Two

Ethan

I knew my life was shit when I sat in a million-dollar beach house with an amazing view and I still felt like shit. That was me, sulking on my deck that had an amazing clear view of the Pacific Ocean. Sparkling blue water stretched out endlessly in front of me, lounging on my Adirondack chair, with my feet up and a bottle of organic scotch in my hand. Sulking. Brooding. Okay, so maybe I was pouting about having to meet with a fixer. A fucking fixer, like there was something wrong with me. I didn’t have a mental breakdown. I got pissed off at a question and now everyone acted like I punched a kitten on live television.

Just because the housewives of America or the fucking speculators on Wall Street thought so, didn’t make Samantha Stevens a saint. She was a talk show host, one who didn’t know how to take a damn hint. So yeah, I sat there staring at the ocean, getting drunk for the first time in at least a decade. I rarely drank at all anymore, and never to the point of being tipsy, because I didn’t like the way it affected my behavior. Or the behavior of others. Back when I was a model, I couldn’t believe the others would go out and drink the night before a shoot. The next day their skin would look sallow, eyes red and half dead. I drank more than my fair share back then, but never in the forty-eight hours before a shoot or a show.

But at that moment I needed to smooth out the sharp pain in my chest, smooth the jagged edges with alcohol. I had never, not in all my life been the problem child. When our parents died we went to live with Uncle Noah, a lifelong bachelor with no idea how to handle three grief stricken boys. We were grateful that we could stay together, so we kept a low profile, at least until we got older and more rebellious. Well, Roc and Jax, I was always the quiet one. The well-behaved one. I found other ways to stand out with the help of individual sports, tennis and track, then one day I was approached by an agent at a tennis tournament. From that day forward, I always stood out and I never had to act like a jackass to do it.

Until Samantha Stevens and her silly little show. Now everything I’d built, what should be my legacy for my children someday way in the future, was now in jeopardy and it was up to some fixer to help me keep what I’d worked so hard to build. I didn’t think this woman, Misha , could help me when nothing else had. Not anxiety medication, not yoga or meditation, not reiki or acupuncture and sure as hell not alcohol. How in the hell was some woman with a few degrees under her belt and some weird mystic mojo shit going to help me? I’d like to know, and it was the first question I would ask when we met on Monday.

Misha had sent a text. What kind of businessman set up appointments by text message? The message had been simple. “Monday at noon. SM Pier.” Who did business at the Santa Monica Pier other than starving artists? And what kind of concierge business made the client meet out in public? She should come to me, especially when my problem is apparently with the public. She could be a fraud. That would explain everything, but Jax would never be taken in by a fraud, but he wouldn’t be involved in the actual day to day activities so how would he know? I sat there, getting drunk and convincing myself that this Misha woman was somehow crooked because I didn’t think she could help me.

I was pretty sure nothing could.

So, I drank and I stared at the ocean.

Watched the waves.

And tried to figure out how I could get my shit together before I lost everything.

***

Monday morning came too damn soon, but that had a lot to do with all the scotch I drank. All weekend long. It was indulgent, but I went for a five-mile run on the beach before drinking one of my super cleanse smoothies and heading to the Pier. I showed up early to scope out the area in case this woman thought she could ambush me with cameras. I would be prepared for anything.

I couldn’t believe how many people were out so early in the day, many of them tourists though who in the hell could tell with the way everyone’s faces were glued to their damn phones. Looking around there wasn’t anything for my gaze to linger on until I spotted a short blonde with curves for days. She would make the perfect distraction until Misha arrived. Her hips were a handful, and a round ass that my hands itched to grasp. The only downside was that her sexy curves were hidden under a god-awful tie-dye skirt and who knew what her shirt looked like because the back of it was just a knot. No fabric, just a knot, and for some reason I found that sexy as hell. And hideous.

But when she turned to whoever stood beside her and I caught a glimpse of the curve of her breasts, my mouth watered and my cock stirred. When she laughed I had to adjust myself discreetly as that smooth melted honey sound washed over me. A thought occurred to me then, maybe what I needed was to get laid. This woman could be just the distraction I needed to get my flow back. I didn’t need a fixer, but if I did, it was the woman with the great rack and sexy laugh.

She turned then as though she could hear my thoughts, still laughing as big green eyes landed on me. First there was appreciation, which is always nice, and then recognition which I didn’t love so much these days. My gut clenched when she turned to the group of young boys and kicked one of those bean bag balls into the circle, wishing them goodbye. They were sad to see her go if their moans and disappointed goodbyes were any indication. She turned back to me with a sultry smile as she closed the distance between us and struck out her hand. “Ethan Mahoney?”

“Yeah?” Now I was intrigued. She was either a groupie or a gold digger, but she had my attention.

She tilted her head and squinted at me. “Your pictures really don’t do you justice, that’s for sure.” She grinned and then shook her head as though she were trying to shake something loose before she took a step back. “Misha Trent. It’s nice to meet you.”

I gripped her hand, wrapping my fingers around her small, delicate hand and pulled back at the shock I felt. She held my hand so I couldn’t pull back completely, her expression impassive. “You too. You’re younger than I expected.” Hotter too but I didn’t tell her that.

“I get that a lot but don’t worry, my age won’t be an issue as far as your needs are concerned. But just so it doesn’t become an issue, I started college when I was sixteen so my degrees do come with experience.” She sucked in a deep breath and my gaze lingered on those beautiful breasts that were without restraint judging my how hard her nipples were. “Now are we going to get started or did you show up just to fire me in person?”

Oh boy, a woman with some fire. Why did she have to look like that and be feisty too? I couldn’t help but grin at her boldness and stifled my sense of disappointment that the sex kitten I’d been eyeballing was my fixer. And off limits. Dammit. “Not sure. Let’s get started and see how I feel.”

Misha flashed a grin that I was sure had men dropping to their knees and offering to make all her dreams come true. Even I tripped over my own feet at the sight of it. “Come on, then.”

I followed her because I might not be able to have her but I could sure enjoy the view. “Where are we going?”

“That way,” she said and pointed straight ahead as though that told me any damn thing. “So how are you Ethan?”

I shrugged and moved in closer as the foot traffic grew thicker. “I’m fine.”

“Hungover?”

“You gonna lecture me if I say yes?”

She stopped and looked up at me with those almond shaped emerald eyes and placed a hand on my forearm, jumping at the buzz I knew she felt this time. “I was going to ask you if it helped.”

I took a step back at her question. No one had really asked me that over the past six months. “Not really. It did in the moment though.” She flashed a grin in answer to my own.

“It always feels good in the moment, but sometimes a moment is all it takes.”

She talked like that, all weird and mystic. Like she knew some secret to the world the rest of us didn’t, but dammit it made me want to find out. “You’re kind of strange, you know?”

“I do know, thanks.” She didn’t seem offended at all, in fact she seemed to take it as a compliment. We stopped at a taco stand, and instantly I winced at the thought of eating from that roach coach. “Want anything?”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much bacteria are swimming back there? All day?”

“It has an A rating and that guy up there, trained with one of the celebrity chefs, so I think he knows a bit more about food safety than you. Snob.” She turned and placed her order before she moved away for the next customer. She watched me for so damn long I started to squirm, me, the guy who once posed naked in nothing but a bowtie and cuff links.

“If you believe that I have a bridge to sell you.”

There went that laugh again, all deep and smooth. That sound went straight to my cock but I tamped it down. I couldn’t ruin this chance to get my shit together, I had to forget how hot the fixer was. “Sorry I’m already over my bridge budget for the year.”

I let out an honest to goodness laugh, something I hadn’t done in months. “Too bad. It’s a good one.”

“What was the last book you read,” she asked as she searched through a pile of t-shirts, holding up one that said “Namaste, Bitches” across the chest with a happy grin.

“A history biography about Andrew Jackson.”

With a nod, she turned and bought the shirt, smiling and chatting for at least two minutes with the old man behind the glass counter. “Was it interesting?”

“Sure, it was pretty good.” Truthfully, I didn’t remember much of it but I couldn’t say that.

“Okay. What album do you listen to when you want to relax?”

I smiled. “Easy. Otis Redding, Pain In My Heart .”

She looked surprised. I felt immense pleasure at that. “Very good choice. These Arms Of Mine touches my soul every time I hear it.”

Damn. I felt the same way and I hated that she could tell, but I appreciated that she pretended to be distracted by the beer garden we’d entered. “How are these questions supposed to help me?”

“These are questions to help me get to know you, to let you get used to being around me. My methods are unorthodox Ethan, but they work. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, I’m sure you’re aware of the nature of the contract, so this will work better if we’re comfortable together.” She laughed and looked me up and down from across the table, a grin teasing her lush mouth. “You don’t seem like the type to relax easily.”

“What? How can you say that, I’m always relaxed.”

“Even lately?”

I nodded, daring her to disagree.

“Really? Because those dark circles under your baby blues tell me different, no matter how hard you try to hide them. The stress around your mouth, those tight little lines,” she pointed at my mouth with a half-smile. “Your clothes are slightly wrinkled but I’m guessing if you were completely on your game you’d never be seen looking so disheveled. And then there’s the angry look in your eyes, though I’m guessing that’s just about me.”

Damn she was good. Too good. “Fine. I’m not as relaxed as I could be given the state of things.” I hated to admit even that much, but the truth was losing myself in women or booze hadn’t worked and I gave up trying four months ago. Hell, the first thing to get my cock hard in months turned out to be my fixer so, my luck was sucking balls right about now.

“I’m sure you have tried plenty of things over the past few months but have you tried sex? It’s the best physical release around and it can be the start to unblocking whatever is blocking you.”

I arched a brow at her, remembering my brother’s warning. “You offering?”

“I am not,” she shot back coolly. “But I do own a television, and I know that you’re somewhat of a ladies’ man, so I just wondered if sex helped at all.”

Well damn, we’re just going to talk about sex bluntly apparently. “Ladies’ man? Don’t you mean man whore?”

She shook her head. “I don’t judge. Sex is incredible and it also happens to be the best stress relief. As long as you’re not intentionally hurting another person and it’s consensual, I say do what feels good. But I’m guessing that’s a no to the sex working?” I shook my head and she gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I’d be grumpy too if I hadn’t had sex in six months.”

“Four months,” I corrected.

She grinned. “So, you tried but it didn’t work? Interesting.”

“Yeah, what’s so damn interesting about it?”

She laughed and held up a finger. “The fact that you tried means everything is working properly down there, and all over which means it’s likely a mental block. Those take a lot of work.” She tapped her chin and studied me for a long moment. “I don’t suppose you’d like to just open up and tell me what went through your mind during those forty-seven seconds of silence before you went off on Sam Stevens?”

“No.” I grunted, my mood suddenly sour right along with the beer in my glass.

“Didn’t think so. Do you surf Ethan?”

I was going to have whip lash with how quickly this woman changed topics. “No.”

“Meet me tomorrow morning at Malibu Beach at six. Wear your wet suit and I’ll take care of the surfboards.”

“Surfing?”

“Yep. You’ll love it, it’s the ultimate sport of control. Bring a change of clothes, comfortable and casual,” she emphasized as she stood and dug a few bills out of her oversized bag.

She was leaving? “Wait, is that it?”

“For today, yes. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Damn, dismissed too. I watched her walk through the beer garden, hips swinging in a slow hypnotic curve as she stepped around tables and wait staff. When she was out on the sidewalk she stopped and turned her face to the sun. Then she smiled. Misha Trent was an odd woman but already I felt lighter, freer. Happier. Then again, it could just be that being around a sexy woman who made my dick stand up and take notice, was good for my soul.