Chapter 23 – Cain
Rebel XOXO is one of my newer and much younger clients. He’s twenty-five years old, insanely talented at freestyling guitar riffs, and covered in tattoos from neck to ankle. His music is this wild fusion of rock and rap, a sound as bold and unapologetic as the guy himself.
On paper, he’s the last person I’d expect to have a thing for big, wild hazel eyes, deep brown hair, a tattoo-free canvas, and a hard-working, smart-mouthed, take-no-shit woman like Rhiannon Carpenter.
But damn, was I wrong about that. Just like I’ve been wrong about everything lately.
So, fucking wrong.
“Do you think I can get his autograph?” my younger sister Rosie asks as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.
She’s on the set of the shoot with me today after hours of begging me to bring her despite Rebel not being her client.
Apparently, Rebel’s influence extends to my little sister, too.
“I don’t know,” I say.
She shoots me a scowl. “He’s so hot.”
I roll my eyes. “Keep those comments to a minimum, please. Remember, we’re working and the last thing he needs is another fan hanging around a set.”
“You’re working, I’m not.” She smiles. “Also, it’s Saturday.”
She may be a successful associate at my father’s entertainment law firm, but at twenty-eighth years old, she still has the excitement of an eighteen-year-old fangirl when it comes to celebrities she’s deemed as so hot.
To be fair, I think she’s just as lonely as I am most days. We spend all our time in the office or in court. I can’t remember the last time Rosie told me she was going on a date or hanging with friends. Which means she’s not or she’s gotten better at hiding things from me.
“Why don’t you check out the food and chat with Liam.
I point at an older guy in the corner. He’s the set manager and may need some help,” I suggest, trying to keep her busy and away from my stud client who I know is a womanizer.
“He’ll give you the pass you need to be wearing while working on set. ”
She huffs. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m going to try to poach him from you eventually.”
I huff a laugh. “I’d like to see you try.” My clients never leave me once they’ve worked with me because I’m the best.
She heads off towards Liam, leaving me free to survey the space for any potential hazards to Rebel.
My gaze sweeps over the organized chaos of the set, scanning for Rhiannon again.
I wasn’t sure if she’d decide to show up today after our conversation a few days ago in her bedroom, but when my eyes land on the three models that Rebel will be acting with in the video, I have to do a double take.
It takes me a second glance to realize one of the models is her because she’s now completely covered in tattoos.
I stride toward her, my long legs eating up the space between us as if I can’t get to her quickly enough. The artist who’s working on her makeup is just finishing up her second sleeve, an intricately detailed, canvas of painted on artwork that perfectly mirrors Rebel’s ink.
“What’s this?” I bark out way too loudly. The poor artist practically jumps out of her skin.
“Can I help you?”
I hold out my hand. “Apologies. Cain Prescott. Rebel’s lawyer.”
She looks at my hand but doesn’t shake it which is fair. Her hands are full of make-up.
“Okay, well I’m the lead costume designer on set and tasked with painting the models to match Rebel’s tattoos.” She looks away and nods to a photo that’s tacked on the mirror of Rebel shirtless, tattoos on display. I clench my jaw realizing that’s what Rhiannon has to look at.
I glance at Rhiannon who’s smirking now, those big, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I like them,” she twists her arms back and forth, admiring the artwork, “I was thinking about going and getting a real sleeve after this. One just like this.”
“You better not,” I growl instinctively, the words escaping before I can catch them. Another man’s tattoo designs on her body? Hell-fucking-no.
Her brow arches, the challenge in her expression daring me to take it back. But I won’t. Before she can fire back, Liam interrupts us, ushering the two other models who are already finished, toward the stage for the first scene.
The artist adds the final details to Rhiannon’s tattoos and then gestures for her to join the others.
“You’re free to go.”
When she stands up, I finally take in the full scope of her outfit—a cropped green tank top that barely skims the bottom of her curvy breasts, no bra, and the tiniest black shorts I’ve ever seen, wedged in her thick ass.
The other two models, who are dressed in long pants, might as well not even exist. Rhiannon steals the spotlight on set and I’m not the only one who’s noticing.
I grip her wrist, stopping her before she moves and whisper darkly. “I’ve missed you and you haven’t responded to my proposition. Come home with me tonight so we can talk?”
She just smiles. “I’m not sure if I can, Cain.” Then she shakes me loose and I hate that she won’t let me claim her. I watch as her hips sway while she moves into place and I swear I’m hypnotized by her.
I step out of the camera’s view, finding Rebel’s talent manager, Billy, a good friend of mine who also manages several of my other clients and understands how long these shoots can go.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying to come across as my usual unbothered but I’m sure I’m failing miserably. Because how can I act unbothered when Rhiannon’s here, practically half-naked, wearing another man’s tattoos like she’s claiming him?
“Damn, who’s the model in the shorts?” Billy asks me. He’s smirking and it makes my skin crawl.
He’s not a bad guy, recently divorced, mid-forties, but he’s not good for Rhiannon. Not that I can say with confidence I am either. But I want to be. I think I could be if she’d let me.
I school my expression, not wanting him to see just how much that comment got under my skin. “Rhiannon Carpenter.”
He nods. “Heard Rebel was into her when he met with the girls over breakfast this morning.”
Fuck me.
The first scene for Rebel’s call is being filmed which includes one of the models who are wearing pants and Rebel fighting aggressively inside of a staged home.
Rebel throws a dish into the wall a couple times for them to get the shot correct and then the director calls it as they move to set-up scene two which looks like includes Rhiannon.
Rosie slides up beside me, balancing a plate of appetizers and wearing a visitor’s pass slung loosely around her neck. She nudges me with her elbow playfully; her gaze fixed on the set.
“So, she’s the one you sued and lost?” She asks, nodding toward Rhiannon. Her shorts are somehow even shorter under the bright stage lights as she listens intently to the director’s instructions.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Rosie studies my expression carefully but doesn’t push. We may have had only had each other growing up, but we’ve never been comfortable being emotionally vulnerable and I don’t feel like getting into it right now with prying eyes and listening ears.
The director calls scene and Rhiannon moves into her position like a professional. Rebel’s yelling at her, she’s mouthing something back while the music plays. He backs her up slowly until she’s pinned against a wall by his hips. His fingers wrap around her throat, lips part, and I want to scream.
Because the way he’s looking at her, the way he’s touching her, is not for him to do. It’s for me.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, feeling like I have a front row view to my own personal hell.
The director ends the scene, and they do it again and again until it’s perfect. If he leaves marks on her throat, I’ll kill him. I’m close to ending my career over this.
Thankfully, by the third redo the director swears there’s so much believable chemistry between them that they don’t need to do a fourth take.
Lucky for me they have chemistry.
“You good?” Rosie asks me softly.
“Yeah. Why?”
She points to the pen I didn’t realize I was squeezing in my fist.
“You snapped that in half.”
“Oh.”
A sleek, expensive sports car is being wheeled onto the set, the scene’s focal point for act three. I narrow my eyes, curiosity turning into concern.
“What’s going on here?” I ask Billy. He shrugs and points to Liam.
“Not sure.”
Liam is nearby, listening to his earpiece and barking out instructions. I take a few steps closer, trying to sound casual but feeling unsettled.
“Hey, Liam, what’s this scene about?”
He pulls out an earbud and glances at me, his tone matter of fact. “It’s a tense one. Rebel’s character and model number one argue in the car, and then—boom—a CGI car T-bones them on her side, killing her instantly. Should look pretty powerful on film.”
I blink, my stomach twisting.
“But don’t worry, your client is perfectly safe. It’s all CGI, of course, we just shake up the car a bit. Give them a fright to make it feel believable.”
Except it isn’t my client I’m worried about this time, it’s Rhiannon whose face is pale and now looks like a ghost as she receives instructions.
There’s no way Rhiannon knew about this scene.
She doesn’t have a proper manager, just her best friend and part-time criminal defense lawyer booking her gigs with no actual vetting or legal protection.
No one’s looking out for her, not the way they should be, and something tells me that this scene isn’t going to go well for her.
I glance at her, sitting in the driver’s seat, completely unaware of the chaos she’s about to act out.
She’s fine. She’s an actress. She can handle this.
There’s no reason that this scene should be any different than the others.
Except there’s something in the back of my head telling me that it is.
The music blares suddenly, hard rock pouring through the speakers. My attention snaps to the giant screen above the stage, displaying a live feed of the action and a close-up on Rhiannon’s face.