The Naughty List (The Naughty #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Samuel

Istared at my reflection in the oversized vanity mirror, still wearing Dr. Brock Blaze’s signature white lab coat—now artfully splattered with what the props department swore was raspberry jam but looked disturbingly like arterial spray.

My hair had gone slightly flat under the stage lights.

My jawline, which Soap Opera Digest had once called “chiseled by the gods themselves,” looked as sharp as ever, but my eyes told a different story. They looked tired. Haunted, even.

I’d just filmed the season finale’s climactic scene—the one where Dr. Brock Blaze performed emergency heart surgery on his ex-lover’s current husband while confessing his undying love. To a mannequin. Because the actor playing the husband had food poisoning.

“The only heart I can’t save,” I’d intoned, staring intensely at the plastic torso on the operating table, “is my own.”

The director had literally applauded. “Emmy-worthy, Sam! Emmy-worthy!“

I wanted to die.

I peeled off the lab coat and tossed it onto the leather couch that dominated one wall of my dressing room.

The space was nicer than my first apartment in LA—all modern minimalism with pops of color courtesy of the interior designer the network had hired three years ago.

Chrome, glass, and tasteful abstract art that meant nothing to me.

A mini-fridge stocked with overpriced sparkling water.

A standing desk I’d never used. Plus, a closet full of designer suits for press junkets and award shows where I’d smile until my face hurt and answer the same five questions about Dr. Brock Blaze’s love life.

The face in the mirror looked like a stranger wearing my skin.

Twenty-four hours. That’s all I had to survive before my flight to Virginia. One month in a remote cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where hopefully nobody knew Dr. Brock Blaze and nobody cared that I’d been nominated for a Daytime Emmy three years running. One month of silence, solitude, and—

The door to my dressing room flew open with enough force to rattle the framed poster of last season’s promotional shoot.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?”

Chandra Reyes stormed in like a Category 5 hurricane stuffed into a blood-red wrap dress and six-inch heels.

Her dark hair—usually in the soft waves her character, Dr. Sienna Castellano, favored—was pulled back in a severe ponytail that screamed I will end you.

She clutched her phone in one hand, her acrylic nails painted the same shade of crimson as her dress, and thrust it toward my face.

“Look at this shit! LOOK AT IT!”

I didn’t need to look. I’d already seen the headlines this morning while stress-eating a protein bar in my car.

SOAP OPERA’S HOTTEST BACHELOR FINALLY OFF THE MARKET?

SAMUEL BENNETT AND CHANDRA REYES: THE ROMANCE WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR!

IS SAMUEL BENNETT SECRETLY STRAIGHT? SOURCES SAY YES!

The photos were everywhere: Chandra and me leaving Spago last night, her hand in mine because she’d been wearing those ridiculous stilettos and nearly face-planted on the sidewalk.

We’d gone to dinner as friends—something we’d been doing for seven years, ever since she’d joined the cast and became the only person on set who didn’t treat me like a walking Ken doll.

But the tabloids didn’t care about context. They cared about clicks.

“I know,” I said, slumping into my chair. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? SORRY?” Chandra’s voice hit a pitch that could shatter the champagne flutes in my mini-fridge.

“Samuel, you’re gay. Everyone knows you’re gay!

You came out when you were twenty years old!

You’ve been to Pride! You’ve given interviews about being a visible queer actor in daytime television!

But somehow, somehow, these assholes keep trying to make you straight! ”

She waved her phone like it had personally offended her ancestors.

“And now Danny—my Danny, who has the IQ of a decorative gourd—actually believes this shit! He called me this morning screaming about how I’m cheating on him with you!

With YOU! I told him, ‘Baby, Samuel is gayer than a pride parade on Rainbow Island,’ but does he listen?

NO! Because he’s a fucking idiot who gets his news from TMZ! “

Despite everything, I felt a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You’re dating Danny and Mario, though. Technically, you are cheating on Danny.”

Chandra pointed a lethal fingernail at me.

“That is an entirely different conversation, and we are not having it right now. Danny doesn’t know about Mario.

Mario doesn’t know about Danny. And that’s how I like it, thank you very much.

But now Danny thinks I’m sneaking around with you, which is—” She threw her hands up.

“My life is a goddamn telenovela, and I don’t even get residuals! ”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign in my throat.

Chandra’s whole life was a soap opera. She’d been engaged four times, dated two of our co-stars (simultaneously), and once punched a photographer who got too close to her niece at Disneyland.

She was chaos incarnate, and I loved her for it.

“This isn’t funny, Sam.” But she was grinning now, the anger bleeding out of her as she collapsed onto my couch. “Okay, it’s a little funny. But seriously, why do they keep doing this to you? You’re not exactly subtle about being into men.”

“I don’t know.” I scrubbed my hands over my face, feeling the residue of stage makeup under my fingers. “Maybe I’m too masculine for their narrative, or they think a gay guy can’t be the romantic lead unless he’s secretly bi. Probably they’re just homophobic assholes with a publishing deadline.”

“It’s the last one,” Chandra said flatly. She kicked off her heels and tucked her feet under her. “God, I hate this town. Remember when we got into this business because we loved acting?”

“Vaguely.”

“Yeah, me neither.” She picked up one of the throw pillows and hugged it to her chest. “At least you’re getting out of here for a while. Where are you going again? Some cabin in the woods where you can pretend to be a lumberjack?”

“Virginia. Blue Ridge Mountains.” I turned back to the mirror, starting to wipe away the makeup with cold cream.

Dr. Brock Blaze’s face slowly disappeared, revealing the real me underneath—or whatever was left of the real me after seven years of this.

“A place called Ashford Gap. Population four hundred, no paparazzi, no scripts, no—”

“No fun,” Chandra interrupted. “Sam, you’re going to lose your mind in the woods by yourself.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the door opened again—this time without the dramatic flair.

My agent, Sabrina Winstead, glided in. She was fifty-something, blonde, and terrifying in the way only women who’d clawed their way to the top of Hollywood could be.

She wore a cream-colored pantsuit that probably cost more than my first car and carried a leather portfolio that I knew contained nothing good.

“Chandra, darling,” Sabrina said without looking at her. “Out.”

“Excuse me?” Chandra sat up straighter. “I’m having a conversation with—”

“Out. Now.” Sabrina’s smile was all teeth, no warmth. “This is business.”

Chandra looked at me, and I gave her a helpless shrug. Picking a fight with Sabrina was like arguing with a shark—technically possible, but ultimately pointless. Chandra grabbed her shoes and phone, shooting Sabrina a look that could have melted steel.

“Call me when you’re back,” she said to me. “And Sam? Don’t let her talk you into anything you don’t want.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click that felt louder than Chandra’s earlier explosion.

Sabrina set her portfolio on the glass coffee table and settled into the chair across from my vanity, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. “We need to talk about your contract.”

“No.” I kept wiping away my makeup. “I told you, Sabrina. I’m not discussing this until after my vacation.”

“Samuel.” Her voice hardened, losing the honey coating. “You’re being offered three more years at double your current rate. Do you have any idea how rare that is? The network loves you. The viewers love you. You’re the face of Midnight At Magnolia General. You’d be a fool to walk away from this.”

“Maybe I’m a fool, then.”

She stood, her heels clicking against the floor as she moved closer. In the mirror, I watched her come to stand behind me, her reflection sharp and unyielding.

“You want to be a ‘serious actor,’” she said, making air quotes I felt more than saw.

“You want prestige. Film. Broadway. I get it, sweetheart, I really do. But you know what those things require? Leverage. And you know what gives you leverage? Money. Security. A fanbase that will follow you anywhere.” She leaned down, her hands on the back of my chair.

“You can’t afford to be an artist if you’re broke and irrelevant. ”

Something ugly twisted in my chest. “I’m not irrelevant.”

“Not yet. But walk away from this show, and you will be.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost kind.

“Daytime TV isn’t a stepping stone anymore, Sam.

It’s a career. And it’s a damn good one.

You’re making half a million a year to memorize ridiculous lines and look pretty.

Why are you so desperate to throw that away? ”

“Because I’m miserable!” The words exploded out of me, louder than I’d intended.

I spun in my chair to face her. “Because I spend eight hours a day pretending to be Dr. Brock Blaze, and I don’t know who Samuel Bennett is anymore!

Because I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve never done real theater, never auditioned for anything that mattered, never—”