Fake (West Hollywood #1) -Kylie Scott Page 0,1

The woman clearly meant business, and then some.

I set the glass of wine down in front of her and returned to my place at the back of the room, polishing the silverware and restocking the salt and pepper and so on—all the jobs best performed when things were slow. And while it was nosy and wrong to listen in on other people’s conversations, it wasn’t my fault the room was so quiet that I could hear everything they said.

“None of them felt authentic,” he said, stopping to down some more beer.

The woman snorted. “That’s because none of them are.”

“You know what I mean.”

“When you first came to me you said you wanted to become a star, make quality films, and win an Oscar. In that order,” she said. “As things are at present, you may be able to resurrect your career to some degree through the indie market. Pick up roles here and there and slowly build yourself back up. But that’s going to take years and you’ll likely never be in the running for the golden statuette. You can kiss that dream goodbye.”

Patrick ran an agitated hand through his hair.

“You worked your ass off to get this far,” she said. “Are you really going to give up now?”

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Liv is busy saving her own ass and you’re unwilling to set the record straight. Not that anyone would even necessarily believe you at this point. So our options are limited.” She picked up her wine, taking a delicate sip before wrinkling her nose in distaste. Since it came out of a box, that wasn’t much of a surprise. She’d only asked for a glass of red; she hadn’t specified quality. “I know you were hoping it would all die down, but people are still talking. And with social media how it is, this was the worst possible time to get caught up in a scandal. However, there is hope. We can still salvage things if you’d just work with us. But we need to act now.”

Patrick declined to respond.

It had been all over the internet a month ago. Photos of him leaving Liv Anders’s Malibu residence at the crack of dawn. And it was clearly a morning-after picture. Totally a walk of shame. He’d been all disheveled and wearing a crumpled tux. Liv being half of Hollywood’s current darling couple was part of the problem. Along with Patrick and Liv’s husband, Grant, having just done a movie together and supposedly being best buds. That Patrick had spent his earlier years dating a string of models and partying hard didn’t help matters either. His reputation was well established. Headlines such as “Patrick the Player,” “Walsh Destroys Wedded Bliss,” “Friendship Failure,” and “Not So Heroic Homewrecker” were everywhere. Maybe it had been a slow news week, but the amount of hate leveled at him was surprising.

Of course, there had to be more to the story. There always was. But Liv was seen weeping in a disturbingly photogenic fashion as she and her husband walked into a marriage counselor’s office the next day. And the pair had been hanging off each other on the red carpet ever since. Meanwhile, Patrick’s name was mud. Worse than mud. It was toxic shit.

It could all be true. He could indeed be a trash male who thought with his dick and behaved in a duplicitous and manipulative manner. I’d dated my fair share of dubious men, so it wouldn’t exactly surprise me. And plenty of assholes had been publicly outed recently. Men who used their fame and power for evil.

But this all just felt more like gossip.

First up, there’d been no actual evidence that this wasn’t two consenting adults doing what they wanted behind closed doors. Patrick hadn’t taken any wedding vows and Liv hadn’t made any accusations of mistreatment. In fact, Liv hadn’t said anything at all. Patrick and Grant being best buddies, though . . . that was a hell of a betrayal. If it was true.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” he said, his voice rising. “But not with any of them.”

“Patrick, we’ve been interviewing for weeks to find those three alternatives for you,” she said. “One of them must be tolerable if not perfect.”

“She doesn’t need to be perfect. She needs to be real.”

“Real?” asked Angie with some small amount of spluttering. “Give me strength. That’s the last fucking thing we need right now.”

The bell pinged out back. Vinnie gave me a wink and nodded to the waiting dish, Penne Ragu and Meatballs with