Page 1 of Fighting Fate
1
Choices. Little pockets of thought that determine your life. It wasn’t until recently that I questioned any of my decisions. But then a shitshow of a breakup does that to you. Makes you question who you are. What kind of person you’ve become. It makes you wonder how many other poor choices you’ve made.
Choices, choices…choices.
“So?” Frank asks with a deep sigh, sinking deeper into the couch in the corner of his office.
Staring back down at my phone, I swipe through my message app and smile at the text from my sister.
“Dorian says thanks for helping her out.”
Of course, Frank ignores me, knowing that I’m avoiding his invite. “The atmosphere is incredible and…”
“Do I look like I want to sit in a packed-out arena and watch two guys have at it for fun?”
“It’s not like you have anything better to do. Besides, you’ll love it. All that aggression you’re feeling toward asshole features will all just burst out of you when you’re there, and you get into it.”
“Frank…” I take a sip of the drink he poured me when I arrived and look out at the foggy view of the London skyline. “I get what you’re trying to do. It’s sweet, but—”
“No buts,” he interrupts me. “I have a ticket, and it’s yours. Besides, the director for the new Ripper musical is going to be there, and since you’ve quit the show with ass-wipe, you need to get another role stat.”
Pulling the ticket from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Frank slaps it down on the coffee table, leaving no room for argument even though my insides are coiling tight at the prospect that my ex will be there too. These directors travel in packs, like dogs, looking for the next piece of meat they can chew up and spit out. Or, in my case, screw over.
“If Peter knows what’s good for him, he won’t be there. Word gets around, and everyone knows that—”
“Exactly, word gets around. I’m mortified. I feel like a complete fool and dick at the same time.”
“And if he is there, what better way to show him you’re moving on and making waves?” He pauses and has a sip of his own drink before he tells me, “Like I said, you don’t have a choice. As your agent, I’m telling you to get your glad rags on and be there. I can’t represent you if you’re out of work—it looks bad on us both…and if you don’t care about yourself, care about me because you owe me for the whole shit with the footballer and your sister’s boyfriend’s sister.” With an exasperated grimace, he adds, “The shit I do for you, Wilhelmina…”
“Don’t you fucking full name me,” I snap at him.
Frank may be giving me the agent talk, but we’re more friends than anything.
“Don’t give me reason to. I warned you not to shit where you eat.”
“I hate you.”
“Good,” he says, a big grin cutting his face as he sweeps his dirty-blond hair back.
For a man in his late thirties, he’s incredibly fit, and if that wasn’t enough to make the girls go weak at the knees, he’s got the California pretty-boy looks to go along with it.
Standing, he points down at the ticket on the coffee table with one hand while checking the time on his other wrist. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
“I really fucking hate you,” I reiterate.
“Glad we understand each other,” he replies, sauntering out of his office to his next meeting.
Giving him the finger behind his back, I leave the ticket and follow him out. My scowl refuses to back down until he disappears into a boardroom at the end of the glass-encased hallway.
“Laters, Will,” he calls, knowing that I’m still standing here cursing his guts out.
If he wasn’t the top agent in the city, I would dump his pretty-boy arse. Frank’s lucky we’re friends…
Yup, he might be the star-maker, but it’s not like he’d have his success without the goods.
Refraining from acting out on my childish impulse to prank him, I head out of the door. Trying not to let the plan for tonight overshadow the rest of my day, even if it means that instead of attending auditions, I’m getting manicured and groomed to perfection. I may not have a choice in attending this thing, but I sure as fuck refuse to be seen looking anything other than hot to trot.
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