Before I met Gemma, I had always been able to get a girl without lifting a finger. A look and a smile was really all it took. (I mean, have you seen my face?) While I had once considered this to be a blessing, it was now nothing but a goddamn curse.
Having relied solely on my good looks, money, or celebrity to get the girl, I had no idea how to win Gemma's affection, who was immune to my superficial charms. I had sent flowers and gifts to her office, and when those didn't do the trick, I sent a few drunk texts ("y di u hatemee ily") to her work phone during the early morning hours. For some reason, those didn't do the trick, either.
It was frustrating because I just knew Gemma and I would be good together. I felt it down to my bones.
She was the Angelina to my Brad Pitt, the Amal to my George Clooney, but I didn't know how to make her see that.
My desperation only worsened as time went on, and the more she rejected me, the more infatuated with her I became. Thoughts of her consumed me completely, and I couldn't even pretend to enjoy myself at my favorite Vegas strip club.
"What's your problem, dude?"
"What?"
"That's the third champagne room invite you turned down, and I think her boobs were actually real."
"You really think a size zero was blessed with G-cup boobs?" I asked, laughing at Tony's idiocy.
"A man can dream," he replied, his attention returning to the flexible dancer on stage. The bottle blonde was wearing a pink sequined thong that looked downright uncomfortable. My own butt itched as I watched her gyrate on the pole. Tony waved a thick stack of bills in the air, and she crawled towards him in what was supposed to be a sexy manner. She shoved her crotch in his face, and Tony was slipping twenties into her G-string when I couldn't take it anymore.
"I need a fucking drink," I said, standing up. "I'll be at the bar."
"Uh-huh," he responded, his eyes and hands still glued to the stripper.
I was on my third whiskey when Giorgio, the floor manager of Sapphire, greeted me with his typical gusto. "Liam, my boy!" he bellowed, gripping my hand and slapping my back. Giorgio was a heavyset middle-aged man who always smelled like hair gel and cheap cologne. In his all-black suit and gold chain jewelry, he definitely looked the part of a gentleman's club manager.
"My girls taking care of you?" he asked with a wink.
"They're certainly trying," I said with a wry smile. "Hey Giorgio, do you have any ethnically ambiguous brunettes with green eyes? Who are more on the, uh, natural side?"
"Hmm." He narrowed his eyes as he stroked his chin, deep in thought. "I'm not sure that I do, but let me double check for you."
Not five minutes later, a plastic-looking brunette in pigtails and a schoolgirl skirt was headed my way. She looked nothing like Gemma, and so I wanted nothing to do with her. I quickly paid my bar tab and left the premises.
I was walking back to the Palazzo – I had booked the penthouse suite for the boys' weekend – when I had the brilliant idea to drunk dial Gemma. She answered the phone right before it went to voicemail.
"Gemma Vaughn."
God, her lawyer voice was so sexy. For the first time tonight, I was turned on.
"Gemma," I said, trying my best to sound sober. I don't think I succeeded. "It's me."
"Hi Liam," she sighed. "I really hope you have a legal issue this time."
There was an awkward pause as I racked my brain for one. The only legitimate question that came to mind ("is prostitution legal in Vegas?") seemed inappropriate.
"I don't," I admitted. "Are you in bed?"
"Liam."
"Yes?" I asked innocently, grinning like a fool. I wondered if she slept naked.
"You know I charge for these phone calls. I'm going to do you a favor and hang up now."
"Wait!"
She muttered something under her breath that I didn't catch.
"I do have a question," I said.
"Okay."
"Do you know what unrequited love feels like?"
"Can't say I do, no," she said. Of course she didn't. "Good night, Liam."
"Good night, Gemma."
* * * * * *
I was eating breakfast with Tony, who was wearing his sunglasses indoors like a douchebag, and our other actor friend, Derek, who was covered in stripper glitter. Well, I was eating breakfast – they were throwing back mimosas like the hair of the dog was an actual hangover cure.
"For the record, you two look and smell terrible," I said as I chowed down on my egg white omelet.
"Please, for the love of God, swallow your food before opening your mouth," Tony groaned. "I'm queasy enough as is."
Derek giggled like a slaphappy child drunk on sugar. His thick black hair was sticking up every which way, his pale green eyes were bloodshot, and he was in desperate need of a shave, but he was still one good-looking son of a bitch.
"Swallow," Derek repeated, his smile widening. "There was some of that happening in the champagne room."
Tony flung a piece of buttered toast back onto his plate. "Thanks for ruining what little appetite I had, asshole," he snapped at Derek.
I was racking my brain for reasons why I still hung out with these two dipshits when my phone began to ring. "Crap, it's my manager," I muttered, standing up.
"You don't have to leave the table because of me," Tony said with only a hint of bitterness. My manager, Matt Tulsa, used to be Tony's manager, too – until he dropped him for being too difficult. "I'm a big boy," he continued. "Just ask Crystal."
I made a noise of disgust. "You're just as bad as Derek," I said, and they high-fived each other across the table. I sat back down in my chair and answered on the last ring. I didn't particularly want to have this conversation at the restaurant table, but after Tony's blessing, it would have been awkward if I left.
"Hey, Matt," I said cheerily. "What's up?"
"What's up is that you keep calling a Vaughn & Carmichael attorney at all hours of the day!" he shouted at me. "Must I remind you yet again of her hourly rate?"
"Nah, I'm good," I said, sliding my eggs around my plate with my fork. Matt was rubbing salt in the wound, and I couldn't wait for this conversation to be over.
"Liam, I get that you're young and rich and you do what you want. But please for the love of Jesus, unless you have a legitimate legal problem, do not call Gemma Vaughn anymore."
"Okay," I said, snatching Derek's mimosa out of his hand. I needed it more than he did, and I was the one picking up the tab anyway. Derek cursed at me before signaling to our waiter for another round.
"What was that about?" Tony asked when I hung up.
"I think he just missed hearing my voice," I shrugged. "He wanted to update me on some lawyer nonsense blah blah whatever."
"Oh, your DUI?" Derek asked.
I made a noncommittal noise before chugging his mimosa. I didn't want to admit I was harassing someone who was way out of my league, and that she freaking told on me to my manager. It was too embarrassing, and I had a reputation as a ladykiller to uphold.
"Holy shit, that was refreshing," I said, slamming the empty champagne glass down on the table. "Let's get drunk."
And so we did.
Two hours later, I stumbled into the Graceland Wedding Chapel and married one of my adoring fans. I don't really remember it, but she posted the pictures on Instagram, which were instantly screenshotted and sent to TMZ. As soon as the news went viral, my irate manager called me seventeen times until I finally woke up from my drunken slumber on the bathroom floor of my hotel room. I picked up the phone, slurred, "Now can I call Gemma?" and then dropped it into the toilet before passing out with my face on the seat.
* * * * * *
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