Chapter One #2
So I dig my nails into my thigh under the table, force my lips into a smile, and pretend I don't notice the way he's watching me.
"Who did you cast for the lead again?" I ask Liam because I know ignoring Asher will piss him off.
It works.
His hazel eyes narrow in warning, his long fingers plucking impatiently at the label on the bottle of Peroni my brother ordered for him. His jaw works like he's determined to grind down his own teeth. Part of me hopes he breaks them and shatters his own damn jaw in the process.
But even if he did, it'd probably only make him more beautiful. Just like the small scars scattered across his gorgeous face do. I know every single one of them by memory. I also know for a fact that there are others beneath the starched collar of his shirt. There are tattoos, too.
I know because I've been obsessed with him for longer than he's hated me.
I hate myself for it almost as much as I hate him.
"What's next for you, baby sister?" Liam asks.
"What?" I stare at him blankly.
Asher makes a sound that's part amusement, part impatience, and I want to gnash my teeth in frustration. He knows he's getting to me. Dammit.
"What's next for you?" Liam repeats, oblivious to the way Asher is staring at me. "You just graduated. What's the plan?" His green eyes dance with amusement. "Are you ready to come to work for me yet?"
"Absolutely not," I blurt, horrified at the thought. "I'm going to work for one of the management agencies in the city." At least, that's the plan. I have resumes out with most of them.
Entertainment is in my family's blood. Both of our parents were big movie stars before they were killed in a boating accident when I was fourteen.
Liam is a big-shot director. But my interests have always fallen more on the business side of the industry.
I want to help nurture and manage the people who turn into stars, not become one myself.
The world watches me enough, thank you very much. There's not a chance in hell I'll ever willingly invite people to keep prying into my life by following in my mom's footsteps.
Asher goes perfectly still, his fork hovering midway to his mouth. There's a moment, a single heartbeat, where I'm sure he's going to launch himself over the table, but I resist the urge to turn and meet his eyes. If I do, he'll see everything. He always does.
Hell will freeze over before I ever admit that I'm following in his footsteps. In addition to a dozen other ventures, he owns the most successful talent management agency in the country. A-List celebs kill themselves trying to convince his firm to take them on.
He doesn't manage anyone directly, but everyone dances on his strings anyway.
The whole damn industry quivers when they hear his name because they know he will make life hell for everyone if they don't play by his rules.
It's ridiculous how much power he has, but when every big star in the country is signed to his company, even studio execs break a sweat when he isn't happy.
A small army of waiters appears at the door, covered dishes in hand. The table falls silent as they serve us, topping off glasses and fussing with our silverware until they're placed just so.
"I want to start at the bottom and work my way up," I add once they've cleared out.
"No freebies, no handouts." That last part is for Asher; I want him to hear it.
I want him to know that I'm not a pawn for him to move around a chessboard.
One way or another, I will be free of him.
He may have inspired my career choice, but he doesn't get a say in how it unfolds.
Liam laughs, his fork already in hand. "You're such a goddamn purist. You could run a whole studio by now if you just—"
Asher cuts him off, his voice a low, controlled drawl. "Maybe she wants to see what failure tastes like before she gets bored and comes crawling back."
The insult is so casual it almost slides right off, but I'm so keyed up, it hits the mark. I force a saccharine smile. "Not as much as you'd like to watch it happen."
Asher's mouth twitches. He's amused, which means I've lost.
Liam snorts. "You're wasting your time, Brie. If you want to do something meaningful, you should work for Asher. He runs the best agency in the city—hell, the country."
"Absolutely not," I snap, sharper than I intended as I cut into a piece of roasted duck.
"I'm doing this on my own." I don't say that I'd rather be set on fire and rolled down Fifth Avenue, but it's the truth.
I don't care how powerful he is, I'd rather die than work for him, and I'm not even joking.
A muscle in Asher's jaw flexes. His amusement is gone, replaced by a cold sort of focus that makes my blood run cold.
"You're making a mistake," my brother says, stabbing a green bean like it pissed him off.
"Nobody will give you more insight and knowledge than Asher's firm.
If you want to make it as an agent, you need him, whether you want to admit it or not.
" He grins, using that older brother tone that implies he knows better than me. "Besides, he likes you."
I glare at him. "As if that ever stopped him from ruining my life."
The table goes silent.
Asher's grip on his bottle turns white.
"Jesus, Brie," Liam mutters, dropping his fork. "That was an accident. You know that."
I flinch as I realize what they think I'm talking about. The accident. My skin prickles with embarrassment. "That's not what I meant."
I think it might be, though. Isn't that really where Asher's psychotic obsession with ruining my life started?
If I could gather every second of my life that's ended in humiliation and string them together, the worst of them would spell Asher's name.
And they'd all start in the very same place: the night of that damn accident.
He's staring at me now, unblinking. There's no anger on his face, just a flat kind of interest, as if he's waiting to see if I'll actually admit the truth.
That look on his face makes my stomach churn, dredging up every memory I've tried to bury of that night…
the night I kissed him, thinking everything between us might finally become something real.
It was a week before my eighteenth birthday. Liam had a big party, which he claimed was for me, but no one I knew was there. Asher caught me talking to some guy and made me leave early. He drove me home in his Mercedes, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of us, not even speaking to me.
I was tipsy and reckless and thirteen kinds of heartbroken over the fact that the only time he ever seemed to see me was when I was talking to someone else.
I asked him why he always ignored me unless I was talking to some guy.
He didn't answer. He just drove faster, like he could outpace the question.
I told him that I loved him. That I always had. I said it softly, staring out the window, so he'd have to strain to hear it. I wanted every ounce of his attention focused on me and my confession.
When I glanced over, he was gripping the wheel so tightly the leather creaked. He turned to face me, his eyes dark and wild. "No, princess. You don't."
"I do," I whispered, reaching for him, because I was young and stupid and had never learned how to take no for an answer.
Because I was convinced he wanted me the same desperate way I wanted him and was just too noble to admit it.
Why else did he try so hard to keep me from talking to anyone else with a dick?
He jerked away, his voice harsh. "You don't know what you want, Brielle. You never have. You're just a spoiled little girl who thinks the whole world should bend for her. Newsflash, princess: It's not fucking happening. I don't love you."
I hated him for rejecting me with such contempt, for making me feel small and childish. So I did something even more reckless. I unbuckled my seatbelt, leaned across the console, and kissed him before he could stop me.
I didn't really expect him to kiss me back, but he did.
It was nothing like I'd imagined. It wasn't gentle or hesitant.
It was a collision, a mouth-to-mouth crash that seared the inside of my skull.
His hand shot to the back of my head, crushing me to him, his lips parting mine in a bruising, hungry press that tasted like whiskey and desperation.
I was lost in him and the way he growled my name…
right up until he shoved me away so hard my head hit the window.
He said my name, a broken, terrified rasp of sound.
I barely had time to register the red light he'd run, or the garbage truck before it slammed into my side of the car, turning the world to chaos around us.
Asher pulled me out of the wreckage before the paramedics arrived.
I remember the blood on his shirt and the frantic hammer of his heart against my cheek.
I remember the way he pressed his face into my hair, choking on a wild sob as he tried to stop the bleeding.
I remember how every inch of my body hurt, and I couldn't breathe as I stared at him, thinking maybe he was the last thing I'd ever see.
"Don't you dare close your eyes," he'd whispered, his face swimming in and out of focus. "Don't you dare fucking die on me, princess."
I wanted to obey, but I closed them anyway.
I woke up in the hospital a few days later to learn that I hadn't just closed my eyes. I'd died for three whole minutes. I had a concussion, a missing spleen, a punctured lung, several broken ribs, a broken arm, and a new, bottomless reservoir of self-hatred.
Everyone said Asher did CPR until the paramedics arrived. They said he saved my life that night. They never mentioned that I almost ruined his. He never told them what really happened, not even when he was arrested for reckless driving and a felony DUI because of the accident.