Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 16
“In Hollywood, an equitable divorce settlement means each party getting fifty percent of publicity.”
~ Lauren Bacall
Cole found Nadia at The Peninsula. Not a gigantic sleuthing job, as it was her hotel of choice. They had stayed there during the kitchen renovation, after late shoots, Emmy parties, and during moves. He could have found her four days ago, but he’d had wounds to lick and was afraid he couldn’t see her face without screaming into it. Now, there was no other choice. He wouldn’t talk through lawyers, not when their relationship was at stake.
Could he get over this? That was the question he had struggled with since Saturday night. There had been rumors since… well, there had always been rumors. But it was Hollywood. Hell, the tabloids had posted false stories of his ‘affairs’ for the last five years. So he’d ignored anything that had been said about Nadia. But now, with the proof of infidelity stuck in his mind, everything came to the surface. The AD in Madrid. That surfer on the Pitt movie. The bodyguard who quit last year. How many more had there been? And how many had been legitimate and not just gossip?
He jerked his car to a stop, nodding curtly to the valet, his feet not slowing, his mouth not smiling, everything focused on getting inside and to her room.
“Cole.” When she spoke, the world stopped. Just as it had six years ago, on the set of Ocean Bodies, when she’d been a nobody, and he’d been the world’s biggest somebody, yet still distracted by just her whisper of his name. Cole stopped short, turning to see her standing in the lobby, her hair in a ponytail, tight leggings on with tennis shoes, a fitted tank damp against her chest. Her fingers busy screwing on a bottled water’s cap. She’d been working out. The thought struck him as offensive. She should be curled into a ball of sorrow in a big fluffy bed, her knees tucked to her chest, face red, tissues piled up. The room next door should call to complain about the wailing, her assistant should be hovering nearby with alcohol and chocolates, none of which should be able to calm the hysteria. Her cheeks shouldn’t be glowing, her chest shouldn’t be damp, she shouldn’t be fine. He looked at her, she looked at him, and the lobby fell silent.
“I got the papers.” It was all he could think to say.
She swallowed, and the delicate lines of her throat grew tight. She’d had a neck procedure done two years ago, had the doctor pull the skin tighter. Depending on the position she slept in, he could sometimes see the scars. Minute scars, ones you wouldn’t even see if you didn’t know where to look. Her next husband wouldn’t know where to look. Wouldn’t know that she’d miscarried twice and was allergic to shellfish. Her new husband. Was he already thinking that way? Was this fight already lost? She straightened. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Off The Peninsula’s lobby were two conference rooms. They stepped into the second, Cole pulling one of the heavy doors closed, the room dark and empty. With the door shut, the light was gone, and they stood, a few feet away from each other, and said nothing. Another time, another place, they would have been clawing at each other, his hands lifting her up on one of the tables, her hands yanking at her dress, his tie, his belt. But now, with everything between them, they just stood in the dark.
“I’m sorry, Cole.” Her voice floated from the outline that was her darkness, and slowly she took shape, her eyes on him, her teeth showing white as she bit at her bottom lip.
He blinked, the words unexpected from a woman who had made a career out of not apologizing for a damn thing. “You should have called, not…” he waved a hand in frustration. “Not gotten lawyers involved.”
“It’s over. We… we’re over.”
“No,” he hissed the words and stepped forward, flinching when she stepped back. “I—” he shut off his next sentence before it crawled out and died. I decide when we are finished. I should be the one making decisions, choosing our fate. That’s what he had started to say. Stupid words, stupid sentences. Especially when dealing with a woman like her.
“I don’t love you anymore.” She looked down, a silver piece on her ponytail holder bobbing in the darkness. “I don’t know if I ever really did. Love you, I mean. I think I just loved the idea of you, of COLE MASTEN. But now...”
“We’re equals,” he said darkly. And equals didn’t come complete with the clouded judgment of stardust. It was her Academy nomination, that was what probably did it, changed them. She had been so busy since then, hardly ever home, hardly ever in the mood.
“Yes.” She lifted her head. “I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes and said nothing. Stepped back and turned away, needing space, needing distance, wanting a do-over on this entire conversation, relationship, life.
“And it’s not personal.” She was talking again, saying things, and he tried to refocus, tried to find his wife and her words and understand them. “It will just be simpler with the paperwork if we have the attorneys handle it.”
“Prenup.” He spat out the word. They’d been through that battle after engagement, the fight continuing right up to the week before the wedding. Everything had been clearly and simply laid out in a hundred-page document.
“I’m not supporting The Fortune Bottle unless I own half of it.” There it was. The familiar edge in her voice that a man could jump off.
“What?”
“Jesus, Cole, didn’t you at least read the agreement?” In the dark, her arms waved like dragon flaps.
“Enlighten me.”
“Our prenup stated that we each walked with what we started with, plus any earnings that accrued during our marriage, minus any joint assets.”
“I’m glad you are so familiar with it.” How long had she been planning this?
“We are petitioning that The Fortune Bottle is a joint asset.”
“But it’s not.” This was stupid. The Fortune Bottle was a book he had read, an option he had purchased from his accounts, the ten million in preproduction costs paid for out of those same accounts. No one would consider it a joint asset. Still, there was a twist in his stomach.
“I think it is. And Tony agrees with me.” Tony. So, in this division, she had claimed the attorney. Great.
The prenup had put joint assets in a category of its own, one where a mediation session would determine who gets what. The issue was that Nadia knew what a successful film brought in. They had sat in the actors’ chairs for so long, watching the big money go to the studios. Now, with The Fortune Bottle, everything would be different. A budget of sixty million, revenue of six hundred million… that was where the real money lay. And now, with his heart breaking before her, it was what she wanted to discuss. How quickly she had moved off her apology. Similar to how quickly she had moved off their marriage.
He stepped back, turning, twisting the doorknob, and moved into the light of the lobby, brightened tenfold by the snaps of a hundred paparazzi flashes.
He elbowed through the crowd, hotel security appearing and pushing him ahead. Nadia liked cameras, let her deal with them. When he got to the front, his car was waiting, and he ducked in, slamming the door behind him.
The leather shifter hot against his hand, he jerked into drive and onto the crowded street, his fingers quick on his phone. Damn Los Angeles traffic. He needed an open road, something to open up this car on, preferably one that ended in a cliff.
“Hey.”
“Justin, I need a divorce attorney. One with teeth. Find that guy who just got Michael Jordan’s ex everything.”
“Just a second.” He could hear the click of keys, the sound of productivity, and his stress lessened by a degree. Then there was the blare of a horn, Cole swerved to avoid an asshole, and felt the stress chalk back up. Maybe he’d go to Georgia early. Get the hell outta this town, get away from Nadia, away from everything. Talk to some people who, for once, didn’t have sticks up their asses.
Justin came back on the line. “Good news is, I found him. Bad news is, he lives out of the country and his site says he’s not taking on clients. Oh… Wait.” There was the furious sound of taps. “I see a Florida office number. Let me call them and see what I can do.”
“Get him. I don’t care how much money you throw at him, just do it. I want to talk to him today.”
“I’ll send you his contact now, and I’ll have him call you by the end of the day.”
“Let him know we’ll fly him out here. Tomorrow if possible.”
“I’ll try.” An odd response from a man who could do anything. “I’m sending the contact now, but don’t call the office ’til I speak to them.”
“Thanks.” He saw an opening to his turn and took it, the car jumping into action, the blare of a horn sounding as he wedged the exotic car in between two vehicles.
“Meet me at the house.” Cole ended the call and opened Justin’s text, seeing the contact card.
Brad DeLuca. DeLuca Law Firm.
The attorney. He saved the contact and then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, swerving into the far lane and flooring the gas.
CHAPTER 17
Quincy sat in rocking chairs, on front porches freshly painted, and watched the train wreck of Codia occur. It was beautiful in its disaster, a full explosion decorated with high-def photos, a hundred a week, all spelling out Hollywood Doom in spectacular fashion. I munched on pecan brittle and flipped through the pages of STAR, saw the argument of Cole and Nadia in their driveway, her face striking in its anger, his hands strong and powerful as he spread them in the air and shouted. I poured pancake batter and heard, from the living room TV, the moment that Cole moved into a hotel and Nadia took full control of their ginormous home. I watched Cole’s attorney, a handsome man, his features tight in concentration, discuss the intricacies of intellectual property, while painting my toes on our worn living room sofa.
I couldn’t, from our tiny little cottage in the cotton field, understand why any woman would cheat on Cole Masten. How greedy could a woman be?
“They’re talking about pushing filming back.” Ben stood on my front porch, his shoulder slumped against the door frame, his cell phone hanging limply from his hand. It’d been ten days since the head crack heard ‘round Hollywood.
“What?” I swung the door open wider and waved him in.
“I had to drive all the way over here; my cell isn’t working. Thank God I checked email.”
“That storm last night,” I murmured, helping his dramatic self to a chair before he went full queen and collapsed. “Cell service is always hell after a storm.”
It wasn’t exactly the storm’s fault as much as it was Ned Beternum, who let his goats graze the field he leased to Verizon. Even though the cell giant had threatened legal action several times. Even though his goats loved to chew the juicy wires that magnetized the thing. Heavy rains typically flooded his west acreage, so Ned would move them into the higher field, giving us all weak service until Verizon flew someone in to fix things. We, as a town, didn’t really care. We’d survived without cell phones for thousands of years, didn’t much use them anyway. That was what home phones were for. And if you weren’t home, that was what answering machines were for. No need to fix a system that wasn’t broken. Who wanted to be available twenty-four hours a day?
“September,” Ben wheezed, his hand reaching out, and I grabbed my iced tea from the coffee table and passed it to him. “That’s what they are saying now.”
“September.” I tried to see the reason for Ben’s agony. “That’s good, right? Gives us an extra month.”
“Yeah. Peachy. You’ll have more free time to crack peanuts and crochet mittens.” I hid a smile. “Delays in filming are bad, Summer. Ominous. Expensive.”
“Wait a minute.” I frowned. “That’s not what you said earlier.” I adopted a deeper, yet feminine voice. “The Fortune Bottle isn’t crashing, Summer. Movies don’t fall apart over this.” I mimicked his dramatic hand gestures, and he stared at me, a grimace on his pretty little face.
“Was that supposed to be me?”
“Yes.”
He finished a sip of tea and wiped at his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Please don’t ever do that again.”
I snorted… but I swear it was ladylike. “Ditto.”
He sipped more tea, and I sat on the couch, my bare feet tucked underneath my butt. There was a companionable silence as I relaxed back against the cloth, my eyes closing.
“At least they aren’t talking about the girls.”
I cracked an eye open. “What?”
“Cole’s fucking his way through half of Hollywood right now. I haven’t seen that hit newsstands yet.” The gossip was delivered in a hushed voice, Ben’s hands happily clapping as if he might be the next stop on the Cole Masten Penis Train.
“Is that newsworthy?” I didn’t know that a newly single actor screwing would be any big surprise to anyone.
“Is any of this newsworthy?” He leaned forward and picked up the closest magazine, an OK! that I bought because it was a dollar cheaper than the others. “Kelli Gifford shares her punch recipe!” he read off the cover in an excited fashion, then tossed it back down. “It’s all crap, and yes, a detailed accounting of Cole Masten’s bedroom activities would certainly be newsworthy. His publicists must be working overtime.”
Ben had a point. I’d certainly pay three bucks to read about Masten’s actions in the sack. Hell, with my level of sexual inactivity, I’d pay three bucks to read about Ben’s actions in the sack. Or even Ned Beternum’s goats. Or… well, I think you get the picture. It’d been a long time. Nobody since Scott. Three long years.
My pity party was interrupted by the clink of ice in Ben’s drink. He looked down at the glass, and I stood up to get him a refill. Opening the fridge, I pushed any thoughts of Cole Masten and sex out of my mind.
CHAPTER 18
9:27 AM. The redhead knelt on the bed over Cole’s face, her legs trembling on either side of his head, her smooth thighs cool against his skin. She panted his name, her fingers in his hair, pulling then releasing, a string of motions she wasn’t even aware of doing.
“I can’t,” she gasped, one hand reaching wildly back and grabbing at the flat plane of his stomach, her body bucking against his mouth. He held her in place, his mouth devouring, tongue fluttering against her clit, all of his focus on getting her up and over this mountain.
Well, almost all focus. He closed his eyes for a moment, holding off his own orgasm, the mouth on his cock, talented, and he moved one hand off the redhead, reaching down and threading his fingers through the hair of the blonde, her movements never stopping, never slowing—a perfect blowjob.
The redhead was close, his mouth soaked with her juices, her taste everywhere, the sweetness of a woman. She fought him, her mouth begging, wanting more but unable to handle it until the moment that she broke, her guttural cry loud and long, his fingers biting into her skin as he held her down, his mouth carrying her through, stretching it out gently before she rolled off his face, her body twitching against the bed as he propped himself up, his hand pulling at the hair of the blonde, pulling her off his cock and up to his mouth.
She tasted like masculinity and he kissed her hard, then pushed her away, rolling to the side of the bed and standing, his cock at attention, ready for more. He pulled open the bedside table drawer and grabbed at the pile of condoms, pulling one out and sticking the foil piece in his mouth, tearing it open with his teeth. “On your knees,” he ordered, their bodies scrambling into place, and he felt, in the moment before he knelt back on the mattress, his hand gripping at the first arched ass, a stab of loneliness. Loneliness. A new emotion that was growing increasingly familiar. Two women before him now, the prior night spent with their legs entangled with his, their hands on his skin, and he’d laid there, in the dark, and never felt so alone.
He pulled the girl backward and onto his cock. Listened to her moan and tried to find validation in the sound.
“You’re late.” Brad DeLuca barked the words, hanging up a call and tossing his cell onto the white linen tablecloth, the iPhone hitting a glass stem with a loud crack.
“Sorry. Business to attend to.” Cole sat down, a waiter appearing, fresh water set out with lemon.
“Bullshit.”
“What?” Cole looked up.
“Pussy isn’t business, and this, right now, is the most important thing in your life, so when we make an appointment, keep it.” DeLuca leaned forward on the table and stared at his client.
He’d been trying to get DeLuca to LA for two weeks and a lecture was the first thing out of the man’s mouth? Cole stared at the man warily, an eyebrow raised. “You work for me, you know that, right?”
When the attorney laughed, it was a low chuckle, one born out of confidence and experience, and one with absolutely no trace of humor in it. The man stood, a grin on his face, and pulled a card from an inner pocket of his suit. “Here.” He set the business card down before Cole, one finger tapping at the white surface. “This is Leonard McCort. He’ll put up with your bullshit and cover your ass in court.”
Cole felt a moment of panic. “But, you’re the best.” Justin had confirmed it, vetted DeLuca, already had confidentiality paperwork signed, retainers paid, a suite at the Chateau Marmont booked. Not to mention the phone calls, filed responses already in play. The man couldn’t waltz out now.
“Exactly.” DeLuca said the word like that was it, like Cole Masten wasn’t the biggest thing to happen to Hollywood since CGI, like he would just walk away and leave Cole with some second-rate asshole.
“I’ve paid your advance,” Cole sputtered.
The man looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’ll refund it.” It was, in retrospect, a fairly idiotic statement.
“Just… Just sit down for a second. Please.” The word was disgusting as it came out, rank with misuse, and he felt irritation in the midst of his panic. But it was the panic that drove this train, panic that pushed every retort out of his mind and left him broken and desperate, in front of this man.
The attorney didn’t sit; he stayed in place, his eyebrows raised, and waited.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” He risked a glance at his watch. Twenty-two minutes. This dick was giving him hell for twenty-two measly minutes.
It took DeLuca a quarter hour to get over Cole’s tardiness, but finally the attorney was re-seated, had downed an omelet, and the conversation had moved on to the matter at hand.
“You’ve lived your life as a celebrity for a long time, but in the courtroom, against your wife?” DeLuca tapped the table. “You’re equals to each other. You’re nothing to the judge. You’re normal.” He leaned back, and Cole looked away. Normal. The word was painful as it crawled in his ears.
“If I’m going to represent you, you have to know that life as you know it is over. You are not a bachelor yet, not until this divorce is final. You are my bitch, and I will say if and who you fuck, what you say to whom, and when and how you work. If you want to keep this movie as yours, you will leave this shithole of a city and go to Georgia. You will keep your dick clean and pretty-boy head down and do your job… nothing else. I’ve buried five of your fucks since Sunday, and my team doesn’t have time for the popularity contest your dick has entered. Before you break a paparazzi’s neck or barge into the hospital and finish that director off, let me do my job. We are going to return you to being Hollywood’s Golden Boy and remind everyone of who the slut in this relationship was. You listen to me, and I promise you that I will keep The Fortune Bottle yours—along with any other shared asset you want.”
“Just the movie,” Cole said quietly, his eyes on the table. “She can keep the rest.”
“I need you to commit to my terms.”
Cole shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever.”
“No drugs.”
“I don’t do drugs.” He winced at an early memory of Nadia, a line of coke down her back, his nose dipping to hit between each thrust into her. A stupid combination, sex and coke. Neither of them able to feel much, their highs better than anything going on between their bodies. In the early days of their relationship, the drugs had been something that bonded them. But they’d both grown up. Gotten smarter. Stopped doing a lot of things, come to think of it, together.
“Well don’t start. And no drinking. A beer or two is fine, but I can’t have you drunk.”
“That’s fine.” He rubbed his neck. “Anything else?”
“No sex. No relationships. No women. No men.” The man didn’t smile; he just leaned forward and stared at Cole.
No sex. That was probably for the best, his stream of fucking doing absolutely nothing to help his psyche. No relationships. Even less of a problem. After Nadia, he couldn’t imagine ever walking down that path again. No men. The easiest rule of them all. He looked up and met the man’s stare. “Agreed.”
Deluca held the eye contact long enough to be satisfied, then nodded and glanced at his watch, his wedding ring glinting out against tan skin and strong hands. “Then let’s go.”
“Go?” He looked up at the man, who was now standing, peeling a couple of bills off and dropping them on the white tablecloth. “Where?” He had a massage scheduled—had planned for Brenda the Masseuse to work off the hours of sex with her hands before he took her from behind, bent over the massage table. It’d be another fuck, another attempt to replace a hundred memories of Nadia. Eventually, those memories would be buried. Eventually, he’d be able to push inside a woman and not hear Nadia’s moan in his mind. Maybe he’d have to cancel the massage, but he wasn’t going anywhere with this man. He had zero interest in going to another meeting, another lecture surely planned, this one with publicists and more suits in attendance. He stayed in place in his seat. “Where?” he repeated stubbornly.
“Quincy.” The attorney smiled, and Cole felt off-balance by the change, the man’s answer taking a second longer to compute. Quincy?
“Right now?” He stayed in his seat, thought of a hundred good reasons to stay in Los Angeles right now. But his question was ignored, the attorney striding through the crowded tables, his shoulders wide and strong in his custom suit. The man could be a damn bodyguard, with his build and intimidation.
Cole sighed and grabbed his cell phone, rising from the table with a sigh.
It looked like, for the immediate future, his new role was as Brad DeLuca’s bitch. A role he’d never played, a role he already hated.
