1 Chapter 1

1

The Lounge was a trendy upscale bar I liked to frequent. A good place to be seen—as an actor, being seen was necessary—but not overcrowded or too loud. I was comfortable there, and a few gin and tonics with my friends put my picture on the gossip sites and got my name circulating on social media. Staying relevant in this business was not easy. Since I was on the wrong side of my twenties, I had to take care. There was always another pretty face with a modicum of talent trying to make a name for himself. I liked to think I kept getting roles because I was more than just a little talented. A few outstanding roles meant my name and face were known, but if I wanted to keep acting, I had to play the game. Which was why, even though I was feeling morose, I’d agreed to hit the Lounge with a few friends.

I hadn’t expected to see himthere. Though I should have considered it. How many times had his circle and mine overlapped? In the past year, how many times had we sat on the low, padded benches in the corner, huddled around a table of drinks, and talked? That’s how That Night had started, after all. So I really shouldn’t have been shocked. But after what I had just learned, seeing him was like a punch in the gut

Spencer Johns. Tall, built, blond, and utterly gorgeous. His skin seemed to glow in the low light, and as he lifted his glass of beer, his big hand drew my gaze.

From my position across the room, I had no trouble making out the line of his throat as he swallowed. No problem seeing his teeth flash as he offered his companions a wide grin. He was delicious and beautiful, relaxed and enjoying the company of his friends. For a painful moment, I remembered the dark pools of his eyes as they stared into mine, the gentle way he touched my arm whenever he wanted my attention, his low, husky laugh. And then all the rage I’d felt earlier in the day came swarming back, and I went from admiring his beauty to wanting to stab that motherfucker in the throat.

I slammed my glass on the table and was up and stalking across the floor before good sense could prevail. It only took me a few moments to get there, and he glanced up as I approached. He gave me a warm, easy grin, which quickly morphed into a concerned frown as he stood.

“Alex?”

“Fuck you, you fucking son of a bitch!” I spat, and before I even knew what I was doing, I’d hauled off and punched him straight in his perfect nose.

He stumbled back, eyes wide and watering. His friends stood too, getting between us, and someone tugged on my arm.

“What the fuck?” Spencer asked, the shock and surprise evident. He stared at me as though he’d never seen me before and couldn’t possibly fathom why he deserved the punch. Considering what he’d done, he probably had no remorse whatsoever.

“Alex!” My friend, Jordan, said earnestly. He was the one tugging on my arm. “Come on, man. Security is headed over this way. You need to step back, okay?”

I jerked my arm loose of his hold and stared at Spencer. No one moved, and I had the crazy urge to hit him again. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw the burly bouncer striding toward us, and I came to my senses. I turned on my heel, pushed through the crowd that had formed, and stormed out.

It was only after I was in my car and speeding down the 101 toward my house in Los Feliz that I realized what a colossal fuck-up I’d just made. Giving in to that anger—ragewas a better word, really—had been one of the stupidest things I could have done.

I had every right to be pissed at Spencer Johns, but I’d just punched him in a room full of Hollywood A-listers. And their guests. Who, I was sure, all had smartphones. By the time I pulled into my driveway thirty-five minutes later, I knew I was in deep shit.

I coasted the Lexus into the garage. Once the door shut behind me and I’d turned off the engine, I sat there for a long moment. I’d been fucking stupid, and now I was going to have to pay for it. Which meant I was going to have to call my agent, confess my sins, and hope he could put enough spin on it so I didn’t come out too worse for wear.

With a heavy sigh, I exited the car and clomped into the house. As I removed my Prada ankle boots, followed swiftly by my socks, my cell phone started ringing. Only a handful of people ever actually called, and most of them lived on the East Coast where it was three o’clock in the morning. Which meant it had to be my agent, Lou Salvatore.