Page 1 of The Challenger

DECEMBER

ChapterOne

FLYNN

Every woman tells liesin Los Angeles. Being slippery with the truth is part career strategy and part necessary coping mechanism. The pressure to be beautiful and successful is relentless in the City of Angels, and though my fans consider me both, they don't know the real me. I've been lying for years. Some days I’m better at it than others, and today is a definite other. My anxiety has shot up like mercury in July and I’m fresh out of magic pills, about to lose it on the world's most annoying gatekeeper.

“Can you check again?” I ask Madison, another blonde actress wannabe slumming it as a Beverly Hills receptionist. “I made an appointment a month ago before I went out of town.”

She snaps her gum and scrolls through the calendar on her computer monitor, making a big production of it. “I don't see your name anywhere. And Dr. Bradford is booked solid for the next two weeks. You'll have to reschedule."

“Is there any chance he can write me a new prescription without an appointment?”

I dig deep for my most sincere Flynn Dryden smile—the one my fans pay a hundred dollars a pop to see in person—and fight the urge to yell,Don’t you know who I am! I am America's favorite motivational guru. My entire career is helping people.After playing nice for the last thirty days and smiling through the lovers, haters, and hecklers on my book tour, right now, I just need someone to help me.

Madison’s baby blues show the first sign of crumbling when the clinic door beepsopen behind me. She straightens in the chair, unconsciously primping her hair. I glance over my shoulder expecting to see a famous producer or agent, not some young guy helping himself to water at the cooler. Only a rearview because he’s facing away from us, but damn. He’s fit as fuck with skin the same color as the almond butter I smeared on my toast this morning. I can only assume he’s a delivery guy. Who else waltzes into a psychiatry office for a drink wearing only a tank top and shorts?

Anyway.

I turn back to Madison and go for the beg as a last resort. “Can you swing me ten pills for now? A courtesy top off. It’s an emergency.”

“You know we can’t do that. Not for Zoloft,” she says, loud enough that anyone in the LA Basin can hear. “And according to this,” she peers at that godforsaken calendar again, “you’re back sooner than you should be.”

With an unsteady breath, I ball both fists to avoid throttling her.Judgment on top of it all.

“She doesn’t care. Get used to it. No one in the system cares.”

I whip around, ready to lay into this guy who's mistaken my business for his. But words dissolve like dust on my tongue.

For the love of god.

He's now lounging on the lobby couch with one arm draped along the top and his sneakers crossed on the coffee table like he owns the place. His mouth curls into a rebellious smirk that says,I dare you to challenge me,andI plan to, right after I scoop my jaw up off the floor. It’s kind of pathetic to stare so openly, but if there were a Mr. USA beauty competition, this smoldering Latino honey would bring the judges to their knees.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.

I clear my throat and wish I’d put some thought into my appearance before rushing down here. Some blush to brighten my pale skin or something more inspired than my curls pulled into a simple, messy bun. At least I’m in heels and a dress and not a hoodie.

“I was going to say—”

“That I’m right?”

His eyes bore into mine. Were they angry or just unhappy? Either way, I sense trouble and not the good kind. Why else would he be here?

“No. You’re wrong. People do care.” People other than Madison, I almost add.

He studies me, gauging my sincerity. “An eternal optimist. How encouraging, señorita.”

He rolls the R in señorita and I feel it. Feel his tongue making a single letter an illicit event. I feel it in places where I probably shouldn’t. While that sensation buzzes through me, he pushes off the couch and swaggers over, a hip-swaying advertisement for testosterone and virility. I’m 5'10'' without heels, the neighborhood giraffe, but I can tell he’s grooving on the power of being taller, staring down at me with peepers a shade of turquoise so unreal they might as well have a Crayola label slapped on them.

“Chavez,” he says. “Since we’re swapping names.”

“I didn’t know we were.”

He fingers a curl that’s gone AWOL from my bun with a slow smile. “C’mon, beautiful lady. What’s your name?”

“My name is Flynn,” I say, swatting his hand away. “And ask before you touch me, please.”

His eyes drift over me without landing on any one place, but they still manage to get their point across. “You always wear dresses that short?”

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