Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (28 page)

I shifted on the couch and let out a nervous little cough.
Behave, Mr. Burns.
That’s what I often called my cock. Call it respect for my mega-fucking machine.

“No. Come in and take a seat.” My eyes stayed riveted on her as she strode into my office and headed toward an armchair across from me.

“No, please sit next to me,” I said before she could plunk her sweet ass on the chair. “I’d like you to watch something with me.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly, rounding the coffee table. She lowered herself onto the cushion next to me.

“A little closer, please.”

She scooted next to me, and for a brief second, her thigh brushed against mine. She quickly pulled it away. The delicious cherry vanilla scent of her hair filled my nostrils and made me slightly lightheaded. Still holding the remote, I hit “play.”

On the large plasma TV on the wall facing us, the latest episode of
Private Dick
began to play. Oral Covert, the undercover agent with the twelve-inch dick, had confronted his chief suspect, a hooker named Daisy who was hiding something. She was also his on and off love interest.

“Get over here, you slut,” he growled, lowering his pants. The actor who played the part was capable of few words, but this line came easily to him. His favorite weapon—his big gun—sprung from his pants. The camera panned his extraordinary length
. Nice.

The busted hooker, dressed in a bustier, fishnets, and mile-high leather boots that led to her pussy, flung her mane of flaming red hair and licked her pillowy lips. The camera zoomed in on the latter. I could feel my cock tense as it did.
Nice work again.

Oral grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to her knees. Mental note: Add a gasp in ADR. “Just give it to me, cunt, if you know what’s good for you,” barked Oral. In a heartbeat, Daisy’s lush lips were wrapped around Oral’s foot-long cock, taking it to the hilt. He began to fuck her mouth vigorously. In and out. Faster and faster. As moans and groans filled the room, I felt Jennifer squirm next to me.

“Does this turn you on?” I turned to ask her.

The scrunched up expression on her face was one of pure revulsion. “It’s
vomiticious.”

My brows lifted to my forehead. “
Vomiticious?
What does that mean?”

She gazed at me. “It means it makes me want to vomit.” To illustrate, she opened her sweet glossy mouth, stuck out her tongue, and shoved a finger inside it. God, she was cute when she did that gagging gesture. It made me want to insert my finger into her mouth and have her lips clamp down on it and suck on it. I was consciously aware of my cock straining against my fly.

“Come on,” I challenged. “I don’t believe you. What girl wouldn’t be turned on by twelve inches of pulsing, hot flesh in her mouth?”

“You are so clueless.”

What the fuck? Seriously. One day on the job, and this little know-it-all was calling
me
clueless?
Moi,
who had started SIN-TV and made it the phenomenal success it was? I had to be doing something right. Impulsively, I hit the “off” button on the remote. The picture on the screen faded to black. They’d still been at it.

“Can you please explain what you mean?” My voice had taken on a sharp tone. Yet, she did not seem the least bit intimidated by me.

She folded her arms tightly across her breasts, her hands tucked beneath them, and one long leg over the other. “It’s simple. Men think with their cocks; women think with their hearts.”

“Oh, is that something they taught you in Psychology 101?”

Making a face, she seemed a little affronted by my patronizing attitude but continued her lecture.

“Men are all about conquest; women are all about romance.”

I was all ears.

“And that brings me to why your slate of programming is not performing in the daytime. I analyzed your ratings package very carefully. The problem is simple: the daytime audience consists mostly of women. There are millions of women—moms and caretakers at home—looking for an escape. But they’re not going to watch hard core porn; they’re looking for something different—”

I cut her off. “Like what?”

“Erotic romance. Romantic, emotional, sexy shows with characters and stories they can connect to. Programming that offers a sexual escape—an aspirational fantasy—with a happily ever after ending.”

I continued to listen intently without interruptions.

“There’s a huge opportunity to do something breakthrough. To develop programming that will appeal to women who read books like
Fifty Shades of Grey
and so many others like that.”

I’d, of course, heard about that book, but had never read it. I also knew that Universal was turning it into a major motion picture. “So what exactly are you proposing, Ms. McCoy?”

“I think we should option some of these popular books and develop a block of sexy
telenovelas
—thirteen-part limited series. Most of them are independently published, so I have a hunch we won’t have to go through big agents or pay significant money for the rights. Maybe we can even form a partnership with Amazon—I’ve read they really want to get into television production. We can offer the authors an attractive backend position because I think there’s a huge international market for these extended mini-series as well as tremendous licensing and merchandising opportunities.”

The word “merchandising” was like music to my ears. To be honest, SIN-TV hadn’t fared that well in that lucrative arena. SIN-TV baseball caps were our bestseller, but they didn’t generate substantial revenue. “What kind of merchandise?” I asked eagerly.

A knowing smile spread across her face. “It’s endless. Signed posters, graphic novels, sexy lingerie, sex toys.”

I remained speechless as she rattled off more possibilities. Even DVD’s, original soundtracks, and home furnishings. She was right. The possibilities were endless.

“And I think there are a lot of advertisers that will jump on board and support this block of programming. It’s the perfect demographic—Women 18-49.”

Gloria’s Secret’s demo. Is this something that would appeal to Gloria?

“How do you know you’re right? That your idea will work?” I finally asked.

“I’ll prove it to you. Let me set up some focus groups.”

I made a face. Man, I hated focus groups. I hated research dictating to me what I should and shouldn’t do. No one knew better than me how to program SIN-TV.

She held my wry gaze steady. “Well?”

“Fine.” I stabbed the word at her. “Set them up as soon as possible.”

A small but triumphant smile curled on her lips. “I’ll get right on it.” She unfolded her arms from her chest and began to collect her files.

“By the way, how’s your finger?”

I gazed down at it, but it wasn’t the SpongeBob Band-Aid that caught my attention. Instead, it was the ring on the fourth finger of her other hand—a piece of shit diamond, but nonetheless a diamond. Fuck. She was officially engaged to the dentist.

“It’s fine,” she replied, but I hardly heard her. I chewed down on my lip.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire,
my sister used to shout at me. My balls were on ice; my cock was in meltdown. It felt like a punch in the gut. Why the hell did I feel this way? I hardly knew her. She was just an employee. A recent college grad.

“Call me if you need anything,” I heard her say as she pranced out of my office.

Arching my head, I slumped against the couch and blew out a huff of air. I needed her lips back on mine. And wanted them in more places than one.

Blake

A
t six o’clock, my father stopped by for our weekly tête-à-tête. Usually, we met on Thursdays, but later this week, he had to be in New York for a stockholder’s meeting. He was impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored pewter suit that complemented his full head of wavy silver hair. My lucky old man hadn’t lost one hair from that head of hair of his. And at sixty-five, he was still in great shape, working out with a trainer at the company gym daily. I was hoping his luck would be passed on to me.

As always, we sat outside on my terrace, sipping brandies and smoking cigars. It was our little tradition. Our way of catching up on both business and personal matters.

“So, how’s the new girl?” my father asked after a drag of his Montecristo No. 4, a Cuban cigar Denzel Washington had given him at the Emmys. His voice was gravelly, and he’d never lost his “New Yawk” accent despite living in California for over half a century. My father was well aware of my history with development assistants—D-Girls—as they were commonly called in the industry. I’d been through them like water. No one lasted beyond three months. They couldn’t handle me. The joke around the office was that I
burned
them out. (Get it?)

Taking a puff of my cigar, I thought about Jennifer McCoy. She’s sexy, feisty, and fucking with my head. And driving my cock crazy. “She’s okay,” I said flatly.

“She’s got a sharp mind, that little fox. I was very impressed by the questions she asked during the guest lecture I gave for one of her courses. I told her to consider Conquest when she graduated, and when she sent me her thesis, I was totally blown away.”

“What did she write it on?” I asked.

“The Sexual Appeal of
SpongeBob SquarePants
.”

My brows did a pull-up.
SpongeBob NoPants
would have made more sense.

My father took another puff of his cigar. “Has she come up with any programming ideas?”

I took a sip of my brandy and then told him about her idea of targeting women with erotic programming during the daytime. I told him I was dubious.

To my surprise, my father nodded with approval. “Mommy porn. That’s fucking brilliant, son. Totally fresh and out of the box.”

“What should we do?” I asked tentatively.

He blew out a ring of smoke. “My instincts are telling me to let her run with it.”

“She wants to do focus groups to prove her theory.”

My father smiled and nodded again. “Good idea. It’s about time you did some.”

Unlike me, my father was very methodical and relied heavily on research to make decisions. Usually, they were never wrong, and he sometimes joked he should have done some research before hiring me. A man who had loved only one woman—my mother—he was not too keen about my reputation as a player or my gut-way of making programming decisions.

My father flicked the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray on the small glass table between us. “Put the groups on the fast track. And I want you to keep me informed about the findings.”

I took a drag on my brandy-laced cigar and spewed one word: “Done.” Arguing with my father had no upside. He was the boss. Period. The warm brandy seeped through my veins, making a delicious contrast to the chill of the early December air. Even in LA, it got cold, at least at night.

After polishing off the brandies and smoking our cigars down to the label, we retreated back into my office. My eyes widened. Jennifer McCoy, her briefcase in hand, was standing in the doorway. She had on a navy coat, looking ready to go home. She seemed surprised to see my father and adjusted her glasses.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Bernstein. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your meeting.”

A warm smile lit my father’s strong-featured face. “Not at all, Jennifer. My son was just sharing some of the excellent ideas you have for SIN-TV.”

The expression on her face said it all. Her eyes rounded; her mouth fell open. She had no clue I was Saul Bernstein’s son. And I had planned to keep it that way for as long as possible. To my amazement, she kept her cool. What an actress!

“Thank you, Mr. Bernstein,” she said smoothly. “I hope you’re right.”

My father winked at her. “I have a very good feeling about you, Ms. McCoy.”

She tweaked a smile. Man, she was cute when she smiled.
I
wanted to wink at her. My father continued.

“And I look forward to having you at our home on Friday night.”

My eyes bounced from my father to Jennifer. What-the-fuck was written across my eyeballs.

Unbeknownst to me, my father had invited her to our weekly Friday night Shabbat dinner. The night all things should be peaceful. But at our house, all hell usually broke loose. I did a quick silent prayer. Everyone behave. Please behave.

On Friday at six in the evening, the usual suspects were gathered at my parents’ dining room table. It was elegantly set with fine linens, crystal, china, and silver. My father sat at the head and my striking platinum-haired mother at the other end. I sat catty-corner, next to my father. The remaining chairs were occupied by my overweight older sister Marcy and her husband Matt, both gynecologists with a thriving Beverly Hills joint practice . . . their children, my six-year-old twin nephews from Planet Hell . . . and last but not least, my feisty eighty-five-year-old grandmother Muriel, who lived independently in the guest house on our property. Our house, located in the prestigious, gated Beverly Park area of Beverly Hills was huge—a twenty thousand square foot palace that included a screening room, full gym, and ten bathrooms. Many often mistook it for a hotel. It sat on six acres of land. In addition to the guesthouse, there was a swimming pool, tennis court, and a studio where my mother made pottery. Our A-list celebrity neighbors included Eddie Murphy and Sylvester Stallone as well as billionaire Haim Saban, the creator of the
Power Rangers
, a show I loved watching as a child.