Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(7)
I might have a reputation for being a bit of an asshole, but I can assure you, I don’t pull crap like that. I drive myself to meetings and appointments, and my hospitality rider for any TV appearances or events only includes two things: water—of any kind—and a working sink and toilet.
That’s it. That’s my rider.
Compared to some of my fellow celebrities who request outrageous things like personal chefs, massage tables, water that’s only been blessed by the monks of Budapest, or God knows what other crazy shit, I’m easy.
Which is saying a lot since I’m thirty-five and I’ve been in this business since I was twenty years old. Most celebs grow more demanding with fame and age, but I don’t waste too much energy on all that bullshit.
Lots of beautiful women, fast cars, and high-priced acting gigs are just about my only priorities. I’m a creature of impulsive habits, and I love my life too much to change.
Give me a sweet ride that hits 0 to 60 in under three and half seconds or a gorgeous pair of long legs and a come-hither smile, and I’m in. Give me both, and I’m in fucking heaven.
I huff out a sigh and decide to pull around the massive building and head in through the back to avoid whatever self-important prick or celebrity diva is waiting on their red carpet.
The engine purrs as I rev my way up through the gears and back down, gliding into an open spot on the other side of the building and pulling up on the parking brake to engage it.
My phone bounces in my cupholder, the vibration that goes along with my ringtone making it do a dance in the confined space. I cut the engine and pick it up mid-twerk.
Lance FaceTime Call
Shit yes! Someone I actually want to talk to. With one quick tap, my brother’s face appears on the screen.
“What’s up, man?” I greet cheerfully. I don’t miss the fact that he’s wearing his usual uniform of blue scrubs and a surgery cap over his dark brown hair or the evidence that he’s exhausted. Permanent dark circles mar the otherwise perfect skin under his eyes. “I see you’re busy saving lives.”
Ever since he graduated med school, Lance has been an ER physician at St. Mary’s, one of Memphis’s biggest hospitals. A damn good ER physician, at that. He’s won prestigious medical awards and shit for the work he’s done over the years.
The good doctor grins like a bastard. “Thank God one of us did something meaningful with our lives, right? Otherwise, Mom and Dad would probably feel like total failures.”
I snort. “I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad are happy with the beach house I bought them in Charleston for Christmas two years ago.”
It’s just about the only place they’ll go outside of Memphis.
For as impulsive as I am, my father still tips the family scale toward the other end. If it’s anything other than Tennessee, my mom, my brother, or football on the weekends, he doesn’t want it.
Lance’s grin grows. “Yeah, but I think we both know no amount of expensive bullshit you lavish them with will change the fact that I’m their favorite.”
“I don’t know, dude,” I challenge in amusement. “Mom was pretty damn happy when I took her to the Oscars last year. I’ve never seen that woman so excited. She nearly tackled Liam Neeson to the ground when I introduced them. Begged his assistant to have her ‘taken’ just so he could rescue her and everything. How many people have you taken her around who make her volunteer to be kidnapped?”
“Figures we wouldn’t be able to get through a conversation without you fucking name-dropping.”
I laugh. “So, now that we’ve settled that I’m the favorite, do tell why I have the pleasure of talking to you in the middle of the week.”
He shrugs. “Just figured I’d see what frivolous bullshit my little brother is up to these days.”
Fucking sarcastic dick. We’re literally a year and a half apart, but he likes to make it seem like he had a hand in inventing electricity or some shit.
“Just getting ready to go into a meeting at Capo Brothers Studios,” I answer while casually scratching my nose with my middle finger.
“Is this for the movie that’s going to be filming here for a few weeks?”
“Yep.” I nod. “The schedule isn’t finalized yet, but I’ll be spending some time back home pretty soon. Maybe I’ll even say hello to you once or twice if you can fit it into your super-important schedule.”
He shrugs. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other at the parentals’ house. Maybe when you bring that model girlfriend of yours to meet them.”
“Model girlfriend?” I question in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I think her name is Melissa. Or maybe it’s Melanie?” he offers, and I’m still puzzled.
Melissa? Melanie? Who the hell is he talking about?
And then, it hits me. Marissa. Marissa Spitz. A Sports Illustrated swimsuit model whom I had the pleasure of spending some time with a few months back. She was beautiful, fun, and kept me entertained for a bit. But other than that, it was a short fling at best.
Truthfully, I’m shocked my brother would even think I was dating the woman. When it comes to relationships, Lance and I are complete opposites. He married his high school sweetheart Kelly when he graduated med school, and I rarely stick with one woman for longer than a few weeks.