Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 1: Drake

C
alifornia sunshine and palm trees
.

I always long for those two things when I’m away from Los Angeles. Even in another sunny climate, it’s just not the same. There’s a certain soft warmth to that Southern California sun that you don’t get in South Beach or the French Riviera, and the tall palms of LA serve as a constant reminder that I’m exactly where I was meant to be. No matter what part of the world I’m in, I can’t wait to get back to Hollywood.

It also doesn’t hurt that I own this fucking town.

Tired of waiting for the red light to change, I look both ways, then floor the pedal on my gaudy red Ferrari 488, pressing both me and the blonde in my passenger seat backwards as we fly down Sunset Boulevard past Bel Air. She squeals and digs her bright red nails into the black leather seat. As we approach 100 miles per hour in a 35 zone, I calmly audition stations on the satellite radio. When I hear Led Zep’s “Black Dog,” I crank it.

Hey, hey, mama indeed.

My name is Drake Manning and I’m a movie star. One of the biggest, to be blunt. And when I’m not acting, I drive fast cars and fuck stupid blondes like Tessa here. It’s a thankless task, but somebody has to do it.

Oh yeah, make that three things I love about LA: California sunshine, palm trees, and the finest pussy anywhere on the planet. Hollywood girls tend to be beautiful and slutty, the perfect combination.

I look over at Tessa as I push the pedal. She’s scared half to death, her face turning pale despite the fake tan. I give her the smile I’ve perfected, the one that means nothing but seems to melt hearts all over the world. Entertainment Tonight calls it the “megawatt Manning smile.” Tessa’s not laughing though; her brow is furrowed and her knuckles white. I just met her a few hours ago while I was having lunch in Malibu. Ignoring the producer sitting across from me, Tessa included a secret note with my tab: “I really want to fuck you, Drake.” When I read it and looked up at her standing next to my table, she gave me the most adorable smile.

After saying goodbye to the producer, I walked back into the restaurant and told Tessa she needed to come with me. She protested – something about leaving her shift and getting fired – but I told her I’d call Gerrard, the restaurant’s owner, and make sure that didn’t happen. Twenty minutes later, we’re flying through Beverly Hills.

“Show me your tits,” I say matter-of-factly. Instead of slapping me or rolling her eyes, like she would with most other guys, Tessa grins and immediately begins unbuttoning. She loves that she’s been selected for the honor of doing whatever I tell her to and pulls open her shirt so I can watch her lovely breasts jiggle as we speed down Sunset.

“Watch the road!” Tessa screams. I stop staring at her tits just in time to avoid rear-ending a Prius, flying right past it. The Ferrari’s unreal handling has gotten me out of quite a few such predicaments. The car cost me more than a quarter of a million dollars, but that’s because I insisted on having the first one in town. I couldn’t bear the thought of that prick Kobe owning one before I did.

“Slow down, Drake!” she pleads. I grudgingly drop it down to eighty. “Why do you drive so fast?” she demands.

“Because it’s like fucking,” I tell her. That’s not just a line, either. Driving a Ferrari is as close as you’ll come to sex without actually having your dick in someone. “It makes me hard.” I give her the smile again.

Tessa’s eyes drop to my crotch. “Are you hard now?” she asks.

I nod.

“I don’t believe you,” she says.

That’s all the cue I need. I’ve been anticipating this moment since we left Malibu. Steering with my knees, I unzip my pants, then pull them down to my knees. I’ve been thinking about this blowjob for the past five minutes and am already halfway erect. Tessa looks like she can’t believe a famous movie star has just exposed himself to her in broad daylight, but she doesn’t have time to reflect on it because my hand cradles the back of her head and pushes downward. She doesn’t hesitate – hell, they never hesitate – and her lips slide down my shaft as I accelerate back to 100.

Cars whiz past. I run two red lights, slowing down just enough to ensure I don’t get T-boned. Tessa’s doing a great job, bless her heart. I always seem to get maximum effort, as the girls do their best to impress the big celebrity. This one’s not bad at all, playing with my balls while at the same time curving her thin waist around the shifter so as not to hinder my driving. I move my hand from the shifter and grab a handful of tit. As I squeeze her nipple, Robert Plant screams in my ear.

Oh baby, pretty baby.

That’s when I see the cop. I have no idea how long he’s been behind me, but his lights are flashing and he looks pissed. I pull my foot off the pedal and turn down the radio. Tessa starts to lift up when she hears the siren, but I push her head back down before she can get me out of her mouth.

“Don’t stop no matter what,” I instruct. “Understand?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she responds as I pull to the curb, her lips and tongue going back to work.

The cop car stops behind me and two cops get out, one heading to each side of the Ferrari. “Just keep sucking,” I say as one cop knocks on my tinted window. Through the passenger window I can see the other cop looking in, his hand on his holstered revolver. Neither of them can see a thing until I lower both windows simultaneously.

I look down at Tessa’s head bobbing up and down in my lap as I say, “Can I help you, officer?”

The cop on my side says, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask that you stop that and exit the car immediately. “

Still watching Tessa, I say, “Officer, I have no idea how this happened. One minute we’re driving along, and the next, this young lady’s warm, wet mouth is all over my dick.”

His hand finds his gun and he says sternly, “I’m not going to ask again. Stop that and get out of…“

His voice trails off dramatically as I turn to him. “Holy shit. You’re Drake Manning,” he says, then calls to the other cop, “Hey, it’s Drake Manning!” The second cop looks inside and smiles. Tessa’s mouth continues to work its magic and I feel the first hint of my impending orgasm.

The cop closest to me grins and says, “You should probably slow it down a bit. Especially while…” He glances down at Tessa’s bobbing head. “Well, you know.” An LAPD cop might’ve written me up, but like I said, I pretty much own Hollywood. Beverly Hills, too.

“Hey, can we get a selfie with you?” he asks shamelessly. The other cop has come around to my window, too, and is watching me get blown.

“Sure,” I say, “but let’s leave my friend here out of the picture.” The first cop produces a call phone and both of them kneel down on the pavement next to my door so that our faces are all at the same level and Tessa is safely hidden from view. I smile and the picture is snapped just as her tongue starts to focus on that little spot near the end of my shaft, just under the head. I feel myself start to lose control.

“Sorry to bother you, Drake,” the cop says as he gets up. That’s right, the police officer is actually apologizing to me for pulling me over for getting head while doing over a hundred in a thirty-five zone. I nod, fighting a losing battle to hold back my orgasm. Tessa takes my dick out of her mouth long enough to look up and smile at him, then I push her back down because I’m on the verge of exploding. The cop can’t believe what he’s seeing and says, “Must be nice being you.”

Grinning at him, I say, “Yeah, the perks are stellar.” Then he and his colleague walk back to their car. As they climb in, I put both hands on Tessa’s head to hold it firmly in place and, grunting loudly, unload in her mouth. I don’t let her up until she’s sucked out every last drop. The cops wave as they drive past, oblivious to the torrent I’ve just released down Tessa’s throat.

While I catch my breath, Tessa sits up and re-buttons her shirt. Then we resume our little drive down Sunset.

“Must be nice being you.”
That cop has no idea.

What might have been the single hottest event of a regular guy’s entire sex life was just another day for me. Women like Tessa throw themselves at me. I’ve probably set a record for blowjobs received in restaurant bathrooms. Half the time, I don’t say anything more than “Hey, wanna come suck me off?” A minute or two later, they’re on their knees with my dick in their mouth. And the coolest thing about it is that they’re happy to do it. Unbelievably, it makes their life better to reminisce about that time they blew Drake Manning in the bathroom at The Ivory.

It’s more than
nice
being me. It’s fucking
amazing
.

“
C
ome on
, Allie. I’m begging you.”

I hesitate. I already know I’ll take the job. I really have no choice, seeing as how I owe Marty a huge favor. He’d helped me get my first real job, straight out of UCLA. Moving to New York was difficult, especially on the meager pay I received as an editorial intern. But damn, Rolling Stone Magazine! And I had Martin Tinsdale to thank for that.

Marty had turned me down for a job in the Arts section of the LA Times, saying I needed “more seasoning.” Later I would learn to play the game better, but at the time I had the temerity to respond by telling him I wasn’t a steak. He laughed politely, wished me luck, and ushered me out of his office. The next day he was kind enough to send me an email telling me he knew someone at Rolling Stone and could arrange an internship if I were interested.

Now, eight years later, I’m a thirty-year-old Pulitzer-prize winning freelance pop culture writer and Marty is the managing editor of the Times’s Arts and Entertainments Department. And he needs me desperately. He’s just decided his best writer, who was set to conduct an exclusive interview with a major Hollywood star, may not be suited for this particular task.

“Why not go with Daphne?” I ask. “She’s a terrific writer.”

“As you know, Daphne can be a bit strident. We had a talk this morning about it, and I realized she’s the wrong person for this assignment.”

“What did she say?” I have to know.

“She said, and I quote, ‘He’s a threat to women everywhere. Drake Manning thinks with his cock, when he bothers to think at all.’”

I laugh out loud. “But that’s a great line! And probably accurate.”

“It is a great line,” Marty says, “but this isn’t a hit piece. Nor is it a puff piece. We want something nobody has managed to publish yet: an in-depth look at who Manning really is. The real human being behind the Hollywood myth.”

“Interesting.” This could be a challenge, something I never shrink away from. And a journalistic coup if I can pull it off. It certainly wouldn’t hurt my profile to be known as the person who got the always-reticent Drake Manning to finally open up about his private life.

“Please. You’re the only one I trust to do this the way it needs to be done,” Marty says. I have to admit it feels nice to hear him beg. “Everyone else would be too star-struck. You, on the other hand, don’t give a shit about movie stars. You can probe him without either bowing down or alienating him.”

He’s right about that. Actors bore me. They’re mostly self-centered and vain, and quite often dumb as a bucket of rocks. Give me a musician or a painter any day.

“Tell me I’m not a steak, Marty,” I say.

“What?”

“You heard me. Say, ‘Allie Winters is not a steak.’”

“I don’t under—“ He pauses, then laughs softly. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

“Say it,” I say sternly.

“Allie Winters is not a steak,” Marty says, then adds, “On the contrary, she is the finest caviar. And one of my greatest mistakes was not hiring her right out of college.”

My demand had been a little joke, but his response fills me with pride. Having someone like Marty recognize my talent is no small thing.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I say. “When is the interview set up?”

“Tomorrow at noon.”

“Jesus, Marty.”

“I know, I know,” he says, “but Drake Manning only has a few days before he leaves for Italy to shoot
Entangled States
.”

I’d heard he was starring in the big-budget romantic thriller.

“Where?”

“You’ll meet him at his agent’s office. You can do the interview there, or anywhere you want, really.”

“Don’t you mean anywhere
he
wants?” I ask. I know how this works.

“Of course,” Marty says. “Allie, this is the first interview Manning has done in two years, and we want to run it in the Times Magazine’s summer blockbuster preview in May. He’s notorious for doing shallow, self-serving interviews, so take as much time as you need to get really deep on this guy. We want to know who he really is, not just a regurgitation of the obvious.”

“How long do I have him for?” I ask.

“Three hours.”

“That’s it? And I’m supposed to go in-depth?”

“That’s all we could arrange,” Marty says. “I was hoping you could convince him to give you more time.”

“I’ll do what I can, but you know how those types can be.”

As soon as I hang up, I fire off a text to my best friend Nicole, who, unlike me, is a huge Drake Manning fan.

That done, I immediately turn my attention to research. With less than twenty-four hours to learn as much about Manning as possible, I do what anyone in my situation would do: I Google him.

Google fills me in on the basics, much of which I already know. Manning is the highest-paid movie star in the world at around thirty million bucks a film. Mostly action movies, but he’s proven to be surprisingly adept at comedy and romance as well. His nickname is “The Body.” He had shirtless scenes in each of the half-dozen of his movies I’ve seen, and I can attest to the appropriateness of that nickname. I quickly do an image search and turn up hundreds of pictures of him shirtless. His abs are astounding and his chest is broad and ripped. And those biceps… my god, those biceps. I’m not into weightlifters as a rule, but Drake Manning obviously knew enough to get his body totally chiseled without taking it to the point where it starts to look silly.

That stands in stark contrast to my own body, a soft size ten that testifies to my preferring sitting at the computer to working out. Manning probably spends more time in a gym every day than I do in a month. He’s six-foot four and weighs two hundred and thirty pounds. I’m much shorter at five-seven, yet still weigh one-sixty first thing in the morning, before I have my coffee. Sure, those proportions might be fine in other parts of the world, but I live in Los Angeles, where rail-thin is still the style of the day. It’s hard to compete with women who have personal trainers and often choose a finger down the throat for dessert.

I see what I’m doing and stop beating myself up mentally; Drake Manning will not be attracted to me regardless, so there’s no point in bemoaning my lack of physical conditioning. My job is to draw the man out of his shell, and there are few writers better than I am at finding ways to break celebrities and get them to talk. My Rolling Stone cover story interview of notoriously prickly Kanye West helped win me a Pulitzer Prize for journalism, so this should be right up my alley.

I’m about to close the image results tab when I see a picture of Manning in underwear. Briefs, to be precise. I open that page and see that it was a Calvin Klein print ad from early in Manning’s career. I enlarge it, then, because I’m safely at home, scroll down to check out those abs, then even further to the underwear. There’s a nice cotton-covered bulge there, lying at the top of his thigh. I can just make out a vague outline of the ridge of his cock’s head and wish there were some way I could pull back the elastic band and take a peek inside.

Remembering that I’m a journalist, I resume breathing and close the image so I can get back to work.

Still, the man is truly a god, at least from the neck down. He’s not quite as perfect from the neck up, but he’s not far off. While he doesn’t look like a male model, there’s something about that face, the short brown hair and gorgeous smile, the halfway sleepy-eyed look. He has a set jaw with a dusting of razor stubble (or the threat of it that always seems present when the stubble isn’t) that gives him a sexy blue-collar look. All in all, the man is devastatingly handsome.

Manning is also a better actor than the action-hero roles that made him a household name would have you think. His comedic timing has been praised by the likes of Tom Hanks and Bill Murray, no slouches themselves. And a recent film, the domestic drama “Suburban Decay,” actually landed him a surprise Oscar nomination for best actor. But first and foremost, Drake Manning is The Body, and all told those action movies have brought in an astounding three and a half
billion
dollars.

Let’s see, what else can I find? Manning turned thirty-two a few months ago and has never been married, although he’s a notorious Hollywood Casanova. He’s often referred to as “America’s Bachelor” because he’s determined to remain unattached. I stumble on a website, Drakecount.com, which is devoted to keeping a running tally of the women he’s reportedly slept with, complete with a large total at the top of the page, currently sitting at four hundred and ninety-seven. I laugh out loud, certain that number’s exaggerated but aware that it helps perpetuate his image as a man at whose feet women are constantly throwing themselves.

Under the total is a list, in reverse order starting with the most recent, of his conquests, including the dates these couplings supposedly occurred. Perusing it, I see a few famous names there: supermodel Ava Shane, actresses Cheyenne Parris, Angelique Devereaux and Sorcha Keenan, Food Network princess Nicolette Ryland, pop singer Lexi Snow and ESPN anchor Danica Stone. There’s even someone I’ve previously interviewed, novelist Grace Calder, who’s in her fifties. I consider asking Grace for verification, then decide to put a pin in that for now. It’s an impressive – albeit certainly fictitious for the most part – list that includes some stunningly beautiful women.

The interviews he’s done in the past seem to have been mostly shallow publicity pieces, and even when the writer attempted to dig a bit deeper, Manning expertly evaded divulging much about himself. He’s a cipher about whom nobody knows much at all – where he grew up, his family life, what his childhood was like, etc. Then he abruptly stopped doing interviews two years ago after some idiot writer questioned his longtime friendship with another actor who’s rumored to be bisexual.

When I agreed to do Marty a favor and take this gig, I thought it might be boring. The more I read, though, the more Drake Manning fascinates me. I find myself looking forward to the interview, only to see if I can find a way to get him to reveal himself. I want other writers to slam their fists on their desks because I accomplished something no one else has thus far been able to do: pry Manning open and get a peek at what lies within.

My phone dings with a text from Nicole.

I laugh out loud. Driving Nikki insane with jealously may be the best part of taking this gig.