Escorting the Billionaire (The Escort Collection 1)

"You need to rehabilitate your public image. Immediately," she snapped, grabbing her cell phone and car keys. "You have Lucas to worry about, and you have the premiere for Hearts Wide Open coming up. You need to pull a rabbit out of a hat, Lo. Today. I'm calling my people. They'll figure something out."

"Like what? And where are you going?" I wailed. I needed her help, and she was heading toward the door.

"This business is for the hungry. I'm hungry, Lo. So I'm going back to my office to do some work for clients who don't take me for granted by throwing up all over their careers in public," she called over her shoulder. "The PR team will take care of everything. I'll set up a meeting, and we'll be in touch later today. In the interim, don't do anything stupid."

She slammed the door, and I just sat there, opening and closing my mouth as if I were a stunned guppy.

"She's a little harsh, huh?" Tori asked.

She got up and started organizing my closet, a nervous habit of hers. She was my best friend, but right now, she was doubling as my personal assistant while she was on break from the series where she worked as an apprentice lighting technician. Now that I was paying her to answer my emails, sort through my schedule, and help me keep on top of my finances, she felt the need to constantly be doing something instead of just hanging out. I'd hired her because I trusted her with my life and because she was hyper-organized, but sometimes I just wanted her to sit still. Instead, she was color-coding my closet.

"Shirley's all about tough love," I said.

I could just picture my agent white-knuckling the steering wheel of her Mercedes sedan, barking at another client on her Bluetooth on her way back to her office. She was angry and disappointed, and I couldn't blame her.

I blew out a deep breath. "Wow. I'm really managing to fuck this all up, aren't I?"

"No. You made a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes." Tori continued color-coding my closet. "But we need to think of something, stat. Shirley's mean, but she's got a point."

"I know she does," I said, "but I have no idea how to fix this. I don't want to leave my life up to some PR team I've never worked with. That makes me nervous. I have no idea what they'll have me do."

"You could also just admit that you're a control freak."

I arched my eyebrow at her as she refolded a pair of skinny jeans and carefully hung them up. "Uh, takes one to know one." I continued to pace while Tori continued to organize. Finally, I turned to her. "I'm just gonna call Lucas. I'm going to be direct and just say that I'm sorry, that I messed up."

Tori looked at me, her face pale. "I'm gonna go clean your kitchen. And give you some privacy."

I nodded grimly and watched her flee from my room. I took a deep breath and called his cell.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me, Lowell," he answered.

My heart sank. "Hey, Lucas." I felt sweat forming on my brow.

"I hired you because you were a good girl, okay? Because I thought you'd be a hard worker. Because you weren't the type to go out and snort coke and dance on tables. I fought for you—then you fuck me like this? The producers called me last night and woke me up. They are furious. They want to fire you, and I can't even come up with a good reason why they shouldn't."

"Please don't fire me," I begged. My mind, still fuzzy, tried to remember the terms of the contract and all of the scenes we'd already shot. If the producers wanted to fire me at this stage of production, they must really be livid. It would cost them a small fortune to redo the work we'd already completed. That meant they thought this movie would lose money now, big time—because of me. And they were just trying to cut their losses.

Lucas sighed. "Give me a reason not to, Lowell."

I took a deep breath. "I'll make it right. Do you want me to come in on Wednesday?"

"I don't know," Lucas said. "I really don't know."

* * *

Tori peeked through my door a little while later, after my sniffling had subsided.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fucked. I have a catastrophic PR problem, an upcoming premiere, and a director who hates my guts. My ass is genetically designed to stay its size, my agent's about to cut me loose, and I have a raging hangover. Not to mention that little video that everyone's one-clicking. So no, I'm not so good."

She sat next to me on the bed. "What did Lucas say?"

"That the producers want to fire me and I have to come up with a viable reason why they shouldn't. By the time we shoot next."

"Which is the day after tomorrow, right?" she asked.

"That's unfortunately correct." I rolled over and put a pillow over my face. As if that could block out the ugly truth of how fucked I was.