Chapter One
“You didn’t have to come with me,” I said, glancing over at Harper. She sat on the other side of the bench seat in the back of her black SUV, texting on her iPhone.
Harper Jennings had been my best friend since our early careers in fashion. Back then, I’d just started out in modeling and she had started a small fashion line. Now, I was an actor starring in movies, and she had her own shows during Fashion Week and every actress was wearing her work on red carpets. We’d become big successes in our careers, but what I cared about most was our loyalty toward each other as friends. We were always there for each other, no matter how much drama was thrown our way. The tabloids didn’t help the drama, of course, always weaving stories about our relationship—that never went beyond platonic—even though they enjoyed making it seem like more.
There was that one time last year when I confessed my feelings for her and kissed her in public. God, the paparazzi went crazy over that shit. Harper, not so much. She’d been pissed, especially since she’d just started a relationship with her now-boyfriend slash Seghen’s dad, Maverick Jones. I’d apologized, and now that scene was in the Most Embarrassing Moments section of our friendship. But I was confident that there would always be a small part of Maverick that hated me.
At the time, I thought I deserved his hate. Especially when the worst happened and a crazy fan actually believed the tabloids and attacked Harper, who’d been pregnant at the time, because she thought Harper wasn’t good enough for me. Harper spent a few days in the hospital after the attack, but thankfully, she and Seghen didn’t suffer any permanent injuries.
No amount of apologies could take away the guilt I still felt over my best friend being attacked. I’d even distanced myself from her and Maverick for a while because I couldn’t look at her without seeing her injuries, even though she’d healed perfectly.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy her company today. She wouldn’t even let me drive myself. I felt like I was going to rehab, not a meeting with a new publicist. I’d fired my old PR team after they contributed to false articles about my drinking and driving accident a few months ago. I’d hit a tree and ended up in the hospital with a few minor cuts and bruises. The accident itself could have been much worse, and I was thankful it wasn’t, but the PR team in California thought adding fuel to the fire was more fun than supporting me like I was paying them to do. Needless to say, I was now headed to a meeting with one of Harper’s friends.
Anyone was better than a bunch of liars.
“I wanted to come!” Harper exclaimed cheerfully. “Paige can come off as a hard ass at first.”
Good, I thought. I didn’t need another person riding the coattails of my career, just looking for a nice paycheck. I was actually excited to meet the infamous, no-bullshit Paige Abram. When Harper first mentioned her, I’d researched her as well as her client list. She managed a few pains-in-the-asses, but for the most part, she represented a good variety of well-paid celebrities.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I stated as the vehicle pulled to the curb.
We thanked Harper’s driver, Imani, for the ride and got out, and then Harper led us up the steps to Wilkins & Company. Inside the sleek high-rise, we rode the elevator up to the company’s floor in silence. When the doors opened, we were greeted by an all-glass interior.
As I stepped out of the elevator, my first thought was that glass can’t hide anything. It gave me hope that maybe Abram really didn’t tolerate any bullshit. I was looking for a PR team that was willing to stand by my side, not cover up all of my actions with lies.
“Paige’s office is just down this hall on the corner,” Harper stated, leading the way.
I followed her down the hallway and not once did any of the staff stare at me in awe. Another nice change of pace from everyday life, where most people stared like I was some animal in the zoo just because I was a famous actor. I used to bask in the attention, but ever since Harper’s attack, I cursed it.
Harper knocked on the door of Paige’s office and pushed on the vertical stainless steel handle after we’d been given the go-ahead to enter.
“Hey, Paige!” Harper said as I followed her inside.
“Hey, Harper.”
A woman with short blonde hair sat behind a glass desk in a black plush chair. She wore red from head to toe, from the pantsuit that hugged her body, to her heels that could be used as weapons. Her hard blue eyes pierced through me as I approached her desk.
Nervously, I held my hand out to her and introduced myself. “Max Waters. I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”
She smiled at Harper, but she didn’t look impressed as her gaze slid back to me. Her smile dropped and she nodded to the gray guest chairs behind us. “Put your hand away and sit.”
Harper’s suppressed laughter was palpable as we took our seats.
“O-okay,” I muttered hesitantly.
Relaxing back on her throne, Paige looked me over, and for the first time with a publicist, I felt like I was in the presence of a boss. The red staining her lips said it. The tap of her red nails against her desk drilled it into my head. I breathed in the air of intolerance ventilating through her office; I was in her castle and was to play by her rules now.
Finally, I thought, unable to keep my grin to myself.
“For someone who’s been court-ordered to do community service, you look pretty damn proud of yourself,” she said with disgust.
Harper’s worried gaze swung over to me, but I shrugged her off.
“Not proud,” I retorted. “Just very grateful. It’s about time I had someone on my team who actually gives a shit about doing her job well instead of just doing it for a paycheck.”
“Well,” she said, unmoved by my compliment. “I can only do my job well if you follow my directions. Is that clear?”
“Yes—”
“I’m not done,” she interrupted. “If you’re going to be my client, I need full disclosure of everything. You do something, especially something stupid, you tell me first before you tell anyone else. You think before you speak. You think before you do anything. I’m a publicist. I’m here to make your life easier, but I can only do that if you let me.”
I waited in stunned silence for permission to speak.
“Do you think you can do that?” she asked in a belittling tone.
“Yeah.” I cleared the tension from my throat. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Really?” she asked incredulously. “Because I have a list of clients wanting representation with Wilkins & Company, but I’m taking you on as a favor for a friend.” A smile broke her resting bitch face as she glanced over at Harper and then back to me. “Do not make us regret it.”
“I won’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I really am appreciative of what you’re both doing for me.”
“I know you are,” Harper said sweetly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Paige replied, rolling her eyes. She pulled a legal pad from her desk drawer and started scribbling on it. “Now, that that’s over with, we can get down to business. I need to know who you surround yourself with, who your friends are, which family members you’re close with. It’s important for your image. I’m not an advocate for publicity stunts, but sometimes they can be used for the greater good. For now, we’re going to stay away from doing that. Your public image right now is drunken heartthrob. We want to change that to . . .”
Both women looked at me, and I realized I was supposed to finish Paige’s sentence. Though, I wasn’t exactly sure how to finish it. “To . . .”
“To the good, All-American guy,” Paige said proudly. “The guy women want to introduce to their parents, not because you are good looking, but because you have a good soul. The guy children and animals gravitate to because you’re fun and caring. The guy men want to be, and not because you have money, but because you’re just a likable guy.”
“But I am a good guy,” I argued, brows furrowed.
Paige sighed and rested her elbows on her desk. “I think you think you’re a good guy, but I’m going to make you a better one.”
“But—”
“Max,” Harper interjected, putting her hand on my arm. “We’ve all made mistakes. We do things without thinking because they’re second nature, like getting into the driver’s seat even though you’d been drinking. You could have hit another vehicle and killed someone or yourself. My eating disorder nearly killed me, but you helped me get the treatment I needed to get better. Please let us help you make better choices.”
“I don’t have a drinking problem,” I insisted.
“I didn’t say you did,” Harper replied. She squeezed my arm once more and then let go. “But why were you so drunk that night? You’ve never been one to get rip-roaring drunk like that.”
I took a deep breath and told her the truth. “I’d been at a cast mate’s party, and we were talking about crazy fans, comparing the weird stuff they’d done, when someone brought up your attack. All those feelings of guilt came rushing back to me that night, and I tried to drown them out with alcohol. You were pregnant when you were attacked. You and Seghen could have been killed.”
“You have to stop feeling guilty about that,” Harper reiterated, sympathetically shaking her head. “You didn’t attack me, and Seghen and I are totally okay.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh. “I just feel responsible because if I didn’t have crazy fans, you would’ve never been attacked.”
“Seghen’s almost a year old,” Harper stated gently, once again reminding me that they were both okay. “It’s time you let it go.”
“Are these cast mates friends of yours?” Paige asked curiously.
Harper and I turned our attention back to Paige’s question. “Not particularly, no. They’re colleagues, people in the same industry. But no, I wouldn’t consider them my friends.”
“Then my first suggestion is to stop spending your free time with people who aren’t making you better,” Paige said, taking more notes. “Who are your friends? The people you can trust.”
“Harper.”
“Okay,” Paige said, writing her name down. “Who else?”
“That’s it.”
Harper shook her head at me in disbelief and told Paige, “That’s not true. Maverick’s his friend.”
“Yeah,” I laughed, “a friend who would like to kick my ass every time he sees me. No, thanks. That guy scares the shit out of me.”
Paige smiled to herself as she wrote down Maverick’s name.
“Don’t write him down.”
“Max,” Harper pressed. “He may not have liked you at first, but he’s your trainer now. Maybe if you tried to talk to him during a workout, you might find he’s not so bad.”
“Am I supposed to tell him all about my feelings and emotions, too?” I asked sarcastically.
“Okay, okay,” Paige said, taking command of the room again. “You need to surround yourself with good people who support you, and not just people you pay like your publicist or your agent. Maybe hanging out with Maverick and the rest of the guys will help you avoid situations where you might make bad decisions.”
“Every Saturday morning the guys play basketball at Maverick’s gym,” Harper insisted with a nod. “I’m sure they could use another player. They’re always needing subs.”
“That’s a good idea,” Paige agreed. “My boyfriend, Drake Wilkins, plays on Saturdays with them, too. They’re a good group of guys.”
“I can make my own friends, thank you very much,” I said, shaking my head in annoyance.
“The long list of names on this notepad says otherwise,” Paige mocked. “You’ll go to the gym with Drake this Saturday.”
Making friends now was harder than it was back in grade school, when my foster parents encouraged me to make friends because they thought that would bring me out of my shell. Now, I was out of my shell, my picture gracing magazine covers, but I hardly trusted anyone. No matter how pathetic it sounded, fame truly was the loneliest island.
“Whatever,” I said with a shrug. It would be another workout, so it was a win-win. For my Marvel role as Nick Fury in Secret Warriors, I was under contract to maintain a very muscular physique.
Paige nodded “Now, as for family members, do you—”
“I only talk to my foster parents, Gordon and Annette Barrs,” I interjected. “I have no contact with my biological parents, but they have tried reaching out to me.”
Paige paused before making more notes. “Are they people we need to worry about? Do they have any information on you?”
“No,” I replied. Speaking about them left a bad taste in my mouth. No child should be treated the way they treated me. “I was removed from their home at a really young age.”
“Because?” Paige pressed further.
“Seriously?” I asked harshly. “You need to know that shit?”
“I would prefer to know in case they decide to go to the tabloids about how you want nothing to do with them.” Paige dropped her pen and pushed up from her seat. She walked around to the front of her desk and leaned against it. Her blue eyes weren’t as piercing anymore, allowing a hint of vulnerability through, as if she understood how much I hated talking about my biological parents. “People take a picture of you and it sells for thousands of dollars. If your biological parents need money, they could sell a story of their son who wants nothing to do with his biological parents who gave him up so he could have a better life.”
“They didn’t give me up,” I sneered, running my hand through my hair. “I was removed from their home. I had gotten tall enough to look out the window when our neighbor saw me and called the cops. No one even knew I existed until then. They were too preoccupied with drugs.”
“I’m sorry,” Paige said, her voice soft with empathy. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to make sure they don’t become a problem.”
“Thank you.”
She turned and grabbed a folder from her desk. “Your community service orders are in here. The court order states you’re to serve three hundred hours. My only concern is that it may interfere with the start of filming the sequel to Secret Warriors. Have you discussed that with the director? You can’t start filming if your community service hours aren’t completed in full. It states so in your court order.”
“Filming doesn’t start for a few months,” I said, nonchalantly. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Whitley may be able to get you more hours in a day, but that’s something you’ll have to take up with her.”
“Whitley?”
“Whitley Gonzalez,” Paige stated, reading from the folder. “She’s the Director of Volunteer Services at Langone Hospital. You’ll be under her direction for your community service. She’ll assign different patients to you each day, and you’ll log your hours with her. She does more community service outside of the hospital, so like I said, she may be able to help you get more hours served in a shorter time period.”
“Sounds good. When can I get started on that?”
Paige closed the folder and handed it to me. “This folder contains all your community service information. You’ll report to Whitley tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp. Do not be late. You will not get special treatment because of your celebrity status, nor will you encourage solicitations. I don’t care that you were named ‘Sexiest Man Alive.’ While doing community service, you are a nobody. You’ll be working in a hospital where the elderly are dying and tiny humans are hopeful and resilient. Be respectful of that. Put yourself in those patients’ shoes. And for the love of God, don’t give Whitley any shit. She deals with court-ordered individuals every day. You’ve all done something stupid at one time or another or else you wouldn’t be serving the community via a court order.”
“I’m not special,” I repeated with a nod as I stood. I smiled and held my hand out to her again, and then jokingly added, “Kind of feels like I’m back with my biological parents.”
“You’re going to wish I neglected you,” Paige retorted, causing the three of us to break out in laughter, and then she finally shook my hand in thanks. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Max.”