The Billionaire's Past (His Submissive, Part Ten) (6 page)

The door swung open and Mia cocked her head
to the side, bright eyes twice their normal size as she took me in.
“You came?”

“Of course,” I said, flashing a grin.

She didn’t return it, but I saw something in
her eyes that looked a lot like relief. She held the door open and
let me step inside. As loud as her personality was I expected neon
walls, a wooden chandelier, Warhol prints, and furniture that was
more fashion than function. Instead, the walls were bare. The open
concept floor plan just looked vast and empty except for a cluster
of cardboard boxes and shopping bags in what I suspected was
supposed to be the living room. The only real color was the array
of wine and liquor bottles lining the island. Well, that and the
lime green leggings Mia had on.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder,
walking over to one of the boxes labeled ‘K stuff’. “Want something
to drink? I have water, wine, beer, club soda?”

I shook my head and she abandoned the
cardboard box and went to the fridge. She emerged with a Miller
Lite, studying me as she popped the lid.

“Scott had some stuff to do, that’s why I--”
She turned her back to me, chugging it like she was in the Sahara
and just found a bottle of water. Once she was done she dropped it
in the trash can with a metallic crunch that told me she drank
booze like a fish drank water. As much as I wanted to find out the
truth about her sheisty friend, it was fairly obvious she didn’t
want to talk about him. Besides, I was there to support her, not
make her more uncomfortable which meant it was probably time for a
subject change.

I walked to the island, running my fingertips
across the granite countertop. “You just moved in?”

“Sure, six months ago.” She leaned on the
opposite side of the counter and shrugged her denim clad shoulders.
“I’m kind of a gypsy. No use unpacking because I just can’t stay in
one place. It’s in my blood.”

And my attempt at steering the convo out of
dicey territory put me right in a pile of awkward. Everyone knew
about the show moms who made Mommy Dearest look like mother of the
year. They were driven and if you stood in the way of the direction
they believed their kids’ career should go, they would plow right
over you. School, family, even childhood was put on the backburner
as they worked for their lil' one’s big break. And once that break
came, they were right there; pulling the strings, acting like their
ability to turn their children into a commodity meant they were
owed respect and gratitude.

If all the show moms in LA were put on a
single team, Charlene Kent would be the MVP. Before I even started
following Mia closely I remembered news articles about her mother
nearly costing her starring roles because producers refused to deal
with her. Before her fourteenth birthday there were rumors that Mia
was thinking about emancipating herself. She’d laughed them off,
but from the way her face hardened as she talked about blood, maybe
there were some truth to it.

She tossed a look at me and snorted. “You can
stop looking at me like I’m gonna break into a million little
pieces.”

I let out a nervous chuckle, swatting the
truth away. “I wasn’t--”

“You were,” she glowered, standing upright.
“Worried bringing up my mom would send me spiraling back into the
dark pit. Ask me anything about her. I’ll show you how fine I
am.”

This whole thing was proof of how fine she
wasn't
. “Mia...”

“Ask me.”

“How’s your mother doing?”

“No idea. I haven’t talked to her since my
birthday.”

The photos of Mia smiling, happy on her
eighteenth birthday took on a whole meaning.

I met her gaze slowly. “You were free.”

She was the one that broke away first,
turning back to the fridge. Back to the booze. Besides the fact she
wasn't legal, it was nowhere near the socially accepted time of
getting plastered.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

The hiss of the gas escaping from the bottle
and her prompt guzzling of it was my answer. She was throwing down
like it was Friday night with a tolerance that would impress the
most prolific of frat boys. I thought coming over would help her,
but right now, I just felt like I was making things worse. After
all my talk at the meeting, I wasn’t even following my own
suggestions. I was doing the exact opposite...I was driving her to
drink.

I stood up, at a loss for what to do. “I know
you’ve got a lot on your plate--”

“Huh,” she interrupted, gesturing around the
quiet expanse of her apartment with her empty bottle. “It looks
like I have nothing on my plate. My personal assistant stopped
answering my calls and I’ve been receiving delicately worded emails
from producers. They all apologize but they’ve ‘found new talent’
or are ‘going in a different direction”.”

I gave her a sympathetic nod. “They’re just
being overly cautious. They'll be back once everything calms
down.”

“Once everyone finds some new star to stalk?
Once the Mia Kent Suicide Watch ends?"

I cringed, remembering my horror when I saw
that TMV, one of the more dick-ish celebrity gossip new sites,
actually had a countdown widget on their front page. They docked
the time with every new article published about Mia.

“Once they realize that you’re here to stay,”
I said, taking the anger and trying to turn it into something
positive. Something empowering. “Once you make a comeback.”

She wagged a finger at me. “No Whitmore and
Creighton stuff, remember?”

I held up my hands innocently. “I didn't say
anything about contracts or Whitmore and Creighton. You’re going to
make a comeback whether you sign with us or not, if that’s what you
really want.”

She didn’t look remotely convinced of that.
“Yeah right.”

“I am right.”

“My mom says that I’m done. That I’ve
completely ruined my career.” Her face changed, every line
deepening, wrinkles and a world weariness coloring her eyes that
seemed like too much for someone her age. “My little sister is her
latest project. Maybe she'll get it right this time.”

I didn’t miss the contradiction. “I thought
you hadn’t spoken to her since your birthday.”

She pulled her long hair into a low bun, her
eyes narrowing. “The media’s already called me plenty. Brat. Idiot.
Washed Up. Might as well add liar to the mix.”

I leaned on the counter, dropping my chin in
my palm. “I guess it’s genetic then.”

“What is?”

“Lying.”

She reared back a little, double taking.
“Excuse me?”

“You lied, and apparently so did your
mother.” She looked confused and it was morphing into anger so I
explained. “Your career isn’t over, Mia.”

“Oh geez,” she huffed, breezing from the main
room to the next and coming back with a black bean bag. She dumped
it near the fireplace and slumped down onto it. “I guess this is
the moment where you tell me that if at first you don’t succeed
blah blah blah, rough patch, blah blah?”

“Nope.” I kicked off my pumps before padding
over to where she was slouched, watching me cautiously. I dropped
to the floor a few feet from her, folding my legs beneath me. “This
is where I tell you that it’s not easy and if you’re not ready to
put in the work, don’t.”

“So reverse psychology, then?”

I slashed the air with a hand, dismissing
that. “You’ve got enough people trying to get in your head. I'm not
one of them. I just want to be the one person that tells you the
truth.”

“Is that right?”

I dipped my head. “Yep.”

She sat up a little, her expression
softening. “So what did your people say about me?”

“They wanted to send you to a spa, give you a
bunch of swag, and sell Whitmore and Creighton to you.”

“Wow,” she snickered, finally looking like a
kid. It was a good look for her. “And which of those ideas was
yours?”

“None of them. I didn't want to do
anything.”

She didn't buy it. “What? But you’re
here.”

“After
you
called
me
.” I
crooked my thumb over my shoulder. “My purse is too small for a
contract and you’re the one bringing up Whitmore and
Creighton.”

“Yeah, but...” Her mouth hung open, her
forehead wrinkling as she racked her mind for some way to support
her theory that I was there for some bigger agenda or purpose other
than helping her.

I didn’t even tell Missy I was heading over
to see her because something in Mia’s voice told me she needed a
friend more than a publicist.

Quiet stretched between us as she looked at
me, trying to weigh out her options. To trust me or not to trust
me.

“Scott’s kind of an asshole, isn’t he?” Mia
said finally, trying to seem nonchalant. Like it was no biggie.

I guess she was still testing me. Yet the way
she chewed on her bottom lip, she was definitely testing herself.
Seeing if she could handle the truth.

I couldn’t answer why I felt a bond to a girl
who seemed intent on scaring me away, but the Scott thing was easy.
“Yes, he is.”

She sank deeper in the chair. “I confronted
him after I saw a video of him talking crap about me. How he told
me I needed help. And apparently I pop pills like candy and fired
or pushed away anyone that tried to help.” Her voice tightened.
“Wanna know how he helps me? By buying weed and alcohol and finding
me pills when I run out. When I called him out he said--” Her
nostrils flared as she balled the hands on her knees into fists.
“He said he should've just let me die.” She spit out a bitter
laugh. “Great friend, huh? My fucking hero.”

I wouldn’t be the one that said I told you
so. I knew if there were any parts of her that doubted his
intentions, he’d proven what kind of person he was. But this wasn’t
a victory. There were so few people she had in her life that
wouldn’t gladly sign up to be a close source in some tabloid story.
Sometimes the most toxic person imaginable can seem better than
facing life alone.

“He’s my only friend. How pathetic is that?"
she whispered, sucking on her bottom lip sadly. "I never got close
to my costars because Mom was always there, telling me that I was
better than them. That if I wanted to be the best I didn’t have
time for friends. I didn’t believe her, not really, but you just
don’t question her. Ever.”

“But you did,” I told her. “You got your own
place--”

“And I still can’t bring myself to change my
number. Or not answer her calls. Or tell her to go to hell. Because
even though she’s the freaking worst, she’s my mom. She’s the only
person I got.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mia.” I glanced
up at her. “You’ve got me.”

“You?” she snorted. “You’re my
publicist.”

“Did you sign something I didn’t know about?”
I challenged, standing up with a groan as my muscles popped. Served
me right. The only exercise I'd been getting was of the bedroom
variety. “You got anything to eat here? I’m starving.”

She was still considering what I said, but
she managed a no.

I went to my purse and pulled out my cell, my
heart swelling in my chest when she got up and walked over to join
me with a smile on her face. A real smile.

“Pizza it is.”

Section Seven

“There’s a Mrs. Whitmore here to see you. I’m
sending her back.”

The line went dead before I could tell
Natasha that under no circumstances did I want her to send Jacob’s
mother to my office. Figures. If I were anyone else she would have
checked with me first, but I was Leila Montgomery, her sworn enemy
or whatever. Apparently the play nice at work thing Missy and I
were trying out hadn’t trickled down to her friend.

I had bigger fish to fry than Natasha’s
attitude. Two knocks sounded at my door and I didn’t need two
guesses to figure out that it was Alicia. I jumped to my feet then
sat back down and opened every folder on my desk. Maybe if I looked
really busy she’d go away. I doubted she’d come all the way here
just to bother me. We’d trade barbs and she’d slink off to Jacob’s
office to tell him what a huge mistake he was making if he married
me.

I might as well get it over with. “It’s
open.”

She strutted into my office, wearing head to
toe cream, pairing a sheer blouse with wide leg trousers. Her salt
and pepper hair was held back with a pair of oversized shades and
her gray eyes stormed as she took me in, paying no mind to my desk
as she eased into one of the chairs in front of me.

“I hope I’m not intruding,.”

I didn’t even bother playing this little cat
and mouse game. “Would it matter if you were?”

“Not really,” she answered, at least doing me
a favor by not pretending this was some sort of social call between
friends. “I know you’re a busy girl so I’ll get to it.” Right. She
said it like she thought the extent of my busy-ness was trolling
the internet for new ways to spend Jacob’s money. “I’ve been
following that poor actress’ story through the news.”

I raised an eyebrow, guessing she was talking
about Mia, but not sure why she would care.

She pulled her shades from the crown of her
head, black and gray layers moving to frame her face. “I’m
unfamiliar with her work, honestly.”

“That’s not surprising,” I commented, closing
folders since this obviously wasn’t gonna be a drive by situation.
“You don’t strike me as a fan of teen shows.” Or happiness and
joy.

“Hmm,” she mused with a chuckle. “Right.
Still, I found myself drawn to the child’s story. Very tragic.”

“Well, the media does a good job of playing
it up for ratings.”

“I’m sorry, is suicide not a serious issue?”
Her painted lips were a burgundy line of disapproval.

Alicia Whitmore disapproving of anything was
a problem for me and I was
not
gonna be lectured about the
seriousness of suicide by her. Not after what Jacob told me.