Escorting the Actress

Eleven Years Earlier

“Don’t you dare do it, Kyle Richards,” I said, my tone a warning. It was a fake warning, of course. I felt tears like pinpricks in my eyes, burning, threatening to come out and humiliate me even further.

“Why? Will the little-wittle bookworm cry?” he asked. My stepbrother’s arrogant, handsome face mocked mine.

“No,” I said, my voice getting thick. “Just give it back.”

Kyle looked at the heavy textbook he was holding, the one he’d ripped out of my hands only moments earlier. He grinned wickedly as he bent over it and read in a fake-clinical voice, “‘First menstruation, also known as menarche, can start as early as age ten.’”

“Y’all don’t have any manners,” I said, my voice shaking. I only let my Texas out when I was livid—I hoped he recognized it as a warning sign and backed off.

“Y’all?” Kyle asked, raising his eyebrows. “There’s only one of me here, Lo. See, this is why people think Texans are dumb.”

Absolute fury bubbled inside my chest.

“‘Female maturation begins at age nine,’” he continued. “‘Many girls will start to experience breast development at this time.’” He peered at me from over the book. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Don’t you dare cry, Lowell Barton. I dug my nails into my palms. Don’t you dare let that boy see you cry.

He went back to reading aloud. “‘If you’re self-conscious, you might want to start wearing what’s called a training bra,’ which is another word for a bra for girls with absolutely no boobs.” He laughed at his own joke, little snorts erupting from the back of his throat.

“Give. It. BACK!” I roared and lunged at him. I grabbed the heavy book from his hands and started beating him with it. “And this is not a training bra, I’ll have you know!”

There was a look of shock on his handsome face. I wasn’t sure if that was because he really thought I wore a training bra—or if he was surprised that I was hitting him with a thick textbook. It was entitled Human Development and Human Sexuality, and I’d smuggled it out of the local library without checking it out.

I smuggled it out because I was embarrassed. That was the last thing I thought before Kyle tried to swat the book out of my hands and I whacked him in the face with it. Bright red blood spurted from his nose.

I watched for a second, frozen, as blood ran in rivulets down his face. Still looking stunned, he dabbed his fingers in it. “Did you just break my nose?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my chest heaving. “But for the record, y’all can be used in the singular. That I know for sure.”

Kyle opened his mouth and then, maybe thinking better of it for once in his life, closed it.

And before he could come after me, I ran and ran.

“What do you mean, ‘tighten things up?’” I asked. I stared at my director in horror.

I was pretty sure I knew exactly what he meant, and I didn’t like it one bit.

“What I mean is, you’re too…cherubic…right now. At this juncture, your character needs to be more…emaciated.” Lucas Dresden, one of Hollywood’s hottest directors, had the decency to look at his iWatch instead of my face as he delivered the news.

“Emaciated as in…starving?” I asked.

He sighed. “Your character’s been out in the desert. She’s been fighting bad guys. She can’t look like she just sucked down her fifth Frappuccino of the week.”

“I beg your pardon—”

“You can beg for all sorts of things,” Lucas said, his calm, grey-eyed gaze finally meeting mine. “But the producers said you need to tighten things up—which is code for hit the gym and stop eating, today—otherwise, they’re going to exercise, no pun intended, the option in your contract. The one that lets them replace you if you fail to perform per the agreed-upon terms.”

I could feel myself getting hot as an angry, all-out blush heated my skin. “I don’t remember my lawyer or my agent saying I had to starve myself when I took this role.”

“That’s because you were thinner when you signed it, and your ass was smaller.” Lucas pursed his lips. “I’m sorry, I know this is harsh, but this is Hollywood, and this is how it works. You know that. So no more carbs, no more sugars, no more extras at craft services. Go on a cleanse and start hitting the gym twice a day. We start shooting again in two weeks. And we never had this conversation.”

I nodded silently. I was stuck somewhere between mortified and enraged, but I didn’t argue. I kept my mouth shut. Angry tears threatened but I held them back—there was no crying in Hollywood.

Apparently, there wasn’t going to be any eating, either.

* * *

KYLE

A few years ago, if someone had told me that I’d be a male escort someday, I would have had a one-word response: Awesome.

Now that I was an actual escort and hustling to earn every dollar I made, I had a different response: H to the E to the L-L no.

I loved the ladies and the ladies loved me, but I’d been playing Hide the Salami non-stop, and my salami was tired. That was depressing for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that I hadn’t known it was even capable of getting tired. But Big Dude was exhausted. And now something I’d always been good at and enjoyed—casual sex—was making me feel sad.

Sad was new low for me. I didn’t like sad.

When I’d started out working for the service, I’d thought I was so clever. Desperate for money, sure, but also clever. My father would freak if he knew how I was paying the bills since he’d disinherited me. That had seemed like a great idea at the time, but the more “dates” I had, the more I started to doubt myself. Why was I doing this with my life? If my main motivation was spiting my father, didn’t that mean I was still just a big, belligerent adolescent?

I didn’t want to keep turning tricks, but as I didn’t have any other job prospects, I was still taking assignments. Today I was with one of my regular clients, Dallas. She was young and gorgeous, not the type you might picture to hire a male escort. But now that I’d been doing this a while, I realized there was no one “type” of client.

Dallas was a second-year med student. She said she didn’t have time to look for a relationship. A string of one-night stands didn’t interest her, and neither did a ‘fuck-buddy.’ She said she liked me because this was a business transaction and that I was tested for STDs regularly.

I liked her because she was (a) gorgeous, (b) appreciated Big Dude and (c) seemed pretty normal.

“Oh baby,” she said breathlessly as I nuzzled her clit with my mouth. I nipped at her a little and put two fingers inside her wet pussy, which spasmed around me.

“I want to fuck you from behind,” I said, sliding my fingers in and out of her purposefully. I’d been with her enough times to know exactly what she wanted and exactly when she wanted it.

“I love it when say that,” she said. She immediately got up and got onto all fours, spreading herself open for me. Dallas liked to get to the point.

Not wasting any time—I was only here for an hour—I smacked her on the ass, rolled on a condom and entered her. She was so wet for me. I ran my hand down her chest, fondling her breasts, rolling her nipples between my fingers just the way she liked.

She moaned beneath me, throwing her head back and grinding herself against my shaft. I thrust into her harder and harder and fingered her clit until I could feel her body tighten and spasm around me, her cries increasing with each stroke.

That’s when I faked my orgasm, timing it perfectly with hers so that she’d never guess a thing. I tugged on her pretty hair and called her name, thrusting and groaning like all get out.

Afterward, we lay in a sweaty heap together. Thank God Big Dude had gone back down. Dallas never guessed a thing.

None of them ever did.

“Hey,” I said, getting up and buttoning my jeans. “Do you want to go get something to eat?”

“Oh, you’re sweet,” Dallas said, pulling her bra on, “But I have to study. See you next week?”

“Sure,” I said, forcing myself to smile at her. “See you next week.”

* * *

I took a pretty long shower that afternoon, scrubbing every inch of me. I couldn’t even have an orgasm any more, and I hadn’t been able to for some time. For fuck’s sake.

And I’d asked Dallas to go out to eat with me. For double fuck’s sake.

I turned off the water, toweled myself off and padded out of the bathroom. Then I flopped across the bed. The worst thing about living in a hotel was that there was no refrigerator. Oh, how I missed the refrigerator in my old condo. It had been huge, and my housekeeper always kept it stocked with all the good stuff from Whole Foods. Smoothies, grapes, sushi, Indian food…my mouth watered at the thought.

And now I was at The Standard. With cheap towels, a stapled-on fabric headboard, bottled water that sold for seven dollars a pop, and no freaking refrigerator.

I turned over onto my back and regarded the ceiling. The refrigerator wasn’t the worst part, and neither was the fact that Dallas had said no to me. It was that I was lonely. I, Kyle Richards, who’d spent my entire trust-funded young-adult life partying, surrounded by pussy, surfboards, and beer, without a care in the world, was lonely.

And I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do about it.