Skin Deep

By L. R. Couch

Hot, talent and a heart of gold... resistence is futile

Keller Scott wants to embrace his inner Buscemi and channel his Dafoe, but damn, if his looks don't keep getting in the way. He's dying to be taken seriously as an actor and land some legit roles that don't feature him shirtless, or worse. His playboy reputation precedes him, but that's not who he is on the inside. Lately, he's not even sure where Hollywood's version ends and the real Keller Scott begins.

Enter Joey Mitchell. When she shows up at his office, vying to be his next Personal Assistant, Keller has no doubt that this Summa Cum Laude, USC grad is perfect for the position. She's hot; petite and curvy in all the right places. But, a starry-eyed fan girl she's not. Joey packs a mean left hook, along with some blistering hot pepper-spray. She kicks ass and takes names and doesn't hesitate to put Keller in his place, a few times. On the outside, she's all business and confidence for days, but on the inside, she's broken and barely holding it together. Too many secrets and too much sorrow have taken their toll.

Keller and Joey's lives collide on a more personal level when her best kept secret steals his heart. What begins as a PR goldmine in a pediatric cancer ward, becomes something else entirely. One amazing kid, with a spirit as big as the sky and eyes just as blue- has love enough to bring out the very best in Keller and help Joey heal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jan 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781947128781

Book preview

Chapter One

Keller

Don’t hate me because I’m hot. It’s just who I am, who I’ve always been. Throw in the fact that I’m a Scott and well, it just doesn’t get any better than that…at least not in Hollywood. My mother is Felicity Scott; Oscar Award-winning actress…six times now, not to mention all the other awards she’s garnered over the years. She’s still America’s sweetheart, for fuck’s sake. I got my good looks from her. My father? Not so much: gangly, red hair and pale as a ghost. Thank God for my mother’s Guatemalan genes.

What the hell, Gabe? I say to my agent of ten years. It’s not like I asked her to fuck me.

Jesus Christ, I’m more than just a little offended when he tells me I’m damn lucky she didn’t accuse my ass of sexual harassment.

And that was six months ago, by the way, I remind him.

Sometimes he can be such a hard-ass, always telling me what to do about this and what not to do about that. But I swear to God, every time over the years when I’ve wanted to tell him to fuck off as well as remind him that he’s not my goddamn father, I just can’t do it. The truth is, Gabe Maxwell is more like a father to me than my own father ever was.

I asked her to do me a favor, Gabe. No more, no less. Unless of course, she’d wanted more… In my head, I’m picturing the lovely Holly doing exactly what I asked her to do and then some.

Yeah well, typically Keller, Gabe replies, asking your personal assistant to suck your dick isn’t considered a favor, much less a part of the job description.

Yeah well, I fire the attitude right back, I got news for you Gabe. She more than wanted it but got pissed when I called her Staci by mistake.

It’s true, every word of it. In fact, she already had her hand wrapped around my cock and was going down for the count. It was only after the name Staci slipped out of my mouth that the claws came out. She’d slapped me hard, but didn’t leave a mark, thank God. And then, when I told her not to let the door hit her in the ass on the way out, she told me what I could do with the job and my round-about termination. Shockingly, Holly knew of more than eight places on the human body where I could shove my thwarted attempt to fire her, as well as the shit-tastick job itself.

I don’t elaborate on the particulars for Gabe. He doesn’t want to hear them anyway. I wince as I catch a glimpse of his face when he thinks I’m not watching. Fuck, I hate the look in his eyes when I’ve disappointed him—a regular thing these days it seems.

You’re just as bad as they are, those assholes at TMZ, Gabe says, out of the blue, catching me with my pants down, no pun intended. They paint a picture of you to the world and then rake it in hand over fist as you bust your ass proving them right. I can’t sit back and watch you do this anymore. I know the real Keller Scott, and shit like this, right here, screwing everything in high heels…isn’t who you are, not by a longshot, kid.

Acting is both a blessing and a curse, no different than sex appeal, I guess. Sometimes it’s hard to stay grounded, or hell, even remember where the ground is when you’re riding that wave. It’s easy as fuck to get caught up in the game. Gabe’s right though. I’m spiraling and it’s only a matter of time before I lose my It factor…that thing that keeps me at number one on anyone’s hottie list. Time, that bastard, has a way of creeping up on you. Hotness doesn’t last forever; I don’t care who your plastics guy is. Siempre recuerda quien eres, my Grams used to tell me. Always remember who you are. These days, that’s easier said than done.

I want to be, more than anything, the man Gabe still believes me to be, despite episode after episode of fuck-ups, but I can’t. Besides, right now he’s back in agent mode. Gabe’s too fired up and busy telling me how lucky I am that she quit instead of quietly accepting her termination. According to Gabe and his legal team—that I pay a damn fortune for—the quitting part is the only thing that saved my ass.

And that still doesn’t guarantee that she won’t come after you, Gabe says. After her temper dies down, her bills start piling up and she starts seeing dollar signs, in the form of The National Enquirer’s report-a-story hotline.

Damn. Gabe’s right, as usual. I swear to God; all anyone ever wants is a piece of me.

Listen, Gabe says, no doubt feeling bad after being so hard on me, I’ve sifted through some resumes, and I think that the next personal assistant we hire is going to be a guy.

What? I look at him like he has six heads. No. Hell no. There is no way I’m going to bring that kind of mess into my camp. Fuck no.

Before you completely lose your shit, Keller, just listen, Gabe says. It’s a good move, and it’s not gonna go the way you’re assuming it will.

Really? Gabe’s fucking whack. I mean, how could he not have the same sordid images and lies running through his head as I do at the moment? Sure as fuck, if he did have those kinds of images running through his head right now, his mind would have declared mutiny and taken a detour two minutes ago. That’s all I need. Lies about me involved with a dude? Christ, even the hint of it makes me want to puke. I’d gladly have to pay off a chick with a chip on her shoulder any day than become the, is he or isn’t he celeb du jour. No thanks. Not happening.

You’re kidding, right Gabe? Nope. Gabe just stares back at me. Fuck, do you not see this going all kinds of bad, fast?

Oh? I didn’t. Gabe grins. After all these years working with you, Keller… I had no idea you were so inclined.

Not funny Gabe, not even remotely. All it would take is for some dude to make up a lie about me, and I’d be fucked, career in the toilet, not to mention my love life. When I think about everything I have my PAs do, I cringe at the thought of some dude taking over.

Gabe, of course, rolls his eyes at me, no doubt thinking that his number one client is some kind of Neanderthal-moron. Of course, that’s not the case at all. I’m all about to each his own, but this is fucking Hollywood. Any hint of suspicion about anything really, not just a dude’s sexual preference, stays with you for life. In today’s politically correct world, they say that shit doesn’t matter and that a person can’t legally judge another person based upon which way he swings his dick, but that’s crap too. I mean, you can spin it forward, backward, and sideways Rumpelstiltskin-style, until it turns into fucking gold, but everyone knows what it really is. Simply put, people will find a way to discriminate against you no matter what you do.

Of course, no one would ever admit they didn’t hire so-and-so because he was gay and get away with it. That would be a whole other shit-storm entirely. But they could say so-and-so isn’t right for the part or make up something else to slap onto a dude’s resume for the rest of his career. No dudes for me, no thanks.

Whatever Gabriel…just make sure she’s pretty, I say, hoping to dodge that bullet altogether. I look over just in time to watch the smart-ass grin populate on his face.

Joey Mitchell, graduated at the top of his class at USC.

Damn him. I stare daggers into his balding head. He’s not gonna get his way with this one. I said no dudes, and I mean no dudes. Despite what Gabe thinks, he doesn’t know everything, and he sure as fuck doesn’t know what’s best for me all the time.

Great, a Trojan. Fucking great. What’s his major? Philosophy? European culture? His alma mater brings to mind Trojan condoms, which in turn brings to mind some tom-fuckery that he, no doubt is involved in with his partners. Fuck, that image alone makes my dick go limp. Gabe rolls his eyes at me.

Marketing and finance with a minor in English Lit., actually, he says, and oh yeah, there was something about the football team.

I roll my eyes right back at him and shake my head for effect. Just because a dude’s on a football team doesn’t mean he’s into chicks. Maybe I should remind him of that fact.

Even better, I laugh, some steroid-overloaded Trojan who wants to make me his fuck buddy. The look on Gabe’s face is priceless. I imagine the thought of that happening has some pretty freaky images cluttering up his head right about now. Good.

You, my friend, Gabe says back to me, have issues. He starts to gather papers and shit, stacking them neatly and then sliding them into his leather messenger bag. I’m serious Keller, you either do this or I’m gonna peace out on your arrogant ass.

What the fuck? He can’t be serious. He’s been my agent ever since I started in the biz, back when I was just a kid. I raise my eyebrows and stare back at him. Right Gabe, I scoff, waiting for him to smile and blow the hell out of his own attempt at a joke or a threat to give me a fucking heart attack. But he doesn’t. Holy fuck. Gabe doesn’t even blink. He’s serious.

I’m not joking, Keller, Gabe says, just as serious as the heart attack I might end up having after all, at the ripe old age of twenty-six. You’re killing me, kid…I can’t do this anymore. I’m too old for this shit.

He can’t do what anymore? Panic mixes with pissed off inside my head. What can’t he do anymore? Live off of the generous six figure salary I pay him that goes up substantially every fucking year? Not to mention his percentage of my profits. Or maybe it’s the ten weeks of paid vacay he gets every year that he can’t take anymore?

What are you talking about Gabe? I ask him, point blank. Is being my agent, ever since I’ve been able to walk, such a terrible thing?

Gabe releases a drawn out, defeated sigh and then takes his bag off his shoulder. Jesus Christ. He shakes his head. You’re like a son to me, and you know it, but I can’t just sit here and watch as your life and your career take a nose dive…you’re better than this, kid. I know it, because I’ve seen it. Don’t buy into the hype, Keller—it’s not who you are.

The surprised look I am sure I have on my face does nothing but piss him off…and Gabe never gets pissed off.

Don’t give me that look, you little shit, Gabe fires back. You know that I have just as much invested in you as your own mother, for fuck’s sake! Three PAs in six months? You’re out of control Keller…in your personal and professional life, and I can’t just stand here and watch while you piss your life away being an asshole!

Ouch…Gabe’s on a roll. Harsh. I mutter as he gathers up his shit again to leave.

Gabe just shakes his head and turns toward the door. Uh-huh, that’s what I thought, just like the asshole I know and love, he says over his shoulder. And by the way, he’ll be here at six o’clock sharp.

What about you Gabe? I ask. Are you coming back to babysit? I can hear him laughing from the hallway.

No need, he says. It’s a done deal on my end. I know all I need to know about him.

I’m just about to come back with something fucking genius, just to piss him off, but Gabe has already left the building. If I hadn’t seen Gabe’s face when he talked about peacing out on me, I wouldn’t give this interview another thought. I’d go ahead with my plans for the evening, hell, for the weekend and meet up with my boys at the bar. Damn, if it hasn’t been almost two days since our last pussy pursuit. No, scratch that. I guess the make-up chick giving me head in between takes yesterday counts for something.

For the record, Gabe is right about burning through three PAs in six months. In my defense, though, Holly chose to leave, sort of, over a fucking miscommunication for Christ’s sake. I told her several times in fact, that I was sorry when I realized her name wasn’t Staci, and I would have still gladly let her blow me…if she hadn’t slapped me.

Doing anything to my face, apart from sitting on it or kissing it for mutual pleasure, goes against my number one rule when it comes to physical contact. Never, ever fuck with the face. As vain as that sounds, I’m much more than just a pretty face. I do have a brain beneath this head full of perfectly thick, dark hair. Despite all the bank my mother paid for my elite, private school education—I can’t deny that my looks are my bread and butter.

As for the others? Stella, with her thigh-high stiletto boots, was incredibly hot but a little too dark for my taste. She wasn’t just into having kinky, hot sex. That, I do on the regular. She wanted me to tie her up and shit…and use something that looked a whole lot like a cattle prod. Definitely not my taste. Last but not least, except in the looks department, was Imelda. Hell, there’s no way to say this delicately. She was just fugly. Sitting here at my desk thinking about her and her man hands makes my stomach twist in on itself. No thanks, I don’t do fugly anything.

In addition to the controversial but consensual (if I’m lying, I’m dying…) three, I tried to include yet another lovely lady named Kasey into the formerly known as Keller’s PA category, but Gabe as usual, had been quick to correct me. Honest to God, she couldn’t keep her hands off me either and she had, hands down, the best, most uber-magnificent rack known to man. Fuck, I can still hear Gabe reminding me that Kasey was my massage therapist, not my PA and certainly not my on-demand hook up. In hindsight, that probably explains her reaction when I asked her to rub my cock…with her mouth.

The more I think of having a fucking man-servant in my world…the angrier I get. This isn’t an interview at all. It’s more like a sentence that I have to serve to make Gabe happy. Fuck. What’s the fun in having a dude as my personal assistant? I like having some cute little thing, chick thing that is, at my beck and call. Honey, get me a latte. Babe, cancel my meeting. Sugar tits, come rub my shoulder, and anything else I want you to rub while you’re at it.

By throwing a dude into the mix, Gabe has single-handedly, all but ruined the hell out of having a personal assistant at all, and I so enjoy looking at sugar tits. Or, better yet… Yep, my mind goes there, conjuring a beautiful set of C’s, fuck-near D’s, poured into a low-cut T-shirt and then watching them bounce toward me, as they bring me my itinerary for the day.

Hello, sugar-tits. Sitting here at my desk, I’m eye to nipple with my fantasy perfect tits, feeling the hand of the owner of said tits, stroking my cock. She’s my very own Yes-sir, Mr. Scott, sir to whatever I need at any given time, Personal Assistant…who is just about to blow my ever-loving mind. And then, my cell vibrates in my hand.

Christ… I look down and see that it’s only after three. It’s Fish, one of my boys, wanting to know if I’m up for meeting him and the guys down at Flynn-Foley’s Pub later. Hell yeah I am. I text and hit send. After today, I’m going to need a beer or ten.

What the fuck am I going to do for three goddamn hours while I wait for the Trojan to rear his ugly head? Fuck if I don’t crack myself up. I can’t help but laugh at my play on words. A real stroke of genius, even if I do say so myself.

Chapter Two

Joey

I seriously hope I don’t regret this. I mean, it’s not exactly what I dreamed I’d be doing when I graduated magna cum laude from USC. All the years I spent fighting and trying to make a name for myself finally paid off when I earned myself an all-expense paid, academic scholarship to the number one school on my very short list.

It’s too far away, Joey, my dad said. Who’s gonna look out for you? Your brothers won’t be there to watch your back.

He’s a retired Marine, as mean as they come. As the last of four Mitchell grunts, I’m the smallest. My three older brothers? Not so much. They’re huge…freakishly so, if you ask me. But nobody does, ask me that is, because most people don’t even know that I exist when the three elder Mitchells are around.

I guess when you’re six-seven and broad as a barn, it’s easy to steal the show. Throw in a tan, muscled bod and blond, all-American good looks, and heck, you own the show and anything else you want. Dane is the oldest, and he’s all the above and then some. Smart too, something that has served him well in his chosen field. The only thing that Dane has ever done wrong, according to my dad anyway, was choosing the Navy over the Marine Corps. Dane’s a SEAL and damn good at it too. But going against the old man took some kind of balls. Dad’s come to terms with it, I think…especially since Dane has earned quite a name for himself and more respect than the POTUS himself.

And then there’s Cody. If I hear my dad say that Cody is the brains of the family one more time, I might have to start cutting myself. It’s true, Cody is smart, freakishly so, if you ask me. He graduated from high school when he was only sixteen and waltzed right into Columbia University’s Medical College. I guess if I ever need an orthopedic surgeon, I know who to call.

Standing at a mere six feet-five inches, Ely Mitchell is the smallest of my three brothers. He’s also the kindest and most sensitive of all of us. While the rest of us watched the Super Bowl and played our own version of the game out back during the half-time shows, Ely read the likes of Chaucer, Johnson, and Faulkner. If he wasn’t reading, he was writing. True to his passion still today, he supports himself as a writer, hoping for that one, big break.

Jeez…Looking back, I always thought of myself as one of the backyard players, but as a rule, I was always the designated referee. That’s just one of the reasons why I had to get as far away from them as I could. If I’d stayed in North Carolina, I’d still be invisible, the forgotten Mitchell, or worse. Here in Cali, at least I’m my own person, with my own dreams, thank you very much. And my own secrets.

The truth is, I need this job. I need the benefits more than I need a glamorous title or a cushy office in some high rise in LA or New York, for that matter. My plate is full—overflowing actually—and I can’t ask my family for help. I just can’t. Too many questions lead to impromptu visits, judgements, and pain at my expense, and that’s something I simply can’t afford financially (obviously) or emotionally.

So, here I am, straightening my tie and practicing my most confident smile in the mirror before heading out the door. You got this…I wink and tell the desperate, youngest, invisible Mitchell staring back at me. Hoping to believe it, I grab my bag and head to my interview.

Chapter Three

Keller

So help me Jesus, if this fuck wad is even one minute late, I’m out of here. Screw you, Saint Gabe. Despite not wanting to be here at all, I have managed to read through the two scripts currently taking up prime space on my desk. These represent only two out of the seven that were sent to Gabe earlier in the week. As my agent, he wades through the crap and then shows me the hopefuls, if there are any. After reading through Erased, a story about a former Navy SEAL who is chosen to participate in a classified military experiment, essentially turning him and a handful of others into lethal amnesiac-killing machines for the US Government, me thinks that old St. Gabe is losing his touch.

Fuck me… I almost laugh when I read the hook: An elite killing machine, physically enhanced by science in addition to years spent as a SEAL fighting for his country, Michael Pace has no idea who he used to be. All he knows is what they want him to know in order to get the job done. When Pace goes rogue and runs out of meds, he starts to have flashbacks of his former life and has to know more. He has to know who he was no matter what the price.

Gabe can’t be serious. A fucking Jason Bourne knock off? Hell. No. I’d sooner do some lame reality TV show. Nobody does Bourne like Matt Damon, period.

Awesome, I say, tossing it straight into the trash, fucking awesome.

The second script, Sequestered, has me hooked from the beginning. There’s nothing better than a good legal thriller to boost a guy’s career. Unlike the first, it has potential. I’m just getting into it too, when I hear the knock at my door. I glance at my cell, immediately disappointed that it is five-fifty-six.

Four minutes to spare, I whisper, as I roll my eyes and prepare to make the fuck wad’s life a living hell.

At least you’re punctual… I mumble, kicked back in my chair with my feet on the desk. Come in, I say louder.

I can hear him clearing his throat, and then the door opens slowly. Pussy…I shake my head…not an assertive bone in his body. Didn’t this fuck wad learn about first impressions and confidence, or at least how to fake it, at USC?

That’s right, all the way inside, I say. Cross the threshold, you can do it. The door opens a little bit wider. Good Christ…what the fuck is he waiting on? Hello? I’m getting older by the second here.

Now I’m flustered, maybe even a little pissed off, because the dude apparently doesn’t even own a man card. Visions of a flamboyant, overt, gender bent nightmare flash in my head as I close my eyes and wish that I’d partaken of a drink, or hell, a whole bottle of something before now.

Finally, the door closes and I allow myself a moment. I count to ten and try to find some inner peace before I have to go through the motions of an interview with this wad. That’s what I’ll be doing too, just going through the motions because there’s no way in hell I’m turning my camp into a freak show. Uh-uh, not happening…sorry Gabe.

Uh-hum. He clears his throat again and goddamn if he doesn’t sound even more pussified up close.

I ease my head down onto my desk and start to chuckle. What a shit show. What a waste of my time, having to sit here all day, for this?

"Look here, Joey, I say, my forehead still smashed against my desk. I don’t think that this is gonna be a good fit." Here goes nothing. Reluctant to do so, I peel my head off the desk. I’m sure that you’ll find something, I say—like the circus or some Cabaret freak show—and then open my eyes.

What the fuck? I close my eyes and open them again just to be sure. Why yes, Mr. Scott, sir…I smile, staring into the big, brown eyes of a chick right here in my office.

Whoa, whoa sweetheart. My smile fades as I grope for my cell, so I can call the rent-a-cop I pay to obviously act as security at the main entrance. He is so fucking fired… How the fuck did you get up here?

Brown eyes looks over her shoulder, like she thinks I’m talking to someone else and then looks back at me like I’m the one out of place here.

The…elevator? she says slow-ly, still standing in my office.

Wait…did I tell her to get the fuck out yet? To be honest, I’m not even sure. Right now, I’m the fucking quarterback who just got blind-sided at the big game.

Well, I need you— I start to say, to get the fuck back on the el-e-va-tor and get the hell out of my office.

But then she tilts her head just a little to the right, purses those beautiful, full, red lips, and stares back at me with eyes the color of milk fucking chocolate.

You need me to… She says it like I’m some mental feeb, repeating me word for word.

Christ! Did I just gasp? Mortified, sort of, I see it come to life in my head; my dick finishing the sentence my brain started. I need you to…Take off all your clothes, except for that cute little purple tie around your neck of course. Get on your knees? Suck my cock? Sit on my face? I close my eyes again to try and blink the images away.

Look, I say, I don’t know who let you up here, but I need you to leave before I call the real cops. Great, now she’s staring at me like I’m crazy too. Do you speak English? I ask, like a smart-ass, This isn’t an autograph session sweetie, get it?

I don’t even realize that I’ve taken a couple of steps in her direction until I see her reaching for something inside her bag that’s almost as big as she is, by the way. What the hell? When I see what it is she has ready in her dainty little hand, I take at least three strides away from her, almost tripping over the chair just to the right of my desk.

Don’t come any closer, perv, she says, looking all serious and shit. I won’t hesitate to light you’re face up and then kick your nose so hard you’ll be sniffing wax from your left ear for the rest of your miserable life.

Jesus Christ—I gape at her and hold my hands up to surrender—she’s fucking crazy. I slowly take my seat back behind my desk, making sure to push the panic button hidden under the top, several times in fact.

Okay, okay, Black Widow, I say. Just put that shit away; you’re the one who’s uninvited here, not me. Do you know who I am? I’m guessing no or she’d be all over me already, in a good way. Finally…I breathe a sigh of relief when the rent-a-cop opens my door.

Mr. Scott? he asks, looking confused as he stands there…un-fucking-armed. Jesus, I’m surrounded by incompetence. What’s the problem here? He looks back and forth between me and the Widow. Are you okay, Ms. Mitchell?

Is she okay? I say, pissed as fuck. Did you just ask her if she’s okay, asshole?

I’m up and out of my seat again and six shades of red, I’m sure. Then sure as shit, the rent-a-cop pulls a fucking stun gun from out of nowhere, and he’s looking at me. As I sit back down, again with my hands held high above my head, images of me with swollen, irritated, red eyes and the shiner I got when I fell and hit my head after the stun gun zapped me, puts me in panic mode. Never touch the face…

What the hell’s going on? I ask. Did you let her up here? Rent-a-cop points to himself. Yeah, dickhead, I say. You."

Of course, Mr. Scott, he scoffs. She’s your six o’clock interview…didn’t Gabe tell you?

Stunned, I look back and forth between rent-a-cop and Black Widow and everything becomes crystal clear. "Ms. Mitchell? Joey Mitchell?"

In the flesh, she says, still fondling the can of fire in her right hand.

Joey, magna cum laude, Trojan from USC, and the football team, Mitchell? I am damn-near giddy with excitement.

Yes, yes, yes, and not exactly. I helped out with PT.

PT? Rent-a cop asks. My cousin played ball for USC back in two-thousand…never went anywhere though…he’s an accountant down in Texas.

Black Widow’s all smiles, pretending she gives a fuck about the rent-a-cop’s football player turned accountant cousin, while I sit here wondering how the hell my day turned to shit in just a matter of minutes.

I helped the physical therapists. She finally turns her attention back to me.

Oh sweetheart… Yep, my mind goes there again, even under threat of bodily harm. My gaze searches, trying to get an idea of what lies beneath that ill-fitting suit. I just bet you did, and probably all the players too. She’s smallish, maybe five-two? I can’t be sure since I haven’t been able to get a good look at anything above or below the level of her right hand. Self-preservation kicks in at the thought of my nose sniffing wax from my left ear for the rest of my miserable life. I look down and see she’s still holding that can of fire in her right hand.

"Joey, Ms. Mitchell, I say to Black Widow and then turn to rent-a-cop. Mr.?"

It takes him a solid few seconds before he realizes I’m asking for his name. He says nothing and points to himself again. Deep breath in, I remind myself, as I nod to encourage him to please tell me his name. So I can report your ass and get some real help in here, preferably someone on my side.

Mack, he says. Mack Wagner, Mr. Scott.

Well, Mr. Mack Wagner…Ms. Mitchell, I say. Obviously, there’s been a huge mix-up here. I was under the distinct impression, according to my agent and good friend Gabe that you, Ms. Mitchell, were supposed to be a dude. You can imagine then, when I see a chick, I mean, a woman come through my door, how I might get a little confused?

Ahh, Mack the rent-a-cop says, as if I give a fuck about his opinion. A classic case of mistaken identity.

Exactly, asshole. I smile, hoping he’ll take the hint and get the fuck out of Dodge, taking his stun gun with him. I glance over at Ms. Mitchell, who definitely looks more relaxed, and thank God, her right hand is now empty. Her left hand is too and yes, I check because of my number one rule…never fuck with my face.

So, if you’re still interested, I say, pouring on the charm because I want this…Christ in Heaven do I want this, and you can spare me a couple more minutes of your time, I’d like to proceed with the interview?

Of course, she says, without a hint of hesitation.

Rent-a-cop, after a minute or so, finally gets a clue and leaves us to our business at hand.

Let’s start over? I ask, oozing charm and unleashing my boy next door smile, I extend my right hand slowly, not wanting to trip that itchy trigger finger of hers ever again. I’m Keller Scott, I say, waiting for her to swoon or to see the blush in her cheeks, but she doesn’t. I’m surprised, but not shaken. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mitchell.

She does smile though as she extends her right hand, meeting mine with a solid, confident hand shake. Good…I like that in my staff, especially in my female staff.

The interview goes well. Of course, I knew half an hour ago, I’d hire her…just to spite Gabe, but I have to make it appear legit. My cell, in the meantime, goes off at least five times until finally she suggests that I put the poor girl out of her misery and call her back. Jealous, sweetheart? Already? An added bonus to what I hope to be a pleasurable working relationship, on many levels.

Can you start Monday? I ask, hoping for the chance to rub Gabe’s own mistake in his face when he sees a her and not a him. I’m also dying for a drink. As entertaining as this has been, it’s still been as trying as hell.

That depends, Mr. Scott, she says. We haven’t even discussed salary.

But I’m already on it. All the other PA’s I’ve had made forty to fifty-five grand, tops. But not this one. I’ve got a feeling she’s worth her weight in gold. I don’t blink an eye when the figure rolls off my tongue.

One-ten? I ask, putting my offer on the table. Plus full benefits, of course. Honestly, I know very little about this end of the hiring process. I’ll let Gabe go over all that shit with her after he’s finished kicking himself.

I’ll consider your offer, Mr. Scott. She stands, knocking me on my ass.

Damn…I figured for sure that she’d more than jump at that kind of money. Regardless, I quickly regain any lost composure and hand her one of my business cards.

You have my number then, I say. Please let me know as soon as possible.

Her gorgeous smile as she leaves my office means two things to me. One, it’s an unexpected gift; I had her pegged as a bad-ass, all Black Widow and shit, but that smile tells me that there is a softer, deliciously feminine side to her that I can’t wait to explore.

Two, her smile tells me I’ll be hearing from her soon. This whole day, waiting around, and even almost getting sprayed with fire is all suddenly so worth it. It makes the upcoming in your face moment with Gabe that much sweeter.

I’ll be in extra early come Monday morning to watch him lose his shit for a change, and hell yeah, I hope she’s packing that can of fire.

Chapter Four

Joey

When I finally get home, it’s after nine o’clock. Starving, I break out the peanut butter and jelly and pour myself what’s left of the milk in my barren refrigerator. As I devour it, I can’t help but wonder why the crazy shit always happens to me.

Hands down, my interview tonight had to be the most bizarre job interview I’ve ever been to, including the time I interviewed for a part-time position at the library back home. I was a senior in high school at the time, looking for something easy to make some extra cash for college come that fall. As a self-proclaimed bibliophile, I figured it would be a real win-win situation. I’d get to read and actually handle real, bound books, with pages made of paper. No electronic device for me, thank you very much, and I don’t care how many titles it can hold at my fingertips.

So, there I sat, in a tiny, dark office waiting for the manager. When he came in, and I stood to properly shake his hand, he never even made eye contact with me—at least not my face. Honest to goodness, that douche never took his beady little eyes off my tits, and that’s not the worst of it. He proceeded to sit down, even asked me some questions. Not long after, I noticed the flush on his face and started to worry that maybe he was going to stroke out on me or something.

The longer I sat there watching him sweat and flush, flush and sweat, it finally hit me that I was going to have to touch that disgusting waste of flesh, God forbid he did throw a clot. Just about the time I’m ready to go for help, I noticed his shoulders and then his arms moving. It was slight but definitely intentional. Without being obvious, I looked here and there, down the length of his arms and damn it, if all hands weren’t below deck.

So, yeah, apart from the deviant aspects of the interview with the jerk-off, forever etched in my brain until the end of time, the interview with Keller Scott today is equally as strange, in a less deviant way.

However, he said two things to me that I cannot ignore. No, make that three. The first is the word one and the second is the word ten… as in one-hundred and ten thousand dollars per year, in the form of my salary. The clincher was the third word he mentioned: benefits.

Even if I wanted to, I can’t afford to turn this down. I’ve never made over minimum wage my whole working life. Maybe I’d even be able to move into a better apartment. But that’s low on my list of priorities at the moment. There are other things, another person to be exact, who is by far more important to me than anything else in the world.

I pick up my cell and retrieve his business card from my bag, wishing I just accepted the offer at the interview. Now, I was going to have to call him and maybe even talk to him more in depth about his offer. I already feel the heat on my cheeks. Will he think I’m desperate if I call him back tonight? Maybe I should wait until Saturday evening or Sunday, letting him think I’m actually weighing the pros and the cons instead of just seeing dollar signs.

I sigh, knowing that I have to call him tonight—now in fact. The truth is, I’m afraid he might offer it to someone else with more PA experience in their pinky than I have at all.

It occurs to me to text him instead. Take the easy route, short, sweet and to the point, but I can’t, because I know better. A move like that could mean professional suicide, and I need this job. Again, I look down at my phone wishing I didn’t have to do this, but then I bite the bullet and dial his cell.

After the seventh ring and no answer, I get his voicemail. I do a quick fist pump and prepare to leave my message after the beep. That’s okay, right, to leave a voicemail? It’s not as though I didn’t call him back. He’ll get my acceptance in the message and call me back at his earliest convenience, I’m sure.

Who am I kidding? Guys like Keller Scott don’t do anything at their earliest convenience. Everyone else is on their time and at their beck and call. I guess if his highness is too busy to return my call at the moment, I’ll just have to try again tomorrow.

I almost choke on my milk when I hear his message. This is Keller…yes, the Keller Scott…leave your message after the beep and maybe I’ll get back with you… Between his inflated ego and the peanut butter that coats my mouth, I stutter all over myself doing it, but manage to leave my name and number. As soon as I press end on my cell, I want to crawl into a hole and die.

Damn! I probably sounded like one of those celebrity-seeking, autograph hounds he accused me of being, earlier in his office. On that note, I place my dishes in the sink, check the locks, and make my way to the bathroom for a much-needed hot shower.

Chapter Five

Keller

From my office, down the elevator—ignoring rent-a-cop who’s sitting at his desk as I pass—to my bike, and then all the way across town to Flynn Foley’s, I’m smiling like a son of a bitch. She’s cute and all that, but mostly I’m smiling because she’s a she, and Gabe is going to flip the fuck out, come Monday morning. Even if I don’t get laid this weekend, and I know I will, a few times at least; my weekend was made the second Black Widow, aka Miss Joey Mitchell, walked into my office.

As usual, I’m greeted at the door by the bouncer, who thinks he’s something because I know him by name. It’s something I started a few years back, during what I like to call my Charlie Sheen years. Christ, those were good times. But fuck, those were bad times. So many women, too many to try and count on ten hands. So many pissed off husbands, boyfriends, and even a few girlfriends here and there, made having the bouncer in my pocket a goddamn necessity.

Self-preservation I call it, still today on account of all the crazed fans, and the occasional husband, if I’m being totally honest. At least I ask these days. I’m a far cry from the man I was then. Today, I’m a born-again gentleman—of Tim Tebow proportions. Well, maybe not quite that innocent.

Eddie clears a path for me as we cross the bar to my usual booth. It’s out of the way but you can still see everything going on. The entertainment here never disappoints. Tonight, I see, is no exception. The usuals are here, and by the looks of things, have been here for quite a while now. Jackson, I’ve known since high school. His dad is one of Hollywood’s It directors. He’s worked with some of the best in the business, and I swear to God, everything that man touches turns to gold. I’ve wanted him to direct me for years now and he has always told me that he would…just as soon as the right venue comes along. Still, ten years later, I wait.

Jacks says his old man thinks I’m ‘high maintenance’ and I’m not ‘there’ yet, whatever the hell that means. If you ask me, Jacks is high maintenance. He’s certainly in rare form tonight: a bimbo under each arm and under the table, if he thought he could get away with it. Yeah, I’m pissed off because he knows the rules: no girls in the booth, ever. He knows I come here to let my hair down and not have to worry about some brainless wanna-fucks trying to get their hands on me.

Fish catches my eye and shrugs, and then he tears Vlad away from his phone. That Russian fuck wouldn’t make it one night without his goddamn cell. Damn. There are times, I swear, he’d rather have text-sex than the real thing. Fish and Vlad are a package deal. They have been since my days on It’s All About Me. They played my best friends and fraternal twins on the series, and we’ve been tight ever since. It took a while for Vlad to grow on me, but now after having put up with his ass for so long, I’ve grown attached, though I’d never tell him that. Vlad looks at Fish, and then over at me, smiling like it’s his birthday. He looks up to me, what can I say?

Hey Kells! Jacks says his arms around both bimbos, Which one you want?

Christ, I can tell from the minute he opens his mouth that he’s drunk—stupid drunk. Neither, I say, not even acknowledging the chicks crammed into his armpits. Get the fuck out of my booth with that.

Jacks doesn’t bat an eye as he tells the bimbo under his left arm to get out of the booth and take her friend with her. Meanwhile the chick in his right armpit just stares at Jacks, waiting for him to move. When he doesn’t, Vlad starts to get out so she can scoot out his way, but Jacks has other plans.

Okay Darla, Jacks says, you’ve got two choices…crawl under the table or across it.

Darla looks dumbfounded, gazing at her bimbo friend who is currently fuming, with both hands on her hips and her right foot tapping. Finally, Darla shrugs and decides to crawl across the table. When she does, everyone in the booth gets an eyeful of Darla’s downstairs.

Christ, Vlad says with his thick Russian accent, while Fish stares, entranced by the peep show happening right before his eyes. Almost off the table, she plants one stiletto down at a time, somehow managing not to slip and break her neck.

Maybe next time ladies, Jacks says, giving the bimbos a wink along with his signature, dazzling smile.

After helping Darla smooth her skirt back where it belongs, the other chick turns to face the table and gives us all a two-fisted, middle finger salute.

Classy, I say to Jacks as I wave my hand to get the bartender’s attention. I’ve needed a drink all day long, Wherever do you find these bimbos?

The bartender gives me a thumbs up, and my mouth starts to water. Within minutes an icy cold, frosty mug filled with Kilkenny’s is in my hand headed to my mouth. From