The white noise was a temporary distraction from the reality that my best friend was going to marry someone else. And I didn’t hate it. If I knew Charlie, and I did—he’d start his own campaign to ensure that Pierce Allen didn’t eclipse Justin’s star. I had no idea what he’d come up with, but I couldn’t worry about it.
London was calling.
But first, I had to get through that fucking party.
7
TRENT
My life had gotten very strange, very quickly. I’d officially neared the point where I felt like I had to inform my close friends of my whereabouts in case something went sideways and I got framed for a crime I didn’t commit: robbery, espionage, murder…anything could happen. And any of those things were as likely to go down as a surprise contract falling out of the sky or, get this—an invitation-slash-assignment to attend the private engagement party of a celebrated songwriter and a mega rock star.
How was this real? I felt like I’d taken one of Alice’s little pills and tripped into a well of weirdness. So yeah, just in case I was either going crazy or had been set up, I spilled my guts to Macy.
Not really. I mean, I didn’t tell her much more than I’d told my dad, but I hadn’t planned on saying anything at all. Then she showed up at my apartment with homemade cookies to thank me for covering back-to-back shifts for her, and I didn’t know how to explain the suit.
Macy stood in my doorway with her mouth wide open, her cat-eye sunglasses pushed to the tip of her nose, cradling a plate covered with tinfoil against her deep-V leopard print bodysuit.
“Holy fucking fuck. Screw the cookies, you look good enough to eat. Are you sure there’s not some kind of spark between us? You like older women and you swing both ways, right?”
I chuckled. “Quit tryin’ to make me blush. What are you doing here?”
“Droppin’ these off.” She shoved the plate at me and sidled her way into my apartment. “They’re the chocolate chip nectar of the gods. You’ll love ’em. I was gonna leave them on your doorstep. I didn’t think you’d be home, dressed to kill. What, are you modeling now? Or did you get a new job?”
I bumped the door closed with my hip and followed her inside.
My place was small but nice, with modern accents layered over a monochrome palette. The furniture was black, the walls were white, yet the space popped with color. Tastefully framed art posters hung above the sofa, bright decorative pottery lined the TV stand under the flat-screen, and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanking the dining table were bursting with colorfully bound hardbacks and old textbooks I hadn’t had the heart to part with.
I’m talking about the good ones from my English lit classes in college. A few of them had cracked spines and faded pages, but I considered them my most prized possessions. Which made sense since they’d cost a fuckin’ arm and a leg when I was a student and could barely afford ramen.
I set the cookies on the round table adjacent to the kitchen and fussed with the sleeves of my navy suit. “Thanks. I’d offer you a drink, but I gotta run, Mace.”
“You didn’t answer my question. What’s with the suit?” She pursed her lips and let out a surprisingly girlish squeal. “You have a date! Pussy or dick?”
“Jesus, Macy.”
“Oh, quit bein’ a prude. It doesn’t suit you. But the suit does.” She tugged at my lapels, then patted my cheeks. “See what I did there?”
“Yeah. Clever. And no, I’m definitely not going on a date. It’s a job.”
“What kind of job requires you to dress like you’re going to a prom? Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’ve decided to go into porn.”
I barked a laugh. “No, not quite.”
“Well?”
Look, I didn’t reveal any names. Charlie’s contract came with an iron-clad confidentiality clause. I didn’t want to risk getting canceled in Hollywood. The Rourkes could put me out to pasture so fast my head would spin for days. But I had to talk to someone, and I trusted Macy.
“I’m going to a party in Brentwood. I got a new job working in security for a record company.”
“You’re a security guard?”
“No, more like a bodyguard.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. That’s all I can tell you. How do I look?” I straightened my collar.
“Fuckable,” she deadpanned. “But I’m confused. You’re working for a rich guy as a bodyguard…even though you have no training?”
“Yeah.”
Macy furrowed her brow. “Sounds fishy.”
“I know. Don’t ask me anything else. I barely know what I’m doing, and the less you know, the better, Mace.”
“Ah…so this is some kind of code! You’re really an escort, aren’t you? I’ve always wondered what that would be like. Show up lookin’ pretty, get wined and dined before boning an old fuck with more money than sense. Take notes. I’m gonna wanna hear details.” She clapped excitedly, then circled her wrist. “Gimme a hint. Is he or she old or young, famous or—”