Dating You / Hating You

  Brad’s reaction to this is a tiny flicker of an eyebrow, a twitch at the side of his mouth. Six months ago he would have rounded the desk and hugged me over this.

  But now all I get is a “Good. Good.”

  “He’s sending over the script—and the offer—today.”

  Brad nods and finally offers a tiny flash of a smile. “That’s good.” He inhales sharply, leaning back in his chair to study me. “Did you tell Carter?”

  My brain comes to a halt, and I know my face has just been wiped clean of any expression. Instinct makes me continue with caution. Did he ask me this because he knows I’m sleeping with Carter? Or did he ask me this because Trent will soon be Carter’s, and I’ll be packing my bags?

  “I came to tell you first,” I say. “I’ll tell him whenever I see him.”

  Brad smiles. “He’s looking at some big deals, too, coming up. Did he tell you? He landed Dan Printz on Saturday.”

  I am Alice, tumbling through the looking glass. I am Louise, driving the car over the cliff.

  “He did?”

  He did?

  He did?

  Why didn’t he tell me? I wanted this for him!

  My face feels hot—God, I must be bright red. I need to get the fuck out of here.

  Brad puts his glasses back on and his smile is genuine this time. “Go congratulate him. It’s a great signing for us.”

  • • •

  I have about seven thousand reactions to this, and they’re all happening in my body at once. Confusion, surprise, anger, sadness, worry, guilt, happiness, and whatever the other several thousand are—I feel them, each one.

  Locking myself in a bathroom stall, I sit down and put my head in my hands.

  Think, Evie.

  Work through it all.

  Why didn’t he tell me?

  I know why: this situation is complicated and our relationship is only a few days out of Cutthroat Situation and into All the Sex.

  Is Carter really that guy? Am I so emotion-blind that I can’t even see when he’s collecting a few fucks before taking my job? My brain screams and I press my fists to my temples.

  I know going to Sexist Asshat Town is my knee-jerk reaction. The sad thing is that I’m right most of the time. But this is Carter. I’ve seen him at his best, and his worst. I know him, don’t I?

  I squeeze my eyes closed, forcing my internal debate team to step up to the podium.

  Would I have told him yet? Maybe, but likely no. I would want to see that signature page first. I would want to know for sure that Dan Printz was mine, because it doesn’t matter how many Michael Bay movies Trent gets. Dan Printz is the future. He’s the next Brad Pitt, the next Clooney. He’s not a small star, he’s a sun.

  What does this mean for me?

  With Rose out of the picture, who knows. But it likely means that I’m second to the golden boy, and that golden boy is my boyfriend. Am I okay with that?

  • • •

  Carter isn’t in his office when I come out of my panic room, and so I pace my own office, replying to emails as my brain takes tiny breaths of air. It’s only noon, and I know I have a to-do list a mile long, but I can’t for the life of me remember anything on it.

  I call Jess in, tell her to go through and prioritize my monstrous call sheet, and focus on that for as long as I can. Work is grounding. It’s the sharpening of a knife, the trimming of a hedge. Everything feels orderly once I’ve passed the ball into someone else’s court.

  Jess leans against my doorframe. “Did you have a chance to go over those retreat invoices again?”

  I wince. “Dammit! It’s on my list to do today. Thank you for the remin—”

  Carter’s shoes squeak on the marble when he steps off the elevator, and I am up, out of my chair, and sprinting. Jess’s laughter follows me down the hall.

  I jog over to him, clutching his arms in my hands. “Carter.”

  “Hey, crazy eyes,” he says, laughing. But then his expression straightens—like he knows I know—and he lifts his chin for us to head back in the direction of his office.

  He closes the door behind him. “Evie—”

  “I just talked to Brad,” I say breathlessly. “Trent was offered a role in the next Bay production and he told me about Dan, and—”

  “I was going to tell you,” he says urgently, and the frantic set of his eyes makes my chest twist. “I just got back from lunch with him, and was coming—”

  “I’m not mad,” I say quietly, interrupting him. “I was. But I calmed myself down.”

  Carter sits down heavily in a chair.

  “I knew you were courting him,” I remind him. “And, to be honest in my own actions, I told Dave from the Vine to email you and make the contact.”

  His eyebrows pull close together, and he swallows. “You did? When?”

  “Like, maybe your second week here?” I say, shrugging. “Dave assumed Dan was coming to my list. I just sent him your way instead.”

  He shakes his head, stunned. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “The merge had just happened and you’d been dealt one hell of a blow. I wanted to win, but I wanted an even playing field first. Or maybe I just underestimated what a threat you’d be. I don’t know. But I’m glad you got Dan. I think you’ll be a great fit. I’m not mad you didn’t tell me. I promise.”

  He seems to flounder for a few seconds, and then says quietly, “I can’t believe you did that.”

  This makes me laugh, and it surprises him because it’s never a soft laugh. It’s a bursting Evil laugh. “Like I said, I wanted to beat you fairly.”

  He lifts a single teasing brow at the assumption that I would beat him at all. My pulse does a little jump, and I guess Daryl was right. I like competing with him. Who knew? And oh my God, we’re talking this out. We’re interacting like adults, in person.

  “Besides, I like you. Dummy.”

  His hands come forward, finding my hips and pulling me closer so that I’m standing between his legs.

  “Just ‘like’?”

  “Maybe more.”

  He growls a little, leaning to kiss my stomach once through my dress, then again, a little lower. “How can I get you to sign with me?”

  “Keep doing that.” As he kisses, and apologizes again, and lets his hands slide around and to my ass, over my thighs—remembering—my fingers find his hair, and I close my eyes, tilting my face to the ceiling.

  I don’t care about this office. I don’t care about this agency.

  I care about my clients. I care about this man.

  “Dan hasn’t signed the contract yet, but he has given me the verbal commitment. He wants to work with me.” Carter hesitates. “He wants me more in a manager role, as well as agent. You know that legally, I can’t do both. Caleb wants to move back to New York. I’d have to figure out how that could work.”

  I nod, but he doesn’t see it. My silence doesn’t seem to bother him. He wraps his arms fully around me, squeezing as he presses his face to my hip. But then he seems to remember something and pulls back, looking up at me.

  “If you weren’t mad, why did you look so panicked when I came in?”

  When I try to smile, it comes out a little broken, so I give up and shrug instead. “I just get the feeling I’m not going to be here very much longer.”

  He studies my face, quiet for a few seconds. “Something’s going on with Brad. With you, I mean.”

  I laugh. “You think?”

  “No, seriously.” Carter sits back and looks past me to make sure his door is firmly closed. “I was thinking about this all weekend. Why does he have it in for you, specifically?”

  A world of unknowns in that one question. I shrug.

  “Do you have something on him?” he asks me.

  “I have a lot of little bits of dirt,” I say. “No steaming pile. Nothing I’d really share with anyone.”

  “And he knows that.” He bends, rubbing his hand over his face. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
br />   • • •

  Because Carter is obviously the most amazing boyfriend of all time, he takes me out to breakfast for dinner. Over enormous stacks of pancakes at the Griddle Cafe, we talk about everything but work, interrupted frequently by Mike and Steph’s giddy, emoji-stringed texts. We texted them a selfie of us earlier: me, cross-eyed and cheeks puffed as Carter planted a giant smooch on my cheek. He typed the words Meet my girlfriend, Evil, before he hit send in the group window.

  I suppose that got the message across that we are doing the couple thing and no longer plotting each other’s murder.

  We talk about our families, because it feels like a real possibility that we’ll meet them soon—and maybe that they’ll meet each other. He talks about how he was engaged once, and how he loved that girl, but not in that bone-crushing way where you would give up anything. She wanted small and Carter wanted the stars. We talk about how maybe Steph was right and I do always manage to find fault in the men I date—Too motivated! Not motivated enough!—and the relief I usually felt at putting them in the not-datable column. That way it was them, not me. We talk about Daryl and Amelia and how much they mean to me. How I’ve known Daryl for most of my life and how I love Amelia in almost the same way.

  “Have they seen you since Friday?” he asks proudly. “Because if they saw you walking lately . . .” He mimes me stumbling bowlegged with two fingers teetering across the tabletop and I chuck a piece of scrambled egg at him.

  He picks it off his plate and eats it.

  I might really love him.

  “Sorry,” he says quickly, reaching across the table to take my hand. “Did that gross you out?”

  “What? No.”

  “Then why do you suddenly look like you’re going to vomit?”

  “Because I love you.”

  He laughs, delighted. “How terrible.”

  “I just . . . don’t go,” I say in a burst.

  “Go where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  He stands, leaning across the table. His lips taste like syrup, his smile feels like home.

  Beneath him, on the table, his phone begins to jump.

  Carter pulls away, grinning at me and slowly sitting down in his seat before glancing at the caller ID. With a tiny just a sec finger, he answers.

  “Dave, hey.”

  I watch Carter’s face go from flesh-colored to zombie pale in about two seconds.

  “What? No, it wasn’t me. Absolutely not.”

  He listens, shaking his head.

  “Fuck, no. It—he hasn’t even signed yet.” Nodding, he says, “Just verbal. And the announcement was supposed to be yours, just as soon as I had the paperwork wrapped up.”

  Finally, he looks up at me and whispers, “Open Variety Now.”

  Scrambling for my phone, I open my app. It loads slowly, but by the time it does, Carter has finished his call and he takes my phone when I hand it to him.

  I’ve already read the headline.

  I have no idea what is happening, but Carter looks like he is about to throw up his pancakes all over the table, and it isn’t because I professed my love.

  It’s because Variety has just announced that Dan Printz has signed with Carter.

  “What is going on?” I whisper.

  Carter shakes his head, reading and rereading what’s written before handing the phone back to me with a quietly hissed “Sssssshiiiiit.”

  I scan the article and feel my stomach drop.

  People’s Sexiest Man Alive Leaves Lorimac

  Dan Printz, actor in the upcoming action blockbuster Global and recently voted People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, has signed with talent agent Carter Aaron.

  Printz has emerged as one of the hottest actors in Hollywood following the box-office success of Under a Stony Sky, in which Printz portrays a brooding cyborg who saves a family from a corporation bent on killing their genius children. To date, the film has earned over $750 million internationally.

  Printz previously was repped by Joel Meyer over at Lorimac, who launched Printz’s career in his debut, Edge, produced by Universal and directed by George Stan. Lorimac has been in talks with Sony and Fox to cast Printz in several upcoming big-budget films, but according to Printz’s spokesperson, those will pass over to Carter Aaron, effective immediately.

  Aaron, originally from New York, works for newly merged Price & Dickle.

  I stare at the screen, uncomprehending.

  “Why is this in Variety?” It’s a stupid first question, but I get now why Dave called. Dave was supposed to get this scoop. Dave was going to give Carter a huge spread in the Hollywood Vine print edition in exchange.

  “No idea.” His voice is clipped and loud. Carter pulls out his wallet, hastily grabbing a couple of twenties and dropping them on the table. His hands are shaking.

  I scramble to follow him as he stands and heads for the door. A few diners near us have stopped talking to watch us bolt.

  “Why . . . ?” I have so many questions. Why is this out now? Why did Variety get the scoop? And why is Carter mentioned so obviously?

  It doesn’t seem like that’s what’s happening, but . . . Carter wouldn’t do this, right? He knows better?

  He has to know better. This is Agenting 101.

  “Lorimac knew?” I ask.

  Carter bursts from the restaurant. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, Dan couldn’t hire me until he’d fired Joel, but that happened last week and I got the distinct impression Joel was keeping it from Lorimac, positive Dan would come back. I don’t like Joel, but this is no way for them to find out. Fuck.” He does an angry little fist-punch toward the sky. “Fuck!”

  Actors leaving agencies is a big deal. A huge deal. Especially talent like Dan; he’ll take millions of dollars with him, and it will not only affect the agency’s bottom line, it will bruise their reputation. This announcement is bad for Lorimac, yes, but it could be just as bad for P&D because it makes us look like shady assholes doing underhanded things to steal talent; none of this should have been made public until we were sure Lorimac knew and had time to prepare their own statement.

  More to the point, it makes Carter look like a shady asshole, because he’s mentioned specifically, with very little mention of P&D at all. It’s written as if Carter is the force behind the deal, not the agency.

  Tripping after him, I start to form another question. “Carter, why—”

  He wheels on me, face red. “I don’t fucking know, Evie, okay? I don’t fucking know!”

  I pull back, hands to my chest. “Okay! Jesus.”

  Deflating, he hangs his head, reaching for me, pulling me to his chest. I’m still stunned, and come a little reluctantly.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing my hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know what just happened. I told Dave he had the exclusive. I met Dan today and we shook on it, I even told him about the offer of announcing with Dave and the Vine—he was thrilled—but he hasn’t seen a contract. I’ve never spoken to Ted Statsky at Variety—I have no idea how he got this.”

  Taking his hand, I pull him toward my car. “Let’s go to the office and figure this out.”

  It’s nearly eight by the time we get to the fifth floor, but all the lights are on, and I can hear Brad’s voice barking from his office all the way down by the elevator bank.

  Carter blanches, glancing at me before heading straight down there.

  I follow, and although I’m only a few steps behind him, I stay in the hall. I have no role in this crisis but to be Carter’s support and his colleague, making whatever damage control calls he needs.

  Brad’s voice is a terrifying thunder. “What the fuck is this, Aaron? What the fuck is going on? Have you seen this fucking Variety article?”

  “I spoke to Dave,” Carter says, managing to sound calm. “This wasn’t me. This wasn’t us. This was an outside leak.”

  “The fuck it was!” Brad yells. “You pissed all over this article. You wrote your fucking name in l
oopy fucking letters all over this love note to Variety. P&D is barely fucking mentioned here. Do you work here? Are you in my department?”

  “Of course, Brad.”

  “Well, not according to this, you’re not! We get a line at the bottom. No one fucking reads the last line!”

  Carter wisely doesn’t point out that everyone at Lorimac will read the last line.

  “I’m supposed to meet my wife tonight at an event where she’s getting an award,” Brad yells, “but instead I’m here—trying to make sense of this fuckup. Jesus, Carter, this is a huge shit storm.”

  I know I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t—but I step in, feeling my heart grow into a solid ball of pissed-off. “It wasn’t Carter, Brad. I’ve been with him since he came back from his lunch with Dan.”

  “ ‘Lunch with Dan’?” Brad says, turning back to Carter. “So he did sign?”

  “Legal is still writing up the contracts,” Carter says, trying to calm Brad down. “Brad, it’s Tuesday. He confirmed over the phone three days ago. He did a verbal and a handshake today. I know better than to run to Variety—or anyone—with a handshake . . .”

  Carter’s voice trails off, because Brad isn’t listening to him anymore. He’s staring at me, and with a cold rush down my body, I realize why.

  My heart, my lungs, my stomach are packed into a tight ball of fury.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, struggling to stay calm.

  “I told you this today,” he says through gritted teeth. “I told you about Dan Printz today, Abbey, and this is what you do? You’re so jealous you gotta go screw Dave, Dan, Carter, and P&D in one blow?”

  Carter takes a step back like he’s been punched. I am shaking. At my side, my hand forms a fist, and I have to consciously unclench it or else I know it will be flying toward Brad.

  “Brad, there is no way—” Carter starts.

  “You need to take a deep breath, Brad,” I interrupt, anger making my voice nearly inaudible. “It wasn’t Carter, and it wasn’t me.”

  He lifts his chin in a fuck you gesture and scoffs. “This is low, even for you.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  I turn, walking on shaking legs to the door. “You’re out of your damn mind, Brad. Go home. Sleep it off. I’ll accept your apology in the morning.”