Chapter 3
Marcus has the singular ability to insult, degrade, and generally piss off everyone he speaks to, including me. Especially me. I like to think it’s a game we play, where we agree to swipe at each other to see who will win.
It’s never me.
I hold my own on occasion, but he’s much older, and he’s had more practice, the grumpy asshole.
I tip my head up to meet the cascade of hot water, running hands through my hair to wet every stand. It feels way too damn good to actually shower. When was the last time—never mind, too long. I’ve been getting by with dry shampoo and shame, and the combination isn’t exactly a winning one.
Not to mention, I’ve got a busy day today.
For the life of me, I have no idea about the appointment Marcus made. He’s told me before, but the information slipped right through the cracks in my head. Something important, though, if he’s willing to play the barbarian and sling me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
The view south, however, had been interesting, watching his ass jiggle with each angry step toward my suite.
I want to be angry with him. I grab the soap and lather beneath my arms, along the lines of my torso.
He pushes me beyond my limits of control. There are some days I’m only a second away from slapping him and demanding he say something that won’t be an insult to my personality…
Except he’s right—about the shower, not about anything else. The water does help. As much as I hate to admit it, I do feel better.
I take care to lather my hair with the rose and lavender shampoo bar, working it into suds and running the soap along my thick length of hair.
He said we had an appointment, not me. The two of us. Maybe he’s finally caved, and he’s going to walk me through the details of Mom and Dad’s estate with their accountant. No, I correct, rinsing out my hair. He’s too much of a control freak to let me in on the finances.
Maybe we’re taking a trip to the spa! I groan out loud at the thought of a hot rock massage, something to alleviate the tension. May those glorious rocks take away every bit of nightmarish sleep over the last few days. Weeks. Months.
I stay in the shower longer than necessary, partly to see what Marcus is going to do, partly to let the spray beat every negative thought out of my brain to make room for something good. Anything good.
I’d decided, once the sun rose, to start getting back to making social media posts. Nothing will be enough to combat the shit spread by the press, but I should be trying, at least, getting back out there, even when it feels like pushing against a brick wall.
Cutting off the water, I hold my breath, listening for Marcius to tell me right off the bat to get my ass moving, as he likes to do. The man might be a pain in my ass, but he’s all I’ve got.
The thought has me pursing my lips and gnawing the inside of my cheek.
He’s all I’ve got, besides a couple of good friends and a PA who hasn’t reached out to me in the last week, like I”m some kind of a lost cause and she’s got more important clients to worry about.
The kicker? She’s right; she does have more important clients.
When I hear nothing, I step out of the glass shower and grab the soft, fluffy towel waiting for me on the gold rack.
Then, inevitably, comes, “Put on the clothes I laid out for you! On the bed. Move your ass.”
Water sluices down my legs and pools around my feet. “Stop picking out clothes for me, Marcus! I know how to dress myself,” I yell back.
“Then you better do it.”
This time, his voice is right next to the bathroom door, and I can’t move, too confused to put one foot in front of the other. His tone has shifted from annoyed and mildly pissed off to…nice. Cordial, even, which is so out of the realm of possibility for Marcus. I’ve known him too long to think of him as a nice guy.
Which means this appointment really must mean something to him.
Why can’t I remember what it is?
I steel my shoulders and walk into the bedroom with the towel knotted between my breasts, my hair dripping. He really did lay out an entire outfit on the bed, from my dress to my shoes and—I flush, embarrassment warming me from the inside out. My panties. Marcus picked out a lacy bra and thong ensemble, both skimpy enough that the lines of the fabric won’t be visible through the dress.
Which means he rifled through my underwear drawer, where I keep my vibrators.
My cheeks pinken further, and my heart starts to thud a little louder.
Please, God. He better not have seen my toys.
“What’s all this?” I ask loudly, too confused and not enough fight left in me right now.
I finger the dress, an emerald green wrap made of silk. A throat clears, and I whirl around, clutching the towel to me.
Marcus stands by the door like a literal black cloud. He’s already dressed, with his arms crossed over his chest, the seams of his suit jacket strained. “It’s obvious,” he replies. “Your clothes.”
I huff out a breath. “I mean, can you remind me where we’re going that I need to wear a dress?” My eyes roll on their own. “Obviously.”
“It’s a reading for a movie part.” He says it without looking over at me, something much more interesting about the tip of his shoe than any movement I make.
I stiffen, half of my next inhale catching in the back of my throat, my blood starting to thicken, moving sluggishly. A reading? He knows…he knows how I feel about those. No wonder he can’t look at me, not when I remember—we remember–what happened last time.
“Get dressed.” He barks out the demand before turning and slamming the door behind him.
Alone in the room, I still can’t breathe. There’s something wrong with me.
The last reading I’d gone to hadn’t been mine. Mom had wanted the part desperately bad, enough to agree to bring me along when I whined, even at seventeen, about how badly I’d wanted to be there, just the two of us.
The room was packed, filled with other hopefuls. Some of them took one look at Olivia Stone and audibly gulped, clutching their monologues to their beating hearts and probably praying for strength. Others sneered down their nose, utterly convinced they had a real shot against her.
No one compared to my mother when it came to truly getting in the head of her character.
I sat beside her with utter confidence she’d get the part, if only because she was my mom and she wanted it. She ran her hands through my hair and told me this would be my world soon. She didn’t care in the least when I rested my head against her shoulder, or when I flirted with several of the teen boys trying out for the chance to be her son.
Mom got the part.
She always got what she wanted, but she never let the notoriety go to her head, not for a second.
Things changed.
Death changed people more than anything else in this world.
Marcus knows all of this, and he’s still pushing me to go out there, leaving me clothes like a kid playing dress up with a doll. I drop down on the bed, thinking about balling the dress in my hand and throwing an honest-to-God tantrum, just like he accused me of doing.
It won’t get me anywhere. None of it will, even if I cry in front of him. He’s seen it too many times to be moved, even when the tears are real.
If he’s determined to drag me out of the house, then that’s what he’ll literally do. Drag me. Throw me. Handcuff me to his wrist and force me to fall into step beside him.
There’s no place to be soft anymore, no more bubbles outside of a champagne glass where I might pretend things are okay.
A knock sounds on the door, and when I look at the clock on the wall, five minutes have passed.
“Empire, I fucking swear, you better be in there dressed and ready to go. I’m not playing around anymore.” His voice is muffled by the wood.
Demanding, like he always is.
“I’m not dressed,” I reply. “And when have you ever played around with me?”
I know what he’s going to do, and even though there’s no surprise when he bursts into the room again, crowding me, I still stare at him with wide eyes as he grabs the dress.
“You’re never going to get the part if you show up in wrinkles or late.” He says it like I need the reminder. Apparently, I do. “Hurry your ass up.”
I imagine the sympathy on his face because he’s aware, like I’m aware, of what happened at the last reading I went to.
“I’ve been to plenty of auditions, Mr. Ortega,” I tell him, nose in the air again as I pretend to be calm and collected, borrowing a little bit of poise from the dead woman who used to own this house.
“Yeah, and you’ve gotten shit from them. Maybe you’ve done tons of readings in your past, but you’ve never gotten a part to date.”
I wince, turning to the side to hide it from him. Knowing he’s watching me, I stand, dropping the towel and having a moment of brief satisfaction when he closes his eyes, chest hitching, but not before I see the way his gaze darkens. I pull on my bra and panties, and the dress follows, a punishment for him while I remember my failures.
“I might not have gotten a part yet,” I seethe, “but I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“The only reason you’ve made it this far is because of me, and if I don’t keep on you, then you’ll be a slug in bed. Beauty fades, Empire.” His gaze hardens. “Make the most of this while you can. Otherwise, you’re going to lose your cushy lifestyle and mine, which is not something I’m willing to entertain.”
“You know why I’ve never gotten a part?” I ask dully.
He straightens. “I suppose you’re going to tell me some sob story about being too good.”
“I put too much of myself in the roles, and no one wants to see it,” I say softly. “The directors and producers all say I lack subtlety.”
“Like I said.” His voice is whip-crack hard. “Sob story. I don’t give a shit about your past, because right now, I need you to focus on your future. The money will run out. Not right now, but eventually, and if you keep acting like a spoiled princess in your mountaintop castle, then soon, you’re going to find yourself living with an ogre.”
“Try not to be too hard on yourself.” I’ll do my makeup in the back of the limo on the ride to the studio, I decide, grabbing the shoes he’s already laid out for me. An ogre and a control freak.
He’s got to be. It’s part of his literal job description. But I’m too tired to deal with his bullshit right now.
My hair drips a line of moisture down my back and stains the dress. I’ll have to do my hair in the limo too. In sticking it to him, I kind of fucked myself over.
“Look, please do this for me.” His tone shifts and softens. “We’ll go to the reading, and then we’ll go visit what’s her face, your BFF for life or some shit.”
“Come on, you know her name.”
“Please, Empire.”
It’s the pleading in his voice, the tender notes he rarely hits, that has me caving. It’s the same tone he used on me when he soothed my nightmares this morning. It’s a glimpse of sweetness he never allows to show, and I partly wonder why this audition is so meaningful. What’s got him pushing me hard?
Because it’s not the money, not really.
One snap of his fingers, and he’ll have cash rolling in faster than King Midas.
“Fine,” I agree. “I’ll go. I’m just not happy about you springing this on me.”
“It’s part of my persuasion. If you knew about it ahead of time, I’d have no chance of getting you in the shower. This is as much for me as it is for your own benefit.”
I grab my purse and stalk past him. “Yeah, right. Feed me another line and see if I fall for it.”
“A line?” he calls out.
“You know, one of those things you tell yourself even though it’s not true? Except this time, you want me to live in your delusion with you, and I’m not going to play along.”
Having the last word leaves me feeling like I’ve got the high ground. If only it were true.