Whisper (New Adult Romance) Page 2

  Her arms wrapped tight around me, creating a shield of warmth. She would have snatched the wine bottle away from me last night and ordered a pizza instead. She wouldn’t have let me get trashed then dump me on my doorstep where cameras were waiting to take advantage of my incapacitation. I clasped Leila like my life depended on it. Like she was the only thing keeping me from truly crumbling.

  “It’s okay,” she said, stroking my back. “We’ll figure it out together.”

  I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “Do I even want to see the pictures?”

  She twisted her mouth to one side and shook her head once. “Let’s not worry about that right now.” She rose to her feet and held out a hand. “Why don’t you drink some water, have a little something to eat, get cleaned up, and we’ll go from there?”

  Cleaned up? My senses were growing stronger and when I sniffed again, I nearly gagged. Beneath the heady smell of cigarettes and liquor, something smelled rotten. I looked down and saw my rug was discolored. With vomit.

  I took her hand, the room spinning before it righted. “At least I didn’t get any on my dress.” I quipped.

  Leila didn’t crack a grin. “I’ll wait on the couch.”

  I shuffled into the bathroom, twisting the faucet until the water pounded my flesh. I wiped away the grime and scrubbed until my skin smelled like my cinnamon soap and my hair was sweet like vanilla. After I pulled on a fresh shirt and jeans, I brushed my teeth until I couldn’t taste the lingering booze and bile.

  When I came out, she’d poured me a bowl of cereal and paired it with a banana that was dancing precariously close to rotten. My stomach stuck its tongue out at my eyes. It wasn’t gourmet, but I was so hungry I didn’t care. Leila let me take a few bites before she asked me the question that filled the room.

  “What happened?”

  “Well,” I swallowed and drummed my spoon against the rim of my bowl. “Scott texted me–”

  “I don’t mean literally.” She moved to the bar, leaning against the granite. “I mean, why would you do it? Things were going so well. You were keeping a low profile, other than being Rachel Laraby’s shadow.”

  We shared a conspiratorial smile. Everyone seemed to think Rachel Laraby, an A-list actress, farted and sunshine came out of her butt. Hell, I might have even idolized her – and then I met her at an Awards after party. She had been treating her assistant like a slave, not even acknowledging the poor guy by his name. After awkward introductions were made, I made a last ditch effort to play nice by complimenting her movie. She’d given me the most condescending smirk and said, “You’ve seen my movie?”

  Sure, I was sixteen at the time. And her movie was a highly existential Oscar bait romp, but it was the fact that she thought she was so amazing, so perfect, that only the precious few had a right to witness her performance. It made me hate her.

  After I connected with Leila and learned that Rachel was also with my PR firm, Whitmore and Creighton (and had her sights on Leila’s boyfriend Jacob Whitmore), I had the best idea to put her in her place. Rachel had feigned interest in me for the cameras, probably hoping her philanthropist turn would woo the billionaire, so I forced her to make good on it. For two glorious weeks, I had been attached to her like glue. After finally snapping, she fled to Europe, claiming she needed a break from public life.

  I picked at my cereal, my smile faltering. “Things were good.”

  “And?”

  I didn’t talk about Jenna to anyone. It was my weird way of protecting her from this life. A lot of good that did. My stomach flipped as I remembered Mom’s elated text. ‘Your sister’s on her way!’

  My heart had stopped, like she’d just told me it was raining fire and locusts were eating her flesh. I preferred the apocalypse over my sister getting wrapped up in my mother’s schemes.

  And then I tapped on the link.

  If you think Mia Kent is hot, check out her sister, Jenna.

  And there was my seventeen-year-old sister, blonde hair pulled back in pigtails, wearing a cotton candy pink bra and matching panties. Her fingers pulled at the g-string and her lips were parted slightly like she was a breath away from asking you to...to...

  My chin trembled. “It’s my sister.” I put down my spoon, my appetite a distant memory. “Jenna.”

  Leila popped up, her eyes wide. “Is she okay?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, it’s not like that. It’s my mom.”

  Leila’s eyes darkened. “Charlotte.”

  Such an innocent name. Couldn’t be further from what my mother was.

  I hadn’t told anyone, even my therapists, half of what my mother had done to me and my sister over the years. The tanning, the daily workouts, the diets, the weigh-ins, all of it paled next to her words. There’s nothing quite like the person that’s supposed to take care of you telling you that you must work to provide for your family. That cereal ad? That’s the rent. The insurance one? Groceries. The TV show that meant I’d never step foot into a real school again? That was keeping the family in the lifestyle we’d become accustomed to.

  At the back of my mind, I always hoped I’d make enough so Jenna could lead a normal life. But when I saw that text with all the exclamation points and my sister with her dead eyes, I knew I’d been stupid.

  Leila was waiting, and getting this out, saying it aloud, would set me free.

  And then I heard a knock on the door.

  I slumped against the counter, peeling my banana. I knew exactly who it was.

  Leila peered at the door. “Do you need to get that?”

  “Nope, she has a key that she’ll use in 3, 2...”

  “Are you -?” The ‘decent’ was left unsaid.

  Mom had walked in on me doing things a mother should never see her daughter doing, but unsurprisingly, it hadn’t changed her habit of busting into my apartment whenever she felt like it.

  “Miss Montgomery.” Mom gave Leila a cold once over. “It’s a little early for Whitmore & Creighton, isn’t it?” She made it no secret that she thought she should be my Jill of all Trades –assistant, publicist, and slave driver.

  Leila took it in stride. “Good morning, Mrs. Kent. How are you?”

  “I’ll be better once I can spend some quality time with my daughter.” Mom didn’t bother with niceties.

  Leila looked at me for confirmation. Even though the last thing I wanted was for her to leave, I gave her a nod and promised to call her later.

  Once Leila was gone, my mother snatched up my bowl and sent it flying. The metallic crash should have made me jump, but I was used to her throwing things for effect.

  “Are you trying to ruin everything, Mia?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mom braced her arms on the counter, eyes savage and domineering. You'd think we were at some board meeting and she was glaring her employees into submission. I crossed my arms, a sick thought coming to mind. She was the CEO of me in a weird way. In charge of the business of turning me into a commodity. And right now, our stock was in free fall.

  “Is this some delayed adolescent temper tantrum?” Her fingers curled, like she was contemplating choking something. Or imagining wrapping her fingers around another dish and sending it flying. “You're better than this.”

  I gave her a halfhearted shrug. “Maybe I'm exactly this. I'm just following the standard trajectory. Wealth and fame at a young age, crash and burn once I get some wiggle room.” The tabloids called it freedom, but there was no such thing. For the briefest moment when I turned eighteen, I let myself believe that I could walk away from her. Write her a check and cut all ties. I even wrote said check. Left it blank – she could have had everything in my account if it meant I'd never have to see her face again. But my father chose my eighteenth birthday to make his escape. He finally grew a backbone and left my mother for some girl a year older than me.

  It was the first time I'd ever seen my mother cry. That I ever felt like she was human and cared enough about any of us to miss us if we went away.

  Four
years later, I wished I’d had my dad's guts. He moved to Emerald Isle and was living a quiet life far away from the flashing lights.

  I looked down at the banana I’d peeled. It looked decent on the outside, but it was bruised and rotten within. I hurled it in the trash and turned back to my mother. A quick once over and I knew this was no intervention. She was in a tailored blouse and blazer, trousers snaking down to pumps. It was a uniform I knew well, the crisp separates she gravitated to when she was getting down to business.

  “So, who am I meeting with today?” I grumbled.

  She pressed her hand to her chest and pretended to be utterly shocked. “I came here because I'm worried about you, Mia. I saw those pictures splashed all over the Internet.” She dropped the parent act and became the monster that was scarier than anything under my bed. “Despite popular opinion, I didn't raise a coked-up whore.”

  I rolled my eyes to the ceiling before I maneuvered around her and picked out a container of yogurt. She snatched it away, turning it around so she could see the label, probably looking for the words low fat, then skimmed the nutrition info. Satisfied, she handed it back to me.

  “Do you need to go to rehab?” She didn't wait for me to answer, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “That could work...help you get your head on right and then you can rise from the ashes of your ruined career. Everyone loves a good comeback story.”

  I ripped the top off my yogurt. “I don't need rehab. I need—” A real mother. One that sees me. Cares about me, and not my career. Isn't so blinded by dollar signs that she lets her seventeen-year-old daughter pose in Maxim magazine.

  I didn't finish the thought. What was the point? The last time I approached the subject of my mother's lack of actual mothering, she had laughed in my face.

  Mom gave me a stern once over. “You're a Kent. Kents don't need mothers. My mother wasn't even around when I was a kid, and look how I turned out.”

  I looked at her pointedly. She was proving my point.

  “If I held your hand the whole way, then what pride could you feel in your accomplishments?” She gestured around at our hotel room. It was the nicest we'd ever stayed at. A place with a doorman and a fountain in the lobby. The maids even left little chocolates on the pillows.

  My mother ate it up. I missed my bed with its mixed matched flannel sheets. I missed home.

  I blinked at my mother, the woman who would never give me what I really needed. I was just delaying the inevitable. Whatever Mom wanted, Mom got.

  “I don't need rehab.” I dug deep and found my smile. Years of pretending to be happy even made it believable. “Who are we meeting with today?”

  The usually stoic woman nearly doubled over with a sigh of relief. I knew it was less because I said I was fine and more because a fresh scandal had been narrowly avoided. Always thinking about my career. All business.

  Mom dusted her hands off like she was wiping away the stink of talking about feelings. “He's a producer. Used to do music, but now he’s branched out into film.”

  I figured as much. The TV and movie producers had beat down my door when Carolina, California ended, but I passed on nearly every script. All the projects had me playing hot love interest with a pea sized brain. At least on my teen show I was the lead – still hot and ditzy – but I got to explore my character's development.

  I had hoped that ending my contract on the show that made me a household name meant I was opening myself up to projects I could really be proud of. Roles where I could go to dark places and show the world I was more than just a pretty face.

  Mom was droning on about all of the producer's accolades, her gray eyes animated and electric. I frowned, even though I was only half listening, I was following close enough that I knew she hadn't name dropped this Producer God that would take my career to the promised land.

  “—and he's worked with Katy Perry and—”

  “Who is he?”

  Mom froze, caught red handed. “Solomon Cole. And he already has big plans—”

  I held up a hand, my body shaking as his name repeated in my head like a nightmare that wouldn't go away even after you opened your eyes and realized it was just a dream. That's what my mother was trying to sell me – a dream. A magical place where it rained money. I knew enough about Sol Cole to know he wasn't the one to elevate my career. The reason he worked (past tense) with the stars Mom had name dropped was because he had a reputation. He thought he had a right to everything: the song writing process, managing the studio mix with an iron fist, even choosing the outfits. But the worst part was he liked to start with casual touching – dusting a hair out of one's eye, hand on the small of the back – to brushing invisible lint from breasts and grabbing asses. He was a top shelf sleaze, and Mom knew it.

  She moved to me like she was going to show affection, but her hand remained suspended a few inches from cupping my cheek. She dropped it to my shoulder instead, awkwardly patting me. “I'll be there the whole time.” Her lips stretched into a wide, disingenuous smile. “What's the worst that could happen?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  Mom’s words taunted fate, daring it to bring its A game. The minute I stepped through the doors of Cole Productions, I knew fate would deliver in spades.

  The lobby looked like Andy Warhol had vomited all over the place. The walls were highlighter yellow, pink, and green. Oversized throne inspired chairs were splattered around the neon room, the cushions wrapped in loud animal print. Black and white photos hung at odd angles and on closer inspection, my stomach tumbled. They were shots of dicks and breasts with censor bars censoring absolutely nothing. The only thing that didn’t make my eyes hurt or my stomach churn was a white desk in the center of the lobby. A scantily clad woman was perched behind it, flipping through a magazine and twirling a platinum blonde lock around her pinky finger.

  There was something familiar about her that I couldn’t put my finger on. When the girl looked up and her blue eyes rounded with glee, it clicked into place. The hair – complete with one side shaved, the safety pin earrings, and Nirvana shirt – was a copy of one of my signature looks before I went back to brunette and stopped trying to be edgy.

  When my twin left her desk, I saw that she rounded off the ensemble with a pink miniskirt that barely covered her vagina and knee high combat boots. I winced. I had probably looked just as ridiculous.

  “Hi,” I began, clearing my throat uncomfortably. “I’m—”

  The blonde skipped the formalities, throwing both arms around me and squeezing so hard she nearly cracked a rib. “Are you kidding? I know who you are! You’re Miiia!” She turned a two-syllable name into four. Her teeth were blindingly white. “I’m such a huge fan. The biggest.” She pulled back, stars in her eyes. “I’m Tempest.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Tempest was dialed up to 100, and I always enjoyed meeting fans. “Badass name. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Tempest hitched a breath, her intensely blue eyes welling with tears. “Nice to meet me?” She nibbled on her bottom lip as she fanned herself. “I can’t believe Mia Kent thinks it’s nice to meet me!”

  “We have an 11:00am appointment with Mr. Cole.” Mom ended our moment with her rude, clipped tone. For a woman who seemed hell bent on micro-managing my career, she’d always had little to no patience for my fans. She forgot something key – there was no Mia Kent without them. The day I took them for granted or failed to appreciate how amazing it was that people stood in all kinds of weather to get my autograph, bought merchandise from my show, or even emulated my style - that was the day I stopped deserving them.

  I flashed Tempest an apologetic smile. “Is Mr. Cole available?”

  She returned it with a toothy grin. “I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” She skipped back to her desk, a dial tone sounding above the trance music thumping from the speakers.

  A gruff voice answered after four rings. “What is it?”

  Tempest was either used to it
or was so happy go lucky that she was unfazed by her boss’s growl. “Mia Kent is here for her appointment.”

  “How long have you worked here, T?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Nearly a year. You know I don’t want my VIPs waiting.”

  The light in Tempest’s face dimmed. “I’m sorry, Sol.”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry,” he berated her. “I want you do your job. I swear if you didn’t look hot as hell in a skirt, I’d fire your ass.”

  The light went out completely. Tempest slumped in her chair like she wanted to disappear. The rumors were true – Solomon Cole was a dick. And it was obvious that they had done this song and dance before. From the way Tempest’s voice trembled, it still hurt every time.

  “It won’t happen again,” she said softly.

  He hung up on her.

  I exchanged a look with my mother, but there was no sympathy on Mom’s tight, wrinkle free face. There was only impatience. “Let’s go, Mia. Mr. Cole is a busy man.”

  Tempest scrawled our names on two visitor’s badges and handed them over with a broken smile. “Sol’s office is on the 15th floor. It’s kind of a maze up there, so Liam, his assistant, will meet you at the elevator.”

  I thanked her then followed my mother into the elevator. More trance music was pumped through the speakers. Instead of inspiring the need to dance, it filled me with dread. I had resigned myself to the meeting by telling myself the rumors about Sol’s douchebaggery were exaggerated by disgruntled ex-employees and diva former clients. He’d just dashed that argument in one fell swoop by degrading his secretary and flat out saying he only kept her around so he could ogle her.

  I drew a heavy breath as the doors slid open. When I left the family channel, I knew I might have to deal with the ugly side of Hollywood, but I wasn’t expecting this. I was debating leaving my mother with Sol and making a run for it when I saw him.