He deserves so much more than being his father’s punching bag.

  “Make all your dreams come true, Vince. I know someday your star will shine.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bristol

  I should have stayed in bed.

  If the smoke alarm chirping at three in the morning (because isn’t that always when the batteries die), the coffee pot breaking, and Jagger throwing up all over my clothes minutes before I headed out the door weren’t a warning sign I should have heeded, then I don’t know what was.

  And now as Simone looks at me with raised eyebrows, expectant eyes, and yet another imposing request, I know being nestled in my warm, soft bed would have been so much better than what I’m about to agree to do.

  “Don’t give me that look,” she says. “I’d do the same for you, if you asked.”

  “The difference is that I don’t ask. Ever.”

  Her sigh and the shift of her feet are all the proof I need. She knows I’m right. That this is most definitely a one-way relationship—unless you consider the laughter she pulls from me on the daily. If we compared that, then she’s the reason I stay sane most days.

  And the same reason I glare at her but nod my head. “He better be a damn good lay if you’re making me cover for you.”

  “Really?” Simone clasps her hands and dances a jig, her spiral curls bouncing and her smile reaching megawatt levels. All for covering her shift tonight so she can be with her current flavor of the month—and they do change monthly—who happens to be in town for the night. But who am I to deny someone in love with the notion of being in love and the addictive giddiness that comes with it?

  “Really,” I say drolly, already hating that I can’t say no to her.

  “Oh my God. You’re the best. Maybe this will put you front and center with Xavier so he sees what a godsend you are and finally treats you what you’re worth.”

  Xavier McMann. Schmoozer to the stars. Hard-ass galore. Our boss. How he led McMann Media Management to be one of the top media and public relations firms in Los Angeles is beyond me. With his grueling schedule, his unyielding demands, and his snap-of-the-fingers-you-better-jump communication skills, he only seems to notice you if you screw up.

  And yet we both work here because he’s the best of the best. His stamp of approval is the golden ticket to a successful career in the industry. The connections you make working for him guarantee it. If dealing with him and his demands is what I need to do to learn the ropes and get my foot in the door I feel like I’ve been pushing on for what feels like forever, then so be it.

  One day I plan to be him.

  My own publicity or talent management firm. My own employees. My own reputation.

  I just got a little later start on everything than planned . . .

  The roll of my eyes in response says it all.

  “Nothing will ever make Xavier see me.” No matter how hard I work, he’ll never notice me. “We’re never in the same place either.” In the rare instances that we are, my most important job is relegated to grabbing coffee. Apparently, my immediate boss wants the more important tasks to try and make a lasting impression with the top one.

  “He’s going to be there today.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s—”

  “Here. In Los Angeles. He came back from Napa early because this thing came up, and he wanted to be here for it. So you know it’s a big deal if he cut his trip short.”

  “And this thing is . . .”

  “No clue.” Her shrug is as indifferent as her tone is in having this conversation right now. I’m certain her thoughts are already on her date tonight. “It’s all being kept under lock and key.”

  “And you’re going to miss it?”

  “I know. I’ll probably shoot myself in the foot for it when you’re promoted to vice president or some shit like that after you kick ass today.”

  “Yeah. Right.” I swing my arm in the aw-shucks motion and snap. “My gofer game is so strong that Xavier will promote me on the spot.”

  Knowing he’s going to be there does at least provide me a positive reason for working the overtime. As much as he’s a pain in the ass, there is always opportunity when he’s in the room.

  “Whatever.”

  “Now, are you going to tell me what my job duties are tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And this is why getting a late start to my career is frustrating. I’m often teamed with younger employees who aren’t often aware of the fine points.

  Then again, even at Simone’s age, I would have known the intimate details.

  “Come again?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs again, her smile so sugary sweet I feel cavities forming.

  “Well, then can you at least tell me who the client is?”

  “Nope. Like I said, everything is being kept all hush-hush.”

  “Great. You don’t know what and you don’t know who. I’m beginning to not like this idea.” I groan. “Last time we had hush-hush all hell broke loose.”

  Simone snorts as we both recall the disaster of taking on a shock jock as a client and trying to redeem him in the public eye. Needless to say, the redemption part was short-lived and futile in the end.

  “I don’t think it’s that kind of hush-hush. I think it’s more along the lines of Xavier stealing a big name away from another firm, and we have to keep it under wraps type of thing. He wants a big staff presence to show the talent that we’re there to support him in any way possible.”

  “Ah, the song and dance routine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So it’s a him, then?”

  “Yes. A male. I mean, at least we know it’s not some diva with ridiculous demands.”

  I give her the side-eye because we both know men can rival women in the diva factor at times.

  “Look, I owe you like a million . . . something.” She waves her hand and laughs. “I can’t say dollars because we both know I sure as shit don’t have that.”

  “Same, girl.” I sigh, still resigning myself to the fact that I agreed to do this. “Tell me where I need to go and what time I need to be there.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bristol

  “Where’s Simone?” Kevin asks the minute I enter the studio as he whisks past me like his ass is on fire. Or rather, how us junior associates are required to act regardless of whether there’s a fire or not.

  But he’s not a junior associate, so that tells me the pep in his step is because Xavier is already here.

  “You’re getting me tonight.”

  His step falters for half a beat as he cranes his neck over his shoulder and flashes a quick smile. “I’m not going to complain about that. You know we all fight over you. Life is way easier when you’re assigned to our events.”

  “I’m touched.” I place my hand over my heart and wink as he holds up a finger telling me he’ll be right back.

  “Excuse us,” comes from my right. I step out of the way from a few grips who are hurriedly pushing the black, wheeled cases that exist on every sound stage I’ve ever been on. After they pass, I scan the oversized space to try and get a hint of who this hush-hush client is.

  The room doesn’t give me much more to go on other than I’m clearly at a sound stage (they’re a dime a dozen in the Los Angeles area), and there is a hell of a lot of people here. Sound engineers with their headphones hanging on their necks and pieces of random tape stuck to their all-black clothing from where they’ve taped mics to someone. The hair and makeup team stand whispering furtively in one corner with their belts loaded with brushes or hair accessories either clipped around their waists or worn like a cross-body purse. The lighting crew is on ladders as they adjust moving heads and spotlights toward the middle of the stage area. Toward the far side of the room is a huddle of people where Xavier stands very much in the center, clearly in control given the rapt attention of everyone around him.

  There are a few closed doors behind the huddle, but it’s too far for me to read the printed pieces of paper in the acrylic holders that typically identify whose door the talent belongs to.

  And there are a dozen or more other people milling about who look important—or from my experience, are trying to look important for their own egos’ sakes.

  I quickly try to call my mom and check on Jagger, but as per usual, her cell goes unanswered. What I’d give for the woman to take it out of her purse and off do not disturb so she can actually hear when I call her.

  “Bristol.”

  I shove my phone in my pocket and look up when my name is called from across the room. Kevin is standing beside Xavier, and they are both intently looking at me. Kevin waves for me to come over.

  With a huge gulp of here we go, I make my way across the large space, ever aware that they are blatantly scrutinizing me as I go.

  I’m too old to worry about Xavier and what he thinks of me. Most of the junior associates with McMann are five to seven years younger than I am and have a lot less backbone.

  Both serve as a blessing and a curse for me.

  Being twenty-eight means I need to be amiable and not piss off any of the senior associates or managers. It also means I’m old enough to have a good sense of self, a pocketful of experience to pull from, and have dealt with enough bullshit that I’d prefer not to tolerate any more of it.

  Like I said, a blessing and a curse. Especially when my mouth opens to stand up for myself without thinking, when my younger counterparts would most likely nod with a smile and suck up whatever shitty task has been set before them.

  There’s a definite yin and yang, and I’m sure as shit still finding the correct balance to it. One that won’t get my ass fired.

  It’s a weird thing to be a mother, in control of all things when I’m at home, and then to come to work and take orders from everyone else.

  “Do you think she’s too old?” Xavier asks as I’m within earshot.

  A purse of Kevin’s lips. A tilt of his head. A bristle of my shoulders in silent rebuke.

  This is the only industry where scrutinizing a person’s looks is perfectly normal and accepted.

  I listen but look over my shoulder to see who they’re talking about.

  “Nah. Her hair can be fixed to look right. Her skin is flawless. Great coloring with no wrinkles,” Kevin says.

  “The issue isn’t her skin.” Xavier’s smile pulls tight, his eyes averting from me. “The body type is off.”

  Kevin shifts on his feet as I stop before them. “True, but body inclusivity is a big thing right now. It might make a statement that looks good for him. The ‘all body types are beautiful’ type of thing.”

  “You have a point.” Clearly Xavier isn’t a fan of this idea by the strained smile and muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “I mean, by no means is it what we had planned, but we’re in a pinch, and no doubt she can do what needs to be done.”

  “Who can do what?” I ask, looking from one to the other and then back.

  “Our lead actress is sick and casting isn’t getting a response from our sourcing firm.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we might have you stand in until we can get someone here,” Kevin says while I process the subtle critiques they were just giving about my body—because that’s exactly what every woman wants to hear . . . said no woman ever.

  “Wait. What?” I ask.

  “I believe they’re saying that they want you to fill in as my love interest.”

  The deep tenor at my back has my heart beating fiercely because I’d know that gravel dipped in velvet-sounding voice anywhere. And as much as I hope that I’m wrong, when I turn around to face its owner, every part of me stands at attention when I’m proven right.

  Vincent Jennings.

  Dark hair. Light eyes. A sleeve of tattoos that peeks up and past the neck of his trademark black T-shirt. That fuck-you curl to his lips that’s always been there—taunting and seducing simultaneously.

  I’m relieved to see shock flashing across that gorgeous face of his. At least I’m not the only one being thrown for a loop right now.

  “Hey, Shug.” Shug, short for sugar—a nickname I originally despised but that he somehow made mine over our time together. It’s a name I haven’t heard in years that has my heart clenching and rejecting it and him all at the same time.

  Or trying to, because in that one look, a million feelings come rushing back. The bittersweet feeling of first love and the soul-crushing despair of first heartbreak. The utter humiliation of rejection and the constant reminder that I will always somehow be indebted to him. Not that he will ever know.

  I stand frozen in surprise with my head and heart racing, but my first words aren’t to the man who has owned my life in ways he doesn’t even know. Rather they are directed at Xavier and his curious gaze. “I-I d-don’t understand. We don’t take on rock stars. McMann doesn’t do that. We manage movie stars. And Food Network chefs. And social media influencers . . . but not him.”

  Kevin sucks in a quick breath as Xavier crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at me. “We represent whoever it is that I say we do,” he says in that authoritative, soft tone of his. The one that says don’t question or fuck with him. “Or have you forgotten it’s my name on your paycheck?”

  “Yes. I know. I mean . . .” Stop, Bristol. Just stop. My tongue feels like it weighs a pound while my entire body vibrates with the adrenaline coursing through it. “But not him.”

  Kevin’s quick clearing of his throat is a warning. So are his eyes flitting between the four of us as if he’s taking stock of who I’ve offended more. “What I think you meant to say was how exciting it is that McMann Media Management has decided to venture into representing musicians now. And how lucky we are that the super talented, rock god Vincent Jennings is going to be our first client in that realm.”

  “Our client?” I mouth as realization breaks through the heavy fog seeing him again has weighed me down with.

  “Yes. Our client.” The muscle ticks in Xavier’s jaw as he stares at me. “One who may not feel welcome given your delightful reception.”

  “It’s good to see you again,” Vincent says to my back, completely disregarding Xavier and his sarcasm, as if he and I are the only ones in the room.

  His voice has always owned me, and this time it’s no exception regardless of the ocean of history the two of us are treading water in right now.

  Expectant eyes stare at me as I force myself to turn and face Vince. Eyes that ask a million questions in that one simple exchange.

  How are you?

  What are you doing here?

  How come it’s been so long?

  This is so not a good thing—you being here.

  I’ve seen him on television, in the tabloids, at award shows more times than I care to count, and yet standing here, face-to-face with him, I’m on that razor-thin edge of bittersweet nostalgia and indifferent disbelief.

  Indifferent.

  Isn’t that what I promised myself I’d be if we were ever face-to-face again?

  Then why is my heart racing? Why is my mouth dry? Why am I telling myself he can’t be here—that this can’t happen—all while being unable to tear my eyes away from him?

  Why is it so hard to be indifferent when I’m standing before him?

  “Vincent.” I nod as my head swims with memories. First kisses. Linked fingers and shoulders for support. Midnight farewells and endless tears. Desperate sex to make up for lost time. Final words I’ll never forgive or forget. I shake my head, trying to focus on the here and now. On doing my job and not letting him screw up my plans.

  “Bristol.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say when my rational mind catches up. “What are you doing here?”

  Vince’s lips curl up on one side, a dimple I know all too well denting in one cheek. “Pretty self-explanatory. We’re shooting a music video.”

  My smile is halfhearted as I look over his shoulder because it hurts too much to look at his eyes. They’re too familiar. Too overwhelming.

  Time and life experiences may have dulled the hurt, but it doesn’t erase it or my own participation.

  “We have big plans with Vincent, here,” Xavier says, stepping forward, his chest puffed, his smile in full-on big-dick mode as he pats Vince’s shoulder. “Tonight, we’re shooting a video for his up-and-coming single Heart of Mine. The rest of this week will be various brainstorming sessions with your PR team. Then we’ll start working on some behind the scenes for the documentary. We’ve got a lot to do with him while he’s in town.”

  “Documentary?” I snort. Vince isn’t exactly the documentary type. And it’s way easier to focus on that than hear that he’s going to be in town for an extended period.

  “Yes. About Vince. As you know when you control the narrative, it makes it easier to do damage control,” Xavier says. “It’s better if we have the paparazzi on our side instead of with their blood on our fists.”

  “He had it coming to him.” Vince rolls his eyes.

  “And that’s why we’ll do the talking for you,” Xavier admonishes but with a smile.

  Vince’s chuckle is a warning I’m certain Xavier believes he can pacify and that I know from experience he can’t. “No one talks for me.”

  Xavier nods, clearly placating Vince. “The documentary will and we’ll make sure it says exactly what we want it to say.” His smile is quick and unwitting when he looks at me. “When we’re done with his campaign, everybody who doesn’t already know his face will recognize him.”

  “And hopefully that translates into a monster release week for his first full solo album,” Kevin interjects, trying to wiggle his way back into this conversation.

  Vince is the bass guitarist for one of the biggest bands in the rock scene, Bent.

  Was.

  He was the bass guitarist for one of the biggest bands on the rock scene.

  A year ago, Bent took a break to pursue individual projects after years together. Passion projects, I believe they’d called it.

  Vince has released an extended-play album since then—a few songs on a mini album. They did well, but not anywhere near as successful as Bent’s music. But he’s summitted all the peaks before with them—he’s won Grammys, topped the Billboard charts, sold out stadium tours, had albums go platinum . . . so why this new push? Why is he so desperate to prove himself when he already has? “Sorry to repeat myself, but why does Vince need—”