Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 11

  What can I say? Sometimes it really pays to be me.

  Howie scrutinizes my face, and an annoyed laugh escapes my lips.

  “What?” I question. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

  “You’re scheming something,” he says and points an index finger in my direction. “I can fucking tell.”

  I shrug, take a swig of beer, and chuckle. “I already schemed, bro.”

  He quirks a brow.

  “Anna Farrow,” I answer, and he’s known me long enough to understand what I’m putting down. The furrow in his brow and shake of his head prove it.

  Anna Farrow is an up-and-coming actress Howie is dying to connect with. Apparently, he thinks she’d be perfect for some dramatic historical movie he just sold to Netflix. And she is how I convinced him to come out. Well, my big fat lie that she’d be here tonight is what convinced him, but no need to get into all the gory details.

  “You lying bastard.” A deep sigh escapes his lungs, and he runs a hand through his short dark hair. “I should’ve known you’d pull something like this. God, you’re such an asshole.”

  Is it just me, or do I hear the whole you are an asshole thing a lot?

  Meh. Who cares?

  “Hey, let me rephrase,” I say, trying to soften him around the edges a bit. I mean, what use would his presence be tonight if he’s going to be all pissy? “I have no actual concrete info that says she’s going to be here, but this is LA. Celebs pop up places all the time. I mean, look over there…” I point to another VIP section in the corner of the room. “I’m pretty sure that’s Carly Sanders and a Kardashian.”

  Truthfully, I have no idea if that’s actually Carly Sanders—aka famous swimsuit supermodel—with a Kardashian, nor do I care, but it’s worth a shot.

  “That is zero fucking help, and you know it.”

  “You get to be here with me. Any time spent with me is worth it.” I waggle my brows, and he scoffs.

  “Yeah, until long legs and a great set of tits catches your eye and you go MIA.”

  “Long legs? Great tits? Where?” I tease, and he flips me off.

  I’m just about to razz him a little further, but the screen of my phone lights up on the table with a text notification. And the name of the sender shines like a beautiful beacon—Firecracker.

  Conversation with Howie already forgotten, I open up my messages without delay.

  Firecracker: Uh…so…this is awkward…but I didn’t send you those flowers.

  Oh, I know, sweetheart. I sent them.

  Me: But it says they’re from you? It even came with this very nice, very lengthy apology note…

  Firecracker: Yeah, I saw the note. You sent me the picture. But I don’t know what to tell you. They’re not from me. They’re not from my assistant. They’re not from anyone I’ve ever known.

  Oh, man. I think someone is already getting mad…

  Yes, please.

  Me: Don’t be embarrassed about sending me flowers, Birdie. I thought it was a sweet gesture.

  Her next response comes in not even a minute later, and I can’t stop myself from imagining the way her fingers probably pounded across the screen as she typed it out.

  Firecracker: I’m not embarrassed because I didn’t send them. You’re literally the last human being on earth I’d send flowers to.

  Me: But besides my assistant and the ER doc, you’re the only one who knows about my medical emergency.

  Well, my assistant, my whole team, the ER doc, the ER staff, and TMZ.

  Firecracker: Medical emergency? That’s hilarious. You didn’t need freaking CPR, Andrew. You broke your nose.

  Me: Pretty sure you mean YOU broke my nose.

  Firecracker: Oh my God! It was an accident, and you know it!

  Before I can type out another response, another message from Birdie fills the chat box.

  Firecracker: And it’s total bullshit that only me, your assistant, and the doctor knew about your ER visit. I saw the article about it on TMZ. Did you sell that to them yourself? Because it sure followed your narrative of having one damn foot in the grave.

  So, she did see the article…

  Me: You’ve been reading up on me on TMZ? That’s adorable.

  Before she can respond, I fire off another message.

  Me: And I’m doing okay.

  Firecracker: Huh?

  Me: My nose, that you broke, it’s doing okay. I’m on the mend. Just bruised. The flowers and card definitely helped. Totally made my day. I really do forgive you, by the way. Or should I say, I really do forgive you, friend? ;)

  Firecracker: I’d ask you if you’re hard of hearing, but lumping you among them would be disrespectful to the deaf community.

  Me: It’s all very strange and confusing, you know, you sending me flowers and then saying you didn’t send me flowers.

  Firecracker: IT WASN’T ME.

  Me: So, it’s just one big mystery, then? Someone, who isn’t you, sent me flowers and a very detailed apology note, asking for my forgiveness. But it’s not you, even though the note was signed with your name AND you’re the one who broke my nose?

  Firecracker: You know what? You want them to be from me? They’re from me. And I officially rescind them.

  A throat clearing pulls my attention from my phone, and I look up to find Howie just staring at me.

  “Need something, bud?”

  “Four different women just came up to our table, and you didn’t look up from your fucking phone once.” He stares at me, his eyes damn near bugging out of his head.

  “No shit?” I question, completely unaware that anyone was at our table. “Was it anyone I know?”

  “Dude.” An incredulous laugh jumps from his lips. “What in the hell is going on with you tonight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” He laughs again. “Andrew fucking Watson, the man who is known for schmoozing up as many women as goddamn possible, couldn’t be more oblivious to the hordes of women in this club who are currently trying to get his attention.”

  “Hordes of women?” I toss back. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He quirks a brow toward the edge of the dance floor, and I follow his line of sight.

  And to my surprise, several women stand there, eyes focused toward our table.

  Well, shit, where’d they come from?

  “Who in the fuck are you texting with?” he asks. “Does the chick have a magical pussy or something?”

  I internally cringe a little at his use of wording to describe the actual woman behind the messages. Especially since she’s the lead female in his movie.

  No doubt, Howie wouldn’t be pleased if he knew my current focus has been on the challenging little temptress otherwise known as my costar. Truthfully, he’d probably be pretty fucking pissed. Grass Roots is his baby, and there is a zero-tolerance policy for putting one of Howie’s film babies in any kind of jeopardy.

  “It’s my brother,” I lie…again. “I mean, I don’t think he has a magical pussy, but what do I know? It’s been years since we’ve lived under the same roof, and we don’t do a lot of sexting.”

  “Your brother is the one who has your full attention in the middle of this fucking club? You really expect me to believe that line of crap?” he asks, narrowing his eyes as the music swells to an oppressive beat. The strobe lights sweep over our booth obnoxiously.

  Shit. He has a point, and I instantly start searching for a plausible reason that I’d be texting my older brother in the middle of a nightclub that is chock-full of beautiful female patrons.

  “He’s worried about Kelly.” I keep the lying train moving. Choo motherfucking choo! “She’s uh…going through some shit with her job.”

  I feel a little guilty for pulling my sister-in-law into my web of bullshit, but whatever. She’s a means to an end, and she’ll never have to know.

  “Ah fuck. My bad, dude.” His eyes glaze over with concern. “Is she okay?”

  “She’ll be fine.�
� I wave him off with a nonchalant hand.

  Howie nods in understanding I don’t deserve, but I don’t waste any time thinking about it too much.

  Instead, I rein in my desire to keep playing with the little Firecracker in my text inbox and send her one final text message.

  Me: That’s okay. We’ll have plenty of time to mend fences when we start shooting in less than two weeks. And thanks again for my beautiful flowers, sweetheart.

  Firecracker: I have a great idea, Andrew.

  Okay, maybe not one final text message…

  Me: I’m all ears.

  I have to swallow back my laugh when I read her response.

  Firecracker: Lose my number.

  Me: Like I’d lose my emergency contact’s number. ;)

  Firecracker: Oh my God. Go away.

  Me: See you real soon, sweetheart.

  Birdie

  Some of the greatest rewards in life come from doing the things that scare you the most. That’s what my granny used to say.

  Today, of all days, I really hope she’s right. I’m sitting at a table filled with some of Hollywood’s most important people, trying to play it cool and pretend I know what I’m doing, but I’m completely out of my element—and terrified.

  This is the first official day of filming for Grass Roots, and our director has gathered us all for an early morning table-read before we dive into the meat and potatoes of shooting the first scene.

  And the gang is literally all here. Howie King, Serena Koontz, and Nell Franz.

  Tawny Rose—who will be playing Delilah, one of Arizona’s best friends.

  Johnny Johnston—who was cast as Jude Dean, a man who is close friends with Cal Loggins and will eventually be the drummer in Arizona’s band and a man whose affection for her will be a huge catalyst for Cal.

  Along with my other costars, Chris Cowley, Luke Sardini, Olivia Forest, Lauren Baker, and many other actors and actresses who will be a part of this project.

  All well-known names in Hollywood.

  All people who know what they’re doing, unlike me.

  Everyone starts to settle into their seats around the vast table, and I lift the cup of coffee I grabbed from craft services to my mouth with a shaky hand and take a sip.

  Jesus. I’m so nervous, and we haven’t even started.

  The coffee is hot, too damn hot, and my first reaction is to spew it all over the goddamn place. But the value of emotional self-preservation in this situation is greater than the physical, and as a result, I settle for burning off half my taste buds. If I’m lucky they’ll grow back, and if not, maybe the inability to enjoy anything will do some of the work when it comes to curbing my appetite.

  “Hi,” a calm male voice says beside me, and I lift my eyes from the script sitting before me to find Johnny Johnston sitting down directly to my right. “I’m Johnny,” he greets, and a soft smile moves across his lips.

  “Birdie,” I say and reach out my hand to shake his. I’ve seen him star in several movies and I’ve seen his face on more than a few magazine covers, and just like Andrew, he’s even more attractive in person. Which, with the way things are photoshopped these days, is saying a lot. The way the news spins it, all of these guys should be half-Martian in person.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Birdie,” he says, and his mesmerizing blue eyes are kind and serene—a welcome distraction from the petrified energy running through my veins.

  “Likewise.”

  “This is your first big movie, right?” he asks, and I nod.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Unfortunately?” His striking face morphs into confusion, and a soft chuckle leaves his full lips. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because I’m nervous as hell.”

  He grins at that and offers a friendly pat to my hand that now rests on the table. “Don’t worry, everyone feels that way with not just their first movie, but every movie. It might get less and less over time, but there’s always at least a small amount of nervous energy when starting a new project.”

  I appreciate his kind words, but it’s easy to make that statement when you’re well established in this business and have been around the movie block a time or two. I mean, Johnny Johnston has starred in all sorts of famous films. He’s basically one of Hollywood’s Golden Boys.

  “I really hope you’re right,” I respond with a hesitant smile, and his grin grows wider.

  “Trust me, you’re going to be great,” he says. “And if you ever feel uncertain about something or want some advice, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m more than happy to help.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

  And God, I do hope he’s right. I hope I will be great in Grass Roots because the scenarios of me ruining this film that are currently rolling around inside my brain are freaking terrifying.

  Horrible movie reviews.

  Lackluster box office sales.

  My entire career going up in flames.

  You name it, and I’m thinking about it.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Howie announces with a large smile on his face as he settles into the seat at the head of the table, drawing everyone’s attention. Short dark hair, a kind face, and tranquil green eyes, Howie King is what I would call classically handsome. He’s not quite superhuman like my male costars, but in the real world, he’d be considered a dang good catch. “Is it just me, or is today a fan-fucking-tastic day?” he asks, and everyone around the table chuckles softly.

  “This movie means a lot to me,” he continues, and his smile turns cheeky. “So, if you fuck it up, I’m going to be pissed. No pressure, though.”

  Serena, our producer, laughs and shakes her head. “Nice, Howie.”

  He just keeps on grinning. “Shall we get started?”

  “I think getting started sounds like a grand idea, How,” Andrew chimes in, and my eyes move toward the other end of the table, where the devil himself sits. “I mean, I didn’t wake up at five in the fucking morning to listen to you ramble.”

  “God forbid we interrupt your beauty sleep schedule. My apologies,” Howie taunts back, and Andrew smirks.

  “Apology accepted.”

  I roll my eyes. My short chat with Johnny in combination with my damn nerves had me blissfully unaware of Andrew’s presence in this room, but now, it’s impossible to miss him. He sits in his seat all kicked-back, relaxed, and cool. His dark hair is slightly disheveled in an appealing “sex hair” kind of way, his teeth are still as white as ever when he flashes them in the form of a megawatt smile at Howie, and his eyes are bright and mischievous.

  I would say he looks really fucking good, but I’ve sworn in a new policy in my Mental Health Company handbook that prohibits the use of positive adjectives about him.

  Ever since he texted me a week ago about a flower delivery, he’s been sending me random messages every damn day. Pictures of the stupid flowers I didn’t send, letting me know they’re still alive—even though I couldn’t care less. Selfies of his big stupid face, showing me that the bruising is almost gone or asking me if I like his new haircut. And one time, he even sent me a message about being stuck in traffic, to which I responded, I don’t care.

  To which he answered, But you’re my emergency contact, Birdie. And this IS an emergency, a traffic emergency.

  He’s become a sharp, annoying, piercing thorn in my side.

  And Grass Roots’s filming schedule consists of two straight months of shooting in LA and Memphis. Which means two straight months of seeing Andrew Watson just about every single day, so not only can he send me annoying texts, he’ll be able to tell me annoying things in person.

  Heavens to Betsy, I hope I can manage to survive. I imagine Birdie’s Mental Health Company policy is going to see many an addendum in that time. If not, it’ll only be because I’ve completely forgotten about this coping mechanism and moved on to another.

  “Before we begin the script read-through, I’d like to update everyone on a few
things,” Howie continues, but then pauses when someone on the crew grabs his attention from the other side of the room. “Shit. Sorry. Give me ten minutes, guys. I’ll be right back.”

  Without hesitation or response from the group, he’s up and out of his chair, leaving the long table and the room.

  I decide to use my time wisely and read through my script for what has to be the one-thousandth time, but before I can even get to page two, my phone vibrates on the table, and I turn it screen-side up to find a text message notification.

  Andrew: There’s no need to be tense, sweetheart.

  Ugh. Here we go…

  I consider ignoring him, but I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t take to it well. I imagine Satan himself is where the phrasing “demon texting” comes from anyway.

  Me: I’m not tense.

  Obviously, I am tense, but I don’t want to give this bastard anything to work off of. I feel like he gets some kind of sick thrill out of seeing me at emotional extremes, so I keep it simple.

  Andrew: Your hands are shaking.

  I lift my eyes from the screen of my phone to find him grinning at me, and I flash a glare his way before typing out a response.

  Me: My blood sugar is probably low. I didn’t have time to eat breakfast.

  Andrew: Oh, okay. I guess the doughnut I saw you eating twenty minutes ago was just a snack, then? ;)

  Me: Geez Louise. What are you running for, DA? Is your platform Food Reform?

  Andrew: I’d make a hell of a DA, but no. I’m not running. And I only noticed the doughnut because you were the one eating it.