Miss Congeniality (3 page)

Clare flicked her wrist in an attempt to brush her off. “You know what I mean. He is such a damn name-dropper it’s ridiculous. If he wasn’t one of the best, most uncomplicated lays I have ever had, I wouldn’t even talk to him.”

Raquel chuckled. “And another one falls to the power of the P.” Clare snorted, trying not to laugh, which only caused all three of them to collapse in a fit of giggles.

“The P, the tongue, the fingers. You name it, he does it, and I am oh so thankful.” She sat there with a smirk.
Lucky bitch,
Brea thought. Clare was the only one getting laid regularly. Not that Brea needed it all the time, but it was nice to know you could call someone to get some when you needed it.
Guess I’ll stick to BOB
, she sighed.

“What’s up with you?” Brea looked at Raquel, who asked the question after Brea totally spaced out and stared at the wall while she hated on orgasm-getting Clare in her head. She didn’t realize Raquel noticed, but Raquel noticed everything.

“Nothing.” Brea shook her head, moving Raquel’s legs on the couch, and ignoring her protest so she could sit beside her. “I just don’t know how Lance is going to change the dynamics of the show. We all know his reputation.”

“Is ‘America’s sweetheart’ worried he’s going to corrupt you?” This from Clare, who was always quick to make fun of their nicknames, and the way they tended to act based on public perceptions.

“No,” she sulked. “I just like the way it was going. Forget I said anything.” Brea didn’t want to continue this conversation; it would make her look like a dumbass, although the way Raquel and Clare were staring at her, she was too late to change that assessment. But how do you explain that even though you’ve never met someone, you instinctively know they are going to come in and upend your life? She was terrified and didn’t know if she would survive the ride. She shook her head to clear her wayward thoughts, knowing she was being ridiculous.

“You girls ready?” One of the production assistants stuck his head in the doorway, signaling their cue. The yearly press conference was a tradition the studio started three years ago. It was a way to generate buzz for the new season and draw in new viewers. Today, it was all about Lance. They were going to bring in the girls—The Misses were the show’s headliners, after all, but Lance was seen as the way for the show to stay on top for another year. Brea wasn’t stupid; you didn’t make it to the top of your game without knowing how things were played. So, yeah, The Misses were still the stars, but for how long? And Brea couldn’t help but consider how brown-haired, green-eyed, tatted Lance was going to affect her life when it was all said and done.

“We’d like to thank you guys for coming out here, and I know that as much as you guys wanted to talk to the Misses, the real reason you stayed was to get the scoop on any new people.” Garrett Yarborough, the lead producer spoke into his microphone, flanked on one side by Raquel and Clare while Brea was on his other. This line-up was on purpose for maximum impact. Because Lance would be playing her romantic interest, the producer felt like he should sit beside her.
Lucky me,
Brea thought, not really paying attention.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors, from Channing Tatum to Ashton Kutcher, who I can assure you, are not joining this cast.” There were chuckles; everyone had been bandying names around for weeks. Garrett waited for the laughter to die down before he began speaking again, shit-eating grin on his face. “But I think I have one better for you.” Brea glanced at the media, amused at how they stood at rapt attention. It was as if they were holding their breath, waiting on Garrett’s next words.

“Without further ado, I want to introduce you to the gentleman playing Zane Fisher on the upcoming season of
Maggie Beach
.” He held his finger up and waited, as the media sat on the edge of their seats.

“Mr….Bad Boy himself…Lance Holder.” There was a moment of silence, and then a total eruption. There were chants, cheers, clapping, and a buzzing in the air, which grew when Lance sauntered on stage from the wings. Brea turned to look, who could resist, at the sex-on-a-stick man walking toward her. No, not walking, that was too tame a word for what he was doing. In his faded jeans, worn white at his hips, white shirt, and black leather jacket, his outfit looked like the typical bad boy. But there was nothing typical about his brown hair, streaked with gold from his time in the California sun, tan skin, light-green eyes, and dazzling white smile. She knew underneath his shirt were abs you could flip a quarter on, a tribal tattoo on his right bicep, and a smattering of other tattoos on his chest.

She wanted to drool. Or take him out back into the production room. Just him, her, and the couch. Lance looked toward her and winked, and when he pointed that lethal glare on her, she bit her lip to keep from climbing up his leg. He smirked because he knew.

Damn,
Brea thought when she stopped drooling and faced front again, her thoughts reined in when she remembered the media was sitting there, waiting for any little slipup.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him sit down; if she hadn’t seen him, she definitely smelled him. Something musky, and male, but whatever lust she felt was abated when she heard him chuckle. Brea chanced a sidelong glance, and there was that damn wink again.
I need to get laid, or I am going to throw myself at him and beg him to fuck me
. She could think about that later, though, because the media wouldn’t wait for her to get control of her wayward thoughts.

“Lance, what was that about?” She heard the guy from TMZ ask. Lance leaned in, elbows on the table as he rubbed his hands together, considering the question.

He leaned in and paused; he clearly knew how to work a room. “What was what about?”

The guy gestured toward Brea. “You and Brea. Something you guys want to tell us?”

Brea’s eyes widened.
Oh no. This is not good. No fucking way am I going to be dealing with this.
Before she went to dispel the rumor, Lance took the lead.

“I never kiss and tell.” His response got the laughter he was looking for, but it also came with more buzzing in the air. She glared at him, wanting to set the record straight, when she felt his hand squeeze her leg above her knee.
Just keep smiling
, repeated on a loop in her head. The asshole knew she wouldn’t make a scene; it wasn’t in her nature, and the media couldn’t see the silent interplay between the two.
First thing on my list when we’re done: kill Lance. Second thing is to kill Garrett for hiring Lance.
She was amazed by his gall; she didn’t even know him, yet his hand had a death-grip on her thigh, commanding her to be quiet. She sat quietly while she heard him answer what seemed like a hundred questions.

There were the industry standards: what did he think of the role and why, what was he expecting from the show. Then there were the crazy ones. What did the girl he was with last night think of him and Brea? Good thing Brea had perfected her poker face, because she almost flipped her shit at that one. Lance seemed to sense her tension because he squeezed her leg again, a gentle reminder he had this—whatever the hell this was. Between the questions about the women, the motorcycle wreck he suffered six months ago, and the myriad of new tattoos which seemed to grace his body, she wondered how he did it. Given her reputation, her questions seemed tame. They were no less intrusive than his were, but at least they seemed to respect the fact she needed a modicum of privacy.

Forty-five excruciating minutes later and finally, the press conference was blessedly over. Despite Mr. Cop-A-Feel and the invasive questions about their relationship, Brea was left alone.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Lance said as they walked into the green room following the conference. The others had scattered soon after, but Brea had followed him to express her displeasure. She simply stared at him. He had clearly been hit in the head if he thought the press conference went well.

Brea tried for calm but failed miserably. Her temper didn’t flair up often but when it did, she tended to lay waste to everything in her path. “Easy for you to say, grabby hands,” she hissed. “And what the hell were you doing insinuating we had a relationship?”

“First of all, I wouldn’t have had to say shit if you didn’t try to eye-fuck me on the way in.”

Brea narrowed her eyes, gritting her teeth so she didn’t rise to his bait. “I didn’t try to eye-fuck you. And who says shit like that?”

He leaned in so close she could feel his breath, causing a tingle in the base of her spine. “The guy who you were about ten seconds away from pulling into a back room.” She pulled away, needing the distance, before glaring at him.

“And don’t touch me again without permission.”

He chewed on his bottom lip, looking her up and down as if he knew exactly where he wanted to touch her. “What pisses you off more? The fact I had to squeeze your leg to prevent you from spouting off at the mouth, or that you wanted me to squeeze much more than your leg?”

Her nostrils flared; from desire or anger, she didn’t know. They say there’s a thin line between love and hate, and she had never felt it more acutely than she did today. Her body felt as though every nerve ending was on fire. She didn’t know why this man did it for her, but he did.

“You are obnoxious as hell.” It was pretty weak as far as comebacks went, but she couldn’t think straight. All she wanted to do was feel, but she wasn’t about to give in to shit when it came to Lance.

“That all you got? You really are…nice.” When he said it like that, it made it seem like she had the plague.

“One of us has to have manners,” she replied in a way which would have made Emily Post proud.

“Yeah, and one of us had to preserve your reputation in the media. Will they speculate about us? Yes. Did I play it off so they think there’s nothing serious about us? Yes. Just wait and see what they write about you. I guarantee you will be the victim of my evil clutches.” She shifted from side to side, knowing he was probably right. They would be much more forgiving of her, but if she had said anything, they would have circled like vultures around new prey. She should probably thank him for his foresight, but he had been such an ass about everything.

“And as far as the other stuff, the shit between you and me? You look at me like that again, and I guarantee we’ll be doing a lot more than playing grabby hands under the table.” And just like that, he walked away, slamming the door on the way out. She plopped down on the couch, trying to pretend as though she didn’t want to call him back for more.

B
rea was still irritated by her reaction to Lance at the press conference three days later. After their confrontation, she met Raquel and Clare for lunch, an event which had been planned prior to the media appearance. She wanted to talk about something else, but they were all over what happened during the press conference. Thankfully, they had no idea Lance had his hand on her leg and were not privy to their argument, so it was all speculation on their part. And that’s all it was at this point: speculation. Regardless of whether he made her want to climb him like a damn tree, she was not going there. She had too much shit to worry about, and he was an unwelcome distraction at this point. All she wanted was to do well in the series and maintain her popularity. Moreover, she wouldn’t maintain her rep as Miss Congeniality hanging out with him.

Her reputation being one of the reasons she was at this promo party for the new series. It was the place to see and be seen, one of the last hoorahs before they began the grueling filming schedule in a couple days. She looked gorgeous in a short, black, strapless lace-overlay dress with the back cut out. She completed the outfit with nude, peep-toe heels, diamonds around her wrist and hanging from her ears. Her hair was a wild mass of curls, highlighting her artfully made-up face. Brea’s job was to make this look effortless; the public wouldn’t care about the hours it took to get ready. Brea loved getting dressed up, but all she wanted tonight were her sweats and her bed.

She worked the room, shaking hands and schmoozing the big wigs as she made her way to where Raquel and Clare were standing. Raquel looked as gorgeous as ever in an emerald green, floor-length dress with a slit up to her thigh. Brea knew tongues would be wagging about the daring nature of Raquel’s dress tomorrow. Her long blonde hair was arranged in a cascade of curls hanging down her right side, and she had black heels. Clare wore a powder blue dress, which reached mid-thigh, heels to match, her hair pulled back with a glittery comb.