We’ve reached my office by the time she gets to the bottom of her very long list. “Carter?” she asks, noting that my attention has strayed to a spot in the distance. “Did you get all that?”
I glance back down and scan the paper in my hand, pointedly not looking at the piles of mail and various Call me when you’re in! Post-its stuck to my computer monitor. “Most of it, I think,” I tell her. “But it’s possible I haven’t had enough caffeine and I’m not functioning on all four cylinders yet. Give me an hour and check in again.”
“I don’t know what you did to deserve me,” she says, stepping around my desk and lifting a steaming paper cup from just beside my keyboard.
“You are a goddess.” The smell alone sets off some Pavlovian response and I already feel more alert. “I didn’t leave myself enough time to grab another on my way in. I’m buying you lunch today.”
She points to the twelve o’clock on my paper. “No, you’ll be buying Alan Porter lunch. Possible new client. Remember?”
My posture slumps. “Right.”
She grips me by the shoulders and leads me to my desk. “Today is packed, but you might as well get it over with.” I drop into my chair and watch as she walks to the window and yanks open the blinds. “Happy Monday.”
chapter three
evie
“Evie, I need to see you for a minute.”
I look up to see Brad’s shadow already disappearing from my doorway.
“Sure thing,” I say to my empty office, pushing back from my desk.
The sounds of phones and the clicking of keys greet me as I walk down the gray-carpeted hall. The layout is long and narrow, with smaller individual offices bordering the exterior walls, and larger offices or executives on each end. The assistants don’t sit outside their particular agent’s office, where it would be convenient to grab them should the need arise. No, they—along with the interns—sit in an inner ring of long tables creating a shared workspace. That way everything feels like a team effort, rather than individuals cast adrift without support. That’s how Brad feels about the arrangement, at least. To everyone who actually has to work, it’s a giant pain in the ass.
My relationship with Brad Kingman has always been delicate. For starters, though he didn’t know me at the time, Brad was an agent at my first real, postcollege job, almost ten years ago. He wasn’t always the nicest guy and had a reputation for some shady practices, including client poaching. Not illegal, but definitely not encouraged, either. He would keep track of actors just coming off a failure and quietly suggest to them that their agent should shoulder some of the blame, that more should have been done to protect the actor. He would find a client he was interested in representing and stop by a shoot while they were on set, explaining that he was there visiting another client and then acting surprised to hear that their agent had never been on set before. Brad was a master of planting seeds that in the end did most of the dirty work for him. He did this repeatedly on the set of a movie called Uprising and, funnily enough, ended up signing the lead actor a mere two months after shooting wrapped. Only one month after that, he was put in charge of Features at P&D.
While that’s not how I do business—and I would never admit this to anyone—I did learn a few tricks from him, the most important of which is: don’t forget for even one second that the moment you leave your house and step out in Hollywood, people are paying attention.
Brad only learned we had worked at the same agency years later, after I’d been hired at P&D. And I’m sure it’s because he knows I would have heard a few inside stories—or learned a little too much about how he does things—that he keeps me close. Not as a confidante or friend, but close enough to hold under his thumb.
“Go on in,” his assistant, Kylie, tells me.
Kylie seems smart and reasonably good at her job, plus she puts up with Brad all day, every day. Her bullshit tolerance must be off the chart.
Brad Kingman looks a little like the miracle baby produced by Hugh Jackman and Christopher Walken. Good skin, stark blue eyes, and severe bone structure. Sitting here in this office, surrounded by awards and celebrity photos and framed by a sweeping view of the Hollywood Hills, he’s the portrait of success.
He reaches for a paper clip and his custom-tailored shirt stretches across the type of chest and arms you can only get from a lot of time at the gym. A green smoothie sits on the corner of his desk, and despite my annoyance at being here, I inwardly smile. That kale sludge is his version of junk food; no wonder he didn’t notice the dog-food bar.
“Have a seat,” he says, and I do, waiting while he takes the next few minutes to finish scribbling something in a black ledger before securing the entire booklet with a thick leather band. Not like he couldn’t have done that before he called me in. “Listen, kiddo, I need you to throw in a team token.”
I remind myself to count to three before I answer. Team token is one of my least favorite Bradisms. It’s his stupid catchphrase for a favor. But if he makes it about being a team player, there’s no way to pass without looking like the bad guy.
“For what?” I keep my expression neutral.
“I want you to give John a little help building his list back up.”
I look up, confused. John Fineman is a very well-established colleague in Features. “Brad, he’s been here longer than I have.”
“I’m aware.” Brad leans back in his chair. “But we all know he’s lost two heavy hitters this year. Now he’s in the middle of a divorce and a little distracted. Maybe throw him a pass once in a while. Something you hear, someone you have a hunch about. Keep him busy. Teamwork.”
Keep him busy? A few years ago, John was paid the lion’s share of a six-figure commission that I earned on my own, simply because the call was forwarded to his line when I was out of the office at a meeting. John called Kylie to let her know we’d signed the client on to the project, and she mistakenly started the paperwork assuming it was his.
He never corrected her.
When I raised hell, Brad’s compromise was to give me a little more money in my bonus and a lecture about team tokens. And yes, John has lost two clients this year. But he lost them because he’s a backstabbing jerk who got caught gossiping nastily about one client to another client, not because he’s a little distracted. When I needed a few days to help my mom during Dad’s knee surgery, Brad suggested I hand over some of my clients so I wouldn’t feel “overwhelmed.” He certainly wasn’t offering to have someone assist me, not that I’d have accepted anyway.
“I’m fine helping if that’s really what he needs,” I start, tone cautious, “but—”
“Evie.” Brad sighs, pushing away from his desk to stand with his back to the wall of spotless glass behind him. “You know I don’t like to bring this up, but you needed a team around you when you dropped the ball on Field Day.”
I stiffen. Here we go.
Field Day was one of the biggest box office flops of recent years, and I was the agent representing—and pushing for huge money for—the lead actor whose sign-on resulted in the entire project being greenlit. Think Waterworld and Gigli and you’ve got the right idea. It was so bad that both the film and my client won armloads of Razzies and became standard gossip rag fodder for the masses. I’ve actually heard someone use the phrase, “It totally Field Day’ed” as a metaphor when a film royally underperformed.
My in-house legacy, ladies and gents.
The worst part is that I was crushing it before that all happened. I was the top-performing agent at Alterman my last two years there, and I’m still in the top twenty percent at P&D. But with Field Day, my reputation—and confidence—took a major hit. I can’t seem to shake the sense that it’s the first thing everyone in the business thinks about when they meet me.
Brad seems to delight in the leverage it gives him postbomb. But, like any good underling, I never remind him how many times he praised the movie’s potential as “like Bull Durham meets Avengers—sports hero gold.”
&n
bsp; As if on cue, Brad walks around his desk and props himself on the edge of it. “A bad decision like Field Day would’ve killed most agents, let alone one who hasn’t proven herself yet. But did I let that happen?” he asks, pinning me with an expression that from an outsider’s perspective would read a lot like genuine concern.
I swallow back a snide retort because he’s right, Brad did come to my rescue. He stuck up for me when others thought I should be let go. But he’ll never let me forget about it, either.
“No, you had my back,” I say, not pointing out that I had proven myself by then. I’d been an agent nearly eight years at the time.
“That’s right. Because your failures are my failures. And your wins . . . ?” He pauses, waiting expectantly.
“Are your wins,” I finish for him.
“That’s my girl.” Those three words send a blazing shiver of rage down my spine, and he rounds the desk to sink back into his chair again. “Keep me updated and go ahead and close the door on your way out.”
And I’m dismissed.
• • •
After my last meeting of the day, I hook up with Daryl and Amelia at Café Med for dinner. It has to still be at least seventy degrees where we sit on the patio, but Daryl is wrapped in a giant beige sweater and wearing sunglasses even though the sun set nearly an hour ago. Los Angeles, man.
Café Med is a cool little restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, which means it offers some of the best people-watching around. On the sidewalk just on the opposite side of the green railing, a woman walks by in a pair of three-inch platforms and a silk kimono. A car pulls up at the corner with an entire desert diorama built in its rear window. We’re just as likely to see a celebrity walk by as we are to see a man in a tutu pushing a baby carriage full of aluminum cans.
“Heard you were in with Brad today,” Amelia says to me, and then adds with a giant grin, “Bet that was fun!”
“He’s always such a dick to you,” Daryl says.
“I don’t know,” I hedge. “I think he probably has his own version of dick for everyone. He’s smart. He knows all of our buttons.”
We all look up as Steph dodges the hostess with a smile and jogs over to the table.
“Sorry I’m late.” She hangs her purse on the back of the empty chair next to Daryl and takes a seat. “Longest client meeting ever.”
“We haven’t even ordered yet.” I hand her a menu. “But wine is on the way.”
“And the angels sing hallelujah,” Steph mumbles, looking at the food options.
“Did you guys have a good time Friday night?” Daryl asks.
“I did,” I say honestly.
“Does this mean I’m forgiven for missing it?” she asks.
Steph nods emphatically, but I pop a piece of bread in my mouth and tilt my head, chewing. “Still thinking about it.”
Daryl pretends to take a bullet to the chest.
I open my mouth to tell both her and Amelia all about the party when I realize that if Steph is twenty-seven, and Mike is twenty-seven, and Carter is the same age they are . . . then Carter is six years younger than I am.
Six years.
As if she’s read my mind, Steph puts her menu down and says, “Carter seemed to really like you.”
I don’t know why the age difference didn’t occur to me at the party, but it seems to be a deal breaker, like a knee-jerk instinct. I’ve never really dated a significantly younger guy. And twenty-seven versus thirty-three feels pretty significant. We’re not going to date, obviously, but if I happen to drop him a text and maybe think about him naked while doing so, does six years make me a cougar?
I thank the waiter when he puts my wine down in front of me, then turn to Steph. “Oyyyy, Steph. I just realized he’s your age.”
“Who’s Carter?” Amelia asks. “I don’t remember hearing anything about a Carter.”
“He’s a friend of Mike and Steph’s,” I tell them before sipping my wine. “He was fun. Daryl might know him, actually. He’s in TV-Lit at CTM?”
“Carter Aaron? I’ve never worked with him but hear he’s good.”
“He is good,” Steph says before looking back to me. “And ‘fun’? He’s hot, Evie. Carter is great-looking, and smart, and he’s a genuinely good guy who might even be good enough for you.”
I ignore this suggestion that I’m picky. “He’s young,” I say. “A fact you neglected to mention.”
“He’s twenty-eight!”
“Oof,” I groan. Okay, so I’m only five years older than he is. “I was already in school when he was born.”
“In kindergarten,” Steph says.
“Those feel like important years.” I remember being twenty-eight, and watching my guy friends then was like watching Muppets in adult male bodies try to navigate the world.
“Well, guys on the East Coast mature earlier,” Steph reasons.
Amelia and I exchange a skeptical look. “Twenty-eight is everyone’s fake age once they turn thirty,” she says.
I nod. “And I’m three years past thirty.”
“That just means you’re in your sexual prime!” Daryl sings. “Come on, live a little.” She does a little shimmy and leers in my direction, adding, “A younger guy.”
I groan.
“Honestly, Evie,” Steph says, “I feel like you’re always looking for reasons why you can’t date someone.” These words seem to reverberate in my head, even as she continues, “He had fun. You had fun. Why not call him?”
“I do not look for reasons not to date someone.” I frown, mildly offended.
“Actually,” Daryl interjects, “you do. You’re picky and impossible.”
I give Daryl a dubious glance. “Says the also-single girl.”
“Okay, now look.” Amelia holds up her hand. “I get what you’re saying about the age, but five years doesn’t seem that bad. Would you give a second thought to dating a guy who was five years older than you are?”
“Stop being smart, Amelia,” I mumble.
She laughs. “I think you should call him.”
“Did you not hear the part where he’s also an agent? A younger agent.”
Amelia winces.
“This reminds me.” Daryl finally slips off her sunglasses. “You never said what Brad wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh, he wants me to help John Fineman, to make sure he stays busy.” I laugh. “In what universe does that make sense? John’s the one who showed me around when I started at P&D.”
I look out to the patio area, just to be sure nobody we know is around, then turn back to the girls. “You know when someone’s up to something, but they’re questioning everything everyone else is doing? That’s how I feel about Brad lately.”
“Like when someone’s having an affair and suddenly suspicious of what their partner is doing,” Daryl says, nodding.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Something’s definitely up.”
“I know he’s been having a lot of earnings reports sent to his office,” Amelia adds. “I don’t know what it means, but it’s unusual enough that some of the girls in Finance had to scramble.”
“Why does that make me a little uneasy?” I ask, and reach for my glass. “I just don’t trust Brad.”
“See, this is exactly why you should call Carter,” Steph says. “Stress relief via orgasms.”
My friends are no help at all.
chapter four
carter
MC and I are the only people who are genuinely happy that I live in LA now. My brother, obviously, could not care less, and my parents . . . well, even two years on they’re just to the left of violently opposed. It’s fine for Jonah to live in Malibu because Jonah is young and chasing a dream and can do no wrong. But Carter moving to Beverly Hills? Hellfire.
I call my parents Monday night to verify for them that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere.
“Well good,” Dad says. “But you should go see your brother more. He’s lonely.”
“Jonah?” I laugh, flipping my gr
illed cheese in the pan. “Trust me, he’s not.”
“Go see him,” Mom needles from the other extension. “He’s just next door.”
“Mom, he’s in Malibu. It’s like an hour away.”
Dad coughs. “It’s an hour from here to Brooklyn, but we make it to see your aunts every weekend, and you know what they have in Brooklyn? Sweaters on trees, Carter. I saw someone walking a goddamn peacock the last time I was there, and when I stopped for coffee? This weird little hipster place sold yarn, too. Coffee and yarn. Who the hell puts those things together?”
“Okay, so I’ll put you in the no column for Thanksgiving in LA,” I say, sliding my sandwich onto a plate. There are weirder things in LA than coffee and yarn.
There’s a heavy, meaningful pause before Mom speaks next. “Jonah said you were sleeping at Michael Christopher’s because you didn’t have a place to live.”
I rub my temples. Of course he did. “Jonah is a liar.”
“You be nice,” she chastises. “He also said you met a girl.”
Taking a bite of my sandwich, I chew and swallow to give myself time to hide my irritation with my brother. “She’s a friend of a friend, Mom. I met her at a party.”
“You met this woman at a party?”
“A costume party, not a rave,” I say. “She’s a friend of Michael and Stephanie’s, so I’m assuming she’s not a Hollywood madam.”
“You’re making that assumption based on Michael liking her?” Mom asks.
This makes me laugh. “We spent a grand total of three hours together. It’s not a thing. And I promise, she’s okay.”
“She lives in Los Angeles, Carter,” Mom growls. “That’s not okay with me. I don’t understand why you couldn’t find someone here. She’s probably got fake boobs and that—that—poison they put inside their foreheads.”
“Botox?” I guess.
“That.”
“All right, let’s take it down a notch,” I say. “Jonah lives in LA and I don’t recall you ever giving him this much shit.”
“One, watch your mouth. And two, I barely see your brother, so don’t use him as a shining example.” She sighs into the line. “Jonah has always been a dreamer. You’re my responsible one. Call him.”