Maybe I could “suggest” writing me into a scene where I singlehandedly rounded up a band of jewel thieves or rescued a damsel or dude in distress. I rinsed and dried off, wrapped a towel around my waist, and trudged into my galley-style kitchen to start my coffee machine, thinking up possible action sequences as I pulled a mug from the cupboard.
I was pretty limber for a big guy, and I could do my own stunts. I could jump down an elevator shaft or out of a moving car or—
Okay. I was definitely getting ahead of myself. I grabbed my cell and leaned against the chipped tile counter, eyeing my gurgling java maker before checking my email. I deleted the usual morning batch of penile enlargement and diet plan ads with a casual swipe, then reached for the now-full coffeepot…and froze.
Contract for Trenton Mackay from the office of Charlie Rourke, Scratch Records.
Trent,
It was a pleasure to speak with you yesterday regarding a position on our security team. As per our conversation, I’ve attached a short-term contract. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact my office.
Regards,
Charlie Rourke
I opened the attachment and almost dropped my damn phone.
Holy shit.
I stared at the six-figure salary with my mouth wide open, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest. Was this for real?
I read through the legalese mumbo jumbo four times, unsure if I’d hit the lottery or if I was being punked. I had a million questions beginning with: Why? This was double the amount he’d thrown out yesterday, which was already insane. However, the main condition was the same. Under no circumstances could I accept employment with an entertainment studio in any capacity until November 1.
What the actual fuck?
Maybe I was the crazy one for not jumping up and down at the prospect of collecting a paycheck for doing absolutely nothing, but this was not normal. It was heavy-handed and vaguely threatening. I wondered if Seb knew about this or if he’d suggested upping the offer.
And just like that, I was pissed off all over again.
I turned off the coffee machine, dressed in my basic jeans and tee combo, and raced out the door, driving like a bat out of hell to Rourke Studios.
Of course, with traffic it took for-fucking-ever to navigate the Sepulveda Pass and the congestion on the 405. I was edgy in my uncaffeinated state as I parked in the visitor lot like a conscientious citizen and headed for the executive building.
The elevator stopped twice before zooming to the top floor, where I promptly entered the lion’s den. Sure, the executive suite looked harmless enough, but trust me…it was a tricky labyrinth.
The sleek open-plan lobby area with views of Century City and the ribbon of road leading west to the Pacific Ocean was manned by two friendly receptionists in their late twenties. The key was to not let those good-natured hipsters fool you. They were actually gatekeepers to the private domain of the most important man on the premises. To even get a whiff of Seb Rourke, I had to weasel my way past the first round of defense and gain entry to his secretary’s office.
This was where things might get dicey.
Seb’s personal secretary was a pro. Trish reminded me of a modern-day Lucille Ball with her red hair, brilliant smile, and colorful style of dress, but she was a tough cookie. She had a strong “Mom” vibe, as if she’d heard every story and excuse on the planet, but commended valiant effort with so much warmth that excuses never felt like failures.
I was sure the only reason I’d made it as far as Trish’s office yesterday had to be a heads-up from Seb. It might not work twice.
But it did.
The pretty blonde who’d escorted me to the inner office yesterday stood when I walked in the door. “Hello, Mr. Mackay.”
I was surprised she remembered me and better still, she seemed happy to see me. It was important to have allies in places like this, so I pasted a friendly smile on my face as I approached her desk. “Hi, there. I’m here for Seb Rourke.”
“We were hoping to see you again. I’ll let Trish know you’re here.”
Hoping to see me again? I didn’t know what to think of that. I cleared my throat to cover my awkward hesitation. “Thanks. I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name yesterday.”
“I’m Trish.”
“Nah, I met Trish. She’s a redhead.”
“I’m Blonde Trish.”
“Got it. Did they make you change your name to work here?”
Blonde Trish giggled. “No, we just happen to have the same name.”
“Ah, easy to remember then. Thanks, Trish.”
“You’re welcome, Trent.”
She shot a winning smile my way before announcing my presence as though I were in a royal court waiting for an audience with the queen. A minute later, she ushered me into the inner sanctum, leaving me with the head Trish in charge.