Wylde Fire

by Sarah Robinson

  She debated canceling the Lyft and just calling her driver, but then he would tell her brother where she’d been and she’d never hear the end of it. No, she needed the time off the clock and away from the freaking cameras.

  “Hey, Miss,” a voice called out to her as she stood on the front steps of the bar trying to take some deep breaths. “You left this on the bar.”

  She turned to see an older gentleman, maybe twenty years her senior, approaching her. He was holding a tube of lipstick. She didn’t recognize it and it certainly wasn’t hers. She never wore lipstick.

  She shook her head. “That’s not mine.”

  “Are you sure?” He frowned, then glanced back up at her. “I bet it would look real pretty on your chocolate skin.”

  Josie pulled her sweater tighter around her, hoping the Lyft decided to show up sooner rather than later. “It’s not mine,” she repeated.

  “Why don’t you try it on?” he insisted. “Let’s just test it out.”

  “No.” She moved away from him, but he approached her faster.

  “Just try it on, sweet thing.” He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, yanking her backward. “I just want to see how it looks on ya.”

  “Let go of me!” she yelled, struggling to free her arm from his grasps.

  “Don’t be such an uppity little bitch,” the older man said, squeezing her wrist tighter and tighter until she cried out in pain. “I’ve seen you on TV before.”

  “Hey!” A fist came out of nowhere and landed squarely against the older man’s jaw.

  He staggered back, releasing Josie’s wrist and clutching his bruising face. “What the hell?”

  “The lady said let go,” the owner of the fist—a tall, buff young man who looked like a brick wall stuffed in a suit—instructed her attacker. “I suggest you listen to women when they talk. I’d also suggest you leave and not come back. Now.”

  The older man scurried away like a dog with his tail between his legs. She wasn’t sorry to see him go.

  The newcomer turned back to her, concern etched on his features as his brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

  “I…I think so?” She got back up to her feet and examined her wrist, wincing at the pain.

  He noticed her expression right away. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “No way,” she opposed the idea right away. “I’m not spending all night in a hospital room when I know it’s not broken. It just needs some ice probably.”

  Plus, she couldn’t afford the fall out from the media over yet another family scandal. It was bad enough that her entire family was on a reality television show thanks to her brother’s career that chronicled her every move, but knowing that any little thing she did could be used as fodder for an episode was a nightmare waiting to happen.

  “See, I can still move it?” She gingerly moved her wrist.

  A small smirk played across his lips and she couldn’t help but notice a slight Irish accent to his words. “Useful.”

  “Thank you for your help,” she stammered, trying to find something to say to this incredibly gorgeous man who’d just rode in like Prince Charming and saved her life. “I’ll just go find my Lyft now.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked, seeming to ignore everything she just said.

  “Josie.” It was a nice change of pace to run into someone who didn’t know who she was. Although, that wasn’t very unusual with men because they weren’t really the target demographic for her family’s show.

  He nodded. “I’m Callan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Callan.” She started to walk away again, but he interrupted her again.

  “Need a ride home?” he asked, motioning to his car parked against the curb. Of course, it had to be a freaking Range Rover. She wondered who the hell was this guy. It certainly wasn’t unusual in Las Vegas to run in to celebrities, but she didn’t recognize him…although something about his face…he did look familiar.

  She glanced down at her phone and checked her Lyft app. Her driver was still thirteen minutes away. What the hell? She canceled the ride. “Sure? Why not.”

  A ride with a life-saving, potential celebrity sounded safer anyway than with a total stranger vetted only by an app. At least, that’s the story she was going to tell herself to convince herself to get into the car with this drop dead handsome man. And when she said drop dead handsome, she meant it. The dude was gawking-worthy. Chiseled muscles on every inch of his body that she could see. Long, brown wavy hair tied back in a pony tail, and blue eyes that made her knees feel like they were made of jello.

  “Is this your car?” she asked, motioning to the Range Rover.

  He nodded and opened the passenger door for her. “Hop in.”

  “Hold on. One second.” She walked around to the front of the car and took a picture of the car and license plate and sent it off in a quick text to her best friend, Emily.

  “Did you just take a picture of my license plate?” he asked, one brow raised as he watched her.

  “And texted it to my friend,” she confirmed, waltzing past him and climbing into the passenger seat of the car.

  He chuckled, leaning against the door frame. “Can I ask why?”

  “In case you murder me, obviously.” She turned to face him, giving him a deadpan expression like it was the most obvious thing ever. Honestly, it was. Her mother had taught her that trick years ago, and you learn a thing or two growing up in Las Vegas. Men are a lot less likely to act nefariously when they know they’re being held accountable by an anonymous third party.

  A grin spread wide across his face and it only made his beautiful features all the more glorious. “Smart lady.” He closed her car door and she watched as he walked around the car and then climbed into the driver’s seat. “Where to, Ms. Precaution?”

  Maybe it was the tequila talking, or maybe it was the fact that he was daring her to throw caution to the wind, or maybe she was just fed up with the monotony of her life and wanted to throw a wrench at things. She wasn’t sure what made the next words come out of her mouth. All she knew was that she said them and she didn’t want to take them back…and thank God, she didn’t.

  “Take me to your place.”

  Coming 2020!

  Preorder this book from Waterhouse Press:

  https://www.waterhousepress.com/collection/

  Excerpt from NUDES

  A Hollywood Romance

  Now Live!

  Purchase NUDES from the author’s website: booksbysarahrobinson.net/my-books/nudes/

  Prologue

  Aria woke with a jolt, looking around the dark bedroom. As her senses slowly began to adjust, she looked for the source of whatever had disturbed her. Her cell phone vibrated against the surface of her nightstand, the screen lit so brightly it cast a square light onto the ceiling above.

  Yawning, Aria grabbed for it. She glanced over at the man in bed next to her, her heart filling with warmth at the sight of his sleeping form.

  Finally focusing on her phone, she realized she had dozens of missed texts, calls, and emails.

  "What the hell?" she whispered to herself, sitting up.

  Aria, are you awake? WAKE UP NOW.

  Don't look at the news. We need to talk. 911.

  Is that you on E! News? Did you allow that?

  OMG, ARIA! WHAT THE HELL?

  What did you do?!?! This is career suicide!

  Her heart began to race, panic swarming her every cell as she quickly clicked out on a website link her best friend sent her. A photo popped up, and then another, and another, and another, and Aria knew exactly what she was looking at.

  Herself.

  Nude.

  Aria could barely breathe, trembling as she searched social media and entertainment news sites. The photos were everywhere. She was everywhere. Her breasts, her body, her love life on full display for the world to see.

  It would have been bad enough if they'd just been images of her posing, but these were pornographic. These were her in her m
ost intimate moments with a man she'd...

  A sob stuck in her throat. Did he do this?

  She looked at the man still sleeping beside her, fear gripping her heart.

  This couldn't be happening.

  Chapter One

  Two Months Later

  "Wait until you meet our lead." The heavyset producer's eyes glinted with excitement as he spoke. He brought a sandwich up to his lips, taking a bite and continuing around a mouthful of food. "She's only had small roles up until this film, but she's up-and-coming. No doubt about it. Aria Rose is poised to take the world by storm come Oscar season."

  Ben didn't reply, too distracted watching the producer trying to wipe a blob of mayonnaise off his tie. Arthur Atwood was a large man with a messy comb-over and an ill-fitting suit, which must have been a deliberate choice since Ben knew Arthur made a handsome salary.

  Is he licking his tie?

  His new right-hand man was actually licking mayonnaise off his tie. Not a good sign. Ben made a mental note never to ask Arthur to have a meeting over lunch at his desk again.

  "Bugger, it's in there good," Arthur muttered in his thick English accent, dropping his tie and slapping his hands on his knees. "All right. Enough of that. Ready for a tour of the studio?"

  "Very," Ben replied, balling up the parchment paper his own sandwich had been wrapped in and tossing it into the wastebasket beneath his desk. He stood, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side.

  They'd spent the morning touring the corporate offices on the lot of Shepherd Film Studios where Ben would be officially starting in two weeks as the company's new chief executive officer. He had agreed to come in on Friday to tour everything and meet the crew on their final day of filming—but the pressure was already on.

  One of the oldest movie production companies in Hollywood, Shepherd Film Studios was well respected, but struggled to adapt to new changes in the industry—the rise of streaming services, quicker distribution on the internet, and other changes that appealed to younger generations.

  Maguire Industries had recently purchased the studio and placed Ben in charge to fix that. He had one year to prove to the board at Maguire that he could turn Shepherd Films back into a thriving production company or they'd dismantle the company and sell it off for profit.

  He was Shepherd Films last resort, and thank goodness, too. No one else in Hollywood was desperate enough to throw him a lifeline. Being an embarrassing public spectacle for the last two years had been by far one of the biggest setbacks in his professional life to date—and his personal life was to blame.

  Fucking divorce.

  "Have you seen any of her movies?" Arthur held the door to the office open for him, and together they headed down the hallways of the main offices. "She's a bombshell—literally one of the most gorgeous women I've ever seen."

  "Aria Rose?" Ben replied, racking his brain for a mental image of the actress. "I've seen a few. Very pretty. She's very talented but never been a lead."

  "Scarlet's Letters is her first starring role, and she's perfect for it. We can watch the dailies from today's filming, and you'll see what I mean. We were really lucky to score her for this film."

  Ben had wondered about that, too. Aria wasn't necessarily A-list, but she was an up-and-coming fan favorite among millennial and younger generations. Her social media attention was nonstop, and there was an almost cult following to her that had made Hollywood execs begin to take notice. Yet, he'd seen the budget this morning. She was being vastly underpaid for this film, and he wasn't sure why.

  They passed the guards at the front desk of the main offices and stepped out into the sun. "How did your team manage to sign her?" Ben asked.

  "Sheer luck, I'd gather. She was following the script around—or so I heard. Determined to be part of it, though I can't say why exactly. The script is great—historical World War II romance with a Hester Prynne theme—and we're already getting some Oscar buzz from it. Still, it's a long shot, and it's nothing like her previous films."

  Ben pulled a pair of sunglasses from his suit pocket and placed them over his eyes. The bright Los Angeles sun was beating down on them as they climbed onto a golf cart to traverse the large lot to the studios. "Sounds like we're the lucky ones, then."

  "You've got that right," Arthur agreed, taking the driver's seat since Ben was still mostly unfamiliar with the area.

  A few minutes later, their golf cart pulled up outside a large warehouse-type building that read STUDIO E in large black letters across the top. Ben climbed out and followed Arthur to a small door off to the side, a red light lit above the door.

  Arthur pointed to the light. "That means they're filming, so not a peep." He placed a finger to his mouth, indicating they needed to be quiet.

  Ben nodded, and they entered the building only to be immediately shrouded in darkness. It might be his first day at Shepherd Films, but Ben was no stranger to movie sets and felt immediately at ease as they carefully made their way over to where the camera crew was.

  Ben's father, Roger Lawson, was a highly sought after cameraman who'd taken a career most people overlooked and became the best. He'd taught Ben to do the same—excel in everything by putting his whole heart into every project, no matter how small or large. As a young boy, he'd spent many a summer day with his father at work, learning the business of not only filming, but creating movies, in general.

  Newly thirty years old, Ben had spent the last decade putting his father's words into practice, rising through the ranks to become one of the hottest names in film production. He only wished his father was still alive to see his ascent, or at least, he had wished that until his ex-wife smeared his name through the tabloids during their divorce.

  Never fall in love with an actress. The one rule his father had told him before he died that Ben had ignored. Lesson learned.

  "Am I to be punished for helping a fellow human being?" A strong female voice broke through the silence around them.

  Ben stepped around a crowd of onlookers to see the set. Behind him was an entire crew, and not a single dry eye. The emotion on everyone's face surprised him. Following their attention to the main set, he saw the set was a bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed was a tall, broad-shouldered man with his head in his hands, wearing a soldier's uniform from the 1940's.

  In front of the downtrodden soldier was a statuesque blonde, her hair flowing down her back in one long, chunky braid. Pieces of her golden mane escaped the braid, framing her face and highlighting her soft, pink cheeks. Pale blue-gray eyes brimmed with tears as she folded her hands over her heart.

  "I won't lie, James," she continued, her voice softer now. "I can't."

  The soldier suddenly stood, gripping the woman by her upper arms. "You have to lie, Anna. Your life is at stake—my life, our life. You'll be imprisoned, and everything we've dreamt of will be over."

  She steeled herself, her jaw tightening. "If this is real...if our love is real...then we'll survive this. Without the lies, the tricks, the falsehoods. We can survive this, James."

  Ben felt a swelling in his chest, a lump in his throat. He wasn't even sure what the storyline was about, and yet, he was captivated by the woman in front of the cameras. Her presence was powerful...she was powerful.

  "No, Anna." He dropped her arms and stepped back, a look of disgust on his face. "We can't survive this. Not if you choose their lives over mine...over ours."

  The blonde shook her head slowly, her hand now on her stomach as if she might be sick. "You can't mean that, James. You can't make me pick between loving you and my purpose in life."

  "It's them...or it's me. Now or never, Anna."

  Ben focused on the actress's face, expecting to see her acquiesce to the steely-delivered ultimatum. Instead, her chin pushed up and she inhaled deeply. Everything about her posture and stance screamed strength, and yet, in the exact same moment, those blue-gray eyes ached with pain. Ben nearly forgot he was watching actors because her portrayal was so genuine
...she was so genuine.

  "Goodbye, James." Her voice was gentle, but resolute.

  The soldier's nostrils flared angrily, before he slowly shook his head. "Goodbye, Anna." With that, he walked out of the door and left her standing alone in the bedroom.

  She waited a moment, staring after him. Her hand slowly lifted to her lips, covering her mouth as a loud sob ripped from her throat. In an excruciating display, her body dipped forward slightly before completely crumpling in on itself. She fell against the edge of the bed, sobbing into its sheets, as the lights on set dimmed.

  "Cut!" the director yelled. "Holy fuck. That was amazing, Aria!"

  The blond actress pushed up off the bed, smiling and wiping the tears from her cheeks. Everyone in the studio erupted into applause, and Ben joined in. She deserved every second of it after that performance.

  A surge of excitement ran through Ben's body—he could do this. With acting like this, there was no way their movie wouldn't be a success. There was no way he wouldn't be able to bring this studio success within the year with a film like this.

  "Hey, Russell," Arthur called out to the director and ushered Ben over to him. "Meet our new studio head, Ben Lawson."

  Ben extended a hand to the grungy looking man with long, curly black hair to his shoulders. "Good to meet you, Russell."

  "Please, call me Russ. I'm Russ Rains, director. I'm sure you've heard of me." He donned a cocky smile. Metal and bracelets around his wrists made a clanking sound as they shook hands—a not too unusual fashion choice in this city.

  "I have," Ben admitted, though he didn't really like this man's ego already. It was certainly nothing unusual in Hollywood, and Ben had met the type many a time before. Russell Rains was a legitimately well-known director with several big box office hits under his belt, though it had been many years since his last. "Your work is amazing, Russ."