Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 1: Drake (4 page)

They refuse to entertain the idea of
not
coming by to meet Allie. By the time we finish the round and I have a hard buzz, I relent and tell them to stop by, but not too late. Them dropping in will make it seem to Allie like I’m not trying to seduce her. I know women well enough to know that’ll make her want me even more.

Allie may think she’s going to get inside my head tonight, but I plan to get inside her panties instead.

I
may be
naïve at times, but there’s no way I would ever believe that Drake Manning had a wet dream about me.

For some insane reason I spent an hour last night again looking at pictures of many of the women he’s supposedly slept with, and I don’t fit his type at all. I’m certain he’s just trying to get under my skin, to throw me off-guard for the remainder of the interview — as if it weren’t already bad enough that we’re doing it at his house.

Thoughts of Manning having an orgasm alone in his bed dissolve when Nicole knocks on my door. I had texted her that Drake Manning said he had a dream about me, and twenty minutes later she shows up.

“Let me see the text!” she says the moment I let her in. I had spent an hour on the phone last night telling her how the interview had gone, but for some reason withheld the fact that I was going back tonight for round two.

I grab my phone and show her the text from Manning. Her jaw drops, then she scrolls down, reading the rest of the sequence of messages.

“Oh my god, Allie, he had a
wet
dream about you!” The look on her cute face is priceless.

“He says he did, but I’m telling you this guy is totally full of shit. Why would Drake Manning have a sex dream about me?”

Nicole doesn’t buy my self-deprecation. “Girl, you’re mad sexy!” she says. “And those breasts. Every guy I’ve ever brought near you felt the need to comment about them later. ‘She’s really got some tits, doesn’t she?’ It’s sickening.”

We both burst out laughing. Nikki is so pretty, about the same size as I am, but with smaller boobs and slightly slimmer hips. She has luxuriously thick blonde hair that I would die for.

“I’m going to his house for dinner tonight, to finish the interview.”

“You’re going to have dinner with Drake Manning
at his house
? This is so unfair! You don’t even like that kind of guy. You like those skinny rockers like Johnny.”

“Johnny is history, and I’m just going there to wrap up the interview. I have a few more questions I need answers to.”

“Like how good is he in bed?” she asks. “And does he have a big cock?”

“Stop!” I say, unable not to laugh at her silliness. Regardless of his text, I find it impossible to believe Manning would be interested in me sexually.

L
ater that afternoon
I’m freshly showered and made up, looking with approval in the mirror. I may not be a model, but I clean up pretty well. I’m wearing jeans a size tighter than the ones I wore yesterday, and a nice, elegant sweater that’s not too loose, but not too tight. I also have a secret weapon: under the sweater is a lavender tank top, chosen because my breasts look amazing in it. I’m not wearing a bra underneath, and if Manning has me on my heels at any point during the interview, removing my sweater should help to swing the equilibrium back in my direction. Although I don’t have an amazing body, I’ve seen the slack-jawed way men stare at my boobs. And Drake Manning may be a big-deal movie star, but he’s still a man.

As I finish getting ready, I find myself thinking about what it would be like to see that famous body in person, right in front of me. I’ve seen much of it on-screen, but since he’s never done a full frontal scene, I definitely haven’t seen everything. I think about being naked with him, touching him. And that leads to imagining actually fucking him. When I think about lying on my back and letting him enter my body, I realize I’m becoming aroused and force myself to stop this nonsense. Sure, it would be fun and I might even be able to talk him into it because apparently he’ll fuck anything that moves, but I refuse to be another of his many bedpost notches.

Damn, I really need to get laid. As soon as I turn in this interview, I’m going to open a Tinder account and find a fuckbuddy. This is ridiculous.

As I drive to Manning’s house, I remind myself that my goal is to get him to open up to me. I need him to confide in me, to trust that I will not betray him in this interview. The previous day I’d been surprised to feel a little friendship chemistry between us. Tonight I’ll play that up. At first I’ll focus on just having fun, holding back on any deep questions until I feel he’s ready.

When I arrive, a man looks out at me from the small guardhouse next to the gate. I roll down my window and he smiles and says, “Good evening, Ms. Winters.” The gate opens and I pull up to the front of that gorgeous mansion to find Manning standing in front of the door. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a gray-green pullover that clings to his chiseled frame.

He’s all smiles as I exit the car. “There she is, the girl of my dreams!”

I immediately blush, and just like that he’s already got me at a disadvantage.

For the next hour we chat over wine and delicious appetizers. “Oh my God, did you make these?” I ask.

“Fuck no. Simon, my chef, did. He’s making dinner, too. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to eat anything I cook.”

“Oh, come on, everyone has at least one dish they excel at.”

“I do make a mean instant ramen. You’ll have to try it sometime.”

I ask him how Drake Manning the movie star spends a typical weekday when he’s not filming, and he tells me he golfs with the same three friends every Friday when they’re all in town. The four men have known each other for years and his eyes light up when he talks about them.

“Do you have any close friends who are women?” I ask.

“Wait, it’s my turn to ask a question now,” he says. “Are we really going to completely ignore the fact that I had a wet dream about you?”

I blush, instantly angry at myself for doing so. It’s a question, though, and if I expect him to answer mine, I’ll need to answer his.

“Drake, forgive me, but I have serious doubts that you actually had any dream about me, damp or otherwise. We both know I am very much not your type.”

“I know, that’s the crazy thing.” His agreeing with me stings, and that in turn annoys me. Why should I give a shit whether I’m his type or not?
He’s
not even
my
type. “But there you were in my head.”

“Can we get back to the interview?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “I just wanted you to know I wasn’t joking about it. That actually happened.”

“Noted.”

“And you were gloriously naked.”

“Stop it.” I’m blushing again.

“And I woke up mid-orgasm, pissed off.”

“Drake, seriously.”

“Okay, I’ll be good. I promise.”

He’s laughing at my embarrassment, but I think this is a good sign. Anything I can do to make him feel close to me might help get him to open up.

We have more wine with dinner, and both are incredible. I could get used to having a personal chef, and silently vow to find some easy recipes to replace the Lean Cuisines I eat way too often. Drake isn’t really opening up much, though, and keeps asking me questions to prevent having to answer mine. After dinner we move outside to his patio, sitting under a heat lamp with his huge pool not far away.

The alcohol and the lamp make me feel deliciously warm, maybe even a little too much. Deciding to try to reclaim the upper hand, I casually slip off my sweater. Drake audibly sucks in a breath at the sight and his eyes remain on my breasts a second longer than he probably intended. I feel my nipples pucker and instantly regret not wearing a bra, even though the look is having the intended effect on him.

“Wait right here,” Manning says and jumps off his seat, hurrying into the house. I adjust my tank top for maximum effect, ready to bear down on my interview subject when he returns. He can look all he wants, as long as he’s answering my questions.

He returns with a bottle and two tumblers, pouring a little dark gold liquid into each. “This is Jefferson Reserve, known among bourbon fiends as Old Jeff. Oak barrel aged twenty-five years.”

It is indeed sublime. The best bourbon I’ve ever tasted.

We drink as we talk, and the minute I finish my glass, Manning tries to pour more. “No thanks. Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Absolutely,” he says, “so I can take advantage of you.”

At this point he actually might be serious. It’s hard to tell. Trying to deflect his attempt, I laugh and say, “I have no intention of becoming number five hundred and one. Or higher, if you’ve had three or four more already today.”

“I can respect that. Now I guess I’ll never know if you look as stunning naked as you did in my dream, unless...”

“Unless what?” Do I really want to know what he has in mind?

“We could do the rest of the interview in the Jacuzzi.”

Now I can tell he’s definitely serious. “Drake, it would take more than one bourbon to get me out of my clothes.”

He immediately pours me another glass.

“You are relentless,” I say.

“For real, let’s do it. It’ll be fun.”

The thought of Drake Manning seeing me naked is equal parts thrilling and mortifying. I find it hard to believe he’s interested in seeing my body and assume he merely wants to park his cock in yet another woman. But even that sounds pretty damned good at the moment. Why
not
have a one-nighter with this hot guy? Then I think about ending up on the Drakecount site and the hit my reputation might take.

“That would be stupid on both of our parts,” I say. “Especially mine.”

“Think about it: You could be the journalist who interviewed me naked. It’ll get tremendous publicity. The Times can get a picture of me in my hot tub from the waist up, with my clothes in a pile behind me. ‘Drake Manning Finally Bares All!’”

This man sure knows how publicity works. I have to say, it’s an intriguing possibility. But I’m a professional journalist and I’m not going to strip for my interview subject.

“I dare you to let me see you naked, Allie Winters,” he says.

“I don’t do dares. Especially naked ones.”

We stare at each other for a few seconds. Remembering why I’m here in the first place, I say, “Besides, we both know you haven’t given me shit that I can use. Unless you cooperate, this interview is going to be exactly the same crap as all those others you used to do.”

“Come on, Allie. Loosen up a little. I promise I won’t attack you.”

At this point, the thought of him attacking me is an appealing idea and I have to stop myself from going there.

“We’re not lovers, Drake,” I say, “and we’re not going to be. So I’d be embarrassed to be naked in front of you.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. Nobody will know unless you decide to tell them.”

“I’m already embarrassed just thinking about it. Besides,
you’ll
know. And I don’t have a body like yours. The very thought of seeing you ogle my nude body scares the shit out of me.”

“We can blindfold you, then, so you don’t have to see me looking,” he says with a grin. When I look at him as if he’s lost his mind, he retreats by saying, “Just kidding. But seriously, sitting in the hot tub under the cool night sky doesn’t appeal to you?”

Trying to dodge the bullet, I say, “A hot tub sounds amazing, to be honest. But I’m not going skinny-dipping with you, and I obviously didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

“I have plenty of spare swimsuits in the pool house.” I give him a skeptical look. “Seriously, both men’s and women’s. I have lots of pool parties, and suits are often left behind. I just have them washed and store them out there in case someone needs one. There are dozens of them, all types and sizes.”

I stare at this gorgeous man and his equally gorgeous smile. It would definitely be nice to see him without a shirt on. But more importantly, how can I use this to my advantage?

“I’ll do it on one condition,” I say. He grins and waits for me to continue. “I’ll get in the hot tub with you – neither of us naked, of course – but you have to answer a half dozen questions
honestly
. No bullshit answers. Give me something I can actually use.”

He looks into my eyes. I’ve been around enough to know that look. Manning has plans to try to take this further. He’ll get me in a bathing suit and liquor me up, let the LA night work its magic on me, then the next thing you know I’ll be one of his conquests. My own plan, though, is to get what I need for the interview, then bail out before anything else happens.

“It’s a deal,” Drake says. “Six questions. Better make them good.” He hands me my tumbler and picks up his own. We clink glasses and I finish mine in a single gulp. If I’m going to wear a bathing suit in front of this man, I need liquid courage.

As he walks me past the eerily glowing pool, surrounded by a dozen or so huge palm trees, it occurs to me that sitting with Drake Manning in a hot tub is the kind of work that millions of women would love to be doing. The night really is beautiful – there’s something special about the Hollywood Hills in spring, when the nights are still cool. Steam rises from the huge nearby Jacuzzi. A cluster of outdoor furniture sits near the pool house, and Manning says I can change in there, then takes a seat and pours himself another bourbon.
That’s right, Drake,
I think,
loosen up just a bit more.

His pool house is bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever had and includes a full bath. There’s a dresser, and I open a drawer to find the promised bathing suits. One by one I remove them and look them over. It takes a while, but I find one in my size. It’s a bikini, but it’s not too skimpy. I hold the top against myself and look in the mirror. This should do.