by Kat T. Masen
“Okay, so growing up, Scarlett has always aspired to be a star.”
Her body gestures indicate she’s bored with the questions. Granted, they’re not about her, but her boss instead. I finish my water in one go, counting down the time until this is over.
“From the age of three, she entered beauty contests in every county. Her mother would save every penny, sometimes doing odd jobs for locals so she could spend it on her outfits.”
“The American Dream, right?” I joke.
“To some.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“At the age of ten, a Hollywood producer happened to be driving through town and saw her at a local diner. She was singing and dancing for the patrons and so he dubbed her the next Shirley Temple.”
“Quite an image to live up to, don’t you think?”
With a long pause, she pulls the glass to her mouth and drinks some water, continuing her silence. How long do I have to fucking wait for an answer?
“She dreamed of being that. So no, to answer your question, she aspired to something and she followed her dream. Not many people get that chance, Noah.”
Watching her closely, Morgan fidgets with the napkin sitting on the table. The way she says those words seem odd, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. The espresso was running through my veins, making me extremely alert.
“She’s determined,” I say.
With a darker tone, she responds, “That, and luck. She happened to be there at the right time.”
“Good karma.” I laugh inside. How ironic, me believing in karma.
“Karma?” she repeats with a sinister laugh. “C’mon Noah, you can’t possibly believe in karma?”
She’s waiting for me to respond, but I’m taken aback by her odd question. When Rose asked me this question, I laughed it off. Then ten minutes later, my world completely fell apart. I don’t want to take that chance—Karma’s watching me with a magnifying glass.
“A wise person once asked me if I believe in karma. I don’t, but five minutes later, it bit me in the ass,” I say honestly.
She arches her brows. “What do you mean?”
“We all have a past, don’t we? Mine just collided with my future.”
“I see,” she says quietly. “So, shall we continue?”
I go back to my notes. Distracted by our change in subject, I move my cursor over the next point, trying to grasp some professionalism. Why the fuck does she make me feel so uncomfortable in my own skin?
“Her first three movies were blockbuster hits. What insight can you give me into that?”
“She loves it. It distracted her from her mother passing away. Her sister gave up college to take over her career and made sure she stayed with the right people.”
“I guess you hear these horror stories that come from being in Hollywood. How does she manage to stay grounded?”
“The right support network.”
Morgan talks about the team that Scarlett works with. From her makeup artist to wardrobe assistant. Her PR team and her newly created social media team. She has sixteen people working for her, not including her housekeeping staff and multiple chefs. I can’t believe one person can have so many people surrounding them. It shows how in demand she is, and why directors are throwing scripts at her left, right, and center.
“Is there anything you can share that perhaps is not public knowledge?” I ask openly.
Keeping my gaze, she answers, “That’s a question best directed at Miss Winters.”
“Right, and that would be when?”
She shakes her head, keeping her smile at bay. “You’re very keen to meet her, aren’t you?”
“Well, it is the point, isn’t it?” I question her back, annoyed by her uninteresting question.
She doesn’t respond and avoids my persistent stare. I wait patiently, wondering what comeback she’ll have to that.
“I’m going to make something clear, in case it isn’t already. Can you please stop recording?” she demands.
I press stop, unsure why I’m following her request.
“Scarlett’s relationships are well monitored by the tabloids. Despite some of the trash you may read, Scarlett’s team try very hard to protect her personal life,” she informs me. “Now, given your display of... what’s the word I’m looking for... interest in the waitress, I would hate to think that your fascination in meeting Scarlett is anything but on a professional level.”
My jaw is clenching, biting down to stop me from saying the words I want to say. The nerve of this woman! How dare she question my integrity based on some harmless flirting with a waitress. I can feel my blood boiling and the vein on my forehead ready to burst at any moment, creating an ugly display of the hostility between us.
“I am many things, Ms. Bentley, but unprofessional is not one of them. I work hard, and yes, I play hard,” I insist, with a bitter tone. With my anger contained, barely, I veer in the opposite direction. She’s made me uncomfortable this whole meeting, and so now, I will turn the fucking tables on her. I’ve done this over and over again, I’m good at reading women. This bitch just needs a reality check.
“Tell me, Morgan, do you get much of a social life given the hectic schedule you have?”
Her body stiffens, taken aback by my forthcoming question. “That’s a personal question, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, depends on your answer.”
Without saying a word, she starts packing up, answering loosely, “Not much. I’m busy. I don’t need a social life.”
“Everyone needs a social life,” I tell her, leaning slightly closer. “You’d be surprised how much fun you can have.”
I watch her sit in awe of my comment, and the way her legs twitch as she crosses them under the table.
Wow, way to go. You got through to the prude’s legs. Now what?
“I have fun, but perhaps my idea of fun is slightly different than yours.”
“Really, you think?”
“I bet you,” she says, leaning in closer to challenge me.
“I don’t take bets lightly.”
“Neither do I, Noah.”
And there it happens again, that electric current that runs through my body every time she says my name. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, and every part of me knows I can’t fuck her if I want to keep my job, and of course, get to Scarlett.
Kate and Charlie will kill me.
But I have difficulty letting this one go. She ruffles my feathers in the most annoying way. I don’t know what I’ve done for her to be so resentful.
“So, tomorrow night. Why don’t we work over dinner and then have your type of fun afterward? I’m new to Cali, so I’m sure a local like yourself knows where all the fun places are,” I suggest, calling her bluff.
The prude wouldn’t last two seconds with me in a social environment. She’ll probably break out in hives and have to go straight home. I can see it now, she’s not that tough.
“Tomorrow? Night?” She stops long and hard, thinking about my proposition. “There’s a restaurant just off Sunset that’s nice. Perhaps we can go for a walk afterward.”
A walk is her idea of fun?
Already bored with the idea, I put on a fake smile. “Sounds great.”
“I have to be somewhere at eight. Can we make it early, say five?”
“Of course. So tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeats.
Her body, across the table, sits only an arm’s length away. My hand itches to run my finger across her lips, and imagine what they would feel like wrapped around my cock. Fuck. Stop thinking about this! You just want what you can’t have, and she is the most frustrating woman you’ve ever met. If her mouth was all over your cock, you’d shove it further down her throat just to see her eyes water. Maybe then, she’d loosen the grip of the giant pole that’s stuck up her ass.
She looks at her watch, telling me she needs to leave. Argh, honestly. This whole meeting’s a bust.
I can only
imagine how boring her life must be.
All work, no play.
Then home to her litter of cats.
“The cats need feeding,” I mumble beneath a breath.
With her purse and laptop in hand, she throws some bills on the table, moving her stare back to me. “I gather you have all the information you need for today?”
“Yes, Ms. Bentley,” I respond in a formal tone.
Pushing her chair under the table, she leans forward closely to me. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, igniting my senses. Her expression changes. And just when I think she’ll say goodbye, her eyes become hard and hostile. A hint of fire raging inside them.
Leaning her right hand on the table, giving me the perfect glimpse of her cleavage, she watches my lips as they part with curiosity.
“Not cats, Noah, just one pussy. And yes, it does need feeding.”
Chapter Eleven
Morgan Bentley’s words eat away at me. I don’t know if it’s her words, the insinuation, or the way she said them with such hatred. And then she goes and talks about her pussy. Given her unpredictable mood swings and personality shifts, I have no clue what it means. I think about asking Charlie, but mentioning the word pussy feels exceptionally awkward. Kate’s busy at some convention, and with the time difference in the UK, she’s of no help anyway.
It’s massively doing my head in.
I’m not the type of man to dwell on things too much. And although I’d spent the day in Morgan hell, I manage to get over it by distracting myself with a Lakers game.
Lex kindly offered to take me, and with his courtside seats, how could I say no. Throughout the game, I think about Benny and Tom. How much I miss being around them, and even though Lex is great to hang out with, the boys know exactly how to have fun. The perks of not being in a relationship—we did whatever, whenever.
As I lay in bed, my conscience gets the better of me. I send Benny a text. Again apologizing for what I’d done and that I had moved to LA. The stupid fella still has his read receipts on—something Tom would constantly nag him to switch off because then the women he was trying to avoid would know he read their messages.
He obviously reads mine, doesn’t respond, and that’s the end of that.
Every time I shut my eyes, my mind does this crazy thing, racing through different memories and different people, reminding me that life has become complicated, and somehow, I feel out of place. In this world, in my own skin. I don’t think in my entire life have I ever reflected back on my actions as much as I’m doing now. And why? Because Benny and Tom never allowed it. We didn’t wallow in pity when things turned bad. Instead, we got drunk and flew to another country to party away our troubles. It worked every time. Unfortunately, now, I don’t have that luxury. Not only are the guys not talking to me, but I also can’t let Lex and Haden down. They work themselves to the bone and I am not a slacker.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the walls of the guest bedroom. Although it’s dark, the white and navy striped wallpaper creates a shadow, capturing my attention for a moment. I miss my own apartment. I miss having the freedom to bring girls back to my place. And mostly, I miss being five minutes away from my mom.
My cell lights up, reflecting off the dark wall, and sitting on my home screen is a text from a girl I slept with last year. I sit up in bed with a smile on my face. Zoey’s a great gal, gorgeous, and extremely giving in the bedroom.
Zoe: Hi. What have you been up to?
I respond with a slight eagerness.
Me: Hey there, stranger. Long time, no speak. I’m in LA now. About a five-hour drive from you if I’m not mistaken. So what’s been happening in the world of Zoey Richards since we last left off? And BTW where we last left off would be a great place to pick right back up.
Great line. I’m mentally patting myself on the back for that one. Like most of the girls I wind up in bed with, Zoey had just broken up with her ex. She was going through a rough period, and our worlds happened to have collided. The second time around was pure coincidence. I ran into her at this bar while visiting a friend and she happened to be there. It was just what I needed. In fact, I wanted to hook up again but her dumbass roommate seemed to always be in the way.
Zoe: Nothing much. I moved closer to the beach. So you’re in LA? With a girlfriend?
I chuckle quietly at her comment.
Me: C’mon Zoey, I don’t settle down. Free if you are, gorgeous.
I begin typing a dirty message, reminiscing about the time we fucked in her room and how when she came, her body did this delightful shudder. Nothing like a walk down memory lane. But somewhere in the middle of my text, another one appears, and it’s from Morgan.
I quickly abandon my text to Zoey, opening up the one from Morgan.
Morgan: I can see a flaw in your marketing plan. Perhaps Noah Mason is not so perfect after all?
What the! The blood in my veins begins to boil. This woman has some sort of radar on me. She knows how to beat me down when I’m already feeling low. Quickly, I type back.
Me: Not everyone can be perfect like you, Ms. Bentley.
The bubble appears as I twitch my legs underneath the sheets impatiently, crossing my arms while I prepare myself for the wrath of her words.
Morgan: Never said I was perfect, and trust me, I’m far from it. Send me another draft with your dates correct for my perusal tomorrow. Good night, Noah.
Are you fucking kidding me? I’m meticulous with my work. And rarely do I get my dates wrong. I scramble out of bed to grab my laptop, powering it up as I wait for it to load and check my spreadsheet. In the meantime, Zoey’s sent me a long, drawn-out text about her being engaged or some shit. I skim through it quickly and respond with ‘Good luck, your roomie’s a lucky guy.’ Leaving that conversation immediately.
When I scan through my spreadsheet, I can see that one date has a slight error in the calculation but nothing that affects the project. Miss Stuck-Up-Multiple-Personalities-Bitch obviously has nothing else to do but torment me.
Me: Thank you for picking up that MINOR detail. Corrected, resent, and I apologize for being the center of your attention tonight.
I hit send, tapping my cell hard. That should shut her the fuck up. A few seconds later, she responds.
Morgan: What can I say, Noah, attention to detail is why I’m great at my job. And as for being the center of my attention tonight, you can only wish you were.
What the fuck does that mean? I think about a witty response. But through my anger, nothing comes to mind. Instead, I toss and turn the whole night barely getting any sleep.
***
The next morning, I wake at the crack of dawn, eager to get the day started. I begin by going for a run through the neighborhood, then follow with some weights in Lex’s gym. It’s nice to get back to a routine that feels natural. That, and I don’t want to lose my muscle. One great thing about staying here—Charlie’s cooking. She knows how to cook, and with every meal she serves, she makes sure I have seconds, worried that I’ll starve to death.
I’ve never in my life been concerned about my weight, but the amount of pasta I ate last night will be a reason to avoid scales at all costs. And so, keeping up my fitness is paramount.
My need to burn off the excess energy is also from Morgan’s text. God, she riles me up even when she isn’t around. I’m this close to telling her where to shove her prissy attitude but focusing on the silver lining—she’s my golden ticket to Scarlett Winters. Once Scarlett’s mine, I will demand she get rid of her and find someone with less attitude.
Geez, cocky bastard. Listen to yourself, once Scarlett’s mine. It’s comical, to say the least.
Showered and changed, I head downstairs to be met with dead silence. It’s a heavenly sound, one I’d yet to experience in this household.
“Wait,” I say as I walk into the kitchen, pausing, raising my hand to my ear. “Is that what I think it is?”
“What?” Charlie’s scanning the room in confusion.
> “Silence.”
She laughs, switching on the pot of coffee, still dressed in her PJs. “This happens only twice a day. Before six and after eight,” she says with a peaceful expression. “You’re up early, and dressed. Quite fancy, actually. Someone special you’re seeing today?”
“No one special,” I tell her. “Just another meeting with Scarlett’s assistant.”
“That’ll be your third meeting, right?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I guess so.”
Charlie’s inquiring mind continues to watch me quietly. I really want to tell her to stop, because I know at any moment she’s going put on her lawyer hat and ask a million questions. She has the inability to let something go.
“It’s odd, don’t you think, that you haven’t met Scarlett yet?”
I delay my response, purposely bringing the cup of coffee to my mouth. “She’s out of town. She’s supposed to be back next week.”
“But her assistant hasn’t scheduled anything in?” she says the word assistant like it’s a false title.
“Her name’s Morgan,” I correct her. “And no, not yet. Like I said, she’s out of town.”
“Morgan, eh?” she repeats with a twisted smirk. “First-name basis?”
I roll my eyes at Charlie and let out a childish groan. Here we go again, Mrs. Meddler. Mrs. All-Up-In-Your-Business, Charlie. Now would be the perfect time to air my frustrations with Morgan’s behavior. But I know Charlie will read way more into this than what it is. And what is it? Nothing more than a prissy, stuck-up, wannabe actress with a pole shoved so far up her ass she can barely walk.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I respond in an extremely neutral tone. “I’m not attracted to her. Okay?”
“Okay.” She grins, dropping the subject completely. “So, next month Lex and I have this thing. What are the chances of you still babysitting the girls?”