"Then don't ask me questions I don't have the answers for! For the last time, get it into that robotic skull of yours ― I don't know San Francisco ... Sport!"
I open my mouth to snap back, but the line goes dead. She hung up.
Again.
I move the phone from my ear to examine the screen as if needing confirmation that she actually did that. The call log glows back at me like proof of some private humiliation. My jaw locks.
I suck in a breath, hold it, then start counting slowly in my head ... to 20 ― this time, 10 just won't even scratch the irritation clawing at me.
It's the second time she's done this hanging-up-on-me shit, and it is extremely annoying.
Deep inside, I know she's right ... she doesn't know the city yet ... but it's irrelevant. The truth bites down hard - for some reason, I have a strange urge to know where she is at all times. The need pulses through me, irrational but insistent, like an itch beneath the skin.
My thumb hovers over her number, tempted to call her back just to hear her voice - just to anchor myself - when headlights flare and the limo glides around the corner. Since I was unable to meet her at home, I organized for her to be picked up.
The world reacts instantly. From the shadows, the paparazzi spring to life, a hive breaking open. Swarming around like bees, itching to capture the best moments, and get the story out there first (even if it's not the truth). The first sharp clicks of shutters sound like snapping teeth. The metallic stench of camera equipment and sweat cuts into the night air as they jostle for the best spot.
I wipe my palms down my trousers, but the dampness seeps back immediately. My chest feels too tight, my heart hammering harder than it should. The noise is a blur, flashes stinging my eyes even before the car rolls to a stop. There's a weight in the air, heavy with the tang of exhaust and hot asphalt, charged with expectation.
Still verging on the brink of some emotion I can't explain, I open the door and silently pray once more, hoping for everything to be okay. It doesn't need to be perfect, I'll be happy with just non-disastrous.
With that wish lodged in my chest, I force my hand steady and hold it out for her to take.
She steps out of the car, exposing lots of skin. Beautiful, flawless, pearly skin, I want to lick - maybe even nibble on. She straightens up, and I do a very, very slow top-to-bottom and back inspection of her image.
My anger dematerializes, as my blood stutters and starts to accumulate down south. She looks abso-fucking-lutely stunning! I can't tell you much about the little red number clinging to her curves, except that it's short and soft ... and my favorite color ... and the sexiest thing I've ever laid eyes upon.
She's displaying just enough cleavage to pique your interest, wanting to see more. And the only issue I have with those slim legs in the scarlet heels, is that they're not wrapped around my hips ... or my neck ― I'm not picky.
Her hair is partly tied up, loose curls framing her face and running down her neck. The subtle touch of makeup enhances her fairy-like features, her green orbs popping with a mysterious, smoky effect.
I'm hooked. Like a feline on catnip.
Forgotten are all the cameras. I'm not even aware of the flashes going off.
Stuck in each other's eyes, we just stand there for an indeterminate amount of time, before I drop my gaze to her plump, cherry lips. I know I have to move, but for the life of me, I can't budge.
Unexpectantly, she pulls my head down into a kiss. Slowly. Staged. Definitely not fake.
For the briefest heartbeat, I freeze - stunned, immobile, every muscle locked in disbelief. Then instinct takes over. My arms move of their own accord, dragging her against me. Her scent-sweet and ripe like summer peaches - floods my senses, dizzying, intoxicating, so potent it's almost unbearable. Ecstasy coils through me, and something raw and unrestrained claws its way to the surface. I kiss her harder, deeper, driven by an animal urge I can't cage. For one breathless instant, it feels like heaven has cracked open.
She pulls back just enough to search my face, her wide eyes meeting mine, vulnerable, questioning - before she shyly looks away, retreating into herself.
That's when reality crashes back in. Cameras flash like crazy, and my mind slowly registers exactly where we are, as I awkwardly fixate on the mass around us. The paparazzi press forward in a frenzy, each flash scorching white across my vision, each click a reminder that nothing is private anymore. My pulse stutters, panic and adrenaline tangling in my veins.
Aria buries her face in the curve of my neck, hiding in the small refuge my body offers. Her hair brushes against my jaw, soft and ticklish, and her timid tremble tells me everything - she's overwhelmed, just like me.
Fuck! I've never before kissed a girl in public. You won't find a single photo of me locking lips with anyone ... at least not until today.
Even worse, I'm in an even more precarious situation ― sprouting a full-on mountie with a slew of cameras aimed directly at me. Perfect. Another record-breaking first.
My brain scrambles for dignity. My hands twitch uselessly at my sides before I yank at my shirt, tugging it free from the waistband and letting it drape loose. It's a pathetic disguise, but it's all I've got. My skin burns with humiliation, blood pounding in my ears, and I can almost hear the tabloids writing themselves.
Heaven, hell, and humiliation - served together under a strobe-light sky.
Trying not to look like I'm fleeing for my life, I hook my hand around hers and steer us toward the entrance. My pulse is still pounding, my thoughts spiraling in a blur of curses. What the hell am I doing? Why did I drag this girl into my chaos? And why does she unravel me so damn easily, like I've been strung too tight for too long and she's the only one who knows where to cut?
The swarm closes in, voices pelting me from every direction.
"Enrique, are you excited about the baby?" "Did she try to catch you?" "Are you getting married?" "Is it true that her sister is actually her daughter?" "Do you love her?"
Each question is more absurd than the last, words snapping like barbed wire in the air. Flashes blind me, turning the night into a strobe-lit nightmare. My head is still swimming from that kiss, my control shredded.
Normally, I can shut this down, smooth and rehearsed, but now the answers tumble out of me on autopilot, the muscle memory of survival.
"No comment," I bite out, the words clipped, calm, the practiced steel I've mastered over the years. But inside, I'm raw and restless. It is times like today that I wish I had the luxury to give them the middle finger like Jackson always does. But his ethics and reputation don't affect his work.
Then the crowd closes ranks tighter, louder, sharper.
"Just tell us if you're excited about the baby," someone screams from the back. The truth is out now - no point dodging what's already been carved into their headlines. My mouth works before my brain can catch up.
"Although it wasn't planned, the whole family is very excited about the baby. I, for one, can't wait for it to be born so I can spoil it rotten," I say, voice firm, even warm.
And then her nails slice into my skin. A sharp, deliberate dig that makes me flinch. I glance down, and her eyes are huge - round, furious, startled - like she's trying to telegraph something I should already know.
"How far along is she?" "Have you thought about names?"
Their voices crash like a tidal wave. My head tilts, baffled. Why the hell would I think of names for my niece or nephew? Isn't that Damion's battlefield? I can't picture Mel letting any of us waltz in with baby-name ideas.
"No, no names yet -"
Before I can finish, Aria yanks me forward, her small frame brimming with iron strength, dragging me bodily through the doors and into the building.
Inside, the air is different - thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the sickly-sweet tang of expensive champagne. Chandeliers drip with light, casting diamonds across gowns and tuxedos. The room hums with laughter pitched too high, smiles stretched too wide. Everyone here is shining, polished to perfection, desperate to out-dazzle the next.
This is my world. The one people claw their way toward, thinking it's paradise. They don't see the seams, the rot beneath the gold-leaf finish. It's all pretense - plastic masks of joy pasted over hollow stares. A sham, but one I've mastered. Maybe that's why I chose this career path ... blending in amongst these artificial poster children is easy for me.
No feelings; fake emotions; and loads of attitude ― it all comes naturally to a robot.
But tonight something is different. I feel like an impostor. And it's all because of that kiss. It lingers on my lips, burning me from the inside out.
I snort. I'm rattled because of a stupid kiss. Me. The kiss master.
"What the fuck was that kiss for?" I'm verging my anger - due to my inner confusion - towards her. My dick is only semi-deflated, and it feels as if I'm about to toss my cookies onto that sexy red number.
Worst of all, I don't know why I'm feeling this way. I mean, I've kissed plenty of girls before ― PLENTY ― and this never happened to me, like in never, ever.
Must be because she caught me by surprise. I was not ready.
"I panicked when I saw all the cameras. It was the only thing that came into my head at the time," she says, sounding annoyed. And she has no right to be annoyed. I'm the one who should be annoyed. She kissed me.
"Kissing me was the only thing that came into your head?" I say with heaps of sarcasm.
"Yeah. I'm not good with being in the spotlight ... or with being impulsive."
"Stay here!" My head is a mess and I simply need to get away ― from HER. I need to gather myself. I fucking need a drink ― a strong one.
I leave Aria at a corner table and head for the bar.
"One Cosmopolitan and one Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks, please," I put in an order with the barman, leaning with my arms on the counter, valiantly fighting to regain my composure. My lips tighten, and my mouth takes on a ruthless slant, as I will myself to get over it. I feel faintly dazed but slightly better.
Even though I can't look at Aria right now, to me, she's by far the prettiest girl in the room. And with a room filled with models and actresses, it's saying something. Suddenly, against her, the rest look like phony, washed-out ghosts. It's as if my eyes opened and I'm looking at my life from the outside.
Is this who I became? Is it who I want to be?
My mind is too hyped to focus on anything more serious than the taste of her still on my lips and the way my body is betraying me in the most inconvenient way possible. If I'm still breathing after tonight, there will be plenty of time for some extensive character analysis later on. But right now? Survival means keeping it in my pants - literally.
A stern, despotic arm grabs me from behind, tightly around my neck. I grit my teeth, square my shoulders, and look back. I'm not in the mood for shit.
"Hey, bro!" The voice is wistful in its bliss. I breathe out and relax. Guess he's back from Argentina. Dean told me that at least Damion would be here. He could not get Logan to come, and he didn't even try to sway Jackson. My brothers hate formal events.
"Hi," I say primly. Damion lets me go and leans onto the counter, his eyes scanning cautiously over me.
"Are you angry or just horny?" Spasms of irritation cross my face.
"What the fuck?"
He gestures at my dangling shirt, and I notice his is also untucked. The cheek. Sometimes I detest this overly observant behavior our little group seems to possess.
"Both," I snap.
"What are you drinking?" He's not intimidated by my wrath. And why would he be? I'm not Jackson. I don't hit things or faces when I'm angry. Although tonight I'm coming close.
"Johnnie Blue," I say, and Damion, knowing me too well, whistles softly, giving me a stern look. I only drink JWB when I'm in a foul mood. And tonight I'm in a foul mood.
The barman returns with my order, and Damion asks for a whiskey and some ginger ale.
"Okay, who blew up your bubble?" he asks.
I turn, resting my back against the bar, my eyes involuntarily finding our table. Mel joined Aria, and they are laughing about something. Damion follows my gaze, and a big smile spreads over his face.
"Let me guess, little Miss Aria Thompson is driving you insane?" Exactly. He hits it on the head. I look into my glass. It's already empty.
"Dude, you're officially screwed." Tell me something I don't know. He pats me on the back, sympathetically, as if to soothingly console me. But I'm not feeling uplifted. I order another drink, he pays for it all, and we slowly walk towards the girls.
"I hate this fucking feeling. It feels as if my coo-coo divebombed straight into the asylum." I'm officially going crazy. Soon, I will be more loony than my twin.
"Pretty vivid description," his expression is neutral, but faint laughter underscores his words, "but rather accurate. Your sister drives me batshit-crazy almost every minute of every fucking day," he snickers. His eyes are on the girls. "Mostly, I don't know if I want to screw her or strangle her." That is right about how I feel. Since Aria moved in.
His tone becomes cold.
"And I'm scared shitless that something will happen to her again." He turns serious, and, for a brief second, I see the flicker of fear lingering in his eyes. "I won't survive that." The fear instilled in all of us by the Browns. Thank heavens they're not with us anymore. Or maybe I should say 'thank Jackson'.
"How did you know she's the one?"
"I think I've always known, in my gut." Now his eyes portray something I'm not ready to understand ... yet. "It's as if my world lights up whenever she steps into sight. And I can't imagine a life worth living without her in it. She's my everything." He's turned into such a wimp. Is this what love does to a man? Love. The word, like always, gets stuck in my throat.
"It's like winning a race, but just so much better." He shakes his head, and those green irises regain their previous mischievous vigor. "Like magic. A voodoo pussy that you just want to dive into over and over again."
"Fuck," I say while giving him a withering glare, a little disgusted, "Dude, it's my sister you're talking about." But I'm wasting my breath. Damion Grimm doesn't fear me.
"And just so you know, rather go for the 'screw her' option, much more pleasurable. And no lingering jail sentence attached. Just remember to use protection." His eyebrows rise with his smile. No, fuck. Sometimes I wish I had my twin's temperament. My soon-to-be brother-in-law would be sprouting two black eyes right about now. But I'm not Jackson, and we both know it. So instead, I change the topic.
"So, how did the press find out about the baby?" I ask just before we reach the girls.
His mouth pulls into a silent 'O' and he stops in his tracks. Perhaps, in an attempt to gather his wits, he drags in a deep breath through his nose.
"I guess you haven't seen the news?" I shake my head. No, I haven't. Been a little distracted lately. "They think Aria ... eh, you -"
A body slams into me, interrupting him. Wet lips connect with my cheek. Hands stroke seductively down my arms.
"Babe, I missed you. Where have you been?" Amanda Dee, actress, pain-in-the-butt, and occasional hook-up. I step back to get away from her, this peculiar sensation in my gut telling me that something is amiss.
Her boobs almost protrude from a way-too-tight pink dress. Usually, it could slightly turn me on ― she is a Victoria's Secret model turned actress after all ― but now I only feel slightly queasy instead. My dick dies with a silent, pathetic sigh.
Either I'm completely losing it, or I'm coming down with something. I'm feeling rather feverish lately. All could be symptoms of some serious disease. Or fatal even.
I must get Ilkay to do a thorough checkup asap.
She turns to Damion, but the ass-kisser blocks and ducks, and hides between the two girls - out of reach of Amanda's slutty little hands. So, she threads her arm possessively through mine. Indecisively, I gaze at it, not wanting it there, but not sure what to do with it either.
"Hi, Mel, always nice to see you. And congratulations on stealing such a prime specimen for yourself," Amanda greets my sister without letting me go, sounding very insincere. "Maybe one of these days we will be sisters-in-law." Someone grunts. Another snorts.
"Fuck no," Mel whispers. I'm still looking at that unwanted hand on my arm as if my mind is stuck in a loop.
"No thanks, Amanda," my sister sneers with a corny voice, "But let me introduce you to my real sister-in-law-to-be, Aria." Hearing her name in Mel's oversweet tone draws my gaze from the intrusive touch to meet some beaming green eyes.
Why is she smiling like the devil's little helper? And then it hits me. Pulling an annoyed face, I lightly curse myself.
Hastily, but belatedly, I remove my arm from Amanda's claws and approach Aria, handing her the cocktail. I put my arm around her shoulder, pull her close, and reciprocate our earlier kiss. The one, neither I nor my dick, can stop thinking about.
It's just a light touch, a fleeting moment of locking lips, before I lift my head and stare into her eyes.
The room closes in on me. Walls converge as if to swallow me whole. The weight of dread presses upon my chest, making it difficult to draw a steady breath.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Damion's words flash through my mind - voodoo magic.
And I realize this girl must be a fucking witch.
I blink hard, breaking free from the spell of her lips, and shift her body with a slow, deliberate motion until her back is pressed flush against my chest. The fit is too perfect - like her spine was made to curve into me. My arms slide around her waist, locking just beneath the swell of her breasts, keeping her trapped in a cage of heat and restraint.
"Payback," I murmur, my lips brushing the delicate skin below her ear. The word is half-growl, half-promise. It takes every shred of willpower not to taste her there, not to let my teeth graze that soft spot pulsing with her quickened heartbeat.
Her breathing betrays her - uneven, shallow, every inhale shivering across my arms. Her chest rises and falls so quickly it feels like she's trying to match my own erratic rhythm. I can feel the weight of her breasts pressing against my forearms, soft curves spilling over with each trembling breath. The contact is maddening, a test of restraint I am dangerously close to failing.
"Bring it on, Sport," she fires back, her voice breaking on the edges, quivering like a bowstring drawn too tight. The defiance is there, but so is the crack in her armor. She's not unaffected. Not even close. The thought sinks its teeth into me, pulling a sharp smile across my face.
And then the darker realization hits - if she's trembling, if her body is reacting like that, if she's even half as undone as I am - then she's getting wet. The idea detonates inside my skull, sending a spike of heat low in my body, so sharp it's almost painful. My balls tighten, aching, punishing me for imagining it. For wanting her this badly.
Amanda's face alternates between astonishment and disgust, then returns to a fake over-friendliness. She flaps her hand through the air, tossing her hair back with an equally phony motion. How could I have ever been that desperate?
"Oh, sorry, sweetheart, didn't think you were with him." She emphasizes the 'you' just enough to let it almost slip by undetected, but it was there.
"I'm surprised you can think," Aria says softly to herself, but I'm able to hear since I'm resting my chin on her shoulder. I try to hide my grin by biting my lower lip.
"It's just that I wasn't expecting Enrique to bring a plus-one. He always comes to these functions alone and then leaves with somebody - usually me." She's not wrong. But she's not exactly right, either. I do tend to leave with someone ... just not usually her. I like ... eh, liked variety. Now I like Aria.
She bats her lashes at me - slow, deliberate - and for a second, I genuinely worry those falsies might fuse together. Really ... how could I've been so blind?
Aria stiffens in my arms, and I cringe at the action. Stupid fucking bitch makes it sound a lot worse than it is. Yes, I always leave with some random girl ― BUT it's to keep up appearances. My facade.
"I don't always fuck the girl who leaves with me," I whisper, softly, to her only.
For some reason, I don't want Aria to misunderstand, but now is not the right moment to dissect my previous sexual relationships. And to put Amanda in her place, I continue for everyone to hear, "Well, from now on, I'll always come and leave with Aria."
And somewhere deep inside, I know it's not a lie. I want her to always be with me. And that little revelation scares the shit out of me.
Amanda's smile flips faster than a cheap pancake, and for a moment, she actually looks pissed - but then her fake face snaps back into place like a malfunctioning Barbie.
"Mel, is that a new cocktail you're drinking?" Amanda is many things, but sharp is not one of them. Mel gives her glass of ginger ale a slow, contemplative look, like it just told her a secret. Maybe trying to figure out whether the girl is serious or not.
Then she lifts her gaze to the clueless blonde.
"Yes," she says sweetly. "It's called Unprotected Sex."
Damion chokes violently on his drink, Aria does a dramatic spit take, and I inhale so hard it burns. Meanwhile, Mel maintains her composure.
"It's pretty good. You should ask for it at the bar."
Aria wipes her mouth with the back of her hand - either to clean it or to stop herself from laughing. I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see into the future.
"Aria, I need to pee ― NOW, before you and I share a cell for murder!"
"Who died?" Amanda asks, blinking.
Seriously? My lungs forget how to function. Can someone actually be this dense and still breathe?
Mel doesn't waste another second. She grabs Aria's arm and tows her along, knocking Amanda aside with all the grace of a wrecking ball in heels.
"Oops," Mel pouts.
Pregnancy has either turned my sister into a miniature Jackson ... or she's fully embraced her inner bitch. Or maybe it's just Amanda. Considering that she is Chloe's BFF.
And Mel validly hates Chloe with the passion of forty alligators in a garden pond. She's convinced Chloe was part of the Darren kidnapping mess.
She might be right. But there's no proof. Not yet.
Mel and Aria have hit it off alarmingly well - which, in my opinion, is an unholy alliance waiting to happen. The little hot-headed minx I'm related to has a long history of instigating chaos. And now that she's pregnant ... she's unstoppable.
She'll drag my rule-following, emotionally-cautious girlfriend straight into hell - and make her enjoy the ride.
"I'll do the murdering part," Mel says as they disappear determinedly toward the bathroom, arms linked like Thelma and Louise. "And you can dig the grave. I can't dig in my condition."
"We can throw the body to the alligators," Aria says. "Then no one needs to dig."
"No evidence. No cleanup," Mel smirks. "I like it."
See what I mean? I swear they're planning Amanda's death with each step they take.
"But seriously ... who died?" Amanda chirps next to me.
"Your encephalon," Damion snaps.
I catch his mischievous, confused glance and click my tongue at him - the universal signal for don't engage the idiot.
He nods, wisely.
"You guys are no fun," Amanda pouts, then struts away like she just slayed something.
Good. Riddance.
"We need to watch those two, bro," I mutter, bumping my boy with my shoulder. He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze fixed on my sister until she vanishes behind the green door of the ladies' room.
"They look like fucking angels," he says, voice flat. "But there's nothing holy about them."
"Yeah," I nod, eyes still on the door. "More like soul-sucking demons in lip gloss."
For a while, we sip our drinks in loaded silence, both lost in thought, eyes glued to the green door like it owes us answers.
"I'm so screwed," Damion mutters with a sigh. He's not wrong.
"You wanted the brat," I say without a shred of commiseration. And why should I feel bad for him? He knew exactly what a handful she can be, and he still fell for her.
He shoots me a look. "Well, if yesterday's chaos is any indication, your girl's just as much of a beautiful, reckless disaster as mine. So ... good luck with that."
That one takes the wind right out of me. What the hell is he talking about?
"What happened yesterday?" I ask, my frown setting in. Apart from the desperate man trying to climb over the fence, getting himself pierced and electrocuted. Luckily, nothing serious.
He gives me a look - one eyebrow climbing so high it practically disappears into his hairline, the kind of permanently skeptical expression that makes you feel like you've already confessed to something. "Aria didn't tell you?"
No. She didn't. But then again, we barely talked last night. I was sulking for a whole laundry list of reasons - petty, ridiculous, and all mine.
First, the dropped phone call. I wanted to tell her about the press getting bolder, more desperate. Enough to climb over an electric fence. That she should watch out. Didn't get the chance, though.
Then, for missing her like a lunatic, even though she was gone for only a couple of hours.
Also, for acting so calm when I'm a raging hormonal bull.
Or maybe I'm just cranky for not getting enough sleep. But how can I rest when each night I lie next to her, painfully hard, while she sleeps like a kitten - soft, oblivious breaths torturing me with each rise and fall of her chest. And by the time dawn rolls around, I'm horny, cranky, and full of homicidal thoughts directed at cotton stuffing (like the pillows between us), cartoon kittens (printed on her pants), and every piece of paper our contract is printed on.
And don't even get me started on those damn pillows. Her barricade. Her safety system. She stacks them like sandbags between us, as if I'm some kind of natural disaster she has to prepare for.
Which, fine, maybe I am. But still.
I hurl them to the floor with all the grace of a toddler throwing a tantrum as soon as she falls asleep.
So ... no, she hasn't told me. And the knot that twists in my stomach confirms that I don't want to find out the hard way.
"I leave her alone for one afternoon with my sister ... and now what?"
But my pal is distracted. He sits bolt upright. Every muscle on edge. I follow his gaze, and my blood turns to ice.
Brian Cruise and Graham Scott are suddenly right there - smiling, talking to our girls like they're old friends catching up over tea and cake.
WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK.
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The Actor's Contract 
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