Prologue—Las Vegas

Gage

You know what twenty-nine-year-old bachelors don’t get a lot of photos of?

Babies.

I mean, I get a lot of shots of the baby makers. I’m not trying to be gross, I’m just saying…groupies like to text.

But I’m not one of those former high school quarterbacks whose glory days are long over, hunkered down in the suburbs outside my hometown, waiting to break out cheap cigars because there’s another baby on the cul-de-sac.

I didn’t play football in high school; I got my proverbial letterman’s jacket in sex and cigarettes, if you will.

And though I’ve long given up the cigarettes, on the few occasions I indulge in a cigar, it’s an expensive Cuban, and it’s because I feel like it, not because of the arrival of another squalling infant.

Damn. And now I want a cigar.

Instead, I pick up my bourbon and take a healthy swig. And try to block out the damn baby.

I feel a quick bite in the vicinity of my jugular, telling me that the woman currently in my lap is either part vampire or annoyed at me for ignoring her.

I drag my eyes away from the cards in my hand and ease her away from me. “Melissa, sweetie. Any chance you could fetch me another whiskey?”

Blue eyes turn icy as she slowly unwinds from around me and stands in her five-inch red heels. “It’s Marisa.”

Ah shit. I’m no gentleman, but usually I at least get their names right.

Then again, it’s not like I’ve known her for more than half an hour. Hell, I’m not even entirely sure how she, or any of the girls milling about, got here.

In fact, the whole reason we’re hanging out in my suite at the Encore instead of in the casino downstairs is to avoid groupies like this one.

My agent, Dan, is giving me the Look, so instead of telling the woman to go bite the neck of someone who actually wants it, I reach out and grab her hand, planting a kiss on the back. “Apologies, babe.”

Her eyes soften slightly. Not because my hand kiss is that good (my other kisses are) but because of my name. Because of who I am. Average dudes don’t get away with messing up girls’ names.

Gage Barrett does.

Gage Barrett can do whatever the hell he wants.

Quite honestly, reality’s usually only about half as bad as my reputation, but tonight I’m living up to everything the tabloids love about me.

Worthless playboy who spends his days between mediocre action movies, drinking too much, playing too hard, and bedding far too many women?

Check, check, and check.

“What’s with you tonight, Gage?” Wes asks from across the table as he tosses down two cards and taps for Dan to deal him two more.

I give him a quick glare. Best-friend speak for Shut the hell up.

But despite the fact that Wes and I have been friends ever since getting cast in the first Killboys movie six years ago, intuition’s never been his strong suit, and he’s not picking up on the fact that I don’t feel like fucking talking it out.

“Nothing,” I mutter. I set my cards down, folding. My hand sucked. They’ve been sucking all night, but luckily everyone else’s have too, so the pile of chips in front of me’s better than decent.

I pull out my phone as the other three guys finish out the hand. I intend to do a quick check for new messages—for anything to distract me—but instead I pull up the picture again.

As far as babies go, this one…

Looks like every other.

Tiny and sort of bean shaped, all wrapped up in a white blanket with a pink hat, a wrinkly face the only thing visible.

Clara Michelle Barrett. Congratulations, Uncle.

Clara.

I don’t have to ask my brother who named the kid. Layla had the name for her first daughter picked out by the time she was seventeen.

How do I know?

Because Layla used to be my girlfriend. And back when we used to talk about our future, Clara was going to be my daughter.

You think I’m bothered by this? Hell yes.

But I’m even more bothered by the fact that I hadn’t even known my sister-in-law was pregnant.

Sister-in-law. Jesus.

“Barrett.”

I look up, my agent’s giving me a questioning look, and I realize the next hand’s been dealt.

I pick up my cards. Three tens. Not terrible.

“Wes is right,” Dan says, taking a sip of his club soda. Guy gave up the drink a few years ago. “You’re acting weird. What’s up?”

“None of your business.”

“How the hell do you figure that?” he asks, studying his hand. “As your agent, your moods are absolutely my business.”

“I don’t have moods.”

“Not usually, no,” he says, leaning back in his chair and studying me. Mid-forties, built like a brick, with a dark beard and shrewd eyes, Dan’s more like a brother to me than my own. Especially these days.

But I’m not loving the inquisition. I’ve got a reputation around Hollywood to uphold as the guy who rolls with the punches, quick with a one-liner and a smile. I’m not some moody diva who needs to be coaxed out of a snit.

“It’s nothing.” I toss down my four and a six, and he deals me two more. Another four and a five. I lose this hand too.

I drain the rest of my drink. “This game is tired.”

Wes snorts. “Why? Because you’re losing for once?”

I glance across the table, but he’s not looking at me. Dude’s been a dick lately. I’m not an idiot; I know why. We got the script for the fifth Killboys movie a couple of weeks ago, and his screen time’s even less than it was in the last one, which…wasn’t much.

I hate that for him. The guy’s my friend, and he’s got acting chops. But the very franchise that launched my career is the same one that’s solidified him as a sidekick character.

Lately it seems like he’s been blaming me for it.

“What’s up, Wes?” I ask pointedly, ignoring the girl who comes up behind me and begins nibbling on my ear. I see Dan and his intern, Jimmy, exchange a look, but I ignore them.

Wes looks up, his eyes landing on the girl, then on me, and for a second I swear I feel something close to hate coming from the guy who’s been my closest friend for the majority of my Hollywood career.

“One more hand,” Wes says casually. “Then we can hit up the private strip club.”

I don’t want to go to the private strip club. I don’t want to play one more hand either, but if it’ll appease him…

“Sure.”

It’s Wes’s turn to deal, and he takes the cards from Dan. “Care to make it interesting?” he asks, as he deftly shuffles the deck.

Jimmy gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious? Unlike you guys, my paychecks aren’t in the seven figures. This game’s already bleeding me dry.”

“My point exactly,” Wes says. “Money’s boring, especially when one of us has ten times as much as anyone else at the table.”

I barely withhold the eye roll at the thinly failed dig. “What do you want, Wes? My car? Rolex watch? A kidney?”

They’re idle offers. We both know what Wes wants—my role in Killboys. It’s never going to happen. Brock White’s a part of my identity, just like Dean Meyers is a part of Wes’s.

He continues to shuffle the deck as he watches me. He’s a good-looking guy. Tall, lean. Blond hair, blue eyes. Right now, though, he mostly looks mean, and I’m sick of it.

I’ve got enough bullshit to deal with tonight. I stand and go to the wet bar, where a few booze bottles have accumulated. I find the Eagle Rare and top off my glass, sensing I’m going to need it to deal with Wes’s snit.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Wes says. “No money in this pot. Instead, we put something else on the line. We bet with guts, not chips.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Jimmy asks skeptically.

Dan crosses his arms. “It means, Jim, that we bow out of this hand. Let these boys work out their tantrum.”

I want to tell Dan that it’s not my tantrum. That I’ve got bigger issues than my best friend’s jealousy.

Like my own jealousy.

Jealousy over the fact that my brother knocked up the woman I’d thought I would marry.

But Wes is my best friend, and if this is how we need to get past things…

“All right, Wes. You win, I’ll give you the car.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. You don’t pick what I win; you pick what I lose.”

I laugh incredulously. “Fine. Okay.” I think for a moment. “If you lose, you take that guest role in Pirate Vamps. The one that requires you to wear tights and show your junk.”

I expect him to at least flinch. Pirate Vamps is a trumped-up nighttime soap opera, known for its gratuitous sex scenes and painful dialogue.

His smile is cool. “Done.”

“And if I lose?” I ask impatiently, wanting to get this over with.

“Jilted,” he says, his smile growing.

Dan groans. “Wes.”

I don’t look away from my friend, my brain trying to sort through why the word sounds familiar.

Then it hits me. “The reality TV show?”

Wes nods in confirmation.

I scoff. “You can’t be serious.”

Jilted isn’t some garbage guest spot—this is a career-ending farce. The producers of the new show have been after me for weeks, wanting me to be their runaway groom in a Bachelor-esque reality show.

I mostly ignored Dan when he dutifully told me about the opportunity, but the general gist is that the poor idiot they finally rope into it will spend a couple of months with two dozen women and end the show by fucking marrying one of them.

I get why I’m on their short list of candidates. The show takes the tacky of The Bachelor and kicks it into full trashy by focusing not just on single dudes but on guys with a reputation of leaving women….

At the altar.

And, yes, I qualify. I have two engagements and zero marriages under my belt.

Go ahead and judge. Everyone else does.

I wait for Wes to laugh and give me the real bet, but instead he just watches me, eyebrows raised in question.

“What the hell is your problem?” I snap, fed up with the game, both the one on the table and whatever the hell he’s been playing.

“No problem,” Wes says casually. “Just figured a show where women are literally dumped in your lap would be right up your alley. Gage Barrett gets what he wants, and it always comes easy, right?”

Layla’s face crosses my mind.

Fuck this.

“Deal the cards.”

“Gage,” Dan murmurs.

I ignore him, watching as Wes deals us each five cards. I’m not as worried as I should be. I’m well past due for a decent hand, and though I hate to validate Wes’s assessment, I do tend to get what I want.

Case in point. My hand: two kings, two jacks, and a nine.

I keep my face completely blank as I glance at Wes. His face too is impassive. It’s like I said, the guy’s a decent actor.

I toss down the nine. He slides another card across the table.

I pick it up, and the thump of my heart is my only reaction. I’m a good actor too.

King of hearts.

The asshole’s just dealt me a full house.

Wes deals himself two new cards. Picks them up, then meets my eyes as Dan and Jimmy look on warily. The women who were previously giggling on the couch over champagne have gathered around the table, although they’re all too Vegas-savvy to let on what they see from each of our hands.

“Last chance to back out. Fold?” Wes asks.

I smile. “Nope. You?”

He gives a slight shake of his head, though I know him well enough to recognize that the flicker in his eyes is nervousness.”

Wes dealt, so I show my hand first. I carefully keep the smugness off my face as I lay down my full house.

Wes stares at my cards for a long moment, the silence in the room nearly deafening as we wait for him to show his hand.

He lifts his gaze to mine, his expression impassive as he sets his cards on the table.

I hold his gaze for another long moment, silently informing him that tonight marks the end of his tantrum. I won’t let him back out of the Pirate Vamps deal, but I won’t razz him either. We’ll put this night behind us and be fucking friends again.

I need a goddamn friend right now.

Finally, I become aware of the fact that everyone is looking at me. That, far from looking distraught, Wes looks…triumphant.

No.

I lower my gaze to the table, to Wes’s poker hand.

Four twos.

It’s the worst four-of-a-kind you can get.

And yet it beats my full house.

“Damn it, Gage,” Dan mutters.

He hasn’t wanted me to be a part of Jilted, for obvious reasons. It’s a career killer—the kind of move that makes you famous, for all the wrong reasons.

I look at Wes once more, know that he expects me to try to back out. Hell, he wants it. So he’ll have one more thing to hate me for.

I feel something tighten in my chest—the realization that I have no one. Nothing.

I force an easy smile and reach out to find the hand of the woman closest to me, a stunning blonde with a great rack. I tug her onto my lap and nuzzle her neck. “What do you think, sweetheart? You gonna watch me on TV?”

“What’s Jilted?”

“Think The Bachelor. With higher stakes.”

Somehow I manage not to grind my teeth as I say it.

She tugs my hair, pulling me back to look at her. “So I’ll have to watch you make out with dozens of other girls? On camera?”

I squeeze her waist and give her a quick wink before looking across the table at Wes, careful to hide my disdain.

Hell, maybe I should be thanking the guy.

He’s just given me one hell of a distraction from my problems.