Exclusive Contract

“S
o here's what I don't get,” Rose was saying on Tuesday morning as I prepared my breakfast. “If Carter Hudson is a rock star, couldn't he get a girlfriend on his own? One that would look after him without having to be paid?”

The ancient can opener in my hand slipped yet again from the elderly can of Spaghetti-Os I'd found at the back of the pantry. I swore. I would conquer this can. I would destroy it. Or else I'd give up or something.

Taking a deep breath, I put it down on the counter and tried to compose myself. I was feeling shitty for many reasons, and explaining to Rose what seemed perfectly reasonable last night in a darkened limo with an insanely hot man with whom I'd had the most
indecent
relations mere hours before was giving me a fresh headache. I chewed on a fingernail for a second, organizing my thoughts. “From what I can tell,” I finally said, “you can't trust people who are already in the industry to do that kind of job because they're all drunkards or hooked on blow. It has to be someone responsible.”

Rose burst out laughing. “Oh! You, responsible? Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I know, I'm sorry.” She waved a hand as I glared at her and she struggled to get herself under control. “You are definitely more responsible than most actresses. I'm sorry.” She managed to sober, though she couldn't meet my eye. She stared fixedly at the refrigerator instead and took a sip of her coffee. “I know. I suppose. But why
girlfriend?”

I closed my eyes and tried to remember Kent's exact words. “Mr. Hudson said it was... it was because if I was his girlfriend, no one would question me spending all my time with him, and that Carter is trying to get several roles in some teen flicks. Kent seems to think he has real crossover potential, and he wants Carter to clean up his image. He needs to settle down and be less of a drunk drug addict and more of a boy-next-door.”

“That's all very well and good, except if you care to recall, the boy-next-door back at home was cooking up meth in his kitchen,” Rose reminded me.

I didn't need her to remind me. It's not every day the house next door gets raided by a SWAT team, and you tend to remember it pretty well when it does. “You know what I mean,” I told her. “Fresh faced. Wholesome. He can't do that if he's dry-humping Perez Hilton's leg at the Grammy's.

“I would think that sort of thing would get him good press from Hilton.”

“Yeah, but not from the other twelve reporters standing around.”

“They're probably just jealous. But fair enough.” She sighed. “Very well. I'll look over the terms of the contract. I don't want you getting screwed. You know this is going to put you front and center, right? You'll be photographed and interviewed and people are going to know exactly who you are.” She sniffed. “I wouldn't be surprised if you got lynched by fans angry that you've stolen away their imaginary man.”

I winced. I didn't want to be exposed. I definitely didn't want anyone back in San Diego finding me and coming to make trouble. On the other hand, I wasn't any safer with Rose than I would be with Carter. And if I took the job, I'd get to hang around with Kent.

The thought appealed to me far more than it should have. Kent Hudson was clearly a womanizer and a manwhore. What kind of guy frots a woman he's interviewing for a position in an airplane bathroom? It was almost as if he wasn't entirely professional!

And what kind of person enthusiastically participates?
my brain asked me. I didn't want to know what it thought the answer was. I was feeling bad enough about it already. Honestly. I have enough self-esteem problems. I don't need my brain slut-shaming me, too.

Besides, it had been exceptionally hot. I'd never done anything like that, and the danger of getting caught, the thrill of the illicit, had definitely helped me get my rocks off faster than ever before. Kent's skilful hands had not hurt at all, either.

It was probably a really bad idea to take this job. Unfortunately I had caught a case of temporary insanity and could not seem to pull myself out of it. Also money. Great big gobs of money. Enough money to start over and get a new life somewhere. A
quiet
life. I wouldn't even need the attention of any hot rock stars to cheer me up...

With a sigh, I picked up the can opener and applied it to my Spaghetti-Os again. This time I managed to get purchase and sprayed tomato sauce all over the counter and myself. Immediately I seized up and grabbed a paper towel. I'd spent
ages
cleaning this stupid counter, going around the seams with a q-tip and scrubbing away the coated stickiness left by the last tenant. I was
not
going to let some lousy semi-expired can of Spaghetti-Os destroy all my hard work.

“Holy crap, Rebecca, it's just a little tomato sauce, not hydrofluoric acid.” My sister leaned over the counter and frowned at me. “Are you all right? Do you think you're feeling well enough to take this job?”

I ignored her as I wadded up the paper towels and dumped them into the trash can.

“Only you just used ten paper towels for three drops of tomato sauce.”

I huffed at her. “I'm fine.” I dumped the contents of the can into a bowl and popped it into the microwave. “I'm just thinking.”

“Uh huh,” she said.

I shot her a glare. “You really do sound like Mom sometimes.”

She shrugged. “What's wrong with that? She raised three beautiful daughters and two sons. Not a bad person to emulate. And if either of us is like mom, it's you. I can never get into the cleaning and making a house a home and all that weird stuff you get off on.” She sighed. “But someone has to look after you out here, Rebecca. Mom isn't here, so it's my job.”

“But I don't
need
two moms.” I also severely doubted her assessment. I was nothing like Mom. Mom had her life together. She did tough jobs. She threw herself into them and Got Shit Done. By my age, Mom had graduated from college, married my dad, begun her home business and had two kids already. Mom was smart, sweet, and a fountain of unconditional love. You had to be awesome in order to raise five great kids.

...Okay, four great kids and me. I had thus far failed to be convicted for ax murder. That's still a pretty good track record, though.

I had to admit it would be great if I was like Mom. God, I missed her. I wasn't going to tell my sister that, of course. I tried to act nonchalant.

Rose raised an eyebrow. “Everyone could do with an extra mom away from home,” she said. She sipped her coffee again and stared at me as though she were inspecting me for manufacturing flaws. I turned away from her and watched my Spaghetti-Os do their little mechanical pirouette in the microwave. “So,” she said finally, “you're going to move out and move in with Carter, too, huh?”

I nodded. “The better to keep an eye on him, I guess.” Kent hadn't mentioned if they lived together, and I hadn't asked. I was somewhat terrified to find out the answer.

Rose chewed her lip prettily. “All right. The contract should be in my office when I get there. I'll look it over and we have an appointment with Kent and Carter at exactly four o'clock this afternoon. You won't be late.” It was not a question, but I answered anyway, feeling exhausted.

“No, I won't be late.”

“Yeah,” she said as my Spaghetti-Os exploded and I swore. “Don't be.”

––––––––

I
was totally on-time to Kent's office that afternoon. You know. Give or take.

Rose glared at me as I hurried in, my messenger bag flapping on my hip. I glared right back at her, peeved. If she really wanted me to be on time she would have picked me up in her car instead of letting me rely on the city's bus system. How I was going to get around from whatever LA suburb Carter lived in I had no idea; I wondered if Kent would requisition a car for me. I just needed something with wheels. A bike would do. Or one of those little soapbox racers. I'm flexible.

Sniffing and shoving her perfect, pretty nose in the air, Rose turned back around and faced Kent, Carter, and a faded looking man who I could only assume was their lawyer.

Seeing Kent again after yesterday—which seemed so unreal at this point that I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd dreamed the whole thing up—was a huge shock. He sat behind his desk, cool and serene, his striking blue-green eyes watching me with veiled heat, as though he knew something secret about me and couldn't wait to hold it over my head.

And he did. He knew I was so hot for him I'd fuck him before the first date.

I swallowed as his gaze flicked down my body, remembering the humiliating and utterly delicious encounter we'd had. I forced myself to look away and give Carter a smile and a nod, which he promptly ignored, and no surprise there. He sat slumped in a chair behind Kent glaring at nothing like a surly teenager. I suddenly had the terrible vision of Kent and Rose as our parents arranging our marriage. I knew how that would go. I'd end up jilted at the altar while Carter ran off with his childhood sweetheart and all the critics would rave about the heartwarming movie that would be made out of Carter's tell-all memoir.

Fuck you, Ebert,
I thought.
You don't know the whole story.

Trying to hold my head up, I sat in the chair next to Rose and tried to look presentable in my loose blouse, skinny jeans and my best Sketchers. I'm all class when I want to be.

“Good,” Kent said at last. “Glad you could make it, Rebecca.”

I glared at him and he quirked the corner of his mouth at me. He knew exactly how to get under my skin.

“Yes, thanks for joining us,” Rose said. I wanted to kick her. She was supposed to be on my side.

I turned to the lawyer and gave him my biggest smile. “Hello,” I said. “Rebecca Alton.”

He stood just behind Kent and looked relieved that I'd acknowledged him. I had a feeling Kent and Carter had been arguing all morning and it had been taking a toll on everyone. “Sean Guire,” he said, reaching across the desk and shaking my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Kent sighed. “Yes, very well. We're all acquainted, now can we please sign these papers and get out of here? Carter and I have rehearsal in forty five minutes and Rebecca needs to be there.”

I sneaked a little peek at Rose. She hated to be told that someone didn't 'have time' to do something properly. She always said that sort of thing meant someone was trying to fuck you with a condom so you didn't have evidence to show the police. Lawyers are a gloomy bunch.

But Rose was serene. She didn't even stiffen. All she said was, “Very well. Shall we go over the clauses?” She turned to me and raised her brows in question. She'd pulled her hair back into a sexy-librarian bun and she looked every inch the professional. Even her lipstick was sexy and severe. I suddenly had the suspicion that she was a fan of Kent's band.

I tried to figure out why she would even bother asking me this. “Of course I do,” I said. “Isn't that what we're here for? To understand the contract?”

Rose smiled at the Hudson brothers and leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “Try to act like an adult, please,” she said. “Just say 'yes.' Don't be an asshole.”

Stung, I nodded and Rose pulled her copy of the contract out of her briefcase. “Mr. Guire?” she said. “Shall we review?”

He gave her a curt nod and produced his own copy, placing it in front of Carter. Carter pulled out his phone and started typing.

I was impressed by his childishness. I do childish pretty well myself, but I was truly sitting in the presence of the master.

Kent rolled his eyes and waved his hand when the lawyer glanced at him for a clue in how to proceed. Mr. Guire cleared his throat and began to go over the contract.

It wasn't hard to understand at all, and as he and Rose discussed the finer points I had to admit that it seemed pretty good to me. I was forbidden from disclosing the true nature of my relationship with Carter to anyone outside of this office, excepting the other band members. This was for “group cohesion,” Kent explained. After my employment ended I was forbidden from writing about it or selling the story in any way until ten years after the dissolution of the band. I was to stay with Carter at his home in one of the LA suburbs, to be disclosed after signing.

As for my duties, they consisted of keeping Carter in line, which included assisting him in getting up on time, going to rehearsals, eating properly, maintaining good self-care, putting him to bed at a reasonable hour, attempting to put the brakes on his partying, looking after his health and welfare at what parties he did attend or throw, and in general making sure he didn't kill himself by accident. For all intents and purposes, we would be an old married couple sitting around watching “The Mentalist” on our Friday nights. I found myself almost looking forward to it. Before I'd had to flee San Diego, I'd lived the party life just like Carter, and I was tired. I wondered if I could get Carter into
Supernanny
or
The Dog Whisperer.

As for pay, mine would be in
gratis
wardrobe, mandatory makeovers and, of course, money. Gobs of money. Carter's silence was also required.

Oh, and by the way, also we needed to make out a lot in public.

I balked at that. Carter was very pretty, but I wasn't attracted to him, and he was kind of a child. “Wait,” I said, “why do we have to do that?”

Before either of the lawyers could respond to me, Kent laughed. “Who would believe it if you two weren't seen carrying on your passionate affair?”

I rolled my eyes. “Lots of people. Like, tons. You see it in the tabloids all the time when two stars hang out together.”

He smiled at me indulgently. “Yes. But you are not a star, are you?”

Stung, I scowled at him. “No, I'm not,” I said. “But I still don't see how that translates to... to paying me for sexual services.”

Carter dropped his phone, and I tilted my head. Kent said I wasn't going to be a whore. Well, now was his time to prove it. His indulgent smile had slipped slightly.

“Of course not, Miss Alton,” he said. “This is purely professional. An actress is not being paid for sexual favors when she kisses the leading man in a movie, is she?”