Julian
FOR THE FIRST morning in years, I’m lying awake in bed, my gaze fixed on the ceiling. I stare so long and hard at a small crack in the plaster that in a split second of grogginess, I wonder whether my eyes caused it.
Today’s no different from the dozens of weekdays before it. Except Ashley’s in my home. And now I know what she sounds like when she pleasures herself. Worse, my brain takes this new information and synthesizes it with its overblown sense of my sexual prowess and concludes that I’d do a far more masterful job of making her come. I grit my teeth. Fuck. Not what I should be thinking about as the sun rises—or any other time for that matter.
I throw back the covers and jump out of bed, dropping to the ground seconds later to perform my customary fifty push-ups. After going through my morning routine, I lay out my favorite ash gray suit; a crisp, white shirt; and my navy and silver don’t-mess-with-me-today tie.
As I put on each component of my outfit, my equilibrium gradually returns. This is who I am. Julian Hart. Hollywood agent. I chose to be this person. And I can’t forget the person who made my current circumstances possible: Carter. Yes, he’s my best friend, but he’s also the reason I’ve made a name for myself in this industry. We’ve managed to maintain our friendship and working relationship without incident for years, mostly because I set boundaries that allow me to separate “Carter, my best friend” from “Carter, my client.” I can’t fuck this up. Screwing around with his younger sister is not an option. Period.
Before leaving my bedroom, I peek out the door—and catch myself. What the hell am I doing? I’m not going to be a prisoner in my own home simply because Ashley’s around. I straighten to my full height and stride down the hall—and pull up short when I find her rummaging through the cabinets. She’s wearing a tank top and leggings, thank God. As it is, I’m spellbound by the way her long, dark hair brushes over her shoulders and back. More skin than that would have knocked me on my ass.
She’s muttering as she darts from one cabinet to the next.
Not wanting to frighten her, I clear my throat. “Can I help you find something?”
She spins around, wide-eyed—and braless.
Oh, come the fuck on. Seriously?
I glance at the walls, the counter, the top of her head—basically, anything that doesn’t have pointed nipples at its ends.
“Good morning, roomie,” she says. “I’m looking for food.”
Thankful for a reason to remove her from my line of sight, I open the fridge and list the stuff I already know is in there. “Tomatoes. A bunch of other fruits and veggies. Cottage and cheddar cheeses. Milk and juice.” I straighten and point behind her, my gaze locked on the floor. “Granola and oatmeal in there.” Then I chance a glance at her, limiting my view to the area above her shoulders.
She screws up her face and purses that sensuous mouth of hers. “I was looking for eggs, bacon, muffins, a doughnut even.”
“Sorry, I don’t have any of that.”
She comes from behind the counter and tugs on my suit sleeve. “Did you sell your soul to the devil in exchange for not having any joy in your life? You strike me as the kind of guy who would make a perverse deal like that.”
I step back and smooth my suit. “Cute, but the answer is no. Besides, I’m so happy with my life I’m bursting at the seams.”
She claps her hands together and cackles. “Well, you’ve still got a sense of humor, so all’s not lost.”
Yeah. That sounded laughable to my own ears, so I can’t be mad at her for knowing what’s what. Some days the monotony of my life is dreary as hell. “I can pick up a few things before I come home tonight.”
“Oh, don’t bother.” She fills a glass with orange juice and takes a long gulp before setting the cup on the counter. “I’m going to explore the neighborhood today. I’m sure I’ll find a grocery store along the way.”
“There’s a Whole Foods about a mile west. Straight down Wilshire Boulevard.”
She squeals and jumps up and down. “Their bakery is the best.”
No, your bouncing tits are the best. I snap my eyes shut. Dammit. I pivot like a cadet in training and grab my keys off the table in the foyer. “I need to head out. Lots of stuff going on at work. I’ll ask the doorman to give you my emergency keys. We can get a set made for you this weekend.” Why can’t I stop talking?
She raises a brow. “No breakfast?”
“No . . . I’ll grab a smoothie from the shop in the office lobby.”
She bites her lips and peers at me, her head tilted to the side. “Right. Sounds delicious.”
Can she tell I’m itchy to put some space between us? I need to do a better job of masking my attraction to her. “Enjoy the day, Ash. And don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”
She pouts at me. “Where’s the fun in that?” A saucy wink follows. “Besides, trouble is my middle name.”
I don’t doubt it. And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
WITH MY DELICIOUS green smoothie in hand, I pass through the double glass doors of Sync Creative Management’s main floor. As usual, the frenetic activity hits me like a battering ram. My colleagues are loud, probably owing in large part to the industry adage that the only people worth listening to are the ones who can make themselves heard. I pass a small conference room, where an agent is engaged in a shouting match with the speakerphone, and ten steps from there, a cubicle station, where Marie, my assistant, sits in the cubby closest to my office, her space decorated with cheerful knickknacks, including a collection of Mickey Mouse–ear hats.
She hurries to meet me. “Good morning and fair warning. Quinn is on a tear and wants to see everyone from the TV Group in Salon B at noon.”
David Quinn is the head of our group. Being ornery isn’t just a mood for him; it’s his essence. His signature cologne should be called eau de asshole. Still, if he’s calling a meeting at noon, it’s for a good reason. The lunch hour is when agents make deals—or try to—and while lunch in this town lasts longer than an hour, noon is when we emerge from our offices searching for deals to feed the beast.
“Any idea what the meeting’s about?”
Marie chews on a fingernail as she shakes her head. She lives in a perpetual state of worry, fully aware that her job security is tied to the success of the four agents she works with. “No clue.”
“It’ll be fine, Marie. If Quinn were mad at me, he’d ream me out first thing in the morning. That’s part of his charm.”
My reassurance does the trick, and she laughs. “You’re right, of course.”
“Messages?”
She nods. “Tons of them.”
“Let’s discuss in my office, then.”
After Marie leaves, I work nonstop, speaking with several casting agents, a talent scout pitching on behalf of a child actor, and a client who’s lost somewhere near Stage 15 of Warner Brothers Studios. In between the marathon conference calls, I read the latest news on casting decisions and a summary of which shows writers and producers plan to pitch during the upcoming pilot season.
With five minutes to spare before the noon meeting with Quinn, I get a call from a director who wants me to read the script of a movie he claims is tailor-made for Carter.
It’s not. Carter’s already told me so. The director’s reputation for verbally abusing people on set precedes him. But I listen and pretend to be enthusiastic about the project, because the degrees of separation between this guy and a studio exec might matter one day. Unfortunately, my long-term strategy makes me late to Quinn’s meeting.
I hoof it down the internal stairs to Salon B and look for a seat in the back of the room.
Quinn sets aside the papers in front of him and looks up when I enter. “How good of you to join us, Julian.”
I’m not apologizing for doing my job, so I give him a fuck-you smile. “Pleasure to be here, sir.”
To Quinn’s right, his assistant coughs into her hand. Glenda’s a sweet woman who deserves a million of her favorite Peanut M&M’s for having the fortitude to work with him.
I snag a seat by the window, its steel gray shades lowered completely because Quinn’s allergic to sunshine, and whisper to Doug, another agent in the group. “What’s going on?”
“Someone jacked up a contract,” he says under his breath. “Quinn hasn’t identified the fucker yet. Now he’ll be on our ass for weeks.”
This is true. Quinn looks for any excuse to ride us harder, to remind us that we’re one bad deal away from being shown the door.
Our boss sighs and gets to the point. “Let’s discuss what happened.”
The gist is that an agent screwed up a negotiation on behalf of a client, and it’s tied the client’s hands on future television opportunities. In short, an embarrassment to the agency and a major blunder vis-à-vis our client. Not one we can’t correct given the client’s star power, but the process of doing so makes us—and the client—look bad.
Quinn works his jaw like he’s chewing on a T-bone. “If you don’t have the skill or experience to negotiate a deal for one of your clients, say so. Get help. Don’t fuck around on my dime.” After his gaze circles the room of approximately forty people, he settles his contemptuous stare on a lone figure sitting outside the inner ring of attendees. Adam Manning. Poor guy. “Need I remind you that the Film Group has been complaining about the redundancies in the agency for ages. We’re not Worldwide or APA. We can’t afford to get shit wrong. Do you know how we compete with the big dogs in Hollywood? By getting it right. Every. Time.”
Damn, here we go again. There isn’t a week Quinn doesn’t remind us of our humble origins. Ten years ago, Worldwide Management Agency, a behemoth in this town, laid off more than a dozen of its agents as part of a restructuring effort. SCM’s founding partners, including Quinn, were among the ones let go. Pissed and unemployed, they opened their own firm, initially to dominate the industry and make WMA fall to its knees. But with the benefit of time and perspective—and a bitter dose of reality—SCM’s partners now focus on nabbing future breakout stars before they realize how talented they are. We’re the little fish in a big pond. Quinn’s still insecure about his foothold in the industry, though, and he has a perpetual scowl on his face to prove it.
“Don’t embarrass me out there,” Quinn continues. “You have questions? Get answers. The legal department is here for a reason. You’re all dismissed.”
Everyone except Quinn jumps to their feet.
He points at me. “You. Stay.”
Shit. What the fuck did I do now? I scroll through the list of possible transgressions. Nope. I got nothing. So I amble toward him with as carefree an expression as I can muster. “What’s up?”
He motions for me to sit. “I heard there was some chatter at the GLAAD awards about Hollywood’s whitewashing problem. Your name was mentioned. Care to explain?”
What’s to explain? So I might have gotten impassioned during the discussion, and yes, there might have been a studio exec or two in the group of people mingling, but it’s a well-known problem, and I’m not the first person to share my thoughts on the topic. “Agents and casting directors talk, Quinn. It happens. The issue came up. I shared some of my views. That’s all.”
He presses his lips together and leans forward, his hands clasped on the conference table. “Since this seems to be a day for reminders, let’s review why you’re here. You have a shit ton of small clients, but your marquee player is Carter Stone. Your job is to keep Carter Stone gainfully employed, so this agency can be gainfully paid. Your job is to keep Carter Stone happy, so he’ll want to work with SCM and continue to make us money. You do Carter no favors by pissing off the very people who want to work with him. Do not fuck up the opportunities you’ve been given.”
Well, he’s never pretended to be a nice guy, but goddamn, he’s not mincing words today. “Carter and I go way back, Quinn. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Don’t be so sure, Julian.”
My stomach churns. Does Quinn know something I don’t? Is Carter thinking about cutting me loose? I try to recall a clue or two from one of our recent conversations, but nothing out of the ordinary comes to mind. But maybe he picked up on my lack of enthusiasm for the business? Dammit. I hate being racked by self-doubt.
“Look, I’m not trying to be a prick,” Quinn continues. “I know he’s your friend, and you’ve done a fine job of managing your relationship so far, but you’ve always assured me that you and he keep work and personal stuff separate.”
I nod. “We do.”
“Did it ever occur to you that the dynamic you’ve cultivated makes it just as easy for him to sever your working relationship?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. It goes down like a boulder covered in spikes. “No.”
“Well, you should. So make yourself indispensable. Don’t do anything to make him question your partnership. Because I’m not sure there’d be enough work to justify keeping you if he left, and your comments about the industry’s problems could make finding another agency position difficult.” He shrugs. “I’m just looking out for you, my man.”
He’s not, and we both know it. Quinn’s only interests revolve around SCM and the money it makes him. But as much as I don’t want to, I see his point.
Quinn drums his hands on the glass table as he peers at me. “Before you go jumping to conclusions and confronting Carter, let me be clear. I haven’t heard anything about him wanting to fire you. But it stands to reason that if he wanted to, he could say, ‘It’s just business, nothing personal,’ and you’d be hard-pressed to debate him on that point.”
Well, fuck. Nothing like getting my ass handed to me by my prick of a boss. Especially when he makes me question one of the most important decisions of my life. To Quinn, this is about a threat to my job, which alone would be devastating. To me, though, it means much more. When I chose to become an agent and represent Carter, I crushed my father’s dream that I’d join his business and continue his legacy. But I forged ahead, convincing myself that my success would be enough proof—not only to my father but also to me—that I’d selected the right path.
If Carter fires me, the strain I put on my relationship with my dad would have been all for naught. And where would that leave me? I’d be a Hollywood agent without an A-list client. And any other A-list actor who might have sought my rep would view my and Carter’s “amicable parting” as a red flag. Failure with a capital F is what I’d call it.
None of this can happen. I won’t let it happen. So from here on out, Carter’s career is my highest priority.