Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 1: Drake (10 page)

F
or the last
week I’ve plowed through my work on the Drake Manning interview. It’s no easy task, as I am constantly distracted by the man himself. Thoughts of him never seem to leave my mind and I keep reliving moments we’ve spent together. I tell myself this is to be expected, seeing as how I’m writing a major piece on him, but the things that keep popping into my brain are anything but work-related.

I remember his wet torso as he chased me out to my car in his driveway, his wet boxer briefs forcing my gaze downward. Then there’s the look of rapturous lust on his face when I flashed him in the front seat of my car. I recall the almost pained way in which he removed my hand from his erection in the back of his limo on the way to the airport. Most of all, though, I dwell on our exquisite, scorching kisses – the sexy feeling of his full lips against mine, our warm, wet tongues touching with a searing intensity I’ve ever known before.

To be honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever finish this piece, considering the nonstop state of arousal I find myself in. The thing that keeps me going – the carrot dangling in front of me – is the idea of meeting Drake Manning in Rome to finally consummate this… whatever it is. This potent, insistent
thing
we both seem to have for each other.

Or am I just imagining his desire for me? I keep reminding myself this could be how he is with all the women he wants to bed. Maybe he really sees me as just another hole to fill, literally. I really have no idea. All I can be certain of is that I want him. Physically, that is. I have no dreams of a relationship with this man, but I am definitely going to have sex with him before we part company and go our separate ways.

That idea of finally sleeping with him drives me toward completing the interview. Once I finish, I can hop aboard Manning’s jet and in hours be nestled in his strong embrace, running my fingers across those carved abs as I taste his kisses… and more. A girl from the middle of the New Mexico desert is going to sleep with one of the most desired men in the world. What would my friends back at Deming High School think if they knew?

The thought of my own high school makes me wonder about Manning’s high school. In all my research about him, I found nothing regarding where he grew up. It’s been the subject of much discussion in Hollywood, that Drake Manning appears to have been invisible until the day he landed his first role. That small part as “Shirtless Road Worker” in
Unforeseen Circumstances
put him on the map. Apart from two of the three men who shared a hot tub with Manning and me, I can’t find a single instance of someone claiming to know him during his school days. Could he really have been so unattractive, so socially awkward, that he had no friends?

In listening to my taped session with him in the park that day, I find the moment when Manning gave me his real name: Edward James Drake, Jr. He also said he went by Eddie during high school. Still unsure whether I’m going to reveal that information about him in the interview (he didn’t say it was off the record), I start digging deeper.

A Google search turns up an October 1999 obituary for an Edward James Drake in Indianapolis that lists an Edward James Drake, Jr. in the “is survived by” section. No wife and no other children are mentioned. Could that be Manning’s father? Using the LA Times’s resources, I perform a name search of 1999 yearbooks from high schools in the city. There were more than seventy high schools there at the time, but the results turn up nothing. I widen my search to include more of the surrounding area, taking in a fifty-mile radius around Indianapolis. This time I get a single strike, an Edward James Drake, Jr. who was enrolled at Rushville Consolidated High School in Rushville, Indiana, from 1997-2001.

I quickly pull up the scanned copy of the yearbook from 2001 and find the senior pictures. I move to the letter “D” and locate the name Eddie Drake, then look for the corresponding picture and am distraught to see a face that does not belong to Drake Manning.

Dammit!

I’m about to close that browser tab and start over when my attention is captured by something in the eyes of the chubby, bespectacled young boy in that picture. I enlarge the image and see a kid with acne, his Supercuts bangs falling over his forehead. No smile whatsoever – in fact, his lips are pressed together as if he would rather be anywhere else at that moment. But there’s
something
. When I force myself to look past the absolute lack of confidence, I’m stunned to see Drake Manning buried in there somewhere.

Oh my god. I’ve found him.

M
y final read
-through of the shooting script for
Entangled States
is interrupted by the room phone ringing. Since I’m not expecting anyone tonight, I debate whether to answer.

I have a suite at the St. Regis while I’m in Rome. Located downtown, it’s only ten kilometers from Cinecittà, the famous Italian movie studio where we’ll be shooting, so that’s half an hour with no traffic. The problem is there’s always traffic in Rome. The Royal Suite is huge, way more than I need, and it costs nearly twenty grand a night, but Mason had it included in my contract because we can get away with that kind of thing. It’s way over-decorated for my taste, with a fireplace in the large living room, a huge marble dining room table, and similar opulence in every direction. I had them remove the grand piano and replace it with a treadmill because I’m not the slightest bit concerned with ruining the ambience.

The fourth ring gets me to my feet with a surly attitude and I bark into the receiver.

“What?”

“Ciao, Drake.” The voice on the other end is the literal definition of sultry.

“Who is this?” How the fuck did this chick get my room number? And why did the front desk put her through, despite my orders to hold all calls?

“It’s Siena, baby,” she says, her voice dripping with honey and sex. “Come have dinner with me. Let me show you Rome.”

An hour later I’m sitting in the hotel lobby when Siena Alessi, the Italian actress who is my co-star for the film, enters with a cadre of paparazzi in tow. She’s a vision, radiant in a long black dress that flares at her hips and is sheer over her toned belly. A wide black strip covers her ample tits, but a plunging slit down the center exposes an abundance of cleavage. She’s all of five and a half feet tall in her black spike heels.

“Siena!” is all I can manage, glad I decided to dress up in slacks and a coat.

To that point, I had managed to go pretty much unnoticed in Rome, staying in my room for two days to rehearse my lines. I had ordered room service and worked out in the hotel’s gym late at night, since I was a bit jet-lagged. I realize that blessed anonymity is coming to a rapid end as my dinner date and I are quickly surrounded by photographers. Her handlers do their best to create space, but it’s to no avail.

“Welcome to Rome, tesoro,” she says. She has an olive complexion and a long, thick mane of black hair cascading over her shoulders. She hugs me, pressing her body against mine. Looking up at me with dark brown eyes and her mouth curled at one corner, she asks, “Are you hungry?”

I pry my attention away from her full red lips long enough to look her up and down, then give her my trademark smile and say, “I am now.” Her laugh is infectious and I can’t believe how utterly beautiful this woman is. We pose for a few pictures, my arm over her shoulder and hers wrapped around my waist, her body pulled snugly to mine, her entire being oozing desire.

It’s no act, either. In the back of her limo, she’s just as sexy. “I have been wanting to meet you for a long time,” I say in a showbiz tone. “I love your work.”

“And I have wanted to meet you since when I saw your bel sedere in
Dream Lover
.” When I stare blankly at her, she says, “Your
ass
, baby, your cute ass.” Despite the occasional grammar flub, her heavily accented English is easy to understand. That accent just adds to the sex-kitten vibe, though.

Over an amazing dinner in a corner of a tiny restaurant near Campo de Fiori, with two bodyguards posted at the door, Siena and I discuss how doing this movie together would compound the fame we each already enjoyed. In Italy, she’s a bigger star than I am, the very embodiment of the sexy Italian beauty, but this will be her first film for a Hollywood studio. We have three months of shooting in Rome before we move to Toronto for a handful of exterior shots, the Canadian city standing in for New York City in the movie.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Siena asks out of the blue.

“No, I don’t have time.”

“Good,” she says, looking deep into my eyes. “After dinner, we will go to your room and do rehearsal for the sex scenes.” When I raise an eyebrow, she adds, “All three of them. But with no crew watching us, we don’t need to stop the action when the scene is finished.” Her dirty-girl smile is enthralling and actually makes my cock twitch.

Until my brain enters the picture.

Why the image of Allie Winters popped into my mind right as I looked at those beautiful red lips is beyond me. One of the most desirable women in the entire world has just told me she wants to fuck me, and all I can think of is a writer on the other side of the planet. It’s like she’s haunting me now.

I simply smile at Siena and let the subject drop.

When the limo arrives back at my hotel, she asks, “You are not going to invite me to come to your room, are you?” It’s a complex little act she’s putting on, intense sexual longing mixed with wounded feelings. I’m quite impressed by her acting chops, to be honest. “Don’t you want to play a little and discover each other?”

I do the only thing I can do under the circumstances: I lie my ass off.

“Don’t you think it would work better for the movie if we don’t?” I ask. When she looks perplexed, I explain. “We’re getting along so well, and we have an obvious physical attraction. I really hate to risk losing that before the shoot by having sex. Sure, the sex would be great, but what if the scenes suffer? Especially the scene we’re shooting in two days, the one at the pool where I’ve never met you and feel awkward around you. Keeping some sense of mystery between us will be better for those scenes.”

Expecting to see hurt or rejection in her eyes, I’m surprised when Siena smiles and says, “That’s okay, baby. I understand you.” She plants a kiss on my cheek, then when I open the door she pulls me back by the collar and kisses me full on the lips, her tongue snaking into my mouth. Flashes go off everywhere as the assembled paparazzi vie for the ultimate picture of the two big movie stars locked in a passionate kiss. She whispers into my ear, “We
will
fuck before you leave Rome, Drake.” The look in her eyes is one of pure lust, then she releases me and I stumble back as the car door shuts.

The limo pulls away and I collect myself, pushing past the paparazzi. There must be a dozen of them, and they keep snapping pics until I enter the hotel and security stops them at the door. Confused about what has just happened, I make my way to my suite. Safely inside, I see my reflection in the large mirror by the door and note the traces of lipstick smeared on my lips. Great.

I wash my face, then feel overwhelmed by a sudden need for sexual release. Dammit, why did I sent that gorgeous sex symbol away? I strip down and lie on the bed, jerking off first to the image of Allie, then Siena. This is so fucked up.

Something about me is changing. I don’t have a fucking clue what it is, but I do know it means trouble.

I
look
out the window of the jet and see nothing but flat land extending to the horizon. We must be somewhere over Kansas or Iowa. The whine of the engines is nearly inaudible inside the cabin. I look around, marveling at the situation in which I’ve suddenly found myself. I’m the only passenger on board the private jet owned by megastar Drake Manning, a man I’ve known about for about a decade, but whom I actually met in person a little more than a week ago. Even more absurd, I’m flying to Rome, where I’m almost certain to have sex with him.

All of this has been building since the day we first met, pulling me along to what at this point seems to be a foregone conclusion. I know I want this to happen, and evidently he does, because he went to the trouble of sending his jet back to retrieve me from the opposite side of the world and bring me to him.

I feel a warmth in the pit of my stomach, spreading outward. Attempting to distract myself, I open my laptop and check my email. Internet access on a plane without having to pay for it is pretty sweet. I could get used to this lifestyle. I re-read the interview I turned in to Marty at the LA Times yesterday; it’s an exceptional piece on Manning, and it’s definitely going to open him up to his fans in a way that he’s largely avoided in his career to this point. It makes him seem less arrogant and more sympathetic. His fans will related to him like they never have before. I even included the picture from his high school yearbook, after securing the rights. All of this was done without his permission, as our communication since he left for Rome has been sporadic and mostly consisted of him asking me what I was wearing and requesting I send him pictures of me. It’s all been very flattering, knowing that this particular man has taken an interest in me.

The real question is whether he’ll still be interested after he’s conquered me. And whether I’d even want him to be. Maybe this was meant to be a springtime fling in Rome and nothing more. I’d take that, of course. Most women would drop everything for such a chance, and I guess when it comes down to sex with a hot, famous guy, I’m not that different from all the others.

Daydreaming, I look again at Drake’s high school picture and try to imagine the pain that chubby little dork with bad teeth and acne must have felt, the insults that were hurled his way by the jocks, the feeling of invisibility when pretty girls were nearby. My own high school experience was very different – I was thinner then and cute enough to attract the attention of boys, especially with these breasts. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t among the most popular girls in school, but I certainly had an active social life. From what I know about Manning, that didn’t come for him for a few more years. His high school years must have been hell.

I realize I can’t wait to see him. I’m all butterflies and desire and wish I didn’t have another ten hours and two stops ahead of me before Rome. I let my mind wander and begin to think about what it will be like to actually be with him, alone, naked. My arms wrap around his strong shoulders as my breasts press against his hard chest. As I imagine lying in bed with our bodies blissfully entwined, an alarm goes off in my head and I suddenly sit bolt upright in my seat. Something in my chest twinges ever so slightly, but enough for me to feel it physically. I know this sensation well; it’s my heart telling me to be careful, to avoid getting hurt.

I check the Drakecount page again and see no new activity, but the large number
500
on the screen leaps out at me. I’m surprised that this time I feel actual pain at what it represents. My very being aches when I think that Manning said, “They missed a few,” and my own tally of lovers is barely into double digits. How am I supposed to be special when he’s had that many women in his bed? After he’s done with me, he’ll just move on to the next and in a month or so forget all about me.

I continue to stare at the
500
and the pain I feel is so great, it has me on the verge of tears.

Then it finally dawns on me what’s happening. My mind reels and my jaw drops open. I’m absolutely dumbfounded by the sudden realization. This cannot be happening.

I’m falling in love with this idiot.

I remember Nicole’s last words when she dropped me off at the airport. “Be careful, Allie,” she said.

It was a strange comment, seeing as how Italy isn’t considered the slightest bit dangerous for tourists.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been to Italy before.”

“No,” she said, tapping her heart with her index finger, “be careful here.”