Thank goodness for alcohol. If I hadn't passed out, I wouldn't have slept a wink. As it was, I woke from a dream of porn stars doing unmentionable things in a dark, damp dungeon and quickly ran to the bathroom because my stomach was threatening to lose its contents. Again.

I gripped the doorjamb, swaying slightly as yesterday evening's conversation replayed in my mind. Lucas's revelation, and more importantly, his invitation.

Last night while I was under the influence, the idea of visiting a—I could barely even think the words, let alone say them—a sex club had seemed almost reasonable. But now? A hysterical giggle burst from my lips, and I glanced around guiltily, even though I knew I was alone.

What was more, Lucas had confessed to visiting the place himself. I'd need all my acting skills to look him in the eye today. What did they do there? Tie up helpless virgins Fifty Shades-style? Have leather-clad brutes do freaky things with whips and chains?

The red tie was draped over one arm of the couch, a dark slash against the cream leather. I hastily scrunched it up and stuffed it under my pillow.

A sex club? No.

No way.

Absolutely no way.

While Kane and Lucas ate breakfast, I leapt into the first car with Mikki, who was currently refusing to eat a single bite before noon. It was easier to put up with her whining than pretend to Lucas that everything was normal when last night's tête-à-tête had been anything but.

"Aren't you going to the gym this morning?" Mikki asked.

"I don't feel great."

"Well, don't puke near me again. It freaks me out. I have emetophobia."

"You have what?"

"It's a fear of vomiting."

She acted so smug, it took every ounce of effort to stop my eyes from rolling. Did she just look that up on Wikipedia? After all, everybody who was anybody in Hollywood seemed to have some weird quirk or condition, both to ensure special treatment and to gain those oh-so-important column inches. Then they could hire an outrageously expensive lifestyle guru or holistic healer to make it all better and bleat on about that too.

Anyhow, I decided it was easier to humour her than to dispute her claim.

"Don't worry; I already threw everything up today."

She glanced over, a little more interested.

"Are you bulimic?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"My friend Magnolia's bulimic, and she has a great therapist. I guess I could get you his number."

"Thanks." I think.

Mikki tapped away at her phone, then went back to staring out of the window. I relished the peace.

Lucas didn't come near me all day, so perhaps he felt as awkward as I did. Instead, I got Kane, and today, he'd eaten onions for lunch. Yuck, yuck, and triple yuck. I was tempted to take a leaf out of my mysterious gift-giver's book and send Kane an anonymous care package—not locusts but toothpaste, mouthwash, breath mints, that sort of thing. But first, I needed to get through the final scene of the day. Kelvin was supposed to back Veronica up against the wall of the elevator in the police precinct and get in close, finishing with a kiss that she returned for a second before pushing him away. The pushing-away part I could manage, no problem. It was the kiss that turned my stomach.

And of course, David noticed.

"What's the problem? You're looking at Kane like he's a diseased slug."

"I, uh..." Kane was a diseased slug. "I just..."

To my left, Mikki stuck two fingers in her mouth and made a gagging noise.

David turned to her. "Violet's sick? Do we need a doctor?"

I interrupted before she could tell everyone I had an eating disorder. "I'm fine."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"No! I..." I couldn't admit to being hungover because that would be totally unprofessional. "I think I ate something that disagreed with me."

"Jimmy, check the craft table. How long has the food been sitting out there?"

"Uh..."

I waved a hand. "Honestly, there's no need to do that. It was probably something I made myself."

"You should be more careful. Avoid shellfish and make sure any chicken is cooked right through."

Thanks, Dad. "I will."

"One more take. Do it well, and we're finished for the day. And somebody get a bucket over here."

I held my breath and closed my eyes, imagining Trent in front of me rather than Kane. At least there were no tongues involved today. Ten minutes later, it was over, and I admitted what I'd known inside for a long time: I needed professional help.

I needed professional help, and fast.

Back in my trailer, I tried to call Lauren because I figured a romance novelist counted as a sort of professional when it came to sex, but there was no answer, just a cheerful message from her voicemail.

"Hey, it's Lauren. You know what to do."

I did. In truth, there was no need for me to speak with her because I knew exactly what she'd say. Go for it. Take Lucas up on his offer and spend the night with a man who could teach me how to fake it.

I closed my eyes for a moment and swallowed because now I felt really, really sick. Kristen had disappeared as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, but Shonda bustled in while I was trying not to hyperventilate.

"You okay?" she asked as she packed her bits and pieces away for the day. "Heard you weren't doin' so good."

"I felt a little queasy, but I'm better now."

"One of those stomach bugs?"

"Shonda, could you do me a favour?"

"Sure, hun."

"Do you have a wig I might be able to borrow? A blonde one?"

"What do you need a wig for?"

"I want to meet a friend for dinner tonight, but the media keeps following me everywhere."

Shonda nodded knowingly. "Dinner?"

"That's right."

"Uh-huh. They all say that. Girl, I don't blame you for wanting to spend time with a proper man. Kane Sanders doesn't do it for every woman."

"Really? I thought it was just me who felt that way."

"He's too arrogant for his own good, and someone needs to give that boy a pack of gum."

"You noticed the smell too? Oh my gosh, I thought I was gonna be sick when he kissed me."

"My girl Trina works in the catering truck. I'll ask her to serve him a dish with mint tomorrow."

"She'd do that?"

"Trina owes me for fixin' up her face when she got pimples right before her big anniversary date last month." Shonda nodded. "She'll do mint."

"I think I love you."

Shonda grinned. "You're not like the rest of those big shots. Glad I got you to look after for this shitshow."

"And I'm glad too. Uh, about that wig?"

"I can do better than that. What time are you going out?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Then I'll come over at seven to do your hair and make-up myself. 'Bout time my husband took a turn at cookin' dinner."

I gave her a hug, and after a second, she hugged me back. Shonda was right, this was a total shitshow, but at least now I had one more friend.

***

Five minutes before eight, and I took one last look at myself in the mirror. Shonda had worked her magic, and now I was blonde. Not quite platinum, but a shade or two darker with lowlights running through the wavy strands. I swished the ends around my shoulders, and they bounced and caught the light. Was it true? Did blondes really have more fun?

My eyes were dark and smoky, my lashes curled by some miracle mascara that Shonda assured me wouldn't run even if I went scuba diving. She'd chuckled to herself as she painted my lips too.

"This shade's called Scarlet Harlot, and if you're still wearing any of it when you get home, I'll be disappointed."

"So will I."

Because that would mean I'd failed. Failed to get it on with a man provided expressly for that purpose. And tomorrow, I'd be either humiliated or fired. Possibly even both.

No, I had to do this.

My fingers trembled as I knotted the tie behind my head. Glimmers of light seeped in around the edges of the fabric, but I couldn't see anything except the pale green carpet underfoot. I sank onto the couch, waiting. Three minutes, two minutes, one... Then the door clicked, and I detected the faint aroma of Lucas's cologne. A woodsy scent, part of the image he wanted to project rather than the secret persona he kept hidden away.

I'd sprayed perfume on too, because the real Violet smelled like fear.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"No. Yes." I sucked in a breath. "Honestly? I'm scared."

He helped me to my feet and looped my arm through his. "I promise nothing bad will happen."

"I know, but... Can we just get it over with?"

Lucas pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, and I cursed the universe that things couldn't be different between us. If only he were straight...

"The reporters are hanging around by the front gates, so we'll sneak out along the beach. Give me your shoes."

"I have to keep the blindfold on?"

"Lift it until we get to the car, but you'll need to put it back on for the journey. The club's location must stay a secret."

Sand scrunched between my toes as we snuck out to Lucas's car. He'd parked it by the shore a five-minute walk away. Something low and sporty, and the engine growled when he started it, deep and throaty. This was my last chance to back out, but instead, I gripped the hem of my dress as Lucas fastened my seat belt.

I'd just made either the smartest or the stupidest decision of my life.