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  Copyright © 2015 by Vi Keeland

  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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  Throb

  Edited by: Caitlin Alexander

  Cover model: Josh Kloss

  Cover designer: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative

  Photographer: Scott Hoover Photography

  contents

  contents

  dedication

  definitions

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  chapter thirty-five

  chapter thirty-six

  chapter thirty-seven

  chapter thirty-eight

  chapter thirty-nine

  chapter forty

  chapter forty-one

  epilogue

  acknowledgements

  other books by vi

  about vi

  connect with vi

  for the reader

  dedication

  To my husband,

  whose voice somehow always finds a way into my books.

  definitions

  game 'gam

  Verb

  1. to play a contest of chance for money

  synonyms: gamble, bet

  2. manipulate, typically in a way that is unfair or unscrupulous.

  Noun

  1. a physical or mental activity or contest that has rules and that people do for pleasure

  throb THräb

  Verb

  1. to beat with increased force or rapidity, as the heart under the influence of emotion or excitement; palpitate.

  Synonyms: pounding, pulsating

  2. to vibrate; ache

  Noun

  1. a strong, regular beat

  prologue

  Months later

  I turn. He’s down on one knee, a black velvet box perched in the center of his hand. My heart starts to pound wildly in my chest … or is it more of a throb?

  “Marry me, Beautiful.”

  … And just like that, the game is finally over.

  chapter one

  Cooper

  My phone buzzes on my desk for the third time in an hour. Looking down, my eyes narrow finding the same name flashing from the display again. I frown, but slide my finger across the screen to answer this time. She skips the formalities, jumping right in to what she wants. “Come downstairs to the studio at lunch.”

  “I have a lunch meeting,” I lie.

  “I’ll give you a delicious dessert when you’re done,” Tatiana purrs through the phone.

  “Thanks, maybe next time,” I lie again. There will be no next time. I regret not learning from my father’s mistakes sooner—his no mingling business with pleasure policy was a lesson he learned the hard way.

  “This is the third time you’re blowing me off. Do you know how many men would kill to spend time with me?”

  “Many, I’m sure. Listen, Miles just walked in … I have to run.” My little brother hesitantly smiles and waves. I hold up one finger, ignoring whatever Tatiana is still rambling on about. His visit is unexpected, but I’m grateful for the excuse to get off the phone.

  Miles nods and walks to the mahogany table displaying liquor bottles and ornate crystal glasses, the same one we’d watched our father walk to so many times before. He pours himself a tall glass of golden liquid and tosses half of it back in one gulp as he looks out at the view of Los Angeles. There’s strain in his face. I’m not surprised; the only time he comes by is when he needs to ask for something.

  I rush Tatiana off the phone and, just as I push end, Helen beeps in from the intercom. “You have Stephen Blake on line one.”

  “Just give me one more minute, Miles.”

  My brother’s glass is drained by the time I’m wrapping up my short conversation with Stephen. His brown eyes are worn and tired, there’s a tenseness set in his jaw. Whatever he needs is big this time.

  “Ben and I are putting a lot on the line with this project. We want him, but not for forty percent more. Ten is the highest we can go. You’re the super agent—sell him on the backend percentage we’re offering.” I know what’s coming next before the words sound through the receiver. “Sure, dinner next week sounds good. No, tell Miriam not to bring a friend.” A pause and then, “Thanks, Stephen, I look forward to it.”

  Hanging up the call, I turn to Miles. “To what do I owe this pleasure, little brother?” I have a good hunch why he’s visiting, but I’ll play the game anyway.

  My brother avoids the question, preferring to ease into the real subject he came to discuss. “Miriam still trying to fix you up?”

  I pour myself a drink from a crystal decanter and raise the bottle, silently offering Miles a refill, which he happily accepts. “She swears Dad told her that she had to make sure I married well.” I sip from the glass. “There’ll be a woman there when I see them next week, even though I just told Stephen no.” We exchange a rare true smile. Stephen was our father’s best friend, and is one of Hollywood’s most coveted agents.

  “Maybe Miriam’s got the right idea. You’re getting old. Time to stop fucking half of Hollywood and settle down.”

  “I’m twenty nine. I’d hardly call that old.”

  “It is by Hollywood standards. Plus, you practically live in this place lately.” He looks around my office. “You’re starting to turn into Dad.”

  Miles says turning into Dad like it’s a bad thing. We grew up in the same house, becoming anything like our father is a compliment to me, yet my brother utters it like it’s an insult. A change of subject, to one that moves us to the point of his visit, is in order.

  “How are things going at Mile High?” I ask cautiously, knowing it could be a very sore topic of discussion. A year after our father’s death, my brother and I split our family’s legendary film production business. I chose to continue on our father’s path, the one that had made Montgomery Productions a name every A-list actor and director wanted to work with. Miles, on the other hand, decided it was time for a change. Diving into the risky world of reality TV, he filmed his first series, Stripped. To this day, he can’t comprehend why Stripped—a show following a collection of artificially enhanced large-breasted strippers—flopped. Unable to accept the failure, he spent the last five years trying to prove he
could make it as the King of Reality TV. In the process, he nearly depleted his trust fund, watched two of his “sure thing” reality shows fail, and got dumped publicly by the twenty-year-old starlet he’d just bought a Porsche.

  Our strained relationship seemed to worsen as Montgomery Productions flourished over the last few years. My success fueled the grudge my brother has always harbored against me.

  “Things are going great,” he says. “Really great. We just started production on a show that’s going to be huge. A ratings blockbuster, I know it.”

  I’ve heard those words from my brother’s mouth on one too many occasions to believe him, although deep down I still hold hope that one-day he’ll succeed. “That’s great. What’s the show about?”

  “It’s part Survivor, part Bachelor.” Miles’s eyes light up. “Throb. Even the name of the show is marketing genius.” He truly is passionate about his work. His lack of success has little to do with his own determination. It’s the reason I always had difficulty saying no to him, even though I knew whatever I was asked to invest in was not a smart business move.

  “Twenty bikini babes on a deserted island. One good-looking single guy, who also happens to be an up-and-coming rock star, and lots of physical competition for dream dates. Mud fights and all. Even have one of the contestants on my payroll, a ringer—she’s playing the game for me—not for the bachelor. The advertisers are going to eat it up.”

  I have to work hard not to let my face show my true thoughts. It used to be if you were sixteen and got pregnant you would get in trouble. Now you get your very own reality show. “Interesting. When does it shoot?”

  “We already have the first few weeks in the can. Twelve girls were eliminated and now we’re down to eight. The last four are going to be shot live over two weeks in the Caribbean.”

  “I haven’t seen any advertisements for it. When does it premiere?” I’m hoping, for Miles’s sake, that it’s at least six months away.

  “Three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?” I try, really, I do, but the alarm is evident in my voice. A brand new show with zero advertising, and every other station touting a different reality show? It’s almost certain to fail.

  “Yeah.” Miles’s confidence falters for a fraction of a second, but I catch it. “Listen, Coop.” He swallows hard and takes in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not going to lie. I need some help. I just negotiated a great deal for ten solid days of prime-time advertising, but I’m running a little short on cash.”

  “How short?” I respond curtly, knowing my brother is padding the magnitude of the mess he’s in.

  “All of it. I need one-point-two.”

  “Miles,” I sigh and drag my hands through my hair.

  “It’s a really good show, Coop. I just know the ratings will go through the roof with a little advertising.”

  I’ve heard all this before. It’ll take more than Miles’s biased and unreliable assurance to convince me. “Send me some dailies. I want a look before I can answer.”

  “You got it.” He smiles, tossing back the rest of the liquor in his glass. “I’ll have Linda send you over the first few episodes. You’re going to be dying to get in on this one.”

  Dying, I think to myself, might be preferable to having to watch more reality TV.

  Finally home after a fourteen-hour day that ended even worse than it started, I call Helen and ask her to have someone pick up my brand-new Mercedes from the repair shop in the morning. Three days old, and I was rear-ended while I waited for the light change, already ten minutes late for my first meeting because of yet another problem with the elevator in my building. I eventually walked down forty-two flights, thinking the morning couldn’t get any worse. Damn was I wrong. Miles’s visit came next.

  I hop in the shower, allowing the steady stream of pulsating water from the shower massager to work its way into my tightly knotted shoulder muscles. I’m just letting out a deep breath, finally starting to relax, when the doorbell interrupts. “Goddamn it,” I growl, grabbing a towel and heading to the door. Somebody better be dying.

  Lou, the night doorman, stands holding a package. “A courier dropped these off for you today. I missed you come in. Must have been on my bathroom break. Sorry about that, Mr. Montgomery, the bladder isn’t what it used to be.”

  “No problem, Lou. Thanks for bringing it up.”

  “Also, you had a visitor before you got home tonight. She wasn’t on the list of approved visitors and you didn’t answer the buzz, so I sent her away.” Lou pauses. “She wasn’t happy.”

  “Did you get her name?”

  “Didn’t need to. It was that actress, Tatiana Laroix.”

  Perfect. I’ve tried the nice route, but she just won’t take a hint. “Thanks, Lou. You did the right thing.”

  “That’s one beautiful woman, even at my age, ya can’t help but notice that one. Hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “You’re right there. She is beautiful.” And damn crazy too.

  I change into some sweats and take a look at the package. Mile High Productions. Great. I can’t think of a more appropriate way to end this crappy day, reality TV.

  I grab a beer, take a long draw and slip the DVD in. The first ten minutes introduces half of the women. The method is interesting enough, although the responses fall flat. The host, who I’m actually pretty impressed Miles was able to score, is a well-known name. Each girl is on screen for a minute as he plays word association with them. Great concept, predictable answers. By the sixth woman who associates the word profound with the lyrics of Macklemore, I’m done. Maybe tomorrow, things won’t seem so bleak.

  Friday is appointment-free day. My father passed the tradition down to me, and it makes the day before the weekend something I look forward to. It’s the one-day that Helen keeps clear. No appointments, no conference calls, no lunches, no meetings. It’s my choice, all day. This week I need it more than ever. I do my morning run at the studio lot, knowing Miles is going to be shooting some promo work for Throb. I decide I’ll drop in unannounced and check out what’s going on.

  I’m surprised to find the lot empty, so I head over to security to see what Mile High has planned for the day.

  “Hey, Frank.”

  Frank Mars is sitting in front of a dozen security monitors, alternating between flipping cards on his desk and studying the video feed. Same uniform, same mustache, same cigarette behind his ear—even though he quit twenty years ago. He looks a bit more seasoned, more salt than pepper in his thick mane, but he hasn’t changed all that much since I was a kid.

  Frank’s been our head of security as far back as I can remember. He was also a standard in my father’s poker foursome, along with the CEO of a rival movie production company and one of the lighting grips. Every other Friday night, I could always find them in the empty studio hangar with a card table and a few cases of beer. Walking into that room, no one would ever know that two of the players were rich, powerful, Hollywood execs and the other two were average guys on their payroll.

  “Cooper! Where you been hiding, kid?” Frank stands, shakes my hand, and slaps me on the back.

  “Busy. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “A while? Last time you were down here Grip hadn’t even retired yet.”

  “Grip retired?”

  “Going on two years now.”

  Two years? The thought scares me. I would’ve guessed the last time I was here was more like three months ago. “Damn. I can’t believe it’s really been that long. You still have your Friday night games going?”

  Frank pats his chest, hand over his heart. “As long as my ticker keeps going, that game will be around.”

  “Grip still playing even though he’s retired?”

  “Winter months. Summers, his wife drags his ass to Arizona. Their daughter lives out there now, got two grandkids too.”

  “Still rotating Dad’s chair?”

  “Yes, sir. No one man can fill that chair. Hey, why don’t y
ou join us tonight? We were going to ask Ted over in finance to play, but that guy always takes my money.”

  “Are you saying I won’t take your money?”

  Frank laughs. “You got your father’s good looks, you didn’t get his poker playing abilities, kid.”

  “Might have to take you up on it, just to kick your old ass, Frank.”

  “You do that.” He smiles, the creases on the sides of his eyes deepening. “Eight o’clock?”

  “Why not. Hey, do you know where Miles is? I thought he was shooting a promo here today.”

  “He’s shooting on location, down at a beach in Malibu.”

  Figures—any chance Miles gets to throw a girl in a skimpy bikini. “All right. Well, I’ll be back later to take your money, old man.”

  “You keep telling yourself that, kid.”

  It’s eight on the nose when I return to the studio lot, looking forward to sitting in on one of my father’s favorite pastimes. Frank’s setting up the card table and Ben is packing a cooler with Heineken.

  “What? You think you’re rich or something? Heineken? What happened to Budweiser?” I call out, walking toward Ben with a case of Bud in tow.

  “Only your old man drank that shit.” Ben Seidman, the founder and CEO of Diamond Entertainment, clasps my hand as he takes the case. Diamond Entertainment is the second largest movie studio in Hollywood—second to Montgomery Productions, of course. Ben also happens to be one of my father’s oldest friends and my godfather.

  “He drank it because it’s good. Not like that imported shit you’re packing in there.”

  For a few minutes the three of us catch up and reminisce about some of the old card games. I’m glad I came tonight. A night with these guys is just what I need. Good memories, cold beer, no talk about the looming union strike aging me prematurely.

  I crack a Bud and clink the bottle with Ben’s before taking a sip. Budweiser tastes like crap. I’d much rather be drinking the Heineken that Ben’s drinking—or a Stella from my fridge at home—but I’11never admit it to him. Some things are just part of tradition. “Where’s Grip?”