Page 54 of The Groupie

Rylee

“Rylee? Hamish Jett here. I just spoke with Zak Tomas and wanted to give you a call. I’d like to represent you, and I have a few ideas to hit you with.”

As Jett describes the so-called couple promotions he has in mind, naming specific brands where he has contacts, and it’s like I feel the walls of a relationship closing in on me. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the floor—away from Zak as he stands in front of me.

“How does that sound? I can get something started for next week before you go back to Park City if that works.”

“To tell the truth, it sounds wonderful—and terrible. I don’t feel comfortable with the couple image.”

I ignore Zak as he sits on the bed next to me.

“Don’t worry about it. We can do something different—maybe a frenemies thing like Howie Long and Teri Hatcher used to do. Could be lucrative, and I can ask for a fee upfront.”

“I don’t know what to say. Sounds like a dream.” I laugh to dispel my unease, but it doesn’t work. “Naturally, I’m skeptical,” I admit. “Why would anyone give an unknown quantity like me money upfront?”

He laughs, and it sounds real. “I’ll be honest with you, they wouldn’t. They’d be paying for Zak and willing to give you a shot on the strength of his and my reputation.”

The truth punches me in the gut, powerful and nasty and knee bending in its demonstration of Zak’s generosity and kindness. “Fuck.”

Zak stiffens, and I dart a look at him, moving away, confused and struggling with emotions—need, self-respect, and fear all pulling me in different directions.

“You could say that.”

“Jesus, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I don’t know if I can accept that kind of charity.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Zak says, reaching for the phone, but I’m as quick as he is, and I pull it away.

“I don’t like the idea of being so dependent—”

“You won’t be,” Jett says, his reasonable voice a contrast with the stormy look on Zak’s face and the storm of chaos inside my head. “You’ll prove us right and do a great job. Sell some products.”

“Let me think about it—”

“In case it influences your decision, we’re talking about fifty-thousand dollars upfront, Rylee.”

“Shit. I…” His words slice through my confusion with the knife of practical reality. The out-of-pocket costs for Mamma’s surgery, not to mention her ongoing medications and care, press on me, and I swear I can do whatever I have to do no matter how scary, for Mamma. “Okay. It’s a deal. I won’t disappoint you.” I’m looking at Zak as I say the words and beg him not to make a big deal of this because the fact that I owe him stings me like bad medicine, and I hate it.

He owns me—for real. This isn’t some temporary fling we’re talking about.

“I’ll email you the contract and schedule something to be shot pre-Olympics for airing the opening week,” he says.

“Thank you.” We end the call, and I’m faced with Zak.

His mouth quirks up on one side like he’s not sure if he should be pleased, but he is anyway. Thrilled that I owe him.

“I predict we’ll have more promotional offers than we can manage,” he says, “and you’ll get a percentage of—”

“You mean, you’ll require the poor suckers to include me in a promo if they want you for it and then take a reduction in your percentage.”

His eyebrows rise. “Are you serious? Have you looked in a mirror? They’ll jump at the chance to have you, and you’ll earn your fifty-fifty split.”

I turn away from him because he can’t be as good as he looks. “I don’t want things to get messy between us.”

“No mess. Everything will be strictly by the contract.”

I eye him. “What do you get out of this?” My voice is quiet because I almost don’t want to hear the answer, almost wish his answer will be exactly what it can’t be, that he wants me. But then, I’d have to end everything.

“Don’t worry. We both know this is short-term. Until you win a medal in the Olympics. Then, you’ll be able to get deals on your own.”