Текст книги "Throb"

Автор книги: Vi Keeland

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Copyright © 2015 by Vi Keeland

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

Throb

Edited by: Caitlin Alexander

Cover model: Josh Kloss

Cover designer: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative

Photographer: Scott Hoover Photography

contents

contents

dedication

definitions

prologue

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

chapter twenty-one

chapter twenty-two

chapter twenty-three

chapter twenty-four

chapter twenty-five

chapter twenty-six

chapter twenty-seven

chapter twenty-eight

chapter twenty-nine

chapter thirty

chapter thirty-one

chapter thirty-two

chapter thirty-three

chapter thirty-four

chapter thirty-five

chapter thirty-six

chapter thirty-seven

chapter thirty-eight

chapter thirty-nine

chapter forty

chapter forty-one

epilogue

acknowledgements

other books by vi

about vi

connect with vi

for the reader

dedication

To my husband,

whose voice somehow always finds a way into my books.

definitions

game 'gam

Verb

1. to play a contest of chance for money

synonyms: gamble, bet

2. manipulate, typically in a way that is unfair or unscrupulous.

Noun

1. a physical or mental activity or contest that has rules and that people do for pleasure

throb THräb

Verb

1. to beat with increased force or rapidity, as the heart under the influence of emotion or excitement; palpitate.

Synonyms: pounding, pulsating

2. to vibrate; ache

Noun

1. a strong, regular beat

prologue

Months later

I turn. He’s down on one knee, a black velvet box perched in the center of his hand. My heart starts to pound wildly in my chest … or is it more of a throb?

“Marry me, Beautiful.”

… And just like that, the game is finally over.

chapter one

Cooper

My phone buzzes on my desk for the third time in an hour. Looking down, my eyes narrow finding the same name flashing from the display again. I frown, but slide my finger across the screen to answer this time. She skips the formalities, jumping right in to what she wants. “Come downstairs to the studio at lunch.”

“I have a lunch meeting,” I lie.

“I’ll give you a delicious dessert when you’re done,” Tatiana purrs through the phone.

“Thanks, maybe next time,” I lie again. There will be no next time. I regret not learning from my father’s mistakes sooner—his no mingling business with pleasure policy was a lesson he learned the hard way.

“This is the third time you’re blowing me off. Do you know how many men would kill to spend time with me?”

“Many, I’m sure. Listen, Miles just walked in … I have to run.” My little brother hesitantly smiles and waves. I hold up one finger, ignoring whatever Tatiana is still rambling on about. His visit is unexpected, but I’m grateful for the excuse to get off the phone.

Miles nods and walks to the mahogany table displaying liquor bottles and ornate crystal glasses, the same one we’d watched our father walk to so many times before. He pours himself a tall glass of golden liquid and tosses half of it back in one gulp as he looks out at the view of Los Angeles. There’s strain in his face. I’m not surprised; the only time he comes by is when he needs to ask for something.

I rush Tatiana off the phone and, just as I push end, Helen beeps in from the intercom. “You have Stephen Blake on line one.”

“Just give me one more minute, Miles.”

My brother’s glass is drained by the time I’m wrapping up my short conversation with Stephen. His brown eyes are worn and tired, there’s a tenseness set in his jaw. Whatever he needs is big this time.

“Ben and I are putting a lot on the line with this project. We want him, but not for forty percent more. Ten is the highest we can go. You’re the super agent—sell him on the backend percentage we’re offering.” I know what’s coming next before the words sound through the receiver. “Sure, dinner next week sounds good. No, tell Miriam not to bring a friend.” A pause and then, “Thanks, Stephen, I look forward to it.”

Hanging up the call, I turn to Miles. “To what do I owe this pleasure, little brother?” I have a good hunch why he’s visiting, but I’ll play the game anyway.

My brother avoids the question, preferring to ease into the real subject he came to discuss. “Miriam still trying to fix you up?”

I pour myself a drink from a crystal decanter and raise the bottle, silently offering Miles a refill, which he happily accepts. “She swears Dad told her that she had to make sure I married well.” I sip from the glass. “There’ll be a woman there when I see them next week, even though I just told Stephen no.” We exchange a rare true smile. Stephen was our father’s best friend, and is one of Hollywood’s most coveted agents.

“Maybe Miriam’s got the right idea. You’re getting old. Time to stop fucking half of Hollywood and settle down.”

“I’m twenty nine. I’d hardly call that old.”

“It is by Hollywood standards. Plus, you practically live in this place lately.” He looks around my office. “You’re starting to turn into Dad.”

Miles says turning into Dad like it’s a bad thing. We grew up in the same house, becoming anything like our father is a compliment to me, yet my brother utters it like it’s an insult. A change of subject, to one that moves us to the point of his visit, is in order.

“How are things going at Mile High?” I ask cautiously, knowing it could be a very sore topic of discussion. A year after our father’s death, my brother and I split our family’s legendary film production business. I chose to continue on our father’s path, the one that had made Montgomery Productions a name every A-list actor and director wanted to work with. Miles, on the other hand, decided it was time for a change. Diving into the risky world of reality TV, he filmed his first series, Stripped. To this day, he can’t comprehend why Stripped—a show following a collection of artificially enhanced large-breasted strippers—flopped. Unable to accept the failure, he spent the last five years trying to prove he could make it as the King of Reality TV. In the process, he nearly depleted his trust fund, watched two of his “sure thing” reality shows fail, and got dumped publicly by the twenty-year-old starlet he’d just bought a Porsche.

Our strained relationship seemed to worsen as Montgomery Productions flourished over the last few years. My success fueled the grudge my brother has always harbored against me.

“Things are going great,” he says. “Really great. We just started production on a show that’s going to be huge. A ratings blockbuster, I know it.”

I’ve heard those words from my brother’s mouth on one too many occasions to believe him, although deep down I still hold hope that one-day he’ll succeed. “That’s great. What’s the show about?”

“It’s part Survivor, part Bachelor.” Miles’s eyes light up. “Throb. Even the name of the show is marketing genius.” He truly is passionate about his work. His lack of success has little to do with his own determination. It’s the reason I always had difficulty saying no to him, even though I knew whatever I was asked to invest in was not a smart business move.

“Twenty bikini babes on a deserted island. One good-looking single guy, who also happens to be an up-and-coming rock star, and lots of physical competition for dream dates. Mud fights and all. Even have one of the contestants on my payroll, a ringer—she’s playing the game for me—not for the bachelor. The advertisers are going to eat it up.”

I have to work hard not to let my face show my true thoughts. It used to be if you were sixteen and got pregnant you would get in trouble. Now you get your very own reality show. “Interesting. When does it shoot?”

“We already have the first few weeks in the can. Twelve girls were eliminated and now we’re down to eight. The last four are going to be shot live over two weeks in the Caribbean.”

“I haven’t seen any advertisements for it. When does it premiere?” I’m hoping, for Miles’s sake, that it’s at least six months away.

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” I try, really, I do, but the alarm is evident in my voice. A brand new show with zero advertising, and every other station touting a different reality show? It’s almost certain to fail.

“Yeah.” Miles’s confidence falters for a fraction of a second, but I catch it. “Listen, Coop.” He swallows hard and takes in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not going to lie. I need some help. I just negotiated a great deal for ten solid days of prime-time advertising, but I’m running a little short on cash.”

“How short?” I respond curtly, knowing my brother is padding the magnitude of the mess he’s in.

“All of it. I need one-point-two.”

“Miles,” I sigh and drag my hands through my hair.

“It’s a really good show, Coop. I just know the ratings will go through the roof with a little advertising.”

I’ve heard all this before. It’ll take more than Miles’s biased and unreliable assurance to convince me. “Send me some dailies. I want a look before I can answer.”

“You got it.” He smiles, tossing back the rest of the liquor in his glass. “I’ll have Linda send you over the first few episodes. You’re going to be dying to get in on this one.”

Dying, I think to myself, might be preferable to having to watch more reality TV.

Finally home after a fourteen-hour day that ended even worse than it started, I call Helen and ask her to have someone pick up my brand-new Mercedes from the repair shop in the morning. Three days old, and I was rear-ended while I waited for the light change, already ten minutes late for my first meeting because of yet another problem with the elevator in my building. I eventually walked down forty-two flights, thinking the morning couldn’t get any worse. Damn was I wrong. Miles’s visit came next.

I hop in the shower, allowing the steady stream of pulsating water from the shower massager to work its way into my tightly knotted shoulder muscles. I’m just letting out a deep breath, finally starting to relax, when the doorbell interrupts. “Goddamn it,” I growl, grabbing a towel and heading to the door. Somebody better be dying.

Lou, the night doorman, stands holding a package. “A courier dropped these off for you today. I missed you come in. Must have been on my bathroom break. Sorry about that, Mr. Montgomery, the bladder isn’t what it used to be.”

“No problem, Lou. Thanks for bringing it up.”

“Also, you had a visitor before you got home tonight. She wasn’t on the list of approved visitors and you didn’t answer the buzz, so I sent her away.” Lou pauses. “She wasn’t happy.”

“Did you get her name?”

“Didn’t need to. It was that actress, Tatiana Laroix.”

Perfect. I’ve tried the nice route, but she just won’t take a hint. “Thanks, Lou. You did the right thing.”

“That’s one beautiful woman, even at my age, ya can’t help but notice that one. Hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

“You’re right there. She is beautiful.” And damn crazy too.

I change into some sweats and take a look at the package. Mile High Productions. Great. I can’t think of a more appropriate way to end this crappy day, reality TV.

I grab a beer, take a long draw and slip the DVD in. The first ten minutes introduces half of the women. The method is interesting enough, although the responses fall flat. The host, who I’m actually pretty impressed Miles was able to score, is a well-known name. Each girl is on screen for a minute as he plays word association with them. Great concept, predictable answers. By the sixth woman who associates the word profound with the lyrics of Macklemore, I’m done. Maybe tomorrow, things won’t seem so bleak.

Friday is appointment-free day. My father passed the tradition down to me, and it makes the day before the weekend something I look forward to. It’s the one-day that Helen keeps clear. No appointments, no conference calls, no lunches, no meetings. It’s my choice, all day. This week I need it more than ever. I do my morning run at the studio lot, knowing Miles is going to be shooting some promo work for Throb. I decide I’ll drop in unannounced and check out what’s going on.

I’m surprised to find the lot empty, so I head over to security to see what Mile High has planned for the day.

“Hey, Frank.”

Frank Mars is sitting in front of a dozen security monitors, alternating between flipping cards on his desk and studying the video feed. Same uniform, same mustache, same cigarette behind his ear—even though he quit twenty years ago. He looks a bit more seasoned, more salt than pepper in his thick mane, but he hasn’t changed all that much since I was a kid.

Frank’s been our head of security as far back as I can remember. He was also a standard in my father’s poker foursome, along with the CEO of a rival movie production company and one of the lighting grips. Every other Friday night, I could always find them in the empty studio hangar with a card table and a few cases of beer. Walking into that room, no one would ever know that two of the players were rich, powerful, Hollywood execs and the other two were average guys on their payroll.

“Cooper! Where you been hiding, kid?” Frank stands, shakes my hand, and slaps me on the back.

“Busy. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“A while? Last time you were down here Grip hadn’t even retired yet.”

“Grip retired?”

“Going on two years now.”

Two years? The thought scares me. I would’ve guessed the last time I was here was more like three months ago. “Damn. I can’t believe it’s really been that long. You still have your Friday night games going?”

Frank pats his chest, hand over his heart. “As long as my ticker keeps going, that game will be around.”

“Grip still playing even though he’s retired?”

“Winter months. Summers, his wife drags his ass to Arizona. Their daughter lives out there now, got two grandkids too.”

“Still rotating Dad’s chair?”

“Yes, sir. No one man can fill that chair. Hey, why don’t you join us tonight? We were going to ask Ted over in finance to play, but that guy always takes my money.”

“Are you saying I won’t take your money?”

Frank laughs. “You got your father’s good looks, you didn’t get his poker playing abilities, kid.”

“Might have to take you up on it, just to kick your old ass, Frank.”

“You do that.” He smiles, the creases on the sides of his eyes deepening. “Eight o’clock?”

“Why not. Hey, do you know where Miles is? I thought he was shooting a promo here today.”

“He’s shooting on location, down at a beach in Malibu.”

Figures—any chance Miles gets to throw a girl in a skimpy bikini. “All right. Well, I’ll be back later to take your money, old man.”

“You keep telling yourself that, kid.”

It’s eight on the nose when I return to the studio lot, looking forward to sitting in on one of my father’s favorite pastimes. Frank’s setting up the card table and Ben is packing a cooler with Heineken.

“What? You think you’re rich or something? Heineken? What happened to Budweiser?” I call out, walking toward Ben with a case of Bud in tow.

“Only your old man drank that shit.” Ben Seidman, the founder and CEO of Diamond Entertainment, clasps my hand as he takes the case. Diamond Entertainment is the second largest movie studio in Hollywood—second to Montgomery Productions, of course. Ben also happens to be one of my father’s oldest friends and my godfather.

“He drank it because it’s good. Not like that imported shit you’re packing in there.”

For a few minutes the three of us catch up and reminisce about some of the old card games. I’m glad I came tonight. A night with these guys is just what I need. Good memories, cold beer, no talk about the looming union strike aging me prematurely.

I crack a Bud and clink the bottle with Ben’s before taking a sip. Budweiser tastes like crap. I’d much rather be drinking the Heineken that Ben’s drinking—or a Stella from my fridge at home—but I’11never admit it to him. Some things are just part of tradition. “Where’s Grip?”

“Couldn’t make it tonight, wife’s sister had cataract surgery, so he took her up to Seattle to see her or some shit.”

“Ted filling in?”

“Nope.” Frank grins.

“Who’s playing the fourth?”

“Her.” Frank motions to the other side of the room, where a woman is carrying a case of beer. A case of damn Stellas.

“Hey, Frank.” The woman smiles and I almost drop my beer. And it’s not just because she’s drop-dead gorgeous. I can’t believe Frank’s letting a woman play.

“Really?” I say incredulously.

Frank smiles knowingly. “Really.”

“Never thought I’d see the day.” I shake my head.

“What?” The beautiful woman directs her question at me.

“You’re a woman.” I smile, shrugging my shoulders.

“I am?” Eyes wide, feigning surprise, she looks down and playfully pats her body. “Oh my god. I am.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“So a girl can play?” She’s petite, maybe only 5’4, the top of her head barely reaching my chest, but she squares her shoulders and dares me to respond. Oddly, I feel a little twitch in my pants when she challenges me.

“I don’t know, can you?” I decide to stop backpedaling and go on the offense, wanting to see her push back more.

“I can. Can you?” She arches one brow. Damn, it’s sexy. Another twitch.

“Guess you’ll find out,” I tease.

“All right, you two,” Frank breaks in. “Kate, this is Cooper and Ben.” She shakes my hand; her skin is so smooth and soft. Long, blonde, wavy hair loosely frames her pretty face. Unlike most women around this place, it’s almost makeup-free. A hint of pink color and gloss on her lips picks up the lights above. The way it reflects and shimmers has me staring at her full lips a bit too long. It’s an effort to drag my eyes away.

“Do you work at the studio? I haven’t seen you around,” I say curiously.

Frank speaks up before Kate. “Ben, smack this kid in the head, he’s forgetting the rules already.”

I actually did completely forget. No mention of work at all. It was my father’s favorite rule. After the studio started to take off, this hangar was the only place he could really relax and forget who he was for a while. Normally I’d love the rule too, but I find myself eager for a little background on the sexy woman tugging my errant cock from its self-imposed hibernation.

Kate smiles and shrugs.

Half an hour into the card game, she tosses a straight flush down on the table, just as I’m about to reach over my three aces and sweep the pot.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Again?” I lean back and slump in my chair, defeated.

She smiles and pulls the heaping pile to her side of the table.

“Where’d you learn to play like that?” Ben asks her.

“My dad.”

“Dad’s a poker player, huh?”

“Ever hear of Freddy Monroe?” she asks casually while stacking her chips.

“Five-card Freddy? Sure. He always wore those diamond four-leaf clover cufflinks. He took the Texas Hold ’Em World Championship three times.”

“Four,” Kate corrects. Then adds sheepishly, “He’s my father. I’m a St. Patrick’s Day baby. He had the cufflinks made when I was born.”

Ben laughs and throws his hand in the air, looking at Frank. “You invited a shark to play with us?”

“I was playing solitaire one night when she was in the studio late. We played a few hands of rummy. She beat me twenty-two hands in a row. Figured I’d see if it was beginner’s luck.”

“It ain’t beginner’s luck,” Ben guffaws.

Two more hands and Ben and Frank fold again, leaving just Kate and me. My cards are shit, but I like the way she pushes back every time I raise the ante, so I just keep throwing good money after bad.

After my last raise, Kate brushes her thumb over the worn chip she’s kept at her side all night, looks down at her pot, then back to me, studying my face. I return the challenging stare. Her blue-green eyes squint ever so slightly as she tries to read what I’ve got sitting face-down on the table. For a second, she drops her gaze and lingers on my mouth before returning to my eyes. I have no idea what she sees, but something makes her smile. It’s slow and confident and she arches one eyebrow before she pushes her chips in. “Call.”

I don’t take my eyes off her as I turn over my pair of twos. She smirks, then turns over a pair of threes. Ben and Frank laugh their asses off and decide we need a short break, one long enough for me to “pull my head out of my ass.”

The two men disappear to the men’s room, leaving just Kate and me sitting at the table. Leaning back in my chair, I ask. “How did you know?”

She shrugs and smiles. “It’s all about reading people.”

“So you can see what I’m thinking?” I lift my beer to my lips and take a slow draw without breaking eye contact.

“Sometimes.”

“What am I thinking about now?” I try in vain to keep a stoic face, but the corner of my mouth tilts up to a dirty grin.

She shakes her head and walks to the restroom smiling, leaving me watching the sway of her ass.

A few hours later, Frank calls for the last hand. I pull a money clip out of my pocket and lay it on the table. Ben takes out a business-card holder engraved with his initials and Frank tosses a pair of my father’s cufflinks to the middle.

“What’s going on?” Kate questions, a look of confusion on her face.

Apparently Frank failed to tell her about the tradition of last hand of the night, so he begins explaining. “Last hand isn’t for cash. It’s something that means something to you, that all of us might want.”

Kate lifts her purse and spends a minute looking through it. Finally, she takes out a pen and paper, writes something down, and folds it up.

“We don’t take IOUs,” I tease.

She looks me in the eye. “It’s my phone number. Didn’t think any of you would want my lipstick or a tampon.” She arches one eyebrow, daring me to question her choice. Another damn twitch. I might have to sit at the table for a while if this is another quick hand.

I laugh, but damn she anted up something I want. Badly. Unfortunately, true to the rest of the night, Kate is the one pulling in the pot at the end of the game.

“You better give me a chance to get my friend’s cufflinks back tomorrow, little lady.” Frank wags his finger at Kate. So she works here. Good to know.

Frank tells us to go, he has a few things to do before he can lock up. Ben takes off quickly, answering yet another call from his third wife. I walk Kate to her car.

“Lucky chip?” I ask, referring to the solid black worn chip she took from her purse and slid her thumb over on more than one occasion while playing.

“It brought my dad a lot of luck over the years.”

I nod. “I’m glad I came tonight. I had a great time. It’s been a while since I played with those guys.”

“Seems like you guys go pretty far back.”

“Pretty sure they were all playing cards in the hospital lobby when I was born,” I joke, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were. I’ll have to ask one day.

“This is me,” Kate says as we arrive at an old Jeep in the parking lot. It’s a beautiful night and the top is already off. She clicks her keys to unlock the door. I open it for her to get in, but hang on to the top, not letting it close.

“Listen, I’d love to take you to dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“You left me a couple of bucks, figured I’d like spending them on you as much as I liked losing them to you.”

“You liked losing to me?”

I contemplate the question for a moment. “Oddly, yes. Which is strange because I hate to lose.”

“I’m guessing it doesn’t happen often.”

“What? Losing?”

She nods.

“No, actually. It doesn’t. I tend to go after what I want until I win.” Our eyes lock on each other, something passing between the two of us, a thick tension swirls in the air. “So…dinner?”

Kate smiles, but the uptick at the corners of her mouth quickly turns down. “I can’t.” She looks hesitant, but offers no further explanation. “I had fun tonight.” She reaches into her purse, pulls something out, and extends her hand to me. “I don’t really want to keep your money clip. I noticed it wasn’t your first initial engraved on it. Maybe it means something to you?” She tilts her head, observing me.

“It does. But that’s okay. You keep it. It’ll give me a reason to see you again.” I reach down, close her fingers back around the money clip, and lift her hand to my mouth. My lips brush the top lightly, my tongue sneaking out to fleetingly touch her skin. The brief contact stirs an ache inside me. This woman tugs at something—more than arousal—something that makes me want to slow down time just to spend a few more minutes standing here.

“Did you just …” she stammers a bit.

“Did I just what?”

She squints at me. “You know.”

“Do I?”

“I felt your tongue on my hand. You … you licked me.”

I’d been dying to run my tongue along her neck all evening, although I hadn’t really meant to be so crude about it. It just sort of … happened. “I wouldn’t say licked, maybe just a little taste.”

“So you tasted me?”

My entire body suddenly has interest in this conversation. “I suppose I did. But it wasn’t nearly enough. That brings us back to my invitation for dinner. Tomorrow night?”

“I can’t.”

“The day after then?”

She laughs and shakes her head. The sound makes me smile.

“Good night, Cooper.” She pulls the driver’s side door shut and leaves me standing there … for a full five minutes after she’s gone.