Page 14 of In Love with Lewis Prescott
Even though my agent advised me to refrain from interacting on social media to keep my profile low while I wait out the bad press, I go ahead and like a dozen tweets and Instagram posts. I almost reply to a few comments, but I stop myself. Trent said to keep a low profile, so I should do that.
I’m about to put my phone back in my pocket and walk into the house when my phone buzzes. When I see it’s my agent calling, I stop and answer.
“Hey, Trent,” I say through a breath.
“Whoa, hey there, champ. What, you having a heart attack or something?”
I roll my eyes. “Funny, Trent. It’s called running. You should try it.”
His throaty cackle hits like a slap to the ear. I have to hold my phone away from my face until his laughter fades.
“You know I like to stick to running my mouth, my man.”
“So what’s got you calling me at the crack of dawn?”
“Just wanted to give you an update on how things are going with you ever since you left town. Your incident at the Chateau Marmont is no longer trending on social media. That’s a good sign, my man.”
I grit my teeth. Ever since I left LA, Trent has called me nearly every day either to remind me not to have another profanity-laden outburst or to update me on the news coverage of my meltdown.
“Last night some teen star got into a drunk-driving accident with her much older producer riding shotgun. She crashed the car right in front of The Grove, so that’s got everyone in a frenzy. No major injuries to report, which means the public’s attention won’t last long.”
The acid in my stomach bubbles at the joyful lilt in Trent’s voice.
“That said, people are well on their way to forgetting about your little display at the Chateau, my man. And that’s good. G-O-O-D, good.”
I try not to groan. One of his quirks is to spell out whatever word he wants to emphasize. He’s done it in almost every conversation I’ve had with him in the five years that he’s been my agent, and it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.
“That’s great,” I mutter. “It’s so very you to take pleasure in a drunk-driving accident.”
He cackles once more, like he thinks I’m joking. “What’s your status? You still okay hiding out?”
“Yup. Staying at a secluded place for the next few months. I won’t be out much, so that should lower my profile.”
“That’s good, my man. Real good. Like I said, lay low for a few months, just long enough for people to forget about your little incident and miss you. Then—bam! You’re back! Looking refreshed and refueled, flashing that pretty boy smile. Everyone loves you again! I mean, L-O-V-E-S loves you! Directors and producers will be knocking down my door begging to work with you...”
I tune out Trent’s voice as my head starts to ache. He sounds like a radio DJ mixed with a sleazy car salesman. It’s full-on fake and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. That’s how he is. One thousand percent superficial in almost every interaction with almost every person he comes in contact with. I’ve witnessed him fawn over a client and then shit-talk them the second he ends their call. I don’t even like the guy. But he’s an in-demand agent who got me a string of parts in major movies and shows—including the starring role inThe Best of It. His obnoxious habits are worth putting up with as long as I keep getting good roles through him.
“I’m telling you, my man. They’ll be all over you once you’re back on the scene. They’ll want to cast you as the bad boy hunk in their show or movie—”
“I told you, Trent. I want to transition out of those roles.”
“Huh?”
I grit my teeth. I’ve been telling Trent for years that I want to do meatier parts, but half the time when I bring it up, he acts like it’s the first time I’ve ever mentioned it.
“I’ve played the pretty boy, the bad boy, the male bimbo enough times. Don’t get me wrong, they were all a blast, and I’m thankful for the exposure they gave me. But I want to do something more serious. I’ve told you this, Trent.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, my man. No need to get upset. Besides, one thing at a time, all right? First, let’s focus on moving past your little potty-mouth outburst. And the best way to do that is to play up your strengths—play up what people love about you. And what people love about you, my man, is how you look. You’re a hottie. H-O-T-T-I-E hottie. Don’t discredit that—it’s gotten you this far. Flaunt it while you’ve got it, eh?”
I muffle a groan. I’m not in the mood to argue with him about this again.
“Okay, well, thanks for the update. Gotta go.”
I hang up and walk into the house just as the sun starts to rise. As quietly as I can, I toe off my running shoes and step to the hallway bathroom, careful not to wake Harper, who’s sleeping in the master bedroom.
As I let the stream of hot water soak me, I make a mental list of everything I need to order from the hardware store and online to get started on this renovation. Today I’ll start small with repairing the kitchen cabinets and looking up paint swatches for her to choose from for the walls.
I step out of the shower, dry off, wrap the towel around my waist, and open the door. To completely collide with Harper.
