Escorting the Billionaire (The Escort Collection 1)

"No," Tori said. "They were actually really nice about the whole thing. They just gave me a warning. It was… someone else. Just some random person on the sidewalk. They heard you yelling, so they filmed it. When they realized you were Lowell Barton, they sold it to XYZ."

I groaned. XYZ was a gossip website that seemed continuously out to get me. They were the ones who had posted that most recent picture of me, scowling in my gym clothes, getting ready to fight off my fat.

"Show it to me," I snapped. I swallowed another Advil and chased it with coffee.

Shirley pushed the laptop toward me, and I watched myself in the video, horrified. I was wobbling and shouting and slurring. My carefully hidden Southern accent kept popping out like a flasher opening his coat.

I even said y'all.

I even said mansplainer.

At least they'd bleeped it out when I said absofuckinglutely. Still, I had a sinking feeling that the Disney role I'd been called about was no longer on the table.

I closed the screen and buried my face in my hands. "Fuck me. Stupid margaritas. And I totally puked on her shoes."

"It's all my fault," Tori wailed, throwing herself across the bed. "I made you get drunk. You never drink that much."

"S'okay. This isn't your fault, Tor." I patted my best friend's head. "My issues obviously run a little deeper than a couple of margaritas. But do you mind sending Officer Deborah some new shoes from me? And some flowers with a thank-you card?" I needed to apologize to both of the officers. A trip to their precinct, with a large amount of cupcakes and coffee and humility, was in order.

Tori nodded and tapped something into her phone while Shirley glared at me.

"What the hell is a mansplainer?" my high-powered agent spat. Her frosted, multi-layered bob was fluffed out in odd spiky clumps, as though she'd been running her hands through it in frustration.

"It's a man who thinks he can explain everything," I mumbled. "'Cause he's a man."

"Well, that's just fucking brilliant," she said, getting up and pacing. "I'm sure Lucas Dresden and all six of the producers on your movie will love that little term. Since they're all men."

"And they're all totally mansplainers," I said under my breath.

Shirley stopped pacing and turned to me, her hands on her hips. "I don't know what you want from me, Lowell. You tell me you want to work. I help get you jobs. You tell me you want to be a star. I worked hard to get you your last two parts, and now you're on the verge of becoming a headlining actress. An A-lister. Then you go and pull a stunt like this."

I looked up at her pleadingly. "I made a mistake. You know how much I want this."

She just shook her head and closed her eyes as if she had a migraine.

"Shirley, I'm sorry. I got drunk because Lucas told me I need to lose weight." It sounded ridiculous and childish, but there it was. "And when that cop told me I was prettier in person than he expected, I just lost it."

"But why?" Shirley looked flabbergasted. "You knew going into this movie that Lucas wanted you in great shape. You also know that people see your pictures online and will be critical about how you look. It's part of this life. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that all anyone in this town cares about is what my ass or my face looks like." The words tumbled out angrily before I could rein them in.

"Lowell, you sound like a child who isn't getting her way," Shirley said, her tone a warning.

"This isn't a temper tantrum." I got up and paced even though moving hurt my head. "All I'm saying is—I'm an actor. I take my work seriously. I'm not just a face that may or may not scowl too much, attached to an ass that may or may not look like it weighs too much. There are more important things to worry about, but that's all I ever hear about. It's frustrating, and it's demeaning. Is that too difficult to understand?"

Shirley glowered at me while Tori pretended to read texts on her phone and not listen.

"Yes, that is too difficult to understand," Shirley said. "This is Hollywood. This is the deal. If you want to be paid millions of dollars for your 'craft,' or whatever you want to call it, you have to live with the way things are. You have to deal with people commenting on your face, your weight, your dating status. That's the trade-off."

I sat back down on the bed. "Of course. I know you're right."

"If you want to keep the role you've got right now and ever have the chance of getting another one, you have some serious damage control to do. I'm hiring a PR team to take over from here.

I should have done it sooner—I can see that now. You're just about to get to that next level, and I'm not going to kiss all my hard work with you good-bye. We're going to get your image whipped back into shape ASAP."

I felt Shirley studying my face, which I was struggling to keep neutral. I didn't want to cry. I also didn't really want a PR team—I didn't want to admit that my image was out of my control.

I can fix this. I have to fix this. "What do I do?"