Step Wilde: A Stepbrother Romance (9 page)

I scurried to pull on a pair of slacks, shoving my shirt hem into them and weaving a leather belt through the loops. I hated dressing like this but I wanted people to take me seriously. Suddenly I realized I had no idea what time it was. I never wore a watch and Harrison was usually carrying my phone for me.

I am a child
, I thought. I really, really, really needed to get my shit together and quick.

"I said we don't work together," said the woman from the other room. "So you can relax now."

"Fucking wonderful," I replied gruffly, stepping back out into the bedroom. The other woman still hadn't woken up.

"You want to go another round before you have to go?" the blonde asked me.

I really fucking do
, I thought. I cleared my throat. "No," I said coldly. "And if you order room service, don't get champagne and lobsters, okay? Be gone by the time the maids get here."

The woman pouted at me. "Well, you know where I work if you need to come get me again," she said slyly, winking and sticking her tits out at me.

I felt my stomach turn over. It was going to take everything I had to walk out of this room. I managed to make it into the hallway and knocked on the door of the suite next to mine. Ten seconds later the door opened. Harrison was only half-dressed and looking panicked.

"Mr. Wilder!" he announced formally, looking down at the watch that was always neatly perched on his wrist. "I... didn’t think you'd be ready to go for another hour."

I smiled, internally relieved that somehow I'd managed wake up early for once in my life. Even though it was an accident, I wasn't going to let on. "I just want to make everyone else look bad for the first day of work."

Harrison smiled, still looking shocked but attempting to hide it as graciously as he could. "If you give me a few minutes I can get breakfast sent to your room."

"Actually, I thought we could eat downstairs together," I replied.

Harrison now looked like he was concerned about body snatchers having come for me in the middle of the night. "At...the restaurant? Okay - I. Okay. Just give me a few minutes."

I smiled at him. "See you downstairs, then." I turned around and pushed the button to the private elevator that only went to the suite and the room adjacent. The doors slid open and I stepped inside. It smelled like gardenias and expensive cologne. I tapped my pointed-toe dress shoes on the marble floor impatiently.

When the doors slid open and revealed the lobby beyond, it was quietly abuzz with people and workers. Several of them greeted me and a few hotel guests did a double-take when they saw my face. They had the decency not to immediately dissolve into whispers and giggles. I was used to it, though.

I hated when celebrities complained about people recognizing them. I always wanted to ask them why they bothered becoming famous in the first place. "Become an accountant if you don't want anyone following you through the grocery store," I'd smilingly said to Nancy O’Flannigan on an
Access Entertainment
primetime interview.

I stepped up to the podium of the restaurant and smiled at the young hostess. She grinned back at me. "Table for one, Mister..." she suddenly panicked and I knew she was trying to remember the pseudonym I'd checked in under. A hotel like this always trained its staff to protect the identities of its more exclusive clients.

I held up my hand. "You can call me Wilde. Don't worry."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Right this way," she replied.

I suddenly realized I hadn't responded to her question of how many the table would be for. "Actually, it's for two. My friend is joining me."

"Certainly." She spoke perfect English with only the lightest Italian accent. She led me to a table by the window that overlooked the streets of Milan. She pulled out a chair for me and her face fell again. "Oh, perhaps you don't want a window seat! You will want more privacy, yes?”

I shook my head. "It's fine, really. What's the point of being in Italy if you can't even see it?"

A few minutes later, I was sipping from a glass of the freshest-squeezed orange juice I'd ever tasted in my life. Harrison came hurrying over to our table, apologizing to me for the wait once he sat down.

"Don't worry about it," I told him. I tapped my fingers on the tablecloth. I can't remember the last time I was the one doing the waiting. It was almost always
me
who was late and making everyone else even later for things. I knew people thought that I just liked the control (which I did) but even more than that I hated waiting. I hated the thought of being alone with my thoughts.

"Do you want your phone, Mr. Wilder?" Harrison asked me, slicking back his neat brown hair with the palm of his hand. He clearly did not normally get ready this quickly. His tortoiseshell glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose but they were abnormally askew.

"I'm fine without my phone, thanks," I replied.

"Did you already order?" he asked me.

I shook my head. "No, I didn't."

Harrison picked up his menu and scanned it quickly. "Ready when you are," he said to me with a small smile.

"Do you have plans after work?" I asked him.

Harrison looked even more worried than he had when I'd knocked on his bedroom door asking him to join me for breakfast. "Sorry, sir," he said quietly, leaning forward after looking around to see that we were alone. "Are you firing me?" The fear in his eyes was pure.

I laughed. "What?" I asked him, shocked. "Why would you ask me that?"

Harrison looked sheepish. "It's just, your last four assistants...I called each one of them to ask why they'd been canned. This was so I could have a better idea of how best to serve you. And each one of them said that you got weird at the end of their relationship with you. And you're...if you don't mind me saying so, sir, but you're being weird."

I knew for a fact that I'd never heard Harrison say that many words in a row. A bead of sweat was popping up on his alabaster forehead. I thought his bowtie might fly off of his neck as well. As far as I knew, he wasn't a day over twenty-five, but he always dressed like somebody's dapper grandfather.

"
Am I
being weird? I don't fucking
feel
weird." I leaned back in my chair and flexed my arm muscles as I crossed them over my chest. I looked out the window, my eyes catching on an attractive group of young, Italian women. "But no, you're not being fired. I promise you that. I'm just trying something new. Breakfast in public, at a normal hour, followed by showing up to work on time." I ticked each one off on my fingers as if I had a list written down somewhere.

Harrison laughed. It was a small laugh and wholly unexpected. It wasn't often I saw him loosening up enough to laugh. It was completely welcome, though.

"Great. Then I can eat my breakfast without feeling like vomiting," he said.

"That's always a good goal," I replied. Our server, a tall Italian man with dark hair, appeared at our table.

"
Buongiorno
," he said quickly. "What can I get for you to eat today?"

I hadn't even looked at the menu. "Whatever your favorite thing is, I'll eat that. As long as it's not granola and fruit, anyway."

The server laughed heartily. "I assure you, it is not." He turned to Harrison. "And for you, sir?"

Harrison's cheeks were pink. "Granola and fruit, please."

I started to laugh at him but a glimpse outside stopped me in my tracks. A hoard of men dressed in all black and carrying cameras was coming this way. I didn't mind fans, but the paparazzi was a completely different fucking story.

I opened my mouth to say something when they suddenly stopped moving. They weren't coming over to the window. They were huddled outside of the front door of the hotel. That meant that they were just waiting for me to leave.
Fuck,
I thought.

Harrison followed my eye line and then looked back at me, panicked. "I'll get the manager," he said, throwing down his cloth napkin and scuttling out of his chair.

Right as he stood up, a black car pulled up in front of the hotel with dark-tinted windows. The paparazzi began snapping photos even though the doors of the vehicle were still snapped shut.

"Harrison, don't bother," I said. He looked at me curiously. "It's just another celebrity. The kind that tips off the press but then acts like they're surprised that anyone knew where they were staying."

Harrison sat back down, hastily whipping out his iPhone and scrolling through his notes. "No one else is supposed to be staying here other than the cast and crew, Mr. Wilder. If I had known that another celebrity was staying here I would have booked you a suite somewhere else."

The best-kept secret in Hollywood is that it really isn't hard to avoid the paparazzi scumbags if you just shut your fucking mouth. But that strategy was jeopardized the second another celebrity was near you and they tipped them off. My stomach sank.
So much for my safe place in Milano.

"It's fine, Harrison. Don't worry about it."

He closed the leather iPhone case with a snap. "Well, I can still get you out of the back door of the hotel after breakfast, if you want."

I nodded. "I wonder who the fuck it is," I wondered out loud. My curiosity was getting the better of me.

"Want me to go see who it is, sir?" Harrison asked. He was always happiest when he had a task in front of him. I saw a fiery gleam in his eyes that told me he wanted to do this.

"Nah, wait here," I replied. "I'll go look. I never get to do shit like this." But before I could pry myself out of the chair, I heard a noise from the reception area that sent shivers down my spine. It was a cold, even voice that was just a few decibels louder than everyone around her. I knew that voice.

I knew that voice all too fucking well.

"Oh fuck," I said loudly. A few patrons turned around and stared at me. I didn't care. I was out of my seat and halfway across the restaurant, Harrison following me. He had clearly heard her as well.

I pushed past the hostess who asked if everything was okay. I didn't bother responding. When I set foot in the lobby, my suspicions were confirmed. There she was, enormous black hat and black sunglasses covering her perfect face. Red lipstick was expertly applied to her bow-like lips, and she wore a little white dress that accentuated every curve in her body - the few that she had on her narrow frame.

Surrounding her was her usual squad of people: a few famous supermodels, a DJ who confusingly had no vowels in his stage name, and other hangers-on, including her hair stylist and makeup expert. In addition to that group, there was the guy who wrangled her two cats; animals named after female television show characters whose names I could never remember or be bothered to figure out what show they starred in. They were cats, for fuck's sake. Usually she let them in her bedroom while we would fuck.

Believe me when I say this: there is nothing creepier than cats watching you fuck.

Fucking
nothing.

Hailey Holliday was standing twenty feet away from me. Hailey Holliday, my former girlfriend who had written more songs about me than had been written about WASP Christmas celebrations. Her voice echoed across the lobby.

"What do you
mean
the penthouse suite is booked? I always stay there when I come here. Always. The manager has assured me that
any
time I am in Milan; I can always stay here.
Always
,
" she insisted, and even though I couldn't see her pixie-like face, I knew that the girl-next-door smile she usually wore for the media had slid off in favor of a look of poisonous sludge.

I knew that look better than anyone.

It was the same look she usually reserved especially for me.

The desk clerk, who had been a consummate professional during my interactions with her, was struggling to keep a smile affixed to her face. It almost looked from here that she was a moment away from tears.

I stepped in. "Hey Halls, that could be the title of your next song.
Always
. Be sure to put a line in there about how you're the victim in every human interaction. That plays well with your teenaged fans."

Hailey whipped around to face me. The toxic look turned at once into a mask of evil joy. She smiled, staring at me as she slowly removed the straw hat from her head and pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her skull.

Her dirty-blonde hair was in a long bob cut that kissed her shoulders. She stepped forward dramatically through her posse and approached me with a look of pure, malicious venom. She traced a red manicured fingernail over my chest.

"Wilde," she whispered. "You've put on a few pounds. It's good to be seeing more of you."

"Wish I could fucking say it was good to see you, Hailey. I'm sure it would make a great line for the press listening through the glass there." I looked over her shoulders at the photographers who practically had their ears up against the window. I knew that at least one of them would have an amplifier to attempt to figure out what we were saying. I wasn't going to give them the pleasure.

She smiled at me, and there was something calculating in her gaze. That look frightened me more than any other she wore. It meant she was about to do something that I would hate. Then she pouted, putting her hand on my bicep.

"Oh, Wilde. That's a
terrible
thing to say to the love of your life." Then she reached up and grabbed the back of my head, grabbing my hair and twisting my face down toward hers in a passionate kiss.

I started pushing her away but I heard the voice of my publicist in my head. If I did that, I could add "woman abuser" to the long list of roles that the press had cast me in during my rise to fame. All it took was one single frame of me shoving her away and I'd lose all credibility.

Instead, I leaned in. She wanted to give them a show? Fine. I could play along with that. She pulled away first, a smile playing across her mouth, still touching my body and talking through gritted teeth so no one could read her lips.