Ready to Run (I Do, I Don't 1)

But I’m not loving the inquisition. I’ve got a reputation around Hollywood to uphold as the guy who rolls with the punches, quick with a one-liner and a smile. I’m not some moody diva who needs to be coaxed out of a snit.

“It’s nothing.” I toss down my four and a six, and he deals me two more. Another four and a five. I lose this hand too.

I drain the rest of my drink. “This game is tired.”

Wes snorts. “Why? Because you’re losing for once?”

I glance across the table, but he’s not looking at me. Dude’s been a dick lately. I’m not an idiot; I know why. We got the script for the fifth Killboys movie a couple of weeks ago, and his screen time’s even less than it was in the last one, which…wasn’t much.

I hate that for him. The guy’s my friend, and he’s got acting chops. But the very franchise that launched my career is the same one that’s solidified him as a sidekick character.

Lately it seems like he’s been blaming me for it.

“What’s up, Wes?” I ask pointedly, ignoring the girl who comes up behind me and begins nibbling on my ear. I see Dan and his intern, Jimmy, exchange a look, but I ignore them.

Wes looks up, his eyes landing on the girl, then on me, and for a second I swear I feel something close to hate coming from the guy who’s been my closest friend for the majority of my Hollywood career.

“One more hand,” Wes says casually. “Then we can hit up the private strip club.”

I don’t want to go to the private strip club. I don’t want to play one more hand either, but if it’ll appease him…

“Sure.”

It’s Wes’s turn to deal, and he takes the cards from Dan. “Care to make it interesting?” he asks, as he deftly shuffles the deck.

Jimmy gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious? Unlike you guys, my paychecks aren’t in the seven figures. This game’s already bleeding me dry.”

“My point exactly,” Wes says. “Money’s boring, especially when one of us has ten times as much as anyone else at the table.”

I barely withhold the eye roll at the thinly failed dig. “What do you want, Wes? My car? Rolex watch? A kidney?”

They’re idle offers. We both know what Wes wants—my role in Killboys. It’s never going to happen. Brock White’s a part of my identity, just like Dean Meyers is a part of Wes’s.

He continues to shuffle the deck as he watches me. He’s a good-looking guy. Tall, lean. Blond hair, blue eyes. Right now, though, he mostly looks mean, and I’m sick of it.

I’ve got enough bullshit to deal with tonight. I stand and go to the wet bar, where a few booze bottles have accumulated. I find the Eagle Rare and top off my glass, sensing I’m going to need it to deal with Wes’s snit.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Wes says. “No money in this pot. Instead, we put something else on the line. We bet with guts, not chips.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Jimmy asks skeptically.

Dan crosses his arms. “It means, Jim, that we bow out of this hand. Let these boys work out their tantrum.”

I want to tell Dan that it’s not my tantrum. That I’ve got bigger issues than my best friend’s jealousy.

Like my own jealousy.

Jealousy over the fact that my brother knocked up the woman I’d thought I would marry.

But Wes is my best friend, and if this is how we need to get past things…

“All right, Wes. You win, I’ll give you the car.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. You don’t pick what I win; you pick what I lose.”

I laugh incredulously. “Fine. Okay.” I think for a moment. “If you lose, you take that guest role in Pirate Vamps. The one that requires you to wear tights and show your junk.”

I expect him to at least flinch. Pirate Vamps is a trumped-up nighttime soap opera, known for its gratuitous sex scenes and painful dialogue.