Just Fake It
Haley Pierce
Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Another Hot Novel by Haley Pierce!!
Prologue
“I just came in here . . . to tell you that . . . The Devouring Part 6 is at the top of the box office rankings, again,” aspiring actress Mindi says to me, voice muffled and strained.
She has her skirt up, and is sprawled onto my desk at Emblem studios as I pound into her from behind. Just another day at the office.
I pull on her hair, trying to get better traction as she slides up the slick wooden surface. It doesn’t work.
“Yeah?” I grind out, scooping my arms underneath her lithe body and pulling her to me.
My assistant didn’t just come in to tell me that. It’s the twelfth week in a row that it’s at the top of the box office list, making The Devouring films the most successful horror movie franchise of all time. She came in for one thing, and one thing only.
My dick.
Mindi is the worst assistant in the world, but she gives good head. She’s always willing and ready to go, whenever I want her. She lets me bend her and shape her and use her at will, and she never asks for anything in return. But damned if she isn’t dumb as a stump.
Good thing I’m not the kind of boss who expects much.
When I come, shooting my load, the corners of the room bend and sway. I’ve decorated this place with movie posters of my favorite horror flicks, but that’s not what makes it a cool office. The rug is a giant Twister game. There are no chairs that aren’t made of some kind of beanbag material. My desk usually has nothing on it but my collection of puzzles.
Most people would barely call me an executive at all, but that’s what it says on the door outside. Justin Avignon – Executive Producer.
What the office is missing, though?
The bright and shiny. The awards. All the other bigwigs at Emblem have them. Sure, I’m the youngest of them by several decades, but I’ve been in this business for a few years. And I don’t do anything slow. If I want something, I set out to get it.
Mindi scoots up onto the desk, pushes down her skirt, and demurely crosses her legs as I pull the condom off and ditch it in the trash. “I saw a review in—“
“I don’t care,” I snap, holding up a hand. It’s the last thing I want to hear. I’m in the entertainment business, but for long as I’ve been in this business, it’s been anything but entertaining to me. I never read critic reviews because it fucks with my head, and I usually squeeze my eyes shut during my premieres because I can’t stand to watch. In fact, I can’t watch other movies anymore without tearing them apart and thinking what can be done better, what I can do better, to give my movies a little more oomph.
I wonder if Spielberg has this problem?
She pouts. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Justin?”
Joel would say I’m supposed to be telling her to call me Mr. Avignon, which is what I’ve been told is the only way to command respect. But fuck it.
I shake my head as I zip up my jeans, then reach into my side fridge and pull out a Red Bull. “No. Just get your cute ass out there and be happy, sweetheart.” I hand her the pair of panties I’d balled up in my fist, give her a peck on the cheek, and she skitters away.
I smile as sit down at my desk. I do have it made, with a job that hardly seems like work, and gorgeous women like Mindi at my beck and call, all of them aspiring actresses who stupidly think that fucking me will get them closer to a role in my next movie. There is no shortage of hot and desperate pussy in this town; it’s almost boring, how easily I can get my needs fulfilled.
If only all things came so easily.
A second later, I hear Mindi’s voice on the intercom. “Justin? Your father’s on the line.”
My father has been dead for over twenty-five years. The person Mindi thinks is my father is actually my oldest friend in the business, Joel Kiefer, but that bit of info seems to be lost on her, despite me telling her no fewer than twenty times. He’s a billionaire movie mogul and head of Emblem Studios, my number one investor, and the guy who took me under his wing when I first got started. I say, “Okay Mindi,” then pick up the line. “Hey, Joel.”
“Tell me you were not just fucking her.”
I growl. The guy has a sixth sense for whenever I’m playing around. “How did you know that?”
“Because you always are. You need to keep your dick in your pants or it’s going to get chopped off, one of these days.”
I frown. “Did you call to be my chaperone, or what?”
“No. I called because you did it,” he says bluntly.
“And what did I do?” I ask, before chugging my Red Bull.
“The Last Door on the Right is getting some serious buzz.”
“Oh, yeah?” I find that hard to believe. The movie isn’t set to come out until July, for the summer blockbuster movie season. It’s January now. With my films, buzz doesn’t start in earnest until a couple of months ahead of release. “How?”
“Oscar buzz,” he says.
My fingers tighten around the receiver. “What?”
“You heard me. They’re pushing release back to the first week in December, so we have time to strategize our game plan and get you out there. But yes, boy. Early word is overwhelmingly positive.”
I swallow. Yes, The Last Door on the Right is horror. But it’s not the typical slasher B-flick I’m used to making. It’s a definite blockbuster type, but it has depth and substance, and it pushes boundaries. I knew it would definitely rank up there with horror films like Jaws. But an Oscar?
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Right,” he says. “But boy. You’re not Justin Avignon the B-movie producer now. You’re Justin Avignon, the Oscar contender. There’s a difference.”
I frown. “What difference?”
“For one, you’ve got to keep your dick in your pants. The Granville Nashes of this town aren’t going to let you through their pearly gates until you shape the fuck up.”
I toss the empty Red Bull in the trash. “What are you saying?”
“You need to shape up, boy. That’s what I’m saying. You’re not going to get that statue without my help.”
I let out a big breath of air. “All right. I’m listening. Tell me.”
“Oh, boy. Don’t think you can wave a magic wand and get what you want this time. Why don’t you and I get together for lunch, and I’ll go over my game plan with you?”
Chapter 1
“Hey, sweetheart, more ketchup!” The voice is loud enough to rattle eardrums, even over the din of the mid-afternoon rush.
Margo, the head waitress, who’s been here forever and loves piling crap on me, grins sadistically from behind the counter. “Table twelve needs your help. Again.”
I frown. It’s one o’clock on Friday afternoon, and I have three more hours of this shit. Rudy’s Place is hopping, as usual, and this greasy spoon diner will be turning people away for the rest of the afternoon. It’s not the food that has this place so crowded; it’s the location. Three blocks away from all the major movie studios, it’s the only place fo
r miles, so we get tourists and locals alike.
Table twelve is a bunch of a-holes. They’re from the crew that’s filming the new superhero movie for Emblem Studios, and they all think they’re hot shit. All of them are wearing sunglasses indoors and talking too loud, like they’re the only people in the restaurant. Bunch of pretentious pricks. I grab three more bottles of Heinz and drop it over at their table, even though they haven’t gotten their food yet. “Anything else I can get you while we wait for your food, guys?” I say politely.
“I want your ass,” one of them says, licking his lips, his eyes glued on my butt. “You’ve got a nice ass, baby.”
Great. Just another red-letter day in Hollywood. “My ass is not currently on the menu. Not even as a special,” I deadpan, walking away, aware of all their eyes on me.
To think, I came to this town willingly. Stupid me.
I head into the back, scooping change off one of the tables I waited on, doing the math in my head, and realizing that my last table, a bunch of extras from some kids’ television show, only tipped me four percent. Cheapskates. As I’m sighing, the door opens and in walks something that makes me do a double take.
Of course, I’ve served gorgeous people before. You can’t go anywhere in L.A. without seeing beauty. . . it’s everywhere. I’ve even served movie stars before. Once Julia Roberts came in and ordered lunch, and I had the pleasure of serving blueberry pie to Steve Carrell. Plus, there are a lot of struggling actors out here trying to get noticed, so there is more than your average share of beautiful people around, even if most of them are as plastic as a credit card.
But this man? He is off-the charts. Tall, well over six-feet, and built like an athlete. Dark hair, falling in his Top Gun sunglasses, perfect caramel-tan skin, and dark stubble. Scuffed sneakers, dirty jeans, and a beaten leather jacket. When he rips off his glasses, he has a just-woke-up look to him, bleary-eyed and yet somehow sinister. It definitely works for him.
He looks like a movie star. And if he works in the movie business? That means that he has an ego the size of Texas.
I’d know if I’d seen him before, but this obviously isn’t his first time at Rudy’s. He puts his head down and grabs the last open seat at the counter. Margo smiles at him and greets him with her regular, “What can I get you, darlin’?” though even she seems peppier than normal. Because he just has that look that makes people want to stand straighter, be kinder.
As I’m watching him, trying to figure out what movie I might know him from, table twelve starts hooting at me, again.
I spin and look at them. Sure enough, the group of eight guys is leering at me. “What can I get you now?” I ask.
“We’re wondering what you’d charge for a lap dance!” one of the guys says.
I roll my eyes. “The strip club’s down the street.”
I know I’m not unattractive. In school in Nebraska, I got plenty of looks. My friends used to tell me I could be a movie star, and not just because I was a pretty face. My body has always been a little on the thick side, but I’d never be called fat, just not petite. Still, I was the lead in every drama Woodrow Wilson High School put on, from Our Town to Macbeth. Later, I’d majored in drama and been one of University of Nebraska’s top actors. Though I only made it through two years undergrad, my drama teachers all told me that I was “going places”.
So I decided, if I was going places, to get there a little sooner. Five years ago, I quit college, bit the bullet and got my ass on a plane to Hollywood. To make the dream happen.
Okay, I know that the old story about the starry-eyed Midwestern girl arriving in Hollywood full of dreams of stardom. And even when I moved out here, I knew I was taking a chance on a dream that probably came true for pretty much no one. But I’d really hoped that five years later, I’d have avoided becoming the cliché, the beaten-down waitress with three dollars in her pocket and tarnished dreams of stardom.
But here I am. You’ve heard of Beverly Wilson, right?
No?
Exactly.
I’m still just as big a no one as I was when I arrived in this stupid town. At least, I’m no one to pretty much everyone but . . .
“Mommy!”
I whirl, listening to the voice that simultaneous makes my heart leap and all the rest of my body cringe. I told Ava never to bring Brandon to my place of work while she’s babysitting, but damned if I can get my little sister to listen to anything I say.
“Hi, my little sweetheart!” I say as Brandon runs straight into my arms. I lift him up and lay a kiss on his pale forehead. “How are you?”
He’s hugging his favorite Buzz Lightyear plush to his chest. “Good.”
Ava looks at the table of guys. “Bad timing?”
She knows it’s always bad timing at work. Now, it’s majorly bad. “Why are you here?” I hiss at her.
Brandon pulls his thumb from his mouth and says, “Ava said she’d get me a grilled cheese.”
I look over at Ava, who’s shrugging innocently. “All you have in your house is a carton of stale saltines and some tuna fish. What was I supposed to do?”
I grit my teeth. She doesn’t have to tell me that. My cupboard is bare, my wallet is empty, and I’m not due to get paid for another week. She doesn’t have to worry about any of that, since she’s still in my parents’ favor, attending UCLA and getting all her bills footed by mom and dad. She’s also one of the beautiful people, who collects admirers everywhere she goes, including a wildly successful sugar daddy-slash-boyfriend who’s also an accountant from PricewaterhouseCoopers named Tom Pain (no relation to the historical figure). He buys her gifts and takes her to steak dinners every Saturday. Me? I’m not so lucky.
“All right,” I say, motioning to the back of the restaurant. “Take him into the kitchen and have Jeb cook him up one. Tell him to take it out of my pay.”
She nods and sweeps Brandon into her arms, just as Jeb calls from the back, “Table twelve, order up!”
I go to pick up the tray of plates for my favorite table ever. As I’m turning back to the floor, I notice hottie. He’s holding his phone in front of him, paging through it, but his eyes are on . . . me.
Me! Why is he looking at me? Dark and hot at the same time, he’s nothing like the guys who are usually interested in me. I feel my sex clench and my nipples pebble under the weight of his gaze.
Trying my best to ignore him, I heft the heavy tray onto my shoulder and take it out into the middle of the floor. I set up a tray support beside the table and that’s when I notice the guys have changed their demeanor. They’re not leering at me like a sex object. Now they’re just looking at me like I’m something south of pathetic.
Oh, I know that look. That’s why dating has been next to impossible for me for the past two years. Every time I find a nice guy, not that there are many of those in this town, the second he finds out about Brandon, it’s all over. And I don’t want a guy to just tolerate Brandon. Brandon is the single most important thing in my life. If they think Brandon is something they have to deal with in order to date me, they can just go to hell.
I may have brought the house down in Our Town about a thousand years ago, but I’m a terrible waitress. I’ve known that since day one. I try, but it seems I don’t have talent for memorizing anything but scripts. I start setting down their orders, sure I have it right, when the men start to laugh under their breath.
“Not just another pretty face, are you?” one of the men quips.
It’s then that I notice they’re trading plates as I set them down. “I had the turkey,” one mutters. “I had the burger,” says another.
“Oh. Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. But wait . . . wasn’t the guy with the mustache sitting in the seat facing the door, before? I’m sure he was.
The assholes played musical chairs on me.
“Maybe I’d be able to get the order right if you’d just stay in your seats?” I suggest, laying the meatloaf special in front of one of the men.
“Hey, sweetheart
?” one of the guys says, winking at me. “Probably not. No one ordered the meatloaf.”
I freeze. What? I was sure that the guy with the red baseball cap had said meatloaf. Or was that the table before this one? I pull out my notepad but can’t read my illegible handwriting. Or are they just fucking with me again?
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “What did you order?”
“A burger. Well. With a side of a little less attitude.” Red cap smirks up at me. What an asshole.
Attitude? I wasn’t trying to give attitude, but because I hate waiting tables, it just seeps in. I whirl and hear the guys call back, “And come back and fill our water glasses, okay, honey? Quick, now, and maybe you’ll still have your job when you leave here tonight.”
From that look, I can tell that he lives for this. He loves to fuck around. I swear, that’s Hollywood’s favorite pastime. Fucking around. I shouldn’t be surprised. Cringing, I run back behind the counter with the meatloaf and call to Jeb for a burger, well done, asap.
Jeb is going to kill me. He owns this fine establishment and never wanted to hire me anyway, but he’s a grandfather. When I cried and begged him after twelve hours of pounding the pavement to find absolutely nothing, and told him my son would starve otherwise, he broke down. Still, nothing I do is right, and where he used to be kind, lately he’s been snapping at me, probably looking for a reason to pull the plug.
I’ve already used up all my chances. I look down at the meatloaf and want to cry. I’m going to have to eat the cost of this meal. Margo, sensing my thoughts, says, “You break it, you bought it. Put it in the fridge so you can take it home.”
Fuck. I hate meatloaf. But I guess it’s better than starving, which is a possibility, considering the tips in my apron barely amount to enough to buy a Jamba Juice. Brandon and I can split the meal for dinner tonight, maybe . . . though I think the only person on earth who hates meatloaf more than I do is my son.
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