One
Cora
Everyone should have a lifesaver.
The person you can call out of the blue when shit hits the fan. Someone to bail you out of a sticky situation. The person who rescues you from an altercation with the cops, or worse, an attack of paparazzi.
I’m that person—at least to my closest friends. Call me a sucker, or good-hearted, but when my buddy Trent, who happens to be a multi-platinum selling rock star, calls and asks for a ride, I grab the keys to my badass Hummer and race down Hollywood Boulevard like it’s my job. Hey, I played the girlfriend to a NASCAR driver once. This is practically the same thing. I’m not an award-winning actress for nothing.
“Thanks, Cora.” Trent grins at me from the passenger seat. He’s the least drunk of my passengers, but that’s not saying much. My entire cab smells of whiskey and bad decisions.
I take the next turn a little too hard. My bad.
Austin, Sean, and Leighton crash into each other in the back seat.
“Oh, shit.” Sean chuckles, reaching for the bar above his head, missing his first two swipes before he secures a hold. “Don’t kill us.”
“Yeah,” Austin hollers. He leans forward, grabbing the back of my headrest. “I need ta make it down the aisle in one piece.”
“You gonna sober up by Saturday?” I can’t imagine it’s gonna go over well when they all show up hungover to the rehearsal tomorrow, but that’s not my problem.
“No ree-grets!” Austin shouts, laughing and throwing his fist in the air. It slams into the upholstered ceiling with a thud. “Fuck.” He rubs it with his other hand and meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Can we stop for tacos?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, buddy.” Sean pats Austin’s shoulder. Considering they were nearly trampled by fans and photographers outside the private club they rented for tonight’s bachelor party, it’s probably for the best. With our combined level of fame, I don’t think we could pit stop at my favorite taco stand without attracting a mob—even in the middle of the night.
“How am I gonna get married without tacos?” Austin leans back into his seat with a pout.
Trent chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out before the big day.”
Rounding the corner, I follow Trent’s directions and pop over the curb of the swanky boutique hotel. I drive around the back and pull to a stop near the rear entrance. “This good?” I ask before thrusting the gearshift into park.
“Perfect.” Trent releases his seat belt, then turns to me while the rest of the guys pile out of the vehicle. “You’re a lifesaver. You know that?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave off his compliment. This isn’t the first time he’s used the sentiment, and it probably won’t be the last. I nod past him, toward the hotel door. Leighton seems to be having trouble with the door. He slides his key card against the sensor multiple times, but nothing happens. “Baby boy needs a hand. You guys get some sleep, yeah?”
Trent pushes open his door and slides down from his seat. Before he shuts the door, Austin shoves his way into the opening.
“You’re gonna be there, right?” Austin squints and points his finger at me. “You won’t miss my wedding?”
“Never.” I cross my heart.
“Good.” He nods and the movement renders him unsteady. Before he falls, he grasps Trent’s shoulder and they both stagger forward a step. “Might need ya to drive us to the church.”
I raise my brows and bite back a laugh. “My invitation said you’re getting married on the beach.”
He winks, his goofy smile as loose as the rest of his body. “Even better. Off roading!”
“You’re ridiculous.” I roll my eyes.
Trent winces, his gaze appearing a little unfocused as he blinks and takes a step back. “We might’ve overdone it.”
“There were no strippers or blow. I say we under-done-it.” Austin’s brows furrow and he scrubs a hand over his face. “Or under-did-it. Shit, I can’t grammar drunk.”
“You can’t grammar sober.” Sean comes over, looping Austin’s arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get you tucked in bed and sleeping this off before Jayla finds out and calls the damn thing off.”
Austin leans into his friend for support. “Good call, bro.” He hiccups and his eyes go wide. He bolts for the nearest container—or rather, a fancy planter of hydrangeas—and pukes his guts out.
“Shit.” Trent slams the passenger door and sticks his head back in the open window. “‘Night, Cora. Thanks again. I apologize for all the asshole-ness and douchebag-ery you had to witness.”
I laugh, because tonight was mild in comparison to years past. “I am always happy to drive the getaway car.” Nothing like rescuing my rock star friends from the paparazzi to bring excitement to an otherwise uneventful night. Trent, Austin, and Sean are good guys. We go way back. All the way to when I was nothing more than a dime-a-dozen wannabe model and they played local bars for free booze.
“Uh, we got company.” Sean points out hotel security on foot and strolling our way.
“Shit.” Trent takes in the guard, still a good twenty feet away and then to where Sean drags Austin away from the upchuck planter. “These ugly, stupid fuckers will be the death of me.”
Leighton still hasn’t opened the door.
“I heard that!” Austin shouts.
“Wasn’t that long ago you were the one causing all the trouble.” I raise my brows in challenge.
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes and a grin pulls at his lips. “Consider me a reformed idiot.”
“Love looks good on you, Trent Donovan.” I’m not lying, either. Since he’s been with Lexi, his entire aura radiates joy. I would know. When he was single, Trent and I used to hook up in an uncommitted, every now and then kinda way.
“Yeah.” His eyes twinkle with mischief as he meets my gaze. “You should try it.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Thanks, but I’m good.” Love is the last thing I have time for. Not that I’d even know how to find it. It’s the price I pay for chasing grandiose goals and living in the celebrity spotlight.
“Don’t give up. He’s out there.” Trent tips his chin and waves before jogging to catch up with the guys. I don’t know whether it’s because he’s a lovesick fool or he really means it, but if Trent Donovan, front man for Three Ugly Guys and the biggest manwhore I’ve ever known, can find love, maybe there’s still hope for me.
The thought swirls in my mind and I let loose a giggle at the ridiculousness of it. I’m not ready to settle down. My dreams are too big to include anyone else. Besides, I have a horrible track record when it comes to men. Bad boys with tattoos are forever my kryptonite, and in my experience, they’re not the relationship type.
Two
Cora
Cruising onto the highway, I check the dash. It’s nearly four in the morning as I turn toward my apartment, which is more or less a glorified resort suite with as little time as I spend there. Back-to-back filming—first in Canada and then in Tennessee—along with PR junkets have kept me on the road every week this year.