Escorting the Actress (The Escort Collection 2)

"I know," she said soothingly. "I know."

We were quiet for a minute while I collected myself.

"So… what happens now?" my friend asked.

"Kyle goes to work for his dad. That's the important thing. He'll get the chance he deserves."

"What about you?"

I shrugged. "I go deal with Lucas and Shirley and everybody else who's gonna be disappointed in me. And just pick up the pieces. Maybe… quit the business."

"So that's it? You're just gonna give up? On your career and on Kyle?"

"I'll figure work out." I blew my nose again. "It's not as if I really have a choice about Kyle."

Tori snorted. "Of course you have a choice. You're either going to give him a chance, or you're not going to give him a chance."

"Did you not hear a word that I just said?" I asked incredulously. "His father will do anything to keep us apart. So will my mother. On top of that, there are some minor details you might remember: He is my stepbrother. He is my escort."

Tori held my gaze. "He was your stepbrother. He was your escort."

"Still sounds pretty insurmountable to me."

"I think he's nice. I think you should give him a chance."

"I can't." I shook my head, feeling desolate. "It's not a good time."

My best friend, who knew me too well, patted my knee again. "When's it ever gonna be a good time?"

Kyle

I drank half the bottle of vodka, but it did nothing to dull the pain. I sat on the bed, running my hands down the sheets, just thinking about Lowell.

My heart hurt. I didn't know that was actually a thing, aside from in movies and books, but it was happening. To me. It actually hurt pretty badly.

Then my father called, going on about Caroline Barton. Some nonsense about her threatening to go to the press and him giving her money to stop her. I only half-listened through the haze of vodka, but it sounded as if Caroline would be able to afford her next series of cosmetic procedures, along with another Louis Vuitton bucket bag, courtesy of my father.

As if I gave a fuck.

We hung up, and I sat there, fuming. I wanted to tell him I wasn't coming in tomorrow. I wanted to tell him I had more pressing matters to attend to, but I didn't. I wasn't sure if Lowell would want me if I walked away from him. She might think I was never going to grow up, never going to be the man she needed.

Old Kyle would have just finished the bottle, passed out, and slept in late. Fuck you to my dad, fuck you to my questionable future, fuck you to the woman who left me.

But Kyle 2.0 couldn't do that.

For once, I felt as though I had something at stake that mattered. And I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything.

I put down the bottle and called my father back.

* * *

Some photographer—one I would be punching later, when I could get my hands on him or her—had taken pictures of Lo and me in front of the Stratum. We were clearly fighting. In the picture, her face was angry and mine was despondent. My abs had made it into the shot; at least they looked good.

The headline on XYZ read: Lovebirds Done Already?

Then there was another shot of Lowell, looking exhausted with puffy eyes, getting out of a cab at the Boston airport: Lowell Packs on Pounds Amidst Breakup.

I cracked my knuckles, just thinking of what I was going to do to Katie from XYZ.