Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Read online

  Give me a sweet ride that hits 0 to 60 in under three and half seconds or a gorgeous pair of long legs and a come-hither smile, and I’m in. Give me both, and I’m in fucking heaven.

  I huff out a sigh and decide to pull around the massive building and head in through the back to avoid whatever self-important prick or celebrity diva is waiting on their red carpet.

  The engine purrs as I rev my way up through the gears and back down, gliding into an open spot on the other side of the building and pulling up on the parking brake to engage it.

  My phone bounces in my cupholder, the vibration that goes along with my ringtone making it do a dance in the confined space. I cut the engine and pick it up mid-twerk.

  Lance FaceTime Call

  Shit yes! Someone I actually want to talk to. With one quick tap, my brother’s face appears on the screen.

  “What’s up, man?” I greet cheerfully. I don’t miss the fact that he’s wearing his usual uniform of blue scrubs and a surgery cap over his dark brown hair or the evidence that he’s exhausted. Permanent dark circles mar the otherwise perfect skin under his eyes. “I see you’re busy saving lives.”

  Ever since he graduated med school, Lance has been an ER physician at St. Mary’s, one of Memphis’s biggest hospitals. A damn good ER physician, at that. He’s won prestigious medical awards and shit for the work he’s done over the years.

  The good doctor grins like a bastard. “Thank God one of us did something meaningful with our lives, right? Otherwise, Mom and Dad would probably feel like total failures.”

  I snort. “I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad are happy with the beach house I bought them in Charleston for Christmas two years ago.”

  It’s just about the only place they’ll go outside of Memphis.

  For as impulsive as I am, my father still tips the family scale toward the other end. If it’s anything other than Tennessee, my mom, my brother, or football on the weekends, he doesn’t want it.

  Lance’s grin grows. “Yeah, but I think we both know no amount of expensive bullshit you lavish them with will change the fact that I’m their favorite.”

  “I don’t know, dude,” I challenge in amusement. “Mom was pretty damn happy when I took her to the Oscars last year. I’ve never seen that woman so excited. She nearly tackled Liam Neeson to the ground when I introduced them. Begged his assistant to have her ‘taken’ just so he could rescue her and everything. How many people have you taken her around who make her volunteer to be kidnapped?”

  “Figures we wouldn’t be able to get through a conversation without you fucking name-dropping.”

  I laugh. “So, now that we’ve settled that I’m the favorite, do tell why I have the pleasure of talking to you in the middle of the week.”

  He shrugs. “Just figured I’d see what frivolous bullshit my little brother is up to these days.”

  Fucking sarcastic dick. We’re literally a year and a half apart, but he likes to make it seem like he had a hand in inventing electricity or some shit.

  “Just getting ready to go into a meeting at Capo Brothers Studios,” I answer while casually scratching my nose with my middle finger.

  “Is this for the movie that’s going to be filming here for a few weeks?”

  “Yep.” I nod. “The schedule isn’t finalized yet, but I’ll be spending some time back home pretty soon. Maybe I’ll even say hello to you once or twice if you can fit it into your super-important schedule.”

  He shrugs. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other at the parentals’ house. Maybe when you bring that model girlfriend of yours to meet them.”

  “Model girlfriend?” I question in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “I think her name is Melissa. Or maybe it’s Melanie?” he offers, and I’m still puzzled.

  Melissa? Melanie? Who the hell is he talking about?

  And then, it hits me. Marissa. Marissa Spitz. A Sports Illustrated swimsuit model whom I had the pleasure of spending some time with a few months back. She was beautiful, fun, and kept me entertained for a bit. But other than that, it was a short fling at best.

  Truthfully, I’m shocked my brother would even think I was dating the woman. When it comes to relationships, Lance and I are complete opposites. He married his high school sweetheart Kelly when he graduated med school, and I rarely stick with one woman for longer than a few weeks.

  “Her name is Marissa, bro,” I correct him. “And I have no idea why you’re under the insane impression that I’m dating her, but I’m not.”

  “Kelly says it’s been all over the gossip mags lately.”

  “Yeah, well, you need to remind my lovely sister-in-law that those gossip mags are usually full of shit.”

  “That’s half of the reason for this call with you,” Lance snorts. “The magazines tell the sordid details, and I’m the fact-checker. But don’t worry, I’ll let Kelly know she can stop getting excited over the prospect of seeing you finally settle down.”

  I laugh at that. “That sounds like a good idea. You can tell her not to be too hopeful about it happening anytime soon either.”

  “Great. Can’t wait to tell her,” he mutters sarcastically. “I better stop and pick up ice cream on the way home.”

  “Why in the hell is your wife so invested in my love life?”

  “I don’t know, bro. Maybe because she loves you and wants to see you happy?”

  “I am happy,” I contest. “So, she can relax.”

  He sighs heavily, but he also drops it. I’m thankful because I really don’t feel like defending myself and my decisions anymore. They mean well, obviously, but it’s really none of their business who I fuck and whether or not I choose to do it more than once.

  “So, we’ll be seeing you soon?” he questions, and I nod.

  “Yep. I’ll let you know once my schedule is finalized.”

  “What’s it called, by the way?”

  “What’s what called?”

  “The fucking movie,” he replies, and I grin.

  “Grass Roots. Go ahead and prepare yourself to get tired of hearing about it. It’s all the rage in Hollywood right now.”

  “It’s all the rage, and they decided to cast you as the lead?” he questions, his tone heavily laden with brotherly sarcasm. “Man, Hollywood sure isn’t what it used to be.”

  “That’s cute, sweetheart,” I tease back. “Medicine is clearly on the decline as well. I didn’t think they gave degrees to guys who store sticks up their asses.”

  “Why don’t you stop trying to act like your dick is bigger than it is and buy a car that doesn’t look like Vin Diesel should be behind the wheel?”

  “This is a 911 Turbo S,” I retort. “Not a car from Fast and Furious.”

  He grins. “It’s fucking yellow.”

  “Well, I also have one in white if you prefer that,” I say with a cheeky grin and add, “And I think we both know my dick is plenty big.”

  “Yeah, sure. If by big, you mean the runt of our gene pool.”

  I flip him off, and he returns the favor.

  I can’t help but chuckle. Just two brothers simultaneously throwing multiple birds via FaceTime call.

  “I’m gonna go do something meaningful with my life,” he says through a smile. “Have fun playing dress-up and getting your makeup done for the camera.”

  I wink. “I’ll be sure to put on a little extra lipstick just for you.”

  “Let me know when you’re going to be in town, you prick.”

  “Will do. See ya later, Dr. Dickwad.”

  Lance’s middle finger is the last thing I see on the screen before I hit end on the call.

  Without wasting any time, I hop out of the car and head through the back doors of the Capo Brothers Studios. Just before I slip my phone and keys into the pocket of my jeans, my phone pings with a text.

  Luca: Be nice to my future sister-in-law, or I’ll murder you.

  I stare down at the screen and tilt my head to the side as I read the message.
>
  What is he talking about? I’ve never even met Luca’s sister-in-law. Have I?

  Jesus. Please don’t tell me I boned her by accident. I generally try to avoid shitting where I live.

  One of the first friends I made when I moved to LA all those years ago, Luca Weaver is still one of my best friends to this day. Even despite the fact that he took an eight-year sabbatical from all things Hollywood to live off the grid like a fucking lunatic in Alaska.

  The last thing I want to do is piss him off.

  I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, but I can bullshit an appeasement with the best of them. I type out a quick message and hit send.

  Me: Of course, bud. Wouldn’t dream of being any other way.

  But that’s it. That’s all I have time for. I have a meeting to get to and a potential costar to meet.

  Birdie

  True to my name, I’m about to take fucking flight. At least, I would if I could.

  In this moment, it really would have been helpful if my trainer hadn’t successfully eliminated all the extra flappy meat on my upper arms. Surely, if I got them going fast enough, the wind beneath those bat wings could have carried me up and through the ceiling of this place.

  C’mon, you big baby, I coach myself. You can do this.

  One cavernous breath into my lungs and then another and another, and eventually, just before my vision turns tunneled, I will my feet to move away from the door.

  Gleaming marble floors, golden statues, and a freaking fountain in the center, the lobby of Capo Brothers Studios is everything I should have expected and more.

  If everything is bigger in Texas, then everything is most certainly richer in LA.

  I check in with security quickly, my voice only a little croaky thanks to the frog in my throat, and head for the elevator bank at the far side of the lobby.

  I’m to head to the fifteenth floor, I’m told, and then go straight down the hall to the glass doors on the left at the end. There, I’ll find William Capo’s office—the head honcho and only surviving brother of Capo Brothers.

  My cowgirl boots are noisy on the marble floors when I do as instructed. The sound you make when you walk is such a small detail—one I don’t normally think about—but the echo of their clack today makes my heart feel like it’s knocking into my rib cage and each step across the ornate floor is merely a sound effect.

  Fifteen floors eclipse quickly—clearly, they’ve spared no expense on their elevator—and the hallway that leads to William’s office seems strangely one-directional. Like once I go down it—once I take this step—there will be no going back. Which is probably why, after forcing myself to go the distance to the end, I pause at the open door, the points of my booted toes just shy of crossing the line.

  “Good morning.” A pretty assistant dressed in a white power suit greets me before I’ve even cleared the threshold of the door, and all thoughts of escape are dashed. Like it or not, I’ve just been shoved over the line. I will my feet to do the same as she continues to speak. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Birdie Harris,” I answer and have to swallow hard against the dryness threatening to close my throat. “I have an audition.”

  My nerves are so obvious, the assistant offers a sympathetic smile.

  If she were from my childhood hometown in West Virginia, she’d most likely be thinking Bless her heart.

  She taps something across the keyboard of her iMac and places her hand to the Bluetooth at her ear. “Mr. Capo, I have Birdie Harris here.” Immediately, she looks away from the computer and meets my eyes. “They’ll be ready for you shortly. You can take a seat over there.” She points behind me, back through the door and across the hall to what I’m assuming is a fancy-schmancy waiting room of some sort. I haven’t encountered a place in the building that doesn’t have some sort of gilded or marble inlay, so I highly doubt I’m going to step through that door and into a room styled by the set designer for Saw. Though, I can’t say some sort of torture device wouldn’t be completely misplaced right now. I’m already doing a pretty good job of mentally waterboarding myself with worry.

  I offer a little nod, keeping my twisted, sicko thoughts to myself. I doubt they’re interested in hiring a woman on the brink of a hysterical episode.

  The secretary quirks a brow, and I realize, though I’ve nodded my affirmation of understanding, I’ve yet to move.

  Good God, Birdie! Go sit down.

  Annoyed with myself, I turn on my boots and march across the hall so violently, it’s like there’s an invisible person helping me along with a heavy hand at the nape of my neck.

  When I cross into the room, a man is sitting on a swanky leather sofa with his booted feet up on the coffee table. He glances up briefly before returning his eyes to the phone in his lap. Embarrassed, I smooth my clomps instantly.

  You’re a gazelle, Birdie, not a herd of buffalo, I coach. Move like it.

  With his attention occupied, I survey him more closely as I move to take a seat across from him. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and his jawline would make steel beams look weak. Seriously. Confronted with an earthquake, I would seek shelter right under the eave of his jaw.

  I’d love to get another peek at his eyes just to study the color, but fearing the eye contact that would require, I’m careful not to make any overt noises that might draw his attention again.

  When he smirks, a devilish proposition-like smile at the screen of his phone, I don’t have to wonder anymore.

  Oh no. I know exactly who this man is.

  Andrew Watson.

  The very man Rocky warned me about and I subsequently Instagram stalked. A laundry list of different women dotted through his timeline, it confirmed everything Rocky told me and then some.

  All relaxed and cool, he sits on the white leather sofa with one arm outstretched across the back. Confidence and charm ooze from every freaking cell in his body. No doubt, Andrew Watson is more than capable of commanding the attention of everyone in the room, no matter the situation.

  No wonder he’s one of Hollywood’s most famous actors.

  The only time I have that kind of quiet confidence is when I’m onstage, singing my songs, lost in the music I created.

  Just play it cool, Birdie.

  On a deep breath, I force the uncertainty and unease out of my shoulders and settle my ass into the sofa across from him. He shifts again, crossing one ankle over the other and casually adjusting the denim at his crotch.

  My eyes are immediately drawn to his bulge, and thanks to Rocky’s colorful descriptions of his favorite appendage, a little penis-shaped soldier is burned in my brain. After a few seconds of imagining the shape of his helmet and intensity of his salute, I jerk my gaze away in a panic.

  Jesus. As if this audition wasn’t screwing with my head enough! Now I have Saving Ryan’s Privates, a military-themed porno my head just made up starring Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson, complicating things even more!

  I must make a noise I don’t realize—the sound of my saliva gurgling in my throat while I choke on it, perhaps—because Andrew looks at me with curious eyes. I try like hell to keep my calm and act like I haven’t just gone to mental war with the soldier in his pants, but there’s only so much hysteria containment my mind is capable of.

  “Uh…hi,” I say, trying so dang hard not to glance back down at his crotch that I start spewing diarrhea of the mouth about goddamn military-themed movies. “I never saw A Few Good Men, but I hear Tom Cruise was good in it.” When I realize what I’ve just said makes absolutely no sense to him—punctuated perfectly by his eyebrows drawing together noticeably—the gurgling saliva turns into a full-blown choke, and suddenly, the only way to breathe is through a hacking cough.

  Holy shit, I’m too anxious to be around other humans right now! Also, I’m going to kill Rocky for putting this crap in my head about this guy’s penis.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, and I hold up my hand in some kind of gesture. I’m not sure o
f its technical name, but its meaning is clear—please forget I exist right now.

  He asks me once more, but I nod, and once the embarrassing coughing fit passes, I meet his piercingly gray-blue eyes—seeing their color is strikingly unavoidable now—and I offer a halfhearted smile.

  “Sorry,” I apologize. I didn’t mean to drag him into an impromptu SNL sketch where I choke on spit and say ridiculously inappropriate, off-the-wall things. “I guess you could say I’m a little nervous.”

  His responding smile gleams so bright, I have to wonder if he has an endorsement deal with Crest toothpaste. His mouth would make a dental hygienist get on their hands and knees and thank the Lord above.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s no need to be nervous around me,” he responds, punctuating his words with a wink.

  If my mind were a screenplay, the nerves would be exiting stage left.

  Did he seriously just wink at me after assuming that I’m nervous to be in his presence?

  Surely, I’m hearing this wrong. No one is that obsessed with themselves…right?

  “Excuse me?” I ask, and his megawatt smile is still ever-present.

  “If you’d like me to sign an autograph or take a selfie with you,” he enunciates slowly, as if my being able to understand him clearly was the problem. “I can probably sneak that in before I have to head in there.”

  His autograph? You have got to be kidding me. He sure is a cocky bastard—and for the first time today, I’m not even talking about his dick.

  Like the tip of a match being swiped across the edge of a matchbook, aggravation bursts into my veins.

  “I’m here for an audition,” I assert.

  Unfazed, he quirks a brow as if to say, my invitation for an autograph still stands.

  Attractive or not, this guy is one of the biggest asses I’ve ever been around.

  “I’m Birdie Harris. I’m auditioning for the role of Arizona Lee.”

  And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna land this acting gig just to spite this prick.