Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
CHARLOTTE
The Los Angeles air is the perfect temperature. It’s mid-April, and spring is here. At least this early in the day. By lunchtime, it’ll be the kind of heat I’m used to in summer.
But now it’s only seven, and I’m waiting outside the house where Aiden lives, just barely visible behind a giant gate outside his Bel Air estate. I’m so nervous, it’s hard to focus on anything but my nerves.
Car ride to office. 20 mins.
That’s on my planner, one of the few little windows of time when I’ve been granted access to him. I’ve worked with very busy people before. This won’t be any different in that regard.
Only that it’s him .
And it’s Titan Media.
And this is why I shouldn’t sleep with random strangers. Why I spent years trying to move away from making bad decisions. I’m a smart person who makes smart, considered, tactical decisions. I never get emotionally invested, and I definitely don’t sleep with my subjects.
I was up late last night, reading through the info packet I received from Eric. It includes pages and pages of details about the company. On the other hand, significantly fewer pages about Aiden. It read more like a résumé. His schooling, notable achievements, and the date he took over Titan Media.
The rest I googled. His father. The fraud investigation. The heavily publicized court case and the sentencing hearing. Pictures of Aiden from when he attended the courtroom and sat in the back row. His clean-shaven face was carved in stone, his hair a bit longer back then.
His eyes were unreadable as he stared up at the judge.
And then he’d taken over the control of Titan Media, the company that produced The Gamble , and allowed the cesspool that it is to flourish.
I don’t think about The Gamble or that time in my life much these days.
It hardened me. The public ridicule. The comments. The looks. Simply being the topic of so many conversations.
On the whole, I know it was just a flash in the pan. Fifteen minutes of fame I never wanted, but inadvertently invited into my life. And afterwards, my life continued. So had everyone else’s. Except I came out scarred by the experience.
Heart, broken.
Pride, shattered.
Trust, betrayed.
I rarely get recognized these days. That had taken time to achieve. But I’d gotten here, after a bit of growing up. I stopped adding the bleached highlights to my hair and let it return to its natural brown. I stopped straightening it to death and embraced the natural wave. I learned how to exercise and eat healthy in a way that allowed my body to fill out organically and settle into its own feminine shape that I’d been fighting against as a teenager.
Changed my last name.
I hit rock bottom when I walked off the production set of The Gamble at nineteen, having made a fool of myself and barely understanding how I ended up in that situation in the first place.
But when you’re on rock bottom, the only way is up.
Yet here I am. With Aiden Hartman, Titan Media, and the contract I signed before I knew who the subject was. That had seemed intriguing at the time. I had fun fantasizing about who it might be before learning the truth.
This will be a big one, Vera had said. Career-defining, possibly.
Like a fish, I’d been baited and hooked. I wanted this deal so badly because of what I stand to get after. An entire year to spend investigating and writing a story of my choosing.
Writing memoirs has been great. A way to hone my craft and a stellar means to pay the bills while flitting from town to town and story to story. But the old dream hadn’t died… and even now, when I should run, it’s what I’m clinging to.
Vera had promised. Impress her entire team with this sensitive project, and they’d trust me with a story of my own. I’d be a published author, with a book under my own name.
My fingers tighten around the notepad I’m holding. It’s not my only instrument. In my pocket, I have my phone with an easily accessible voice recording app. But I don’t know if Aiden will allow me to use it. Not all subjects do, at least not in the beginning.
Establish rapport.
Build trust.
Sketch out the basics of the story and identify areas of interest for a deeper dive. Create a list of other people for me to talk to—friends, siblings, parents, coaches, coworkers.
I have my process, and I need to lean on it to make it through these next two months in one piece. Bury the rest. The Gamble . My hatred for Titan. That night in Utah.
How safe I felt with his body around mine.
I take a deep breath. Release it. Repeat it several more times until I feel like I’m back in reality, in the moment I’m in. It’s one of many tricks I’ve learned to handle my anxiety.
I look at the palm trees across the street intensely, I think about nothing else than how pretty they are.
The sizable gate behind me rumbles, and I startle at the sound. I step aside to let a large Jeep drive out.
Aiden’s behind the wheel, and he’s rolled down the window beside him.
The fragile calm I’ve built wavers, but it doesn’t snap.
I look over at him. “Mr. Hartman.”
Aiden is in a navy suit, which fits him so well it must be tailored. His black hair looks even darker… slightly damp? Like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Brows drawn low, his eyes meet mine. “Have you been standing here waiting for me?”
“I like to come early,” I say. “Your time is valuable.”
“Professionalism in action,” he replies. It echoes the words we’d spoken in his office… and the unspoken vow that we’d leave Utah in the past.
“Yes.”
“How’d you get here?”
“I took a rideshare,” I say. “I assumed it would be easiest.”
He frowns, but then gives a nod. “Right. Get in, then.”
“Thank you.”
Once I’m settled in the car, he pulls out onto the quiet, curved street that runs beside his house, and we wait for the gate to close fully before he drives away.
I turn toward him in the comfort of the leather seat, my notepad in hand. I don’t look at it. This is the first interview, and setting the tone is key.
Only, it’s never been quite this nerve-racking before.
There’s a small smile to Aiden’s lips. I hate that I still like that expression. It reminds me of the resort lobby and the conversation we had. Of the moment when it felt as if I met someone who understood what I meant beyond the spoken words…
I squash the feeling. Remind myself that he runs Titan.
Remember that I have a job to do.
“Charlotte,” he says. “Where are you staying?”
“At a short-term rental in Westwood.”
He makes a thoughtful sound. “Right. It would be better if I picked you up. When we do one of these drives next time.”
“That would rob me of about ten minutes or so of your time. Right?”
A smile flashes across his face, there and gone again. “Yes, I guess it would. I don’t think you’ve lived in Los Angeles before, right? If I remember correctly.”
“No, I haven’t. Just been here a few times.” I give him a professional smile. The allusion to our previous conversation won’t throw me off. “But you’re born and raised here. Partly in Brentwood, just down here, and then in Malibu. Is that true?”
He gives a single nod. “It is.”
“Do you still have a house out there? In Malibu?”
“Yes.” His hands tighten around the wheel. “Would you like coffee, Charlotte? We can stop on the way to the office.”
“Oh, I don’t need?—”
“I do.” Judging by the faint shadow along his jaw, he hasn’t shaved today. “Let’s make this little meeting more interesting.”
“Coffee makes things more interesting to you,” I say. My voice comes out dry, and damn it, I don’t mean to be bantering here. I’m supposed to be forming a working relationship.
Aiden chuckles. “I’ll think more clearly after I have some, yes.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say. So, he’s fielding questions about where he grew up. Something I already have information about in my papers.
Lovely.
Time for a different tactic.
I look past him, out the window. “Do you take the same route to work most days?”
“I do, yeah,” he says. “I often stop on the way at a cafe in Westwood on the way and pick up coffee. Best coffee in this area of town.”
“A daily ritual?”
“I suppose you could say that,” he says. “How do you take yours?”
“My coffee?”
His eyes flit to mine, like he’s the interviewer. I’ve lost control of this conversation. “Yes.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Never?” There’s a faint thread of amusement in his voice. “One might think you’re a sober-living kind of person, but I know you drink alcohol.”
Another mention of that night.
“I’ve just never learned to enjoy the taste. I like the smell, though,” I say like an absolute idiot. Establish rapport, Charlotte.
“What other state-altering substances have you tried, Ms. Gray?” His voice is a steady drawl, his head back against the headrest.
“I didn’t know I was the one having a memoir written about me,” I tell him.
His lips curve. “Maybe I want to get to know my memoirist a bit better.”
“Worried about my professionalism?” I ask. “Don’t worry, your team is welcome to drug test me any day. Aside from the occasional glass or two of wine, I’m not even a drinker.”
“Not even a drinker,” he repeats, the small smile still there on his face.
“How about you? Any substances you regularly abuse?” I let my little notepad slide down behind my outer thigh, trapping it against the door. For whatever reason, he wants this conversation to be a game.
Very well. I can play.
“I abuse a lot of substances,” he says easily. “Most of them legal.”
“Coffee,” I supply.
“That’s one of them, yes.”
I don’t let my eyes waver from his. “Are you going to make me guess the others?”
“Is any of this great material for a corporate memoir?”
“We’re building a working relationship,” I say. “Anything could be useful as background information.”
“Alcohol,” he says. “Preferably scotch; bourbon if that’s not around. A good whiskey works, too. Cold beer on a warm day. If needed, I might even share a bottle of wine with a beautiful woman while playing poker. All perfectly legal.”
My eyebrows lift. “ If needed ? It was your idea.”
His grin flashes again, followed by a brief chuckle. It lights him up. Makes the handsome features almost painful to look at, and reminds me of the challenging, infuriating, carefree man I’d met at the resort.
I shake my head and try to get a grip on the situation. “Any of the illegal substances?”
“You just won’t let this go, will you?” he asks lightly. “Like a dog with a bone. I saw on your CV that you studied journalism in college after a gap year. Did they teach you this? To pin your subjects against a wall and never let them go.”
That makes me scoff, it’s so untrue. “You’re incredibly unpinned, Mr. Hartman.”
“Aiden,” he corrects me. “Call me Aiden.”
I try not to let the deep timbre of his voice throw me off. “Aiden. Tell me about your drug habit or don’t, that’s entirely up to you.”
“Fine,” he says. “You have wrung it out of me. I give up.”
His grandiosity makes me roll my eyes, even as a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “What is it? A little weed smoking?”
“I dabbled in other things when I was young and dumb, with friends. We were high on adrenaline and testosterone, but apparently not high enough.” He shrugs, a casual movement. “There are some worlds where cocaine is served like dessert. Brought out on a tray like crème br?lée.”
For all of his casual drawl, he sounds faintly annoyed. Served like dessert. I repeat the words to myself. If only I’d been recording this! This is exactly what I want to know.
About the man who was raised in the lap of luxury, in one of America’s wealthiest families, whose grandparents were early Hollywood elite, and whose father nearly destroyed their entire legacy.
“It sounds less tasty than crème br?lée,” I say. Another stupid comment from my end.
But Aiden just snorts. “Yeah, these days, I’d rather have the sugar. It’s just as sinful.” He nods at me, and there’s a wryness in his voice now. “I saw how your eyes lit up at that, Chaos.”
“I’m a writer,” I say. Which is why I’m here. Doing this. To get my own book with my own name on the cover and explore a topic of my own choosing.
I have a feeling I’m going to have to remind myself of the goal a lot.
“Yes, you are.” There’s a trace of bitterness in his voice, so faint that I don’t know if I’ve imagined it. “Tell me you didn’t try anything illegal, and I won’t believe it.”
These interviews are not usually about me. Sure, my subjects often want to get to know me a bit in return. Build trust. Establish rapport. But it has never gone very deep.
Somehow, I fear this time will be different.
“I’ve dabbled,” I echo his words. Lean my head against the headrest, too. Our eyes meet over the black leather console. “But after a few bad incidents with alcohol when I was young, I don’t like losing control.”
It’s an honest answer. A very honest answer, if only he knew. But he doesn’t. The gap year he referred to earlier is just that. A gap year. The only part on my CV I deliberately gloss over.
He raises an eyebrow. “Like being in control, do you?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. “Don’t you?”
“Oh, Chaos.” His deep voice turns wry once more. “Nowadays, it’s the only thing I’ve got left.”