“Well, whose fault is that? Maybe if you’d done a better job of putting me first and not your little fuck buddy Monica, I would have had a fighting chance. But it’s always been about her. You should have just married Monica Shore, so you could be part of the power couple you’ve always wished for.”
The doors slide together and just like that, she’s gone.
I don’t stop her, but her words dig down and rip me apart. I’ve known Monica for years, and I’ve never wanted her. From the moment I met Brooklyn, though, something was different, was real, and that feeling has never changed. No matter what we’ve gone through, we’ve been connected. Stronger together than we ever were apart. I know I’m not wrong, that it isn’t all one-sided. I’ll never tell that to Brooklyn, though, because she’ll just use it against me.
I kick the closed elevator doors, the contact vibrating through me as I storm over to the liquor cabinet to pour myself a drink. As I gulp it down on the balcony, I tell myself repeatedly that I don’t care, that I never wanted Brooklyn to begin with. She can go. I don’t need her.
But the more I try to talk myself into believing it, the more the truth hits me.
I really am a liar.
Brooklyn
Chapter 2
I’m done.
Done trusting Luka, done believing things might actually work out between us, done hoping my career will finally take off if I just let other people make decisions for me. Luka is the whole reason my image turned squeaky clean in the first place. He tried to play it off as some kind of masterful branding strategy, but in reality he was just too precious and too jealous when I did my job the right way—when I’d been free to express myself as a real artist should.
Well, those days are over. I’m ready to become the model I should have been all along. “Operation Sexify” is a go.
Mateo welcomes me to LA with open arms, and I’m so relieved to be with him again. A girl needs her bestie at a time like this. I’m not actually planning on staying in town for too long—I’m not the type to hide from my problems and I have a broken marriage to deal with—but while I’m here, we’ve come up with a hell of a plan.
“Luka can kiss my round, firm ass,” I declare, taking a slug of champagne.
“Preach, girl,” Mateo says, raising a toast to me.
I’m at Mateo’s apartment in West Hollywood, both of us sitting on the floor as we devour our In-N-Out burgers and fries, along with a two-hundred-dollar bottle of pink champagne that I know he was saving for a special occasion but which he popped open the second I walked in.
That’s what friends are for.
“I really miss this place,” I tell him wistfully, looking around the room.
“Your bedroom’s always open,” Mateo reminds me. “Although Mr. Kibbles seems to think your bed is his personal napping corner.”
I smile. Mat and I lived in this apartment together for years, and making the decision to move back to Chicago was one of the hardest of my life. But I did it for my career, and regardless of how things have turned out with Luka, the Windy City has become my home again. Who knows, though. Maybe a return to Los Angeles is in my future.
“I’m so done with Luka’s lies,” I say. “And I’m done allowing him to push my career in a direction I never wanted it to go. From now on, I’m doing things my way.”
“That’s exactly why we’re going to slut you up, Brookie,” Mateo agrees. “From here on out, it’s sexy time. No more of that squeaky clean, wholesome girl-next-door shit.”
“Damn straight,” I agree.
I might have the face for it, but trust me, I can be a living wet dream, too. My husband just never gave me that chance, unless it was a private session for him. He’s the entire reason my image was so hands-off, and if any part of what he said was true, then I lost the biggest campaign of my life because I wasn’t coming across as sexy enough. It’s not something I ever had a problem with before he took control of my career choices.
I take a huge bite of my cheese- and grilled onion-smothered fries, letting out a little moan. Mat always gives me grief for eating them with a fork, but it’s the only civilized way.
“They’re called animal fries, not orgasm fries,” Mateo teases.
“You’ve got sauce on your chin,” I tell him primly. Case in point.
He blots at the sauce with a napkin and then makes a grab for my phone, pulling up the calendar app. “Okay, let’s get some dates on this calendar. You’re going to be seen at every club in town in your trampiest dresses, and in my arms as much as possible. Clean image, be gone!”
We both giggle, but deep down is a pit of hurt and devastation over the way things have turned out. That’s why I’m jumping so hard into this campaign of sexiness and stoking my anger toward Luka. If I let myself really think about our breakup right now, I’ll totally crumble.
Handing my phone back, Mateo looks me up and down, and I see his concern.
“You sure you’re okay, babe?” he asks gently, and I can feel the tears I’ve been fighting back start to well up at the softness of his voice. “I support all your choices, but I just want to make sure this is what you really want—”