Chase Me (Broke and Beautiful #1)

Chase Me (Broke and Beautiful #1)

Tessa Bailey


Dedication

For K-Dee’s, the place that got me through those early NYC days.





Acknowledgments



TO MY HUSBAND and daughter, for supporting me and believing in me 100 percent of the time, thank you.

To my fabulous editor, Nicole Fischer, for being excited about these books and loving the characters almost as much as I do. Working together is fun and easy (for me, at least!). Thank you.

To my agent, Laura Bradford, for her valuable guidance and dealing with me when I’m wearing my tin foil hat and strung out from too many hours in front of my laptop. Thank you.

To Sophie Jordan for her amazing encouragement and being an all-around good friend. Thank you.

To Edie Harris for being a ball-breaker and super bossy right when I need her to be. Thank you.

To all my friends who knew me in my early twenties, like Roxy, Abby and Honey, and still decided they liked me. You guys know who you are. Love you.




Chapter 1



TODAY’S WEATHER FORECAST: imminent shitstorms across the Tri-State area.

Roxy Cumberland’s footsteps echoed off the smooth, cream-colored walls of the hallway, high heels clicking along the polished marble. When she caught her reflection in the pristine window overlooking Stanton Street, she winced. This pink bunny costume wasn’t doing shit for her skin tone. A withering sigh escaped her as she tugged the plastic mask back into place.

Singing telegrams still existed. Who knew? She’d actually laughed upon seeing the tiny advertisement in the Village Voice’s Help Wanted section, but curiosity had led her to dial the number. Her laughter had stopped abruptly when she’d heard exactly how much people were willing to pay in exchange for her humiliation. So here she was, one day later, preparing to sing in front of a perfect stranger for a cut of sixty bucks.

Sixty bucks might not sound like much, but when your roommate has just booted you onto your ass for failure to come through on rent—again—leaving you no place to live, and your checking account is gasping for oxygen, pink bunnies do what pink bunnies must. At least her round, fluffy tail would cushion her fall when her ass hit the sidewalk.

See? She’d already found a silver lining. Maybe the shitstorm would hold.

Or not. Over the last week, she’d been on thirteen auditions, trudging on blistered feet between callbacks and will-definitely-never-call-backs, smiling and reciting lines for bored production executives. Toothpaste commercials, walk-on rolls for daytime soaps . . . hell, she’d even auditioned to play a mother in a diaper rash ad. They’d all but laughed her twenty-one-year-old ass out of the building.

Too bad they couldn’t touch her. Nothing and nobody could. She was from New f*cking Jersey.

While Roxy usually kept that fact to herself, she couldn’t help but admit that Jersey had prepared her for this constant rejection. It had given her the brass balls to say “their loss” every single time someone in a business suit decided her acting skills weren’t good enough. That she wasn’t good enough. One word kept her going, kept her boarding the subway to another audition. Someday. Someday she would look back at this pre-stardom experience and be grateful for it. She’d cozy up to Ryan Seacrest on the red carpet and have a damn good story to tell. Although she might just leave out the pink bunny suit.

Unfortunately, on days like today, when a shitstorm cloud was riding low above her head, following her everywhere she went, someday seemed a long way off. Sixty dollars couldn’t plug the hole in the shitcloud, it could only keep her eating properly for the next week. As far as her living situation went, she’d figure something out. If it meant taking the bus to Jersey and sneaking into her old bedroom for the night, she’d bite the bullet. The next morning, she’d slip her feet back into her heels and get back to pounding the pavement, her parents never being the wiser.

Through the eyeholes of the bunny mask, Roxy glanced down at the piece of paper in her hand. Apartment 4D. Based on the song she’d memorized on the way here and the swank interior of the building, she knew the type who would answer the door. Some too-rich, middle-aged douchebag who was so bored with his life that he needed to be entertained with novelties like singing bunny rabbits. He’d close the door when she finished, text his main squeeze some emoticon-heavy thank-you, and forget all about this little diversion on his way to play indoor tennis.

Roxy’s gaze tracked down lower on the note in her hand, and she felt an uncomfortable kick of unease in her belly. She’d met her new boss at a tiny office in Alphabet City, surprised to find a dude only slightly older than herself running the operation. Always suspicious, she’d asked him how he kept the place afloat. There couldn’t be that high a demand for singing telegrams, right? He’d laughed, explaining that singing bunnies only accounted for a tenth of their income. The rest came in the form of strip-o-grams. She’d done her best to appear flattered when he’d told her she’d be perfect for it.

Would she go that far? Taking her clothes off for strangers paid a damn sight more than sixty bucks. It would be so easy for her to take that leap. As an actress, she had the ability to detach herself and become someone else. Being the object of attention didn’t bother her; it was what she’d trained herself for. That kind of income would guarantee her a place to live, allow her to continue auditioning without worrying about her next meal. So why the hesitation?