James sighed deeply and looked up at me, scrubbing a hand across his jaw. “Look, kid. I know you’re an eager beaver, but here’s the thing in the United States. We build ourselves up. We grab our own bootstraps,” he said, bending low in his chair and miming yanking on a pair of boots. “That’s what I did. I didn’t ask for a handout. And I certainly didn’t ask my mommy’s sister’s husband for a job. I built my own damn business, and those are the type of employees I like to hire.” I felt my cheeks redden as he cut me down. “You do a fine job installing software and doing records, and hell, I even liked the intel you got me on how the paps work. I’m happy to keep throwing you little jobs here and there. A bit of cash for a couple hours’ work. But I just can’t get you a full-time job. It’s against my moral code.”

  I nodded crisply, as if I understood the depths of the lesson he thought he was teaching me. Inside, I was burning with frustration. Turning crisp with irritation. This was information he could have shared months ago. Instead, he’d been leading me on the whole time, knowing he was never going to put me on payroll. I opened my mouth to speak and was about to say thanks for nothing when I thought of Jess, and the wedding tomorrow. Now was not the time to take a stand. I gulped, rose, and handed him the wedding list. “I completely understand, James. And I respect your morals so much. Now, what kind of sandwich can I get for you?”

  “Roast beef with mayo,” he said, then returned to his computer without a word.

  “Are you bloody fucking kidding me?”

  I shook my head as I clutched the phone to my ear on my walk back from the sandwich shop. Traffic chugged along at a usual sluggish pace, even on this side street near James’s office. “Wish I was. But nope. The bastard made it patently clear he was never going to hire my sorry, pathetic ass. Have I mentioned again how happy I am that we’re not blood relatives to him?”

  Matthew laughed lightly, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Will. That totally sucks. I really wish I was in a position to hire you,” he said, and I wished that, too. But the harsh reality was that as connected as Matthew and Jane were in the music business, that didn’t equate to finding a job only I could do.

  “I know. It’s okay. I know you’ve done everything you can,” I said, wistfully. Hell, Jane had even tried to make me her personal tech assistant, but the visa-powers-that-be had said that was absolutely a job for an American.

  “We won’t stop trying. I promise. And listen, I just heard from my editors at Beat that I’m flying out tomorrow to LA for an interview with this rising pop band. Let’s get together on Sunday morning and we’ll brainstorm options for you. We’ll see if there are some stones unturned.”

  A flicker of hope touched down in my chest. I liked my brother, and I always enjoyed seeing him. “That sounds awesome. And maybe you can meet Jess, too.”

  “Wait,” Matthew said, curiosity strewn in his voice. “You did not tell me you were seeing someone.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now. And she’s fantastic.”

  “Then we really need to find a way for you to stay in the States.”

  “Exactly,” I said, as I neared James’s office. I could tolerate two more days working for him for her sake, especially since she was calling me now. “I need to go. That’s her on the other line.”

  “Whipped already,” Matthew said, and I could hear the satisfied grin all the way from the other side of the country as he hung up and I answered her call.

  “Hey, Jess,” I said.

  “There’s no need to tail Jenner any more,” she said, her voice lacking its usual spark as she proceeded to give me all the details of her morning. My jaw nearly dropped with her story, but my mind was quickly turning.

  “Here’s the thing. I don’t think this story ends here,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because what we know is only the outcome—that Jenner’s the newest cast member of The Weekenders and that Nick’s been booted. We don’t know how it started. It’s as if we have a script with only the second and third acts. Since I know you like to think of everything like a movie script,” I said, speaking her favorite language.

  “So what happened in the first act?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. But I want to find out, because it could change the ending.”

  “How?”

  “Because we don’t know how Jenner could have learned in the first place about Avery hooking up with Riley. How did Jenner, and by extension, the scheming pair of publicist brothers, know that there was something on Avery Brock? Something to blackmail him with. That’s the missing link. How Jenner got the tip in the first place,” I said as I pushed open the door to James’s office. “I need to go, but I’m going to go track this down. And then I’m going to take you out tonight.”

  “I would like that,” she said.

  We both would. I might not have had a job, but every day there was more of a reason to stay.

  9

  Jess

  * * *

  Six foot five inches of handsome, ripped, muscular man.

  Times two.

  I could get used to this. I snapped photos of the quarterback of the NFL Renegades team tossing a football on the beach to his star receiver, Jones Beckett. The man could run, he could catch, he could look fantastic in every damn shot.

  “Yeah, I can see why you don’t find him attractive,” I whispered to Jillian, who stood next to me, her sleek black hair blowing in the breeze from the ocean.

  She pressed her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  “He’s so ugly.”

  “He’s the worst.”

  With dark hair, blue eyes, and a magnetic smile, he was the complete opposite, and he was also a natural in front of the lens. While I loved the celebrity stakeouts, every now and then I enjoyed the pace of a publicity shot like this. There was something rewarding about capturing pics of people who wanted to be photographed.

  After I snapped a few more shameless shirtless photos for team publicity, I chatted with Jillian. “Thanks again for giving me the opportunity to work for you,” I said, dropping the teasing and sarcasm. I truly did appreciate the chance, and I needed her to know that.

  She flashed me a bright smile. “You know you're my girl. How is everything going?”

  I caught her up to speed—mostly—on life and classes and work, and then Jones and Cooper joined us.

  “Nice work, gentlemen. Should only require minimum photoshopping to make you look like star athletes,” I said playfully.

  Jones laughed, a rumbly, warm sound. “Good thing you won’t have to work too hard.”

  “Some days it’s hardly work,” I said.

  His eyes strayed to my friend, lingering on her as she brushed her hair from her cheek. “Yeah, I feel that way, too,” he said, his voice a little lower.

  I watched him, snapping mental shots, as he roamed his gaze over her from head to toe. His eyes were full of heat, full of desire. Whatever was forbidden between them looked like it was about to ignite.

  When I grabbed a moment alone with her as we finished, I whispered, “He was completely checking you out. He’s into you.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t think so.”

  I nodded. “Think so. I promise.”

  Celebrity dog trainer Claire Tinsley was ready. She was twenty-three and had been born on November 2. She was an organ donor, which was quite thoughtful of her. After an early class, Claire’s alter ego had spent the rest of the day after the photo shoot outside the most star-studded Starbucks in the city, snapping latte runs, coffee breaks, and the no-fat frappuccino fixes of the famous. J.P. happily took my work, handed me two hundred dollars, and then gave me the fake ID.

  “You look good as a brunette,” he said, then gestured to the plate of miniature Meyer lemon cupcakes on his desk. “Take one.”

  I wrapped a napkin around a cupcake, and J.P. pretended to tip over in his chair and faint from shock.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve never seen you take food before. I thought you survived on the blood of celebrities.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not for me.”

  “For a boyfriend? You holding out on me?”

  “Hardly,” I lied, but I looked down so he wouldn’t see my eyes as I tucked the wrapped-up cupcake into the front pocket of my backpack.

  “You all set for tomorrow? Need anything else?”

  I mentally ticked off the pieces I’d need for my wedding costume and the plan to bring my camera inside the event. I’d picked up some wrapping paper at the drug store earlier, along with a pretty white bow, so I even had a gift for the bride and groom. I was good to go, and the twenty-four-hour countdown had started. “I’m ready.”

  “When do you think I’ll see the shots?”

  “They’re checking cell phones at the gates, so I probably won’t be able to get to any sort of device to email you pictures for a couple hours. But by four, for sure.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Oh man, I’m like a kid at Christmas. Can. Not. Wait.”

  “Neither can I,” I said, and left J.P.’s office. I stopped at a nearby mall, set up camp on a quiet bench in the courtyard to finish up my bio homework that was due on Monday, and only checked my phone every five minutes for a text from William, so I reasoned that my self-restraint was still strong. I crossed my fingers, hoping he was uncovering the missing scenes—what had happened in the first act.

  * * *

  William

  * * *

  Things I never want to see on my laptop again—this many photos of Jenner Davies. He dominated my computer screen as I studied image after image of the bleached-blond teen star. There was a shot of him at the soup kitchen on his whole helping-the-less-fortunate quest, then a picture of him visiting sick children, and finally a photo of him cleaning up the beach. But before he became so philanthropic, he was photographed working out quite a bit.

  The paparazzi had captured many images of Jenner pumping iron, running on trails, and doing crunches at a gym with his trainer.

  I zeroed in on the gym shot because something about it felt eerily familiar, so I stared hard at Jenner as if I could put the pieces together like that. When I glanced away from Jenner’s face to take in the rest of the picture, that’s when the clue blared loudly at me. His trainer had a goatee. I flashed back to the stakeout with Jess when she’d told me about gym shots, trainers, and Nick Ballast.

  His trainer has this goatee, she’d said.

  Fine, a lot of guys had goatees. But a lot of guys also didn’t have goatees. Opening another browser window, I searched for shots of Nick Ballast with his trainer. They showed up immediately, and lo and fucking behold.

  Nick Ballast and Jenner Davies had the same personal trainer.

  A spark of excitement raced through me.

  There it was. The first act. The pieces were coming together.

  But then, I told myself to settle down. This didn’t prove anything. Lots of trainers had more than one celebrity client. The only way to know if there was anything more to this than mere coincidence was to go to the source.

  Since Jess had mentioned the names of some of the most popular gyms in Los Angeles, I looked them up, scrolled through the photos and bios of all the personal trainers, and found him quickly.

  His name was Pelly Howland.

  I plugged him into Google so I could learn everything about him.

  His website popped up. Not an over-the-top one, but it advertised his credentials both as a trainer and in entertainment law. He wasn’t a lawyer, but evidently he thought it important to mention in his bio that he’d earned his associate's degree in entertainment law, and was studying now for his bachelor’s in the same subject.

  Interesting.

  Very interesting.

  Those details told me a lot about him.

  As did the fact that his cell phone number was on his page, along with his email. This guy was hungry. He wanted business. Hunger for work was something I knew well. Now I needed to know more about what made Pelly tick, so I turned to Facebook where I discovered that he was quite fond of posting photos of himself while wearing a crisp shirt and tie and sharing status updates from Hollywood Breakdown, rather than dispensing tips about drinking protein shakes after a workout.

  I nodded as the picture of Pelly Howland crystallized. He was a trainer who wanted to be a player. That’s how I would hook him.

  Grabbing my phone, I dialed his mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. “Hi, this is William Oliver,” I began, opting to use my first and middle name rather than last. “Heard great things about you from some of the guys at WAM,” I said, tossing out the name of the biggest talent agency. I didn’t say I worked there. I simply said I’d heard of him from there, and hoped that would be enough of a lure that Pelly would feel as if he’d made inroads in the big beast of Hollywood. “Would love to book a session.”

  Then I left my number. Next, I tried the gym he worked at and requested a session with him today.

  “He’s fully booked. How about next Friday at 9:30?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, and hung up.

  I heaved a frustrated sigh, but remained undeterred. There had to be something to the Pelly-Jenner-Nick connection, and I needed to figure it out. I’d already discovered that Pelly was social, and active on Facebook. Maybe he was a Twitter fiend, too. Quickly, I tracked him down on Twitter, scouring his feed for any clues. His first update of the day boasted about working out on the trails. His next claimed he was booked with sessions all day and so pumped for them. Fine, that was the gist of what I’d learned from the gym. Then he linked to an article about the potential casting of We’ll Always Have Paris. One more click of the mouse down his feed, and there it was—an update from twenty minutes ago saying his two p.m. session cancelled but he’d make the most of his free hour with some treadmill time.

  Or with me, I reasoned, and hoped Pelly checked his messages in between sessions.

  After James’s runaround this morning, I refused to let this piece of intel elude me. Determined to snag some face time with the man, I was going to have to try to find him at his gym. I pulled on workout shorts and a T-shirt and hunted around for a Bluetooth headset that had come with my phone but I never wore, seeing as I didn’t want to ever look like a douche who wore a Bluetooth except for now when I needed to harness that look. As I opened the door, my phone rang.

  “William Oliver,” I said.

  “Hey! Pelly Howland. I just had a cancellation. You still up for a session? Because I would love to fit you in. I’m all about client service,” he said.

  “How fortuitous. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I made my way to Pelly’s gym, stopping only at a magazine stand along the way.

  I parked a block away from the gym, tucked the headset over my ear, slipped the Hollywood Breakdown under my arm, and walked inside, looking the part of a young and hungry Hollywood player, too.

  The trainer was waiting for me by the front desk, a smile on his goateed face. “Pelly Howland, pleasure to meet you.”

  “William Oliver. And I assure you, the pleasure is all mine,” I said, and his eyes stayed on mine at first, then he noticed the Hollywood Breakdown in my hand, the Bluetooth in my ear, and the English accent I’d come equipped with. Not that an accent proved anything in this town, but for some reason, it worked like a fucking charm when you needed someone to think you were trustworthy.

  Because after thirty minutes and a few carefully dropped hints that made me seem like a WAM insider, too, my abs were quite sore, and my ears were getting a workout, too.

  Pelly the Goateed Trainer was like a windup doll. Crank him up and watch him go. All I had to do was feed him bits and pieces of Hollywood insider intel, and his mouth moved. I dropped names left and right that Jess had mentioned over the last few days.

  “You think Emily Hannigan would make a good Gretchen Lindstrom in the We’ll Always Have Paris remake?” I asked as he made me work my obliques.

  “She’d be fantastic, but not opposite Ren Canton.”

  “Who, then? Someone like Nick Ballast?” I offered in my best casual, offhand tone as we moved onto crunches.

  He scoffed, but it was marked with a laugh. “No. Nick is too young for that role.”

  “He’s one of your clients, right?”

  Pelly nodded proudly as he held down my ankles. “He is. Damn proud of that kid. He was just cast as a college freshman on a TV show that starts shooting in Vancouver in twelve days.”

  I mentally pumped a fist, but outwardly kept my cool. “That so? I heard Jenner Davies got Nick’s role on The Weekenders.”

  “He’s my client, too,” Pelly said, and damn, all I had to do was drop a name, and he picked it right up and bragged about it.

  “Nick must have been bummed.”

  Pelly shook his head, and mouthed no.

  “No?” I whispered in question.

  “Nope,” Pelly said quietly in a conspiratorial tone. “Nick booked the TV show last week. He wouldn’t have been able to do both. The movie shoots here. And the TV show shoots in Canada.”

  The lights went off. The buzzer beeped. The slot machine played its jackpot tune.

  “Ironic that Jenner got the part, then,” I mused, going fishing for more. Pelly, it seemed, took the easy bait. So far, I’d pegged him right. He fancied himself a player, some sort of rising power broker.

  “Ironic,” Pelly said, a note of pride in his voice as he tapped the side of his head. “Or just smart thinking.”

  “Matchmaking, eh? That’s what makes this world go round.”

  “Yes, it does,” Pelly said, and then offered me his hand. “Time for squats.”

  I counted down until the hour was up. Not because the workout was hard. But because I was dying to tell Jess that our Goateed Trainer Boy was the missing link.