Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason (10 page)

T
he day starts
out absolutely normal for me, with one crucial exception: I’ve lost my cell phone. I had it yesterday, and now it’s gone. Luckily there’s nothing incriminating on it, and I’ve got everything backed up to the cloud. Still, it’s a strange morning when I haven’t read a text or answered a call within minutes of tumbling out of bed.

Consequently, I’m quite content on a typical winter Hollywood day as I drive to my office. It’s just under sixty degrees and the sun is right where it always is, with not a cloud in sight to break up the azure sky.

Life is good, and for a moment I wish I had a job that didn’t require me to be plugged in at all times.

On the way to work I again find myself daydreaming about the debauched tasks I can have Claire perform when she’s at my house. I imagine her in a French maid outfit, without panties, cleaning my bedroom with a feather duster. “Come put your mouth on me again.” I command her from the bed, parting my silk robe for the third or fourth time. I grin sadistically, knowing all this and much more will be happening soon.

Let me take that back; life isn’t good, it’s exceptional. Damn near perfect.

That’s when the shit hits the fan, of course.

The second I step into the MAU offices I’m greeted by my assistant, Bella, and three of my agents.

“Did you get my texts?” asks an agent, concern wrinkling his forehead.

“You didn’t answer my call,” says another.

“I got this, guys,” Bella says before I can respond. Grabbing me by the arm, she leads me to my office and closes the door behind us. Through the glass I can see at least a dozen heads looking directly at me.

“What going on?”

“Mason, I’ve been calling you for the last hour.”

I did take my time this morning; it’s almost nine. “I lost my phone,” I say. Right on cue, there’s a muffled ringing noise from my desk that gets louder when I move two movie scripts aside to reveal the phone underneath.

When I pick it up, Bella screams, “Don’t answer that!”

I look at it, not recognizing the number. But my notification screen shows thirty-one missed calls and more than fifty unread texts. Something big has gone down.

“Bella, tell me exactly what the fuck is going on.”

She calmly says, “Check Variety. There’s something there you need to see. I’ll hold all your calls for now.”

I sit at my desk and quickly pull up the site as the door shuts behind her. Scanning the page, one headline practically jumps at me from my monitor.

I hastily read the article, written by someone I’ve never heard of but obviously okayed by Variety’s editors. It’s a typical inflammatory piece, obviously slanted in an effort to rally support for Cheyenne’s cause, but they’ve got Jackie Hightower on record as saying she’s prepared to shelve the entire project in order to make her point.

If that weren’t disconcerting enough, the next paragraph chills me to the bone.

That’s it, just three sentences. The rest of the article doesn’t mention me, but that brief paragraph is aimed squarely at painting both me and Drake in the worst light possible. And I have to say, it hits its target.

I scroll through my missed calls and see one from Drake. It’s buried in the middle of the voicemails I’ve received, so I have to work my way through them. Reporters, friends, and worst of all, clients, are wondering if I’ve seen the article and how I’m going to proceed. Then I find Drake’s message, and I can tell he’s pissed.

“Mason, I’m guessing you’re not picking up because you’re inundated after that Variety article. I hate to pile on, but I will anyway: What the fuck is going on? I have wanted to do
Texas Flood
for years, and now this game you’re playing with Claire Jarrett is going to bring the whole fucking thing down. You need to figure out a way to make this right, and do it fast. If you can’t get the budget increased to fix this problem, then give your fucking commission to Cheyenne to make up the difference.”

It’s a silly idea, since the commission I make on Drake’s salary would be only a smidgeon of the amount needed. Letting the entire production get shut down isn’t an option either, since Drake wants to make the damn movie. Then he throws in a parting line that catches me totally off-guard.

“And what’s this shit with T.J. Holland? You really dropped your guard on that one. Anyway, call me as soon as you get this.”

What about T.J. Holland? What shit is he referring to?

I buzz Bella. “Is something going on with T.J. Holland that I don’t know about?”

Her voice is surprisingly timid. “It’s also on the Variety front page. Scroll down a little further.”

I return to the main page of Variety’s site and scroll the headlines again and that’s when I see it.

My brain fires into overdrive as I click the link and read the article. If all that equal pay shit weren’t bad enough, one of my rising clients has apparently jumped ship and is now aboard the U.S.S. Jarrett. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Claire somehow got Jackie to agree to cast T.J. in
Phantom
, then dangled the role in front of him to entice him to switch agencies. Surely Jackie would have come to me directly had I not tweaked her with my snarky comment at that meeting, and instead it looks like she insisted T.J. change agents if he wanted this big opportunity. It’s quite possible this is her revenge.

As for T.J. himself, I can understand why he would do it, but that ungrateful motherfucker didn’t even bother to let me know beforehand. Then I recall a message the previous afternoon from Daryl Maillot, T.J.’s manager, asking me to get in touch. Had I known it was urgent, I would have returned the call immediately. Not that it would have helped at that point.

“Goddamit!” I slam my fist on the desk. It feels good, so I repeat the process several more times. I don’t dare look through the glass walls because I know my entire agency is looking at me right now, watching as I lose my shit.

First the article about equal pay that makes me look bad, and now T.J. moving to Creative Talents so he can do
Phantom
. This is all Jackie Hightower’s doing. She’s the only one who could have set this up. Unless…

Shit.

This wasn’t Jackie.

It was Claire Jarrett.

My blood runs cold with the certainty that she has just fucked me way more thoroughly than she did in her office. I underestimated that cunning little wench.

I push back from the desk and stand, my heart thumping so hard I can actually feel my pulse. Knowing I need to calm down so I can rationally consider my options, I walk to the window and gaze at the Hollywood sign in the distance.

As I see it, I have three huge problems: T.J. Holland has left MAU for CT, Jackie appears to be willing to torpedo her pet project of a film unless Cheyenne Parris gets her equal pay, and I might lose that damned bet.

It occurs to me that the first is not a problem at all. It’s irritating and exasperating, and I’m livid at Claire and/or Jackie for pulling this stunt, but it’s done. T.J. is not coming back, no matter what I do.

The last one, the bet, is contingent upon the
Texas Flood
problem. I only lose the bet if I screw that up, so I set that aside.

That leaves the only truly urgent problem: I have to come up with a way of bridging the fourteen-million dollar gap between Cheyenne’s pay and Drake’s without begging my biggest client and best friend to take a massive pay cut.

Bella knocks, and I turn to watch her place a mug of hot coffee on my desk. “Continue holding your calls?” she asks.

I nod and as she walks away, a thought pops into my head.

“Bella, did anyone from Variety try to get in touch with me in the last couple of weeks?” I ask.

She pauses at the door. “No, no one.”

I grab my coffee and return to the window, continuing to mentally pick apart the dilemma created by the Variety article. It’s fishy that nobody from Variety attempted to get my side of the story, and I can’t help but think either Claire or Jackie had something to do with its publication. Jackie has always been buddy-buddy with Samuel English, so she’s the likely culprit, but Claire might very well have been a co-conspirator. They knew it would make Drake and me look like cavemen regarding this equal pay matter, and it succeeded spectacularly. Now I have to find a way to undo that perception while also resolving Cheyenne’s demand.

The more I think about it, the more agitated I get. I’m seething with anger, at Claire, Jackie, T.J., even Drake. Mostly myself, though, for letting this happen. Drake was right; I dropped my gloves with Claire and she hammered me with a right cross to the jaw. I’m filled with humiliation and indignation and when I feel the rage building in me like a ball of fire in my chest, I know what I have to do.

I burst from my office, stopping momentarily at Bella’s desk. “I’ll be gone for the rest of the day.”

On the way to the parking garage, I fire off a text to Drake.

He’ll probably know I’m just stalling for time, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.

When I reach my house, I pull past my gate and leave the car idling in the driveway as I dash inside and head straight for the nightstand in my bedroom. I retrieve the case and open it. The machined aluminum surface of the pistol gleams in a ray of sunlight coming through the blinds. The Kimber Solo is one of the finest handguns made. I haven’t fired it in months, but today’s events warrant it.

Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

Twenty minutes later I take aim at my target and pull the trigger. It’s not a bullseye, but not far off. I fire again, then again and again, emptying my clip.

My earmuffs help to deaden the noise, but I don’t mind it anyway. The Burbank Shooting Range is my secret weapon for clearing my mind. The physicality of firing a gun, the concentration required, and even this background cacophony combine to push every thought out of my head. I come here whenever I feel overwhelmed or when I simply can’t get a handle on something. That only happens once or twice a year, but the firing range never fails to center me.

I bought the Kimber Solo a few years back, after a scare involving some crazy guy who was stalking one of my actor clients. The sheer insanity of the incident convinced me that I needed protection. Since I’m not famous, it made no sense to hire a bodyguard, so I bought a gun and took shooting lessons. I carried it in my car’s glove box for a while, but now it just sits at home in my nightstand. Unless I need to clear my head, of course.

Round after round I fire off over the course of more than an hour. I can feel the tension easing from my body, my harried mind growing calmer with every squeeze of the trigger.

Out of nowhere, the solution to everything pops into my head, fully formed and crystal clear, as if it were handed to me by the gods themselves. I know exactly how to get Cheyenne’s pay while doing some image polishing so that Drake and I come out smelling like roses.

I grin maniacally as I finish off my clip. If anyone were looking, they’d be very concerned about the smiling fool with the gun in his hand.

I’m soon back in my car, sending a text to Drake.

He knows me well enough to know the insult is in jest. That done, I dial Link’s number and he picks up on the first ring.

“’Sup?” he says, apparently trying to conserve syllables.

“Wanna make a shit-ton of money?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“You working today?”

“Got a gig tonight, but nothing until then,” he says.

“Good. I desperately need your professional help for a couple of hours. It’s a little strange, but you can make a million bucks or more for two hours of your time.”

“I’m in.” I didn’t think he’d need much convincing.

“Suit and tie,” I say. “I’ll call back with the exact time.”

I hang up and immediately call Jackie Hightower’s private number.

“Mason, what a surprise to hear from you today,” she says, sarcasm dripping from every word. She’s probably been waiting with bated breath to see my name pop up on her phone.

“Hi, Jackie. We need to talk.”

I
have re-read
the two Variety articles several times since they first posted this morning, marveling at how perfectly my plan fell into place. Sitting at my desk, I’ve been gloating to myself like a teenager who got away with shoplifting. Everything has gone perfectly according to plan. At this point it’s just a matter of time before Stark caves in and works a compromise, because Jackie and I left him no other options.

In mid-thought, I happen to notice the glass surface of my desk and am suddenly swept away by memories of what took place there recently. I remember Stark’s amazing body as he lay naked across it, his beautiful cock pointing straight at the ceiling. I let my mind re-live the incredible high of standing above him with my body completely exposed to him. And of course I recall the feeling of his rock-hard erection in me as I rode him to a blissful orgasm. I even get a visceral thrill at the memory of him pumping stream after stream of cum onto the glass surface my hands are currently resting on.

Before I know it I feel flushed. I’ve worked myself up just by thinking about what we did on this desk, but that’s not the extent of it.

For the first time I feel something for this man. It’s not powerful or overwhelming, but it’s something, and it startles me. I try to convince myself that the attraction is purely sexual, but I’m forced to admit there’s a definite connection between us. Sure, we’re competitive as hell with each other, but I can no longer deny that there’s more at play, something deeper. Does Stark also feel it, or am I alone in this? Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve begun to see us linked by our bet and now I can’t help but wonder if business has gotten in the way of an actual relationship.

Would that have even been possible? Could we have had a real, honest-to-God relationship without all the snarkiness?

Now we may never know.

Before I know it, my smug feelings of victory have given way to a growing melancholy. I find myself actually feeling kind of sorry for Stark. I’m sure he’s not accustomed to losing bets, much less losing one to a woman rival.

I can sense where this is leading and I push back against it. Now that I’m almost certain to win the bet, for some reason I’m getting the idea to release Stark from the wager he agreed to. The million dollars is immaterial, because I’ll make substantially more on my commission from T.J. Holland’s part in the first
Phantom
movie. But his alpha male ego has to be taking a serious hit over all this. What would making him grovel at my feet prove?

I ponder if Stark would actually hold me to such an insane wager if he won. Something tells me he would. He obviously relishes the idea of having me at his command, of dominating me. Both can be done in the name of great sex, and I would be totally on board with that. If he did them just to be mean, though, I’d have a problem with it. I’m not sure which of those would be his motivation.

However, I’m the one who will win the bet, so Stark’s motivations don’t matter. Mine do. And if I carry through with humiliating him, it would dash any scant hope of a relationship — a sexual one, if nothing more.

I can’t take that chance. Right now I want more of Mason Stark, not less.

When I win the bet, I’m going to absolve him of his obligations to me. Then I’ll hope we still have that connection when all this blows over.