Page 12 of Enemies Off Camera
“They’re here,” she chirps into the phone. I presume she’s talking to Anne.
“I mean, are we just going to let them get away with this?” I whisper to Jaxon, now that I’ve got him on the ropes.
The door to the agents’ offices opens immediately. Another young woman—nearly a carbon copy of the receptionist—appears and gestures to us.
“Follow me.” She’s curt, like she’s projecting Anne’s irritation that we’re late.
Jaxon steps off ahead of me, keeping pace with our escort. He walks tall, steady, like he has zero intention of stopping to hash anything out with me.
I sigh, nerves buzzing under my skin. IwishI could get a better read on him.
Still, according to the report Anne sent a few weeks ago, my reputation is back on track, my dignity somewhat restored, and all that’s left is to put this absurd show behind me for good.
Jaxon and I will part ways. He’ll go off with one of the girls from the cast. I’ll filmNext In Line, reclaim my career, and move the hell on.
Happy endings all around.
And honestly? I really do think Jaxon will be on board with my proposal.
So I quicken my pace to catch up with them, fairly assured that today will be the last day I ever lay eyes on Jaxon Wilde.
And then—finally—my life will be back on track.
EIGHT
“You’re late,” says a man who’s nearly the same height and build as Jaxon. He’s older—mid-to-late forties, I’d guess—and has the air of someone who used to be an athlete himself.
I don’t know why I expected Jaxon’s agent to be an entertainment guy, like mine. Maybe because I keep forgetting that Jaxon and I are from completely different worlds. Eons apart, actually. If it weren’t for that show, I would’ve never crossed paths with him.
Jaxon takes a seat on the long leather sofa. “Traffic,” he says.
The man folds his arms across his chest—broad, muscular, still clearly in shape. “Aren’t you at the W in Westwood? That’s practically down the street.”
They glare at each other.
I watch, quietly intrigued. There’s a crackle of distrust in the air. His agent—at least I assume that’s who he is—seems to be silently asking Jaxon a question, trying to read the answer in his face.
“Okay, let’s get down to business,” Anne says, stepping in, all authority.
She looks far more put-together than the last time I saw her—sleek black skirt suit, tailored to perfection. It’s her power uniform. Probably cost a couple grand.
I’m relieved to see her like this again. Sharp. Focused. Confident. The Anne I know. The Anne who fixes things.
And I know... it’s now or never.
“I saw the show,” I say, settling onto the opposite end of the sofa from Jaxon. “None of it’s real.”
I paste on a fake, condescending smile. “But that’s okay. I must’ve signed something that said it was perfectly legal to turn me into a walking AI girlfriend for the sake of that dumb show. But I’ve been thinking—it’s not too late to turn this around.”
I sit up straighter. “I watched all the available episodes, tracked the girls, and I think there are a few really good options for Jaxon?—”
Anne presses her fingertips to her temples. “Zara, be quiet.”
My mouth stays open. I have so much more to say.
Anne flops into her oversized black office chair—it looks like a sleek ergonomic throne. “You are the winner, Zara.”
I look helplessly at Jaxon, who’s doing a great job avoiding eye contact. Surely,hedoesn’t want this either.
