But I know damn well I’m not dating material. Not in the condition I’m in.
Aidy’s a beautiful woman. She seems bright and content. Someone like me would only weigh her down, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t make the best impression on her this past week. She’d have every right to turn me down if I asked.
Thumbing through my contacts, I pull up her name in my phone and re-read her last and only text to me. I barely have a chance to read the words, “Fuck off” when a call comes through and turns my screen black.
Matteo, one of my four younger brothers, is calling, and I haven’t heard from him in months.
“Alessio,” he says when I answer. He’s one of the select few who never quite adapted to calling me by my nickname, but for him, I’ll allow it. “How goes it, fratellone? You around tonight?”
“I am.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs wide. My elbow props me up on the arm, and I rake my hand through my beard.
Not only have I not spoken with Matteo in months, but he hasn’t seen me since shortly after the accident.
“I’m in the city for work,” he says, and I can hear the smile residing on his pretty boy face. Matteo’s an aspiring actor living in Los Angeles, taking bit parts and small jobs whenever he can get them. “Only for a few days. You want to meet up? There’s a group of us from this commercial I shot earlier, and one of them has the hook up at this club. We can get in.”
I snort through my nose, shaking my head. There was a day not too long ago that my name opened doors and busted through VIP list barricades. There was a day when everyone wanted me in their club, drinking their drinks, exciting their patrons.
Funny how quick people are to move on to the next best thing.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Matteo says. “Believe it or not, I miss your dumb face.”
My fingertips trace along the scar hidden beneath my beard. “Yeah?”
“Go out with us,” he says. “I know you sit at home, Alessio. No one ever hears from you anymore. You’re a shell of a man, and you’re better than that. Don’t let . . . don’t let what happened ruin you. Don’t give her that.”
Matteo has a point.
“I’ll come by in an hour. You think you can be ready by then?” he asks.
Fuck.
Fine.
Whatever.
It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do tonight.
“Yeah,” I say.
Matteo laughs. “Good, good. Molto bene.”
A year ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead at a club like this.
Pulsing music.
Flashing lights.
Women stumbling out of bathrooms, brushing white powder from their nostrils.
But I glance at my brother, and he’s grinning ear to ear, like he’s proud his connections opened doors for once. I guess I can at least give him that.
“We’re going to be in the VIP lounge,” he yells above the club remix of a god-awful pop song I’ve never heard before. Matteo points to a small room illuminated with blue lights and sectioned off with a red velvet rope.
In the cab on our way here, he mentioned we’d be partying with a bunch of production people from some underwear commercial he shot this morning: lighting guys, hair and makeup people, and a couple of production assistants. I’ll admit a small, pathetically curious part of me wondered if Aidy Kincaid might be included in that group.
But I know better.
The industry is huge and this city’s enormous.
The odds of running into her yet again this week aren’t in my favor.
The closer we get to the VIP room, the more I find myself scanning faces for an ounce of familiarity.
Just in case.
But none of them register.
None of them are Aidy, and I’m kind of relieved because I’d be disappointed if she hung out in places like this.
Sinking into a patent leather chair, I take a clean glass resting on a nearby table and pour myself a glass from the magnum of champagne resting in a bucket of ice before me.
“What are we celebrating?” I ask the woman sitting next to me.
Her lashes flutter and her mouth pulls into a drunken grin as she slinks a shoulder to her ear. “Why, hello there, handsome.”
The woman leans toward me, her eyes struggling to focus.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
Jesus. Had I known she was going to be my instant best friend, I never would’ve said anything.
“Alessio,” I reply, glancing at Matteo who’s leaning against the wall, sleeves cuffed to his elbows and bedroom eyes in full effect as he chats up some leggy blonde.
It’s been a long time since I’ve offered anyone my given name, but I didn’t want to take the chance that she might recognize me by my mononym since I’ve evolved into the male athlete equivalent of Cher or Madonna.
“Alessio,” she says. “That’s really fucking hot. I like that. Alesssssio.”
I don’t ask her name, and I don’t look at her long enough to figure out if her hair is brown or blonde or red. Under these flashing lights, it’s damn near every color in the rainbow. Her skin too. She could be magenta for all I know, but I don’t give a shit.
I didn’t come here to get laid, and I’m sure as hell not taking anyone home with me.
I only came here to spend time with my brother and to get out of my own head for a bit.
Matteo pulls his phone from his pocket.
We’re not even here five minutes and already he’s exchanging numbers.
The blonde woman walks out of the VIP lounge a moment later and my brother makes his way to me, crouching down in the seat beside me.
“Shameless,” I say, taking a swig of champagne.
Matteo grins, showcasing the set of million-dollar dimples he was born with. At least that’s what our madre always called them. She told him they were going to make him famous one day; make him a lot of money.
I’m not sure that’s happened yet, but Matteo’s going to die trying.
That’s the thing about us Amato brothers.
We see what we want, and we pursue it with relentless determination. We’re not capable of stopping until life happens. Until it’s physically impossible to keep going.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he says, eyes scanning the bevy of beautiful women surrounding us. “Just doing a little networking.”
“Right.”
“Seriously. Fuck auditions, Alessio. It’s all about who you know.” He pours himself a glass of champagne. “Nobody walks into a casting call and lands a part anymore. It’s all about who you’re fucking.”
“So you’re going to fuck that leggy blonde and get a part in the next Michael Bay movie?”
Matteo hunches forward, his elbows on his knees. His dress shirt hugs his muscled physique, the one he’s spent hours upon hours sculpting in some outrageously expensive L.A. gym he belongs to.
“She’s the daughter of a producer,” he says, huffing. “This isn’t baseball, Alessio. You don’t get by on merit and batting averages here. You kiss ass. You fuck who you’re told to fuck. And you hope to God these rich assholes have the decency to keep their word.”
“What are you guys talking about?” The drunk girl from two minutes ago takes it upon herself to plop down into my lap. She slinks an arm around my neck and smooshes her cheek against mine.