next move.
“How about cheers to good friendship?” She leans in and raises her glass with a wink.
