Only Good With You Read online

  ONLY GOOD WITH YOU

  by

  Zoey Kinsman

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  Published by

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

  Copyright © 2018 by Zoey Kinsman

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-68299-280-7

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Kristian Norris

  Editor: Katherine Johnson

  Printed in the United States of America

  Other Books by Author Available at Torrid Books:

  www.torridbooks.com

  Beckoned by the Mis

  Dedication

  There’s an old saying that says for every pot there is a lid. In other words, for every person there is a mate. It’s fated. Thank you, Simon, for being that special someone who completes me.

  Chapter 1

  At first glance, the chaos appeared as reams of papers strewn haphazardly across a big, old, wooden and weathered walnut desk, her earthen beauty hardly visible anymore from all that covered her. A desk called friend. She lovingly embraced everything that rested upon her, whether it was new ideas scribbled upon papers, computers, or books that made their way across the vast expanse. And, contrary to belief, there was a system to the disorder, an organized mosaic of sorts. This desk was a sense of security and a partner, an extension of self, so to speak. Home.

  On any given day, it was mostly about the slush pile and reading new submissions from old authors. There were always a few good ones from established writers and mostly half-baked efforts from those looking for a touch of fame. Curiously, every day at some point, I would twirl my chair around while wondering where the new and innovative stories were. It was an age of regurgitation. Did creativity abound yet my searching soul missed the signals? That thought made me laugh out loud.

  Hearing the cynical laughter, my assistant Trish came in to check on me and asked if I needed a hand with anything. Knowing me well, she understood that the cynical laughter signaled a need for a bit of a reprieve from a busy day of reading and tired eyes that begged for a rest.

  “Hey, Anne, I’ve got Comic-Con tickets for today. I used your name and pulled some strings for backstage admission, and the good stuff’s going on later in the day anyways.” Without hesitation, she begged, “C’mon,” and further coaxed, “we’re going…come…let’s go look at the crazies strut their stuff, and maybe we’ll meet some hot men in the process.”

  Trish was in her thirties, single, and desperate to attract a mate. Recently turning fifty, I was done with men. They required too much work. I had my own shtick to deal with that didn’t include more drama. Silly men consumed with Hollywood looks, hair transplants, muscle tone, and erections that lasted longer than required. No thanks! Assumed logic was not swaying me.

  “Anne, what’s there to think about? You are shriveling before my eyes.” She laughed loudly with a total disrespect for her boss, the person who supplied the weekly paycheck. But, it was indeed true. Her point was poignant.

  I had to admit that some signs of age were becoming visible. I had exercised my ass off, literally, battled the wrinkles, used any newfound wonder concoction to ward against sagging, and still my skin had a mind of its own and looked to fall southward as it pleased. Plastic surgery was never a viable option. How could someone who indulged in representing honest talent for a living succumb to the artificial? Besides, you could always spot the phony face a mile away. So taut and stuck up that the face became a caricature of oneself, again not real. See, my own schtick!

  “Are you buying dinner tonight?” I asked, deadpan.

  “Yes, and then I’ll expense it back to you.” Trish giggled.

  “Okay, funny girl, let’s go see if we can find us some hot nerds. I’ve heard rumors that they are the best in bed.” Maybe a night out doing something different wasn’t a bad idea after all.

  Throwing on my matching suit jacket, I grabbed my purse and met Trish in the outer office. She had quickly changed into some sort of purple mini skirt, with a white starched school-girl blouse on top and come fuck me pumps on her feet. Her hair was tied up high in a tight ponytail.

  Yep, we were a sight. It looked more like mother and daughter as opposed to boss and worker. She was the assistant and right-hand person to the oh-so-successful literary agent. Success always came with a price. Effort was required to know the genuine from the fake in L.A. People could become very adept at disguising their true intentions, making me a touch skeptical. I knew that. I felt it, too. It was important to me to keep it as real as possible. My intuition was pretty good, though. But I knew in my guts that Trish was the real deal. Her devotion and loyalty over the years attested to someone who could be trusted. So, at times, I let her get her way to show my own loyalty in return.

  “Am I paying for the cab, too?” I inquired, knowing full well the answer to that question.

  “No, I booked us a limo. So make sure to tip the driver well.”

  “Trish, that’s a fortune from L.A. to San Diego!” Now, I was genuinely pissed. She was pushing it. Was this more for my entertainment or hers? Ugh…I reminded myself that she was worth it.

  “Anne, I’ll split it with you since I didn’t pass it by you first. C’mon now, grumpy. We can’t be late!”

  She knew full-well I would never let her do that. The Grumpy Cat persona that resided within was still kind.

  * * * *

  The limo driver dropped us right in front of the convention center doors exactly an hour and a half later and told us where he’d pick us up after dinner.

  I was glad I’d worn flats for this. The place was absolutely huge, and there were masses upon masses of people lined up against each other, looking at some kind of sci-fi or latest rage paraphernalia. The smell in the air was dank and crusty with the stench of human sweat. Loud noises competed for space as well.

  Trish pushed people out of the way for me to pass in her commanding style. As a very devoted employee of almost ten years now, she also knew she had to find a way to appease me or risk me walking right out, since I detested crowds. I let her lead.

  “Trish, where are we going?”

  “We’re going to make our way to the back room of the panel that’s coming on for the hit television series Viceroy.”

  Oh! I should have known! She was taken with the lead actor on the show. It was all she talked about over lunches. I had caught her many times checking her Twitter and Tumblr accounts. Yes, he was indeed very handsome and appeared charming, but I didn’t see the attraction and adulation he commanded from his fans. Maybe I didn’t get it and needed to look harder at him. Rock hard bodies and big dicks…was that all women wanted these days? Well, actually, that sounded pretty good in theory, and I had to laugh.

  Trish looked at me sideways. I just waved her off as if I had seen something instead of thought something funny. Should I have told her I was thinking about big dicks and wondering abou
t Paul Wickham at the same time?

  “Trish, are we here to see Paul Wickham? Did you drag me here all the way from L.A. to see your heartthrob?” I half-snorted, knowing the response.

  “Well, I couldn’t get in without your connections, so be a good sport.” Her look beseeched me to acquiesce. As we continued to rush through the crowd, with Trish leading me as if I were both blind and sincerely dumb, she continued, “And it wouldn’t hurt you to get out more and have a good time.”

  “I’m too old for this nonsense,” I stated as fact.

  “Anne, you are still smokin’ hot. You just need to find the right guy.”

  That made me blush. Trish always knew how to push my buttons.

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me forward with her, as she seemed to know exactly where we were going amongst the swelling crowd of truly stinky, smelly, dressed-up, weirdo strangers. Some pushed, some shoved, and some even danced. It was a multi-colored, bizarre carnival atmosphere.

  When we finally got to a side door entrance, she flashed our passes at the security guard, and then two reinforced steel doors magically opened to a special kind of alternative kingdom, leading us down a very long, dark, concrete corridor.

  “Now, Anne, behave! I have dreamed of this moment for months, of meeting Paul and the cast,” she quietly said as she led the way.

  I, who had gone to countless operas, theatre, and ballet performances, was now being told how to conduct myself. How funny was that? I wanted to smack her in jest, but, seeing her face and demeanor morph into a true fan, giddy with excitement, I thought better of putting a downer on the good time she was looking to have from this experience.

  “Hey, Trish, it’ll be great. Don’t worry.” I hoped my words would calm her frayed nerves.

  She had to deal with the anticipation of meeting the man of her dreams, and then with a cranky boss who didn’t want to be there in the first place. I had to give the girl a break.

  When we reached the backstage holding area, there was a group of people, mostly publicists, interviewers, and journalists, looking for a moment with the “it” people.

  Trish and I watched. She was utterly mesmerized and enthralled with the happenings. It occurred to me that if I had taken her on more meetings with me, then maybe she’d be more relaxed around famous people. Perhaps then it would seem more ordinary to her. I did have some famous clients who’d done their biographies with me. I made a mental note to start including her more as professional development.

  “Wow, this is so exciting, Anne.”

  Each working stiff was either calling out or screaming a first name to try and get an actor or producer’s attention for that one so-called exclusive interview. They were like vultures attacking their prey.

  It was actually quite boring to me.

  When the dust finally settled, and they had picked the brains and bones of the celebs dry, they stood back, and we could more easily view the talent. Paul Wickham was easily recognizable. He held court with all the ladies falling off his arm. He seemed to enjoy and savor the moment. I watched him wet his lips as if eager for more attention. With good posture, he knew how to stand tall and command attention. His eyes looked everywhere and took it all in. In an instant, he knew well how to turn on that smoldering look for the cameras, and then seemed annoyed by it all when they were turned off. But he did indeed have all the right moves at the right times. This seemed a learned skill that he evoked when needed. It served him well. I continued to study him with interest, almost like a project of sorts.

  At over six feet tall, he was well built, as most actors had to be today, and traditionally handsome. His hair, a very dark dirty blond, was long enough to touch his shoulders and slicked back and away to emphasize his facial features, including a full luscious mouth, pink but accented by a touch of gloss for the cameras. His square jaw line, steel blue eyes, and perfectly trimmed stubble would make any woman swoon…and he knew it. His jeans and shirt spoke designer, and I recognized the shoes as Italian fine leather. Hmmm, at least he knew how to style himself. That would help him in years to come as he aged and wanted to still look good. His hands were huge, with long fingers and broad palms that elegantly suited his frame. That’s what I noticed at first take. There was no doubt that his looks were striking and chiseled, and that he was quite a hunk of maleness.

  I could see Trish salivating looking upon him from a distance, waiting for her moment to approach. Maybe in my younger day, I might have been taken with this type. As I heard myself say that in my own mind, I wondered if I had become that cynical about men.

  Have I truly become a genuine Grumpy Cat?

  As Trish fidgeted, I continued to watch his moves carefully. He surveyed the room, and his eyes continued to dart around to take in as much info as possible. As his eyes roamed the landscape in front of him, I could tell he was thinking about his next move. Ah, he was a smart actor. That boded well for his career, too, I thought. He’d make good moves.

  I also wondered if he was his own person, though, or guided by his agent and the people around him. From Trish, I knew this was his breakout role. So how much had it cost him to get here now?

  As I was lost in my own thoughts, Trish announced she was going to try and make contact and ask for a selfie or autograph. Perhaps this was the time to be a friend and not just her boss.

  “Go for it, Trish, and good luck. I’ll be right here waiting for you.” I gave her an encouraging smile.

  As she walked toward him, she caught his eye, and he looked over to where we had been standing together. He seemed to smile in her direction, as if inviting her. I was so pleased for her. Underneath it all, she was a tad self-conscious and could use some positive affirmation.

  Yet, he looked beyond her. I turned to see what he was looking at so as to perhaps prepare my work colleague. But there was no one directly behind me.

  He was actually looking at me! Then he smiled broadly, and his face lit up. Did he know me? Had I met him before? Was I forgetting another encounter? What the heck!

  He continued to smile and beckon me to him with some kind of spellbinding power he thought he owned. But I didn’t budge.

  Trish reached him as he was still looking at me. When she approached, he stopped and looked at her and seemed to hear her question. Yes, he was most happy to take a picture with her and sign a photo.

  He put his arm warmly around her and then asked someone close by if they would take the picture. They were only too happy to do so for Mr. Wickham. After he had obliged her two photos, I watched him lean in and whisper something in her ear.

  She raised herself up to whisper something back. This was good. Maybe he fancied her? I was so happy for her.

  She walked away from him, all smiles as she made her way back to me.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” she said, all enthused with excitement as she grabbed my arm and quickly led me back with her to the main hall to find our seats to watch the upcoming panel discussion about his show.

  Ah, and as for the panel, she had been also able to secure us a couple of reserved seats. At that moment, I was glad I had connections. Snobby me couldn’t imagine sitting amongst all the rancid sweat and stink that seemed to permeate the hall. The room needed major amounts of room fresheners. But no one seemed to notice or care. At least the reserved seats had some decent room between each other. After all these years in the book business, I was finally able to appreciate and share the perks.

  The room was loud and noisy, with everyone talking louder and louder just to be heard. There were maybe four thousand mostly costumed bodies crammed into the grand hall.

  When we sat down, Trish leaned over and whispered into my ear with such joy, “He’s asked us to join him for dinner tonight. Can you believe it?”

  No, I actually couldn’t. “Trish, why does he want to have dinner with us, of all people?” My voice raised in response. Oops, maybe that sounded too insulting to her. Yikes. “I mean, you don’t think he’s just after you for sex, do you?
”

  “Well, if he is, then he can have me. I should be so lucky.” And she looked at me with total seriousness.

  “You wouldn’t have a one-night stand with him, would you?” I was thrown by that statement. And I wasn’t whispering back this time. The people around us couldn’t have cared less. They were totally focused on the upcoming festivities, getting cameras and potential questions ready. Yeah, this was no longer a neutral mother/daughter-like convo.

  “What are you saying? You mean you wouldn’t sleep with that hunk if you could? Really now, Anne, who wouldn’t sleep with him? I mean, of course I would make sure to use a condom and ask if he had any diseases. But, yeah, I’m going for it. If he wants me, I’m in. You can make your own way back, right?”

  “Maybe he just sees you as a groupie and is going to use you and discard you. You have more esteem than that, I believe.”

  “Anne, you are a total buzz kill! Yes, I have tons of esteem, but he’s supposedly well hung. I need and want it bad. It’s been way too long!” There it was again, the selling point…big dicks!

  “Okay, I think I see your point. Not judging. Again, I say good luck, Trish. I’m here for you.” I laughed. What else could I do?

  Then, as if on cue, the lights dimmed to let us know the show was about to begin.

  Trish was totally into it. I was on my phone, responding to emails during the entire hour of question-and-answer nonsense about the show. I heard the women sigh heavily every time he said something cute or endearing. It was so uninteresting to me. They all took picture after picture of him, and he posed and did different faces for the cameras.

  He knew his trade well. I was always glad that I didn’t represent actors. Authors had huge egos, but actors were the worst. It wasn’t that their egos were huge, just more insecure.

  I heard the huge crowd let out a collective groan-like sigh when the moderator said the panel had come to its conclusion.