1. Natalie

CHAPTER 1

Natalie

T he minute my phone rings on my way into the office, a foul mood settles over me. It's rare to get a call at seven in the morning for anything good. A quick glance at the screen shows one of my most successful actresses who's on set for a national commercial.

Shit.

"Chanel my bell," I answer in the most chipper tone I can muster. "What's wrong?"

"Nattie," she huffs with a dramatic pause. "You sent Tyler to meet me on set this morning."

"Yes. Is he late?"

Tyler's one of my management assistants. He's a bit young at 23, but the talent I manage prefers youth to my 40 years of life and 20 years of experience in the entertainment management industry. Chanel Bell is a rising star who has me to thank for landing her auditions for the roles that make her a household name. So when she calls me before I even get behind my desk, it raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

"He's not late. I sent him away." Chanel's tone is low as she complains. "He's not being the dutiful assistant I'm accustomed to having. Where did you get this guy?"

"He's new to Radiant Talent Management. I apologize that he's not working for you. Give me a half hour to get a hold of my other management assistant. Worst case scenario, Anderson will be on set with you by ten at the latest."

"That's fine. Just make sure he brings my goodies to set. Thanks tons. Smooch, smooch." Chanel ends the call without giving me a chance to reply.

After taking a deep breath, I get on the phone with Anderson. He's too cocky for my own liking, but the ladies I manage love him. It only takes a few minutes to open up my small commercial space masquerading as a talent agency, sandwiched between a florist and a bank.

It's a quiet street, reminiscent of all the Main Streets in Little Town, America. However, this town is about 45 minutes outside of New York City where I can get my biggest stars to audition and land roles that pay me a percentage. By the time I settle behind my desk, Tyler Robert strolls in with anger etching across his face and it's barely 8 a.m.

The way his black hair falls around his blue eyes makes him delightful to look at. However, my irritation as the owner of this agency trumps whatever he's feeling and he's not going to simply start this day like nothing's wrong with his behavior.

"Tyler, I need to see you," I tell him. The phrase is stupid when I think about it since there aren't any walls or doors in this place. It's an open office with three desks, a closet, and a bathroom. There's a small bench near the large glass window where people wait to be seen and a small desk where I keep coffee and pastries.

Tyler grunts as he sits down behind his desk and spins around to face me. Asshole.

"Good morning, Miss Logan. What can possibly be wrong, now?" He sighs with an attitude.

"Listen, I don't know who rubbed you wrong this morning, but you were supposed to be assisting Chanel on set at that commercial. You know the shoot is scheduled to go for at least 14 hours. She can't simply be there without an assistant, or with an assistant that makes her job difficult."

"Before you hop on me about some shit I'm not doing, don't you care why she told me to leave?"

"Not particularly." I don't care. The minutiae of his job is the exact reason I hired him. I don't focus on those small details. I focus on getting my talent work.

"She wanted drugs," he says.

I blink a few times, waiting for more, but when he doesn't speak, I ask him, "And what's the problem, Tyler?"

"The problem is I didn't feel like getting arrested, harassed, or jumped because I had to scour the roughest neighborhoods in New York City looking to score some D-list actress coke."

"Well, why didn't you call me or Anderson before you told her you couldn't get something done? Did you even try?"

He chuckles, running his fingers through his hair with his eyes glancing at the ground before shifting back at me. "Are you fucking kidding me? You condone this kind of behavior?"

"Careful, Tyler, your age is showing. The older you get, the more you need to get through the day. If one of our best clients needs a little bump, that's why you're there. She cannot leave the set to go searching for whatever she needs. Why the hell do you think I hired you?"

"I'm not some gopher?—"

"Wrong," I interrupt him. "You're the gopher, the grunt, the sex on a stick that keeps these over-praised and over-paid starlets in line. So the next time Chanel or any one of my clients tells you to go fetch, you go fetch. You bring back coke and a smile. If she wants you on your knees kissing her feet, you'd better get so low you know what color toe polish she has on."

"Get the fuck out of here. There's no way in hell you expect a man?—"

I cut him off again. "There you go thinking again, Tyler. You believe that my expectations are gender-based. They're not. I expect you to grovel and pay your dues like every other asshole in this industry. You don't get a pass to skip the line of grunt work because you swing a dick between your legs."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "This was a mistake. I knew I should have stayed home. This shit isn't even worth it."

"Oh, it's worth it, if you make it ahead in your career. You do the grunt work because then you learn how to manage expectations instead of doling out disappointment. No one wants to work with anyone, or for anyone who can't deliver. If you can't deliver Tyler, then why the fuck are you here?"

"I don't know." He pushes himself away from my desk to spin away from me.

"Why don't you go home, Tyler?"

"Gladly." He rises out of his seat.

"And Tyler?"

He stops, turning to face me before walking out. "What?"

I don't like his attitude and I highly doubt it's going to change instantly to be the flexible kind needed to survive in the management field. "When you get home, you should file for unemployment. Your last check will be in the mail."

Tyler immediately storms back into the office. My heart races, uncertain about what he's going to do. He slams his hands on top of my desk, jabbing a finger a few centimeters away from my face.

"There's no way in hell that you're firing me over this bullshit. If you were getting dicked down properly to fucking relax, you wouldn't be so damn uptight."

"I'm not uptight," I reply with a nagging feeling in my gut that leans toward him being right. I can't remember the last time I've been fucked or the last time I wanted any guy to touch me. I refocus my pent-up sexual frustration toward him. "Besides, it's not just this bullshit that's getting you fired, Tyler. Overall, I don't think you're a good fit around here. You have no idea how to drop your judgment of the people we represent. You think you're above them when we're here to provide a service."

"That service doesn't include breaking the law," he shouts.

I can barely control my temper as rage tangles with fear. My voice raises a few octaves to show him I'm still in control here. "It includes whatever the fuck I say it includes. The fact that you're still arguing with me proves my point in spades. You can't even get fired peacefully. Get the hell out of here."

"Fucking cunt." He sneers and looks ready to spit in my face but decides against it.

I shake my head. I would have respected him more had he done it. If you're going to be a dick, be a complete one that finishes. My glare backs him down as I continue scolding Tyler. "You need to seriously decide what your next move is going to be. If you want to have anything to do with the entertainment industry, learn from this. Do what you're asked, not what you think."

"You might as well change the sign to Pimped by Natalie because that's all you're selling here. Good-looking guys to service your washed-up, fake-ass celebrity clients. I can't believe I worked here this long." He storms out of the office, hoping to slam the door on his way out. Fortunately for me, the slow closing mechanism to preserve the glass panes prevents just that. The only sound of Tyler's exit is the light twinkling of the bell chiming above the door.