We could be heroes, p.1
We Could Be Heroes, page 1
Praise for Philip Ellis’s
Love & Other Scams
“With a sharp eye for detail and some of the funniest dialogue I’ve read in a long, long time, Philip Ellis has managed to give me the debut I didn’t know I needed: a heisty romp of rom-com that brilliantly skewers marriage, class, and love. He’s the real deal, and so is his brilliant book.”
—Grant Ginder, author of The People We Hate at the Wedding
“Ellis combines a heist with a romantic comedy and creates something exciting and vibrant. There’s real depth behind Cat’s tough-girl facade, and her snarky comments are laugh-out-loud hilarious. A delightful, fast-paced escapade full of snappy dialogue.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Two con artists. A scam. A cat-and-mouse game. And yet the real heist here is author Philip Ellis’s ability to so fully capture a reader’s attention with vibrant characters and the seasoned skill of a pro. I was laughing from page one, and I already can’t wait to read what he writes next.”
—Steven Rowley, author of The Guncle
“Consider me hooked.”
—Paste
“A blast from start to finish, reminding me of some of my favorite things—the movie Heartbreakers, Sophie Kinsella novels, and finding someone you can talk trash with at a wedding. I loved every minute of it!”
—Alicia Thompson, author of Love in the Time of Serial Killers
“Nothing brings two people together quite like desperation and a get-rich-quick scheme…. [An] utterly charming new novel.”
—CrimeReads
“If you’ve ever had your weekend ruined and your budget broken by a so-called friend’s over-the-top wedding, Love & Other Scams is the book for you.”
—Katherine Heiny, author of Standard Deviation
“Philip Ellis masters deeply complex characters with a dangerous side…. A dynamic and hilarious rom-com.”
—Shelf Awareness
“The definition of a rollicking romp! Ellis’s sharp wit and masterfully drawn characters completely sucked me in from the first page. A true rom-com in every sense of the term, this book is full of hilarious hijinks, yet also tugged every one of my heartstrings. It’s a pure delight!”
—Falon Ballard, author of Just My Type
“Ellis’s debut is a sharp and entertaining read that puts the con in unconventional romance.”
—Booklist
“This book stole my heart!”
—Ava Wilder, author of How to Fake It in Hollywood
“Readers looking for a zippy caper will want to snap this up.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fresh, fast-paced, and funny with a wonderfully warm cast of characters—everything you want and more from a book about diamonds, deceit, and desire. I adored it.”
—Laura Kay, author of The Split
“Here’s the elevator pitch: Romance book meets con artist crime book and they smooch.”
—Book Riot
“Mischievous, magnetic, touching, and heaps of fun. No matter how you’re feeling, the pages instantly cheer you up.”
—Emma Gannon, author of Olive
Also by Philip Ellis
•••••••••
Love & Other Scams
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2024 by Philip Ellis
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
has been applied for.
Paperback ISBN 9780593542491
Ebook ISBN 9780593542507
Cover design and illustration: Cheyne Gallarde
Book design by Daniel Brount, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_7.0_147184591_c0_r0
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Act One: Who Was That Masked Man?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Intermission
Act Two: A Spy in the House of Love
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Act Three: Kismet
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
Post-Credits Scene
Epilogue
About the Author
_147184591_
For the gays
Fame is only good for one thing—they will cash your check in a small town.
Truman Capote
Act One
Who Was That Masked Man?
Chapter 1
Patrick Lake glanced sideways at his stunt double and thought, I’d do me.
OK—maybe that was an inherently weird idea to have about somebody decked out to look exactly like you. And it was surely not the kind of thing that Captain Kismet, everybody’s favorite superhero, said to himself between takes. But it had been a long day.
“The trick to falling,” the stuntman said, “is knowing how to land.”
Corey’s words, however sage, were not for Patrick’s benefit: The two of them were filming behind-the-scenes content, taking turns to demonstrate the simpler stunts they had planned for Kismet 2. Footage of the pair in their matching costumes would then be cut into polished thirty-second videos and used to advertise the movie on social media later in the year, a perfectly curated glimpse behind the curtain. It was the kind of thing Patrick could usually do in his sleep. Except all he could really think about was, well…sleep. They were supposed to wrap on the movie a week ago, yet new script pages kept showing up outside his hotel room door like bad omens, and at this rate Patrick felt as though he would die in this grim little city.
“Birmingham?” he’d asked his manager, Simone, when she told him where reshoots would take place. “Like, Alabama?”
“No, thank god,” she’d replied. “It’s in England. Very cheap to film there, apparently.”
“Cheap,” it turned out, was the operative word. The famous auteur the studio had hired to direct the second installment of the newly rebooted Kismet franchise had burned through much of the movie’s budget before half the film was even in the can, leading to his rapid firing and replacement by Lucas Grant, whose résumé largely consisted of TV commercials and a Pixar short. Grant was tasked with righting the ship and getting it to port without bankrupting the studio, which meant relocating production to an old factory town where accommodating the enormous cast and crew wouldn’t cost an extra couple million dollars.
Corey executed a perfect backflip, and Patrick applauded, mugging for the camera. “Nicely done,” he said, truthfully. With his earnest eyes and back-clapping Aussie cheer, Corey was impossible to dislike, even if Patrick was occasionally thrown by their uncanny resemblance. Same sandy hair, same muscular build, even something of a likeness in the jaw. It took some getting used to. Patrick’s stand-in for the first movie had been a slightly terrifying former MMA fighter in a blond wig.
“You got what you need?” Patrick asked the videographer, who gave him a thumbs-up. “Great. Nice work, Corey. Thanks, everyone!” He began walking out of the soundstage warehouse, back to his trailer. A shower and then a nap, he thought. A nap would fix everything.
“Hey, buddy,” Hector Ramirez greeted him as he entered; he was doing sit-ups between the sofa and the coffee table. Patrick was almost always pleased to see his trainer, but right now he felt a lot like a kid who’d walked into class having forgotten to prepare for an impending exam.
“Hey, Hector,” he replied. “Did we have another session today?” They’d seen each other that morning, when they’d hit chest and back. The first time Hector had put Patrick through one of his w orkouts, prior to the first Kismet movie, he’d spent the entire next day feeling like he was recovering from minor surgery. Now it was…well, not easy exactly, but he gained real satisfaction from pushing his body and seeing how much stronger he could make it. Not that he was in the mood for pushing right now.
“Nah.” Hector completed his final rep and immediately launched into a set of air squats. “I was just around,” he added, barely short of breath.
“Just around.” Patrick eyed him suspiciously. “And wondering if a certain leading lady might also be…just around?”
Hector simply continued his rhythmic ascent and descent, gaze fixed on some spot to Patrick’s left. “Who?”
Patrick snorted. There was definitely only one actor in the room. Hector was cool but lost his chill when it came to Audra Kelly, Patrick’s co-star. And Patrick couldn’t really blame him. Beautiful, funny, charming—recently named “Internet’s Ultimate Girlfriend” by a men’s magazine. Some guys really went in for that kind of thing.
“She’s not here.” Patrick gathered his jacket and headphones. “Just me and Corey today. I think Kismet and Sura’s next scene isn’t until Monday.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hector, who was doing a pretty shoddy job of hiding his disappointment. “But since we’re here,” he continued, “how about some burpees? Just for fun.”
* * *
•••••••••
When Patrick returned to the hotel forty minutes later, limbs crackling like firewood, he was more desperate for a shower than ever.
After he’d made his way out of the elevator toward his suite, Audra spotted him and waved through her open door across the hall. Patrick leaned on the door frame and stuck his head into Audra’s room. The Princess Sura to his Captain Kismet was pacing with earbuds in, talking to thin air about her beauty must-haves.
“I like to keep things simple. ChapStick, a good concealer, a tiny bit of mascara,” she said, her voice low and throaty, like she smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. Which Patrick knew for a fact to be true, although the morality clause in their contracts kept it from public knowledge. Movie stars who smoked used to be cool; now they were bad for the studio’s brand. Role models didn’t smoke, or swear, or screw. And Patrick was nothing if not a role model.
“One hair must-have…” Audra paused mid-pace, appearing to give this serious consideration. “You know, I’m such a slob,” she laughed. “I’ve been using the same drugstore shampoo since I was sixteen! Oh, and argan oil. I swear by it.”
Another pause.
“My absolute pleasure.” She smiled radiantly, as if the reporter were in the room with them. “Thanks so much. You have a great day now. Byeee…” Audra hit a button on her phone and pulled her earbuds out, sighing in exhaustion. She handed the device back to her assistant, shooed her out, and as Patrick stepped into the room to let the girl pass, Audra turned toward the bar assembled in the corner of her suite.
“That was Elle,” she said, fixing herself a vodka on the rocks. “Want to hear something funny?”
“Sure,” Patrick replied. Audra picked up a crystal tumbler and held it out to him with an inquisitive look. He smiled, shook his head, no thank you, and took a seat on the expansive sofa.
“I would never use argan oil on my hair.” She ran her hand through her wavy blond mane. “I think it’s gross. But now a whole bunch of girls are going to try it, and their hair is going to be all greasy and sticky, and they’re going to say to themselves: ‘Why doesn’t my hair look as fabulous as Audra Kelly’s?’ ”
“I don’t get it,” Patrick said.
“Oh, it’s just a silly game I play with myself.” Audra waved a dismissive hand and threw herself dramatically down on the couch beside him. “I mean, why would I give my actual secrets away? Until a makeup company pays me to shill for them, I’m just making up shit as I go. We can’t all be the Girl Next Door.”
Patrick didn’t know what to say to this—but that hardly mattered. Audra was on a roll.
“And that’s just women’s media. A walk in the park, I tell you, compared to the creepy fuckable-little-sister act the guys expect. Never mind the fact that I have an Independent Spirit Award. The real performance of a lifetime is convincing everyone that I love pizza and beer despite looking”—she looked down at her tiny waist—“like this.”
“Oh, right.” Patrick nodded. “The relatable thing.”
“Yep! I’ve gotta be one of the guys and love sports, and comic books, and video games. But not other women, apparently. The average Wonderverse moviegoer doesn’t like it when girls exist for themselves or each other. Makes them uncomfortable. Honestly, some days I would love nothing more than to tell them that I’ve never seen Star Wars and prefer caviar to hot dogs, just to see if their heads explode.”
“Now that I’d love to see.”
“Ugh. I just hate all this ‘pick me’ bullshit, you know? You have no idea how exhausting it is.” She leaned back against the sofa cushions and exhaled forcefully, lifting her glass to cool her forehead.
Patrick bit his lip. Don’t I? he thought. Affable, unflappable charm was his thing. In other words, a focus group put together by his manager, Simone, had determined he would be most appealing if he leaned into the laid-back, humble-but-not-disingenuous, well-shucks-I’m-just-a-boy-from-Jersey brand of heartthrob.
“What’s wrong with being myself, and saving the acting for when I book a job?” Patrick had once asked. Simone had laughed a real laugh, a rare moment of authenticity, considering she tried not to convey more than twenty percent of an emotion at any given time, if she could help it.
“Sweetie.” She had touched his arm with genuine affection. “This is the job.”
He drew in a breath, ready to tell Audra that he knew how she felt, but she was still gesticulating with her vodka on the rocks as she pontificated to the ceiling.
“I was in the TIME100 last year,” she said. “Why the fuck should I have to be relatable? I don’t want to be fucking relatable! I want to be stoned out of my mind on an island with Rihanna—preferably being fanned by men in diamond-encrusted thongs. But apparently that is not the kind of answer people like to hear you giving in ‘72 Questions with Vogue.’ ”
“People want to feel like we’re just like them,” Patrick offered weakly.
“Well, here’s the very simple problem with that,” Audra said. “We’re not.”
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not that I’m saying we’re better,” she added hastily. “Just…richer. Prettier. More successful.”
“More neurotic, anxious, and insecure, too,” Patrick added.
“Definitely not better,” she repeated. “Maybe even worse, in some ways. I mean, we’re fucking spoiled, aren’t we? But we are certainly not just like them. For one thing, I bet if I were just a regular girl, I wouldn’t have to consult with my management team before getting a tattoo or cutting my goddamn hair.”
“Your hair? Seriously?”
“My hair, Patrick.” She flicked a honeyed lock over her shoulder for emphasis. “But with all that said, what would I rather be doing with my life? Waiting tables? Acquiring crippling student debt? Getting married to some lunk who resents that I’m smarter than him, then giving up my minimum wage job because, bam, he got me pregnant and we can’t afford day care?” Audra shuddered.
“Isn’t there anything you miss about your life before fame?” Patrick asked. “I don’t know, being able to go for lunch with your family without someone taking your picture?”
“Please. One of the perks of this life is not having to deal with my mother.” She caught his surprised look before he could hide it, and tsked. “Let me guess, Patrick Lake is best friends with his parents.”
“My parents are nice people,” said Patrick instinctively.
“Good for you.” Audra pursed her lips, swirled her glass. “My mother doesn’t have my phone number. When she wants to contact me, she goes through my agent.”
“Are you kidding?”
“He negotiated her down to a visit every other Christmas.” She looked up with a dry smile. “That man is worth every cent I pay him.”
