Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(48)

That was where I saw the cell phone shot of me by my pool. I had a beer, but I was wearing pants, so f*ck them.

“Tell me why I care,” I said.

“Because I care,” Ken said, snapping up the iPad.

“And you brought this * in to talk sense into me? Dude married a paparazza. A hot paparazza . . . but still.”

Ken flicked his finger over the screen. Another picture of me with my shirt open. My pool. Geraldine Mancuso in a green bikini bottom. Her tits had been blurred, but the blur was flesh color, not green. She held a long glass bong in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Behind her, another topless girl had her back to the camera.

And of course, me mooning Nicole’s nanny.

You know what I thought?

I didn’t think f*ck them, even though, f*ck them. I didn’t care what the public thought. Didn’t care that my publicist was about to use my friendship with Mike as a way to get me to be someone with a more manageable life.

My first thought?

Cara was out of the frame. I was relieved.

“Fuck this. Tracey Shim got busted doing lines at the Thelonius Room.”

“And she hasn’t had a magazine cover since,” Ken interjected.

I handed the iPad back, but Ken didn’t take it.

“Read it.”

I froze. Michael took the tablet and read from it.

“And The Father of the Year Award Goes to . . . Literally Anyone but Brad Sinclair.” Michael paused, looked for my reaction, and continued. “His press release has him so graciously taking a strange child in, but instead of devoting himself to the foundling, he retains his playboy ways. Just last night, he was photographed amid a stunning constellation of alcohol and string bikinis. Where is the baby? Right in the same house with the nannies, of course. To make the whole situation more deliciously complex, there are actually two nannies. One’s a classic Hollywood daddy-jumper, vaulting from Josh Trudeau’s bed to Brad Sinclair’s House of Debauch. The other is fresh as a daisy. She’s managed to not have a single printable scandal in her entire career. Let’s see how long that lasts, shall we?”

He put the tablet down. “There’s more. But you get the idea.”

“This?” Ken said, “I can’t fix this for you. If people think you’re partying in the house, they’re going to start wondering why Child Protective Services isn’t at your door.”

“Let them wonder. I don’t care,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. Nope, just heard Cara’s voice telling me how hard it was. How I had to pick a god damn lane or get off the highway.

She’d never said that exactly. But when I said it to myself it was in her voice.

“Is this where I talk?” Michael asked Ken.

“Go ahead. Talk your little heart out. But fix him.” There was a knock at the office door, and the shadow of Ken’s executive assistant appeared through the frosted glass.

“I’m sorry I personally offended you,” I snapped, because screw Ken and his busy little life with the kids his wife took care of 24-7.

“Nothing’s personal. Do you understand? As far as I go, I don’t have a personal to get offended about.” He pointed to Michael, then me, while looking at my friend. “I have to take a call. Fix him.”

He left with the phone to his ear as if he’d already moved on. The glass door clanged then clicked.

“And I’m stuck in the office with Dudley Do-Right,” I said, flopping onto the couch. “You gonna lecture me, I’m right here.”

“Isn’t Dudley Do-Right before your time?”

“My mother used to say that. Was he a real guy?”

“I have no idea.” He shook his watch down until it was below his cuff, then checked it. “Listen. I don’t care about your image.”

“Good.”

“Or your career. If no one hires you anymore, you can just move back to Arkansas. Your parents would be glad to have you.”

“I’m not moving back.”

“I know. It was just a worst-case scenario. For you. Your daughter’s living her worst-case scenario.”

“Dude, give me a break. She has everything a kid could want.”

“I promise you, she doesn’t care.”

“You know what?” I stood up. I’d had enough and he hadn’t even started. “Six foster kids a few months ago doesn’t make you an expert. Not by a sight. It makes you crazier than a shithouse rat.”

“Maybe, but—”

“No. No but. I worked my whole life so I could do what I want. Then I get here, and I gotta slice out weeks between pictures. There’s no life of leisure. It’s a lie. You make it, and you don’t get to do what you want. You get to work like a plow horse. You knew this. You weren’t surprised. Your dad, your mom, your second cousin on your mother’s side . . . you all knew. Well, I didn’t. I worked to get out and I get here and it’s more work. I can’t breathe, Mike. I can’t breathe, and now I have to be a daddy? What the . . . what the f*ck?”

“What do you want me to tell you?” His fingers tented between his spread knees.

“Tell me I can have a life.”

“You can have a life. But not the one you planned.”

How many parents did a guy need? Did I hit a hive of them or something? I felt as if I was being swarmed by people telling me what to do.