‘borrowed’ olive-green 1967 Aston Martin didn’t blip the radar in L.A., even with its $1.3M value. In the city of angels, everyone drove a sweet ride. All the women were beautiful, petite, blonde, and stacked. And every guy was tall and handsome as hell.
That made him invisible. For his acting career, he hated it. Now that he was hiding from his brothers, he didn’t mind.
Gray slid into the tan leather seats and dumped his gym bag on the passenger side. Seven am and the temperature already climbed to eighty-five degrees, chilly for August in Southern California. Instead of waiting for the A/C, he unhooked the convertible latches and unfolded the canvas top. With the sun beating down on his head, he drove to Venice Beach for his daily workout.
At his gym, he parked in the back of the lot, his vintage ride more noticeable than the rest. Cars of all colors, makes, and models, mostly expensive, had already jam-packed the front lot.
Before getting out of the car, he glanced at himself in the mirror. That voice inside his head poked at him: Why are you refusing to call Luke?
“You know why,” he grumbled to himself and pushed the door open. Feeling like utter shit, he ambled into the gym.
“Here you go,” the woman at the desk greeted him with a towel and a smile.
“Thanks,” he gave a stale reply because he didn’t remember her name.
“Have a good workout, Brad.”
That one had been hard to pull off. Brad Paisley. He’d spun tales how the CMT superstar was a long-lost relative and his parents had a sense of humor. All of these lies would never fly in New York City. L.A. was the place to be since he was trying to be anyone else but this guy:
Grayson Hart, that oafish, all teeth, no talent carrot-top, ruined the movie for me.
That was the kindest review from his last movie, A Day to Die.
He’d colored his reddish-blond hair sable brown, moved, and started making up names.
Anything not to be gawked at as the man who wrecked Scott Rudin’s movie.
Even with all the stunning people walking around Los Angeles, Gray still drew a lot of attention. Measuring in at six-five probably had something to do with that, too.
After dumping his workout bag in a locker and filling up his water bottle, Gray scoped out the machines he needed for his two-hour workout routine. Not because he was a fitness junkie. He just didn’t have anything else to do.
“Hey, Brad.” Another blonde barbie doll whose name he forgot slinked by.
“Hi,” he said with the enthusiasm of a slug.
He hadn’t any mental energy for sex lately, either.
“Hey, Lila.” He did, however, always say hi to the white-haired grandma who kept the same workout schedule as him. “Come on, you’ve been using that machine for weeks now. You can add some weight. Let me help you out.”
The tiny woman hesitated, then said, “I don’t know. I don’t want to pull anything. At my age, all you have to do is sleep funny and you end up using a cane for months.”
“Yikes. Let’s try it. We’ll go slow.” He bent down and moved the pin on the leg press machine from ten pounds to twenty. “Give it a tap.”
“Hmmm. Doesn’t feel too hard.” She pushed the plate down with her white sneakers, held together with duct tape.
“How many reps do you do?”
“One hundred.”
Gray laughed. “Okay, that’s too many. And honestly a waste of your time.”
“Do I look like I have a full schedule?”
Great, he was in the same boat as a seventy-year-old.
“It doesn’t hurt to be efficient.”
“Hi, Brad.” Another blonde glided past him with the grace of a panther on the prowl.
“Hey,” he answered, not remembering her name either.
“All the girls here are crazy about you,” Lila whispered to him. “Is Brad Paisley really your name?”
He gave Lila a friendly smile and crouched down. “No. It’s Gray. Grayson Hart.”
“That’s a sexy name.” She fluttered mascara-caked lashes at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not flirting with you. You’re the only boy here who talks to me. Everyone else looks past me like I’m invisible.”
Maybe I should have dyed my hair white.
“I’m from New York. My head’s not in the clouds like most people here.”
“Why are you telling everyone your name is Brad?”
“Long story.” He stood. “And you’re not sitting on this machine for one hundred reps anymore. Do twenty-five and—”
A shock of fire-engine red hair, smooth and glossy pulled into a sleek ponytail caught his attention. All he saw was a