Publicity Stunt (Hollywood Knights Book Two) Read online

  Publicity Stunt

  CASSIE REED

  Other Books by Cassie Reed

  A Sweet Connection (Hollywood Knights Book One)

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  Publicity Stunt © copyright 2020 Cassie Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, businesses or places, events or incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Epilogue

  Contact

  1

  “And now for the number one movie at the box office this weekend, Yesterday’s Angel. Dion, that movie is breaking records everywhere.”

  Olivia raised her glass to her lips, taking a sip of her pinot grigio as she drowned out the rest of the voices on the TV. Number one movie at the box office. The words sounded equally as enticing to her as they were forlorn, like finding a long lost voicemail from an old lover. Would she ever hear them said about a project her name was attached to again?

  Probably not, a voice seemed to say from somewhere. Her eyes raised to the lone Oscar sitting on her mantle. She glared at it. Shut up.

  She returned her gaze to the TV. Was she really talking to her Oscar right now? Worse, Oscars couldn’t talk, so that meant she was really talking to herself. She knew she had been lonely lately but this was ridiculous. What was even more silly was she wasn’t actually alone for once. Mia, her friend and fellow actress, sat directly beside her on the plush leather couch, tipping her wine glass back as she scoffed at the TV. “Yesterday’s Angel? Please.”

  “Is it not good?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask.

  “I haven’t seen it,” Mia replied dismissively. “I just don’t like Brooke Hadley. She stole that role right out from under me, you know? Hussy.”

  Olivia grinned. “I see we’re reverting to 1940’s insults now.”

  Mia shrugged. “Recommendation of my therapist.” She turned her attention back to the TV. “Oh, please.”

  “Well, this is truly Brooke Hadley’s year, Krista,” the presenter on the TV continued. “All after a terrifying near-death experience after a car accident last January. And it was all caught on camera. A warning to the viewers at home, this video isn’t for the faint of heart.”

  Olivia watched as a cell phone video filled the screen, showing a discombobulated woman getting out of her wrecked Lexus on the freeway. “Here we see a shaken and confused Brooke moments after her car careened into the center divide of LA’s busiest freeway one rainy night. Just as she attempts to flag down first responders, another vehicle going nearly seventy miles an hour sideswipes her vehicle, just missing Brooke and knocking her to her knees.”

  Olivia brought her hand up to her mouth as she watched the harrowing footage. “Woah.”

  Beside her, Mia shot her a skeptical look. “You haven’t seen this before? I feel like they were nearly playing it in a loop when it first came out.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I had to. . .stop watching all the entertainment shows for a while. Recommendation of my therapist,” she added jokingly but she could see the look of sympathy on Mia’s face.

  It hadn’t been long since she had been in Brooke Hadley’s place. America’s sweetheart with a number one movie at the box office that would eventually win her a slew of awards that season, none so coveted as the Oscar that sat above her fireplace. She remembered clutching the surprisingly heavy statue in her hands and nearly crying as she thanked everyone she could remember. “And most importantly, my fiancé David, for his endless support.” She remembered him smiling at her from the audience, so handsome in his tuxedo and bowtie. “I love you, baby. We did it.”

  And then, it was all over.

  First came the mysterious invite to their favorite restaurant, Capo, a week before their usual monthly date night there. “But we have a reservation for the 15th, like always,” Olivia had said when he called her on the phone.

  “I know but let’s just do it now,” came David’s reply, short but no less loving than usual. “I’ll meet you there at eight.”

  Something had flipped in Olivia’s stomach at that very moment. Why, oh why, hadn’t she listened to her gut? Instead, she had still spent hours preening, donning a newly tailored dress and suede magenta Jimmy Choos, a bold choice by her standards. But why not, she had decided as she slipped into the colorful pumps. Surely she had everything to celebrate and nothing to lose.

  How wrong she had been.

  “Don’t make a scene,” David had warned her an hour later as they sat across from each other at Capo. “I’m just telling you I need space. For a while. And no, I don’t know how long that’s going to be.”

  “You need space? Space?” She remembered yanking her engagement ring off and sending it flying across the table toward him. “You could have told me that before you asked me to marry you!”

  “Lower your voice, Olivia.” David had never liked a scene and she suddenly became patently aware that that was the reason he had brought her to Capo.

  “I will not lower my voice,” she had refused. “In fact, I should live it up since you’ve officially ruined my favorite restaurant for me now. Garçon, can I get another Mai Tai over here please?” She stared back at David triumphantly as he rubbed his eyes exasperatedly.

  That Mai Tai had been the beginning of the end.

  David had offered to drive her home, which she had flippantly accepted. It would give her twenty extra minutes to berate him for destroying her life. If only she had known she would have more a hand in that than he would that night.

  Unbeknownst to Olivia, David had arrived at Capo early that night to shore up on a little extra liquid courage before breaking up with her. Twenty minutes later, in the middle of a heated argument, they were pulled over by the Highway Patrol. On second thought, maybe that had been the beginning of the end. . .

  “Can we speed this up?” Olivia had groaned from the passenger’s side as she watched David speak with the officer outside the vehicle. She had just wanted to go home, climb into her loosest sweats, go to bed, and not wake up for days. “He’s not drunk!” she yelled out the window. “He had one glass of wine! Did you hear me?” She opened her car door, her festive pink heels crunching against the asphalt.

  “Ma’am, please remain inside the vehicle,” the officer had warned her.

  He had warned her.

  But Olivia didn’t listen.

  That was the real beginning of the end.

  Twenty-four hours her embarrassing mugshot, cheeks streaked with mascara, hit the tabloids. FALL FROM GRACE, they announced, a play on words from her Oscar-winning role as famed folk singer and humanitarian Grace Inez. She had cried her eyes out that day, wondering if things could get any worse.

  They could.

  As it turned out, there was video of
her belligerent run in with the law. It would seem like nearly an eternity before the hosts of late night shows stopped quoting her most pugnacious line, “Do you know who I am?” But eventually they did, and things quieted down. Too much.

  Forget Brooke Hadley. Olivia Warner was really Yesterday’s Angel.

  A decade-long career, a spot on the A-list, an Academy Award. “All of it means nothing if every casting director in Hollywood thinks my name is synonymous with poison!” she had shouted at her agent, Celeste, during a heated phone call just the week before.

  “Olivia, you’re being dramatic, darling,” Celeste replied, her voice gentle as she attempted to downplay the situation. She was a terrible actress. “Your name is not synonymous with poison. We just need to give this time to all blow over. We’ve seen this time and time again. The public has a very short memory.”

  Olivia wasn’t so sure.

  “We’re just glad she’s okay,” the TV presenter continued as the screen flashed to a smiling Brooke posing for cameras on the red carpet.

  “I’d say she’s more than okay,” the other presenter said jubilantly. “I’m calling it now. It’s the year of the Brooke.”

  Mia rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. She’s just lucky and people feel bad for her.”

  Olivia gaped at her friend. “Mia.”

  “What? Someone has to say it. Had you even heard anything about Brooke Hadley before any of this went down? She went from a supporting role on a lame network sitcom to America’s sweetheart overnight, all because of a viral video. I’d call that lucky.”

  Olivia stared down into her wine glass. “It’s not lucky to almost die.”

  “But she’s fine, and she got a ton of free publicity out of it,” Mia countered with a shrug. “You’re cutting the tape at the new LA Commuter Train next week, right? Maybe you should fall onto the tracks or something. They’ll be tons of cameras.”

  “Mia!” Olivia exclaimed, a laugh sputtering from her lips. “That’s beyond ridiculous. I am not falling onto the tracks.”

  “Okay, you don’t have to go that extreme. Maybe just act like you’re gonna fall. And then a handsome stranger can swoop in and save you.” Her eyebrows bounced up and down excitedly. “Instant viral video.”

  Oliva shook her head. “I’m gonna take that as the wine talking,” she said, taking a contemplative sip from her own glass. “Where would I find a handsome stranger anyway?”

  Mia looked at her curiously. “I might know of someone.”

  2

  “And that’s a wrap! Thanks, guys, let’s cut for today.”

  At the director’s announcement, Trayce pulled the mask from his head, staring at himself in the reflection from a nearby cargo trailer parked just off set. The blue and white Captain Patriot suit may have fit him like a glove, but it was still strange to see himself wearing it. He cocked his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Throwing punch after punch to get the fight scene just right had taken hours, leaving him with the tinge of dull aches and pains everywhere, but it was nothing a warm shower couldn’t fix.

  “Great job today, man,” Dean Evers, the actor responsible for the real face of Captain Patriot, said as he strolled by in an identical suit. With the mask on, they were nearly impossible to tell apart, but Trayce was more than happy to let Dean have all the attention. Despite being told he was handsome enough to be a leading man, Trayce was content being a stuntman. He still got to awe audiences far and wide, without having any of the pressure of carrying the film himself. The limelight wasn’t for Trayce. . .but the paychecks that came with it would have been nice.

  Lately, that had been more true than ever.

  The muffled jingle of a ringtone rang out from somewhere on his person. Patting his body, Trayce realized he had snuck his phone into one of the many utility pockets that adorned the Captain Patriot suit. The question was, which one?

  In the nick of time, Trayce located the phone, bringing it up to his ear with a breathless, “Yeah?”

  “How’s the outside world?” his brother, Layton, asked dryly.

  Trayce gazed around the busy lot. “Nothing new to report,” he replied. “Sky’s still blue, if that’s what you’re after.”

  Layton sighed. “Why would you tell me that?”

  “You going stir crazy already?”

  “I’ve got a bad case of cabin fever,” Layton admitted. “I feel like I’ve watched the entire Netflix catalog. Today I got so desperate, I watched a documentary on quilting.”

  “Yikes,” Trayce murmured.

  He felt for Layton. Up until six weeks ago, his brother had been the most active person he knew. While long days on set just made Trayce want to go home and recoup, it was Layton who kept him on his toes, constantly pressing him to spar, train, and work every muscle in his body to failure. “If you’re not failing, you’re not trying!” Layton would announce as he spotted him during bench presses. It was annoying, but it kept both of them in the best shape possible, and that was important when it came to stunt work, the job they both knew and loved.

  That was, until the accident, a motorcycle stunt gone wrong. Very wrong.

  Things hadn’t looked good in those first initial days. Layton had broken bones, lacerated muscle, and despite the helmet he had been wearing, taken real damage to his skull. Trayce had spent more nights than he wished to remember sitting beside him in the ICU, each beep, hiss, and click of a machine like a dagger to his heart. He couldn’t lose him, not Layton. At only eighteen months apart, they were closer than brothers. They were best friends.

  Layton would eventually wake up, but his road to recovery had only just begun. He spent nearly a month in the hospital before he was deemed stable enough to discharge. Now, with two broken legs, three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a pair of mangled but healing hands, he was holed up in his apartment. Watching quilting documentaries, apparently.

  But as intense as the boredom could be, it was probably the least of Layton’s problems, because a snafu with the stunt person’s union had left him uncovered when it came to medical insurance. Already, he had started to receive phone calls from bill collectors, urging him to pay what he could immediately. They were the worst of the worst, and they had somehow recently gotten a hold of Trayce’s phone number too.

  “Can you bring me home a movie?” Layton asked listlessly. “And eggrolls? I really miss Mr. Chow’s eggrolls.”

  “A movie and eggrolls,” Trayce repeated. “You got it.”

  “You’re my hero, Captain Patriot.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Trayce said with a grin. “Don’t mention it, kid,” he added before ending the call, invoking the superhero’s trademark humble catchphrase. If he was honest, it didn’t sound bad leaving his lips.

  Palming his phone, he continued to walk off set towards his dressing room. The suit may have fit well, but he couldn’t wait to peel it off. It had been a long day, and having to run errands for Layton, not to mention just worrying for his brother’s future in general, was wearing on him. Fast.

  He had just undone the first zipper when his phone rang again. “What is it this time, Layt?” Trayce murmured, flipping his screen over and nearly accepting the call before he realized it wasn’t Layton at all. It was a private number, but Trayce knew well enough who was on the other end of those.

  Bill collectors.

  Gritting his teeth, he accepted the call, bringing it up to his ear. “I’m getting sick of these phone calls. It’s been six weeks. You’ll get your money, but stop harassing me and my brother.”

  “Ah—excuse me?” a woman’s voice, soft and sweet, greeted his ears.

  “You heard me,” Trayce continued. “He’s barely out of the hospital. Stop calling us.”

  “I’m sorry, is this Trayce Bradford?” the woman on the other end asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied stubbornly. “What’s it say in your database?”

  “I don’t have a database,” she told him. “Trayce, this
is Olivia Warner.”

  “Olivia Warner?” He frowned. The name certainly sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Not yet.

  “The actress,” she continued in place of his silence. “From How Sweet The Sound.”

  “The movie?” he asked dubiously.

  Her voice brightened. “Did you see it?”

  “Nope,” he replied simply, now able to place the actress. “Biopics aren’t really my thing. But I know who Olivia Warner is, and you’re not her. The day a woman that hot calls me will be a snow day in LA. Nice try, though.”

  “Uh, well,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “Mia Stevens gave me your number, she says you’re a stuntman, is that correct?”

  Trayce froze.

  He knew Mia Stevens. She had played a waitress in peril that Captain Patriot, aka him, had saved from certain death. She had been amicable enough, collecting everyone’s numbers the afternoon before her last day on set so that she could take their breakfast orders. It was a veiled attempt at making and keeping connections, but Trayce couldn’t blame her. Connections were important in Hollywood, but he would have never guessed the fledgling actress fraternized with someone like Olivia Warner. An A-lister. Untouchable. If this was even her at all.

  “Didn’t you win an Oscar?” he murmured.

  “I did, yes,” she said cheerfully.

  He grinned. He had worked in the industry long enough to know celebrities loved to have their latest and greatest accolades brought up over and over. Maybe this was her after all.

  “Okay, Olivia Warner,” he said. “How do I know this is really you?”

  “I could send you a picture of me with the newspaper,” she offered, her tone slightly tongue-in-cheek.

  “Are you being held for ransom?”

  “No, but I do need your help.”

  “You need a stuntman?”

  “Yes,” she replied breathlessly, and the sound of her voice, throaty and helpless, nearly made him blush.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re working on your own project or something?”