by Kelly Myers
Dark Kisses
Kelly Myers
Copyright © 2021 by Kelly Myers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Excerpt: My Secret Daddy
Invitation to join Kelly’s Newsletter
Blurb
Protector, Warrior, Angel of Death.
When a stalker turns his attention to me,
I turn to Jax Wilder for protection.
Owner of Platinum Security, he lives in the shadows and I live in the spotlight.
Haunted by guilt and failure, he’s a bad boy to the bone who drinks, smokes and swears.
I’m Hollywood glamour, a lady with an image to uphold.
We couldn’t be more opposite, but I’m drawn to him.
His tattoos, his motorcycle, his gun. And the feral way he looks at me.
When my life is threatened, Jax vows to stay by my side.
He tells me he doesn’t do relationships, but my savior plays dirty and I can’t resist his dark kisses.
At this point, I’m not sure what’s worse-
The death threats…
Or, knowing that once this is over, this Fallen Angel will walk out of my life forever, breaking my heart into a million pieces!
1
Easton
I hit play and listen to the message again: “Hi, Easton. I'm watching you.” The manipulated voice is unfamiliar, hidden by some voice-changer app that makes it sound deep and gravelly, almost mechanical, and extremely creepy. The second message begins to play: “Why aren’t you answering my calls, Easton?” And, the third: “Where might Easton be on a Tuesday night?”
I shiver, hit stop and look over at my personal assistant, Olivia Williams. She scrunches up her face. “How many now?” she asks and tips her blonde head at my house answering machine. We stand in front of the desk in my office, staring down at it like it’s some kind of vicious creature on the verge of snapping its razor-sharp teeth.
“Over 30,” I say. “They’re coming every day now.”
“I think it’s time to call the police.”
I sigh and smooth a hand over my perfectly-coiffed raven hair. I didn’t want it to get to this point, but I think Liv is right. “I want to keep it as quiet as possible,” I tell her. “If the gossip rags find out, I’m never going to hear the end of it.”
She nods. “Of course. I’ll call and find out what we can do. Maybe get a restraining order?”
“Against who?” I ask, feeling a wave of frustration. “I have no idea who’s calling.” And, let’s face it, I’m Easton Ross, famous actress, loved by some and hated by others. It could literally be anyone.
“That’s the police’s job. They’ll figure it out and put a stop to this.”
“I hope so.” My life is a whirlwind of meetings, junkets, parties and endless work. I do not have time to deal with a stalker on top of everything else.
“Just relax, I got this,” Liv promises. “Why don’t I have Jacques make you a cup of chamomile tea?”
“Thanks, Liv, but make it champagne. You’re the best.” And, she really is. Liv keeps me sane and my fast-paced life in order. She takes care of everything from my busy schedule to my appearances to my household. She’s competent and the closest thing to a girlfriend that I have.
How sad is that?
Liv’s petite frame walks out of the office and I drop down, sinking into my sheepskin settee by Old Hickory Tannery. It’s warm, fuzzy and possesses an old vintage charm that I had to buy. I love anything that has a vintage look or feel to it-- from furniture to clothing to cars.
Even my image reflects Old Hollywood. I’ve been compared to the incomparable Hedy Lamarr. She was a striking actress who rose to fame in the 1940’s and was known for her beauty and intelligence. The Austrian-American caused quite a scandal when she appeared nude and had a sex scene in “Ecstasy.” Then, she went on to star in numerous films including Cecil B. DeMille’s “Samson and Delilah.” Of course, I’ve watched all her major work and today her banned performance in “Ecstasy” would probably garner a PG-13 rating.
But, to me, the most amazing thing is she invented a frequency-hopping system for remotely controlling torpedoes during World War II. The invention was filed away and Hedy never received a dime. Today, her invention is used for WiFi, Bluetooth and military defense satellites and worth over $30 billion dollars. Poor Hedy died penniless and alone.
I relate to being alone. It’s a shadow that has followed me my entire life. Being a celebrity has its own unique kind of loneliness. Because though an entourage of people surrounds me constantly, no one truly knows me. Hell, my real name isn’t even Easton Ross.
But, I’ve never told that to anyone. And, I never will.
Fame is a strange thing and to be a star is to own the world and all the people in it. Yet, at the same time, it’s the most isolating thing I’ve ever known. People do my hair and my makeup; they dress me and primp me; they tell me what to say and how to act; they mold my career and make my decisions.
And, I’m so damned tired of it.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the finer things that money can buy. I’m feminine and enjoy having perfect hair and flawless makeup. I have no talent or ability to create the magical looks that these makeup artists and hair stylists do. And, since I would never leave my bedroom in the morning without looking camera-ready, I need them.
Does that make me vain?
Probably, but I have an image to maintain.
Easton Ross conjures up certain things-- raven hair, smoldering green eyes and a body with curves galore. I work extremely hard to uphold people’s expectations. I work out regularly, eat healthy (for the most part) and pamper myself with massages and facials and every treatment known to reduce wrinkles, cellulite and slow down the aging process.
Sometimes it’s exhausting. Other times it physically hurts, especially if needles or acid are involved. But, in a few weeks, I’m turning thirty. My eyes slide shut and I’m dreading it. I’m going on almost ten years in Tinseltown and soon I’ll be past my prime. I feel like I’m about to expire.
I’ll be the actress who used to be pretty.
I let out a long, low breath.
Nearly thirty-years old and what have I accomplished? I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. Sure, I have a career to die for, but then I wonder…
Do I even really like acting?
I mean, it’s okay. It has its perks, but I’ve never considered myself a serious actress like Meryl Streep. Honestly, I kin
d of fell into it and got lucky. I started modeling and then one thing led to another and my agent pushed me out on some auditions. I booked the parts and the rest is history.
But, if this all ends tomorrow, what do I have? How will people remember me?
Oh, my God, I think I’m having a mid-life crisis.
Seriously, all these deep questions are keeping me up at night and no amount of chamomile tea, CBD or lavender oil is helping.
I stand up and wander over to the ornate, gilded mirror hanging on the wall. I turn my face to the left, then the right. I squint, searching for lines, wrinkles, any sign that I’m on the edge of my third decade.
I think all actresses are insecure. We’re thrust under a microscope, examined and picked apart. I don’t want to obsess about such inane things, though. It feels like a waste of time.
Maybe I should follow in Cameron Diaz’s steps and retire while I’m on top. But, she had something waiting for her. Someone.
I have no one.
I hear footsteps and glance in the mirror. Liv walks back into the room and hands me a glass of champagne. I only drink Taittinger’s Blanc de Blancs Comtes de Champagne, the French champagne house’s most exclusive and premium cuvée. It’s made only with Chardonnay grapes from the Grands Crus of the Côte des Blancs region.
I take a sip, savoring the tangy taste on my tongue. A complex bouquet of citrus oil and crisp orchard fruit, it's full-bodied and I always remember one of the James Bond films where he said it was the best champagne in the world.
I have to agree.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods her head and pulls her phone out. “I’m going to call the police. See what they can do.”
I don’t want to be bothered so I turn, wave a hand and walk out. This is why Liv is so amazing. The last thing I want to do is talk to some cop about my crazy stalker. It will be some middle-aged, jaded man who has more important things to handle. He’ll nod along, take a few notes and send someone to drive past my house in a day or two.
Pointless.
Meanwhile, I’ll get 20 more creepy phone calls.
At least they’re only coming to the house phone. And, though they’re a little spooky, not one has been threatening. I don’t feel like my life is in any sort of danger. It’s probably just some overzealous admirer who got ahold of my number after doing a deep search on the internet or something. I truly believe that this will all stop sooner than later when whoever it is decides to switch their attention to someone else.
To a new actress because, let’s face it, there’s always an up and comer who is more beautiful, more talented and younger out there.
That’s Hollywood, baby.
I take another sip of champagne and walk out onto my back terrace. The view is breathtaking and one of the reasons I bought this house. Tucked high on the hillside, I can see all the way to the Pacific Ocean on a clear day. At night, it’s even more enchanting and I like to sit out here and think with the stars twinkling above and literally all around me.
My neighbors include Leonardo DiCaprio, Keanu Reeves, Jodie Foster, Herbie Hancock and a score of other actors, producers and moguls.
I live in the Hollywood Hills, high above the Sunset Strip, in an area known as the “bird streets.” From Thrasher to Oriole to Nightingale, the narrow, winding roads are all avian-themed and set in one of Los Angeles' most exclusive and sought-after enclaves.
My home is on the iconic Blue Jay Way, a steep, half-mile long street. It’s a fancy place to call home and I thoroughly enjoy the privacy and the lofty “10 out 10” views.
I lean against the glass wall panel and my gaze drops down to the hillside covered in brush and then lifts up and moves to the ocean off in the distance. As much as I love this panoramic view, something feels like it’s missing.
Lately, more than ever, I’m feeling…incomplete.
I don’t know if it’s because my birthday is coming up or because I’m unhappy in my current relationship or because I haven’t been as excited to go to work. But, something in my life is off.
My mind wanders to Daniel Rogers who I’ve been seeing for the last few months. He’s 32 years old and a fast-talking producer. With his dirty blond hair and SoCal tan, he’s the epitome of a surfer. But, I don’t think Daniel has ever been one to do anything too physical or sporty. Or, outdoors for that matter. He’s very tan, but that’s all thanks to his tanning bed.
I’m discovering that his reputation is borderline sleazy-- something that I didn’t know when we first started going out. He’s also starting to show his true colors now that he’s comfortable around me. And, I’m not especially drawn to men who are self-centered and desperate to succeed in a field that chews people up and spits them out every day.
Hmm. Maybe that’s it. I should date someone who’s not in the Entertainment Industry.
Right, I think, and sigh. I live in a celebrity bubble, surrounded by agents, managers, actors, producers and directors. It’s impossible to meet anyone normal. And, even if I did, I’ve never taken relationships or dating too seriously because I’ve always had more important things to worry about.
Just when I’m on the verge of deciding to quit acting and become a hermit, Liv sweeps out onto the terrace.
“I just talked to a police detective.” She lifts a little book where she’s always jotting notes. “He said California defines stalking as willfully, maliciously and repeatedly following or harassing someone and making a credible threat with intent to make you fear for your safety.”
“Credible threat?” I repeat. I’d hardly say I feel threatened. Just a little freaked out.
“If it gets worse, we can file a restraining order.”
I wave a hand through the air. As I expected, nothing is going to get accomplished by involving the police. “Sounds like a lot of work. I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until he grows bored and moves on to someone else.”
The house phone rings.
“He also said not to delete anything-- messages, texts, letters, whatever you get. Keep them as evidence. Just in case.”
No one answers the phone and I hear the machine kick on. After the beep, that eerie metallic, gravelly voice speaks, “I'm very interested in being close to you, Easton.”
Click. He hangs up and my heart pounds. I look over at Liv and feel a shiver run up my spine.
“He mentioned possibly hiring a private detective since they do this kind of thing more. I can ask him for a referral.”
I nod and swallow hard. “That might be a good idea,” I admit and rub the chills from my arms.
2
Jax
I sit in my office and flip through a stack of overdue bills. Somehow, it’s gotten bigger. With a sigh, I shove the pile away, place my elbows on the edge of my chipped desk and massage my temples. I grab my pack of Marlboros, shake a cigarette out and light it up.
Fuck me.
I opened Platinum Security a month ago and we’ve had no clients. Not one. Zip. Zero. At this rate, I need to wrangle some up or I’m screwed. I brought a couple of my buddies in on this little venture and I can’t let them down. They’ve had their own share of problems like me and I want to give them an opportunity. A second chance to make things better.
Like me, Griff and Ryker have a certain skill set that can get things done that other people on the up and up might find...distasteful. Us, though? We don’t give a fuck. I pull in a long drag of the cigarette and swipe a hand through my unruly, dark hair. It’s too long on top, always falling in my eye, but what do I care?
To be honest, I don’t care about much.
Except keeping this company afloat.
But, I have no idea how I’m going to do that.
And, at that exact moment, the lights flicker and go out. “Fucking A,” I grumble. Guess the electric bill is one of the ones overdue. I shove my duct-taped chair back, blow out a lungful of smoke and hope my vice kills me.
Preferably by Friday because that’s when t
he rent is due on this piece of shit dump I call my office. Since I can’t work in the dark and since I don’t have any clients, I lock up and head down the sidewalk.
East Hollywood is better than it used to be, but I’m sure tourists consider it kind of sketchy. Tucked between the busy neighborhoods of Los Feliz, Silver Lake, Hollywood and Koreatown, East Hollywood is culturally diverse and a more affordable and eclectic spot that’s artsy and full of mom and pop restaurants. But, between the surge in the homeless population and the grimy feel of Hollywood and Vine, it’s not the greatest location, but whatever. A little dirt, trash and smog never hurt anyone.
And, no one is stupid enough to bother me.
As a former cop, I know I give off a fuck-with-me vibe and I will kick your sorry ass. Being tall helps, I think. There are a lot of short men in this town and I’m just over six feet three inches.
Carrying a gun also helps.
I was in LAPD for just over ten years. Then, my career ended in the blink of an eye last year. But, I don’t want to think about that now. Or, ever again. My past is full of demons with very sharp teeth and if I dwell on it too long, I’m bound to get bit.
After one final inhale, I flick the rest of my cigarette into the gutter and walk into a hole-in-the-wall bar. Time to drown my sorrows. If I’m lucky, inspiration will hit and I’ll figure a way out of this money pit.
Because I’m a troubleshooter. I anticipate problems and then find a way to solve them. Unfortunately, I haven’t been in the right frame of mind to figure anything out this past year. Ever since I lost one of the most precious things in my life…