The Player
Would you ever fall for me? Not Tanner Randall—but the private man who watches old movies, and lies awake during electrical storms…talking to a ghost.
You haunt my dreams, Reese. I’m the wraith you don’t see.
And I hate your image of me.
“Always a player,” she shakes her head sadly, “those poor women—can’t they see who you really are?”
I give her a brittle smile. “They’re buying a dream, Reese—a fiction you and the PR firm put together, I might add.”
“Well, our October book sales are up—due in part to that ‘fiction’—and of course, your boyish charm.” She laughs cynically. “If they only knew the real Tanner Randall behind The Randall Mysteries.”
We exit the Chapters bookstore and hastily walk to the car. At the signing in Chicago, we got caught on the sidewalk for an hour—so no way is Reese going to repeat that fiasco.
It’s a crisp fall day and I’d like nothing better than to go for a drive in the country, or at least up the Don Valley Ravine and see the fall colours, but Reese has other things planned.
“Lori wants you to be at Trump Tower tonight at eight.”
“Oh no,” I groan, “c’mon Reese—do I have to that schmoozing thing? You know I hate these celebrity parties.”
“It’s a cocktail party,” she corrects, “and since when were you the type to miss out on flirting with starlets?”
“You know I hate that side of things.”
“Yeah, like I believe you, Tanner. I’m not one of your bimbos—save that for the book signings or media spots—yeah, on second thought, they’ll really lap that up.”
I stare morosely out the window at the few flashes of fall colour I can see.
“Lori wants you to get a few shots with Brooke Keating.”
“No way—I am definitely not doing that.”
Reese colours and her defences go up. “Look, I’m your agent, and if I tell you to do something, I expect it done. I’m not asking you to prostitute yourself—just so what you usually do—flirt and be charming. Get it?”
“Aye, aye Capitan."
I slouch down in the seat and fake fatigue—I’m done fighting with her—and the way I’m feeling lately, I’m just done. Period.
I sneak a peek at her in profile—she looks stiff and angry—and so lovely I begin to ache inside.
Lonely and wretched, I grimace, but that’s me—as for Reese, I’m sure this arrangement suits her just fine.