As for T.J. himself, I can understand why he would do it, but that ungrateful motherfucker didn’t even bother to let me know beforehand. Then I recall a message the previous afternoon from Daryl Maillot, T.J.’s manager, asking me to get in touch. Had I known it was urgent, I would have returned the call immediately. Not that it would have helped at that point.
“Goddamit!” I slam my fist on the desk. It feels good, so I repeat the process several more times. I don’t dare look through the glass walls because I know my entire agency is looking at me right now, watching as I lose my shit.
First the article about equal pay that makes me look bad, and now T.J. moving to Creative Talents so he can do Phantom. This is all Jackie Hightower’s doing. She’s the only one who could have set this up. Unless…
Shit.
This wasn’t Jackie.
It was Claire Jarrett.
My blood runs cold with the certainty that she has just fucked me way more thoroughly than she did in her office. I underestimated that cunning little wench.
I push back from the desk and stand, my heart thumping so hard I can actually feel my pulse. Knowing I need to calm down so I can rationally consider my options, I walk to the window and gaze at the Hollywood sign in the distance.
As I see it, I have three huge problems: T.J. Holland has left MAU for CT, Jackie appears to be willing to torpedo her pet project of a film unless Cheyenne Parris gets her equal pay, and I might lose that damned bet.
It occurs to me that the first is not a problem at all. It’s irritating and exasperating, and I’m livid at Claire and/or Jackie for pulling this stunt, but it’s done. T.J. is not coming back, no matter what I do.
The last one, the bet, is contingent upon the Texas Flood problem. I only lose the bet if I screw that up, so I set that aside.
That leaves the only truly urgent problem: I have to come up with a way of bridging the fourteen-million dollar gap between Cheyenne’s pay and Drake’s without begging my biggest client and best friend to take a massive pay cut.
Bella knocks, and I turn to watch her place a mug of hot coffee on my desk. “Continue holding your calls?” she asks.
I nod and as she walks away, a thought pops into my head.
“Bella, did anyone from Variety try to get in touch with me in the last couple of weeks?” I ask.
She pauses at the door. “No, no one.”
I grab my coffee and return to the window, continuing to mentally pick apart the dilemma created by the Variety article. It’s fishy that nobody from Variety attempted to get my side of the story, and I can’t help but think either Claire or Jackie had something to do with its publication. Jackie has always been buddy-buddy with Samuel English, so she’s the likely culprit, but Claire might very well have been a co-conspirator. They knew it would make Drake and me look like cavemen regarding this equal pay matter, and it succeeded spectacularly. Now I have to find a way to undo that perception while also resolving Cheyenne’s demand.
The more I think about it, the more agitated I get. I’m seething with anger, at Claire, Jackie, T.J., even Drake. Mostly myself, though, for letting this happen. Drake was right; I dropped my gloves with Claire and she hammered me with a right cross to the jaw. I’m filled with humiliation and indignation and when I feel the rage building in me like a ball of fire in my chest, I know what I have to do.
I burst from my office, stopping momentarily at Bella’s desk. “I’ll be gone for the rest of the day.”
On the way to the parking garage, I fire off a text to Drake.
Working on it. Don’t worry, I got this.
He’ll probably know I’m just stalling for time, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.
When I reach my house, I pull past my gate and leave the car idling in the driveway as I dash inside and head straight for the nightstand in my bedroom. I retrieve the case and open it. The machined aluminum surface of the pistol gleams in a ray of sunlight coming through the blinds. The Kimber Solo is one of the finest handguns made. I haven’t fired it in months, but today’s events warrant it.
Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Twenty minutes later I take aim at my target and pull the trigger. It’s not a bullseye, but not far off. I fire again, then again and again, emptying my clip.
My earmuffs help to deaden the noise, but I don’t mind it anyway. The Burbank Shooting Range is my secret weapon for clearing my mind. The physicality of firing a gun, the concentration required, and even this background cacophony combine to push every thought out of my head. I come here whenever I feel overwhelmed or when I simply can’t get a handle on something. That only happens once or twice a year, but the firing range never fails to center me.
I bought the Kimber Solo a few years back, after a scare involving some crazy guy who was stalking one of my actor clients. The sheer insanity of the incident convinced me that I needed protection. Since I’m not famous, it made no sense to hire a bodyguard, so I bought a gun and took shooting lessons. I carried it in my car’s glove box for a while, but now it just sits at home in my nightstand. Unless I need to clear my head, of course.
Round after round I fire off over the course of more than an hour. I can feel the tension easing from my body, my harried mind growing calmer with every squeeze of the trigger.
Out of nowhere, the solution to everything pops into my head, fully formed and crystal clear, as if it were handed to me by the gods themselves. I know exactly how to get Cheyenne’s pay while doing some image polishing so that Drake and I come out smelling like roses.
I grin maniacally as I finish off my clip. If anyone were looking, they’d be very concerned about the smiling fool with the gun in his hand.
I’m soon back in my car, sending a text to Drake.
Everything’s under control. I have a plan, asshole. Trust me.
He knows me well enough to know the insult is in jest. That done, I dial Link’s number and he picks up on the first ring.
“’Sup?” he says, apparently trying to conserve syllables.
“Wanna make a shit-ton of money?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“You working today?”
“Got a gig tonight, but nothing until then,” he says.
“Good. I desperately need your professional help for a couple of hours. It’s a little strange, but you can make a million bucks or more for two hours of your time.”
“I’m in.” I didn’t think he’d need much convincing.
“Suit and tie,” I say. “I’ll call back with the exact time.”
I hang up and immediately call Jackie Hightower’s private number.
“Mason, what a surprise to hear from you today,” she says, sarcasm dripping from every word. She’s probably been waiting with bated breath to see my name pop up on her phone.
“Hi, Jackie. We need to talk.”
18
Claire
I have re-read the two Variety articles several times since they first posted this morning, marveling at how perfectly my plan fell into place. Sitting at my desk, I’ve been gloating to myself like a teenager who got away with shoplifting. Everything has gone perfectly according to plan. At this point it’s just a matter of time before Stark caves in and works a compromise, because Jackie and I left him no other options.
In mid-thought, I happen to notice the glass surface of my desk and am suddenly swept away by memories of what took place there recently. I remember Stark’s amazing body as he lay naked across it, his beautiful cock pointing straight at the ceiling. I let my mind re-live the incredible high of standing above him with my body completely exposed to him. And of course I recall the feeling of his rock-hard erection in me as I rode him to a blissful orgasm. I even get a visceral thrill at the memory of him pumping stream after stream of cum onto the glass surface my hands are currently resting on.
Before I know it I feel flushed. I’ve worked myself up just by thinking about what we did on this desk, but that’s not the extent of it.
For the first time I feel something for this man. It’s not powerful or overwhelming, but it’s something, and it startles me. I try to convince myself that the attraction is purely sexual, but I’m forced to admit there’s a definite connection between us. Sure, we’re competitive as hell with each other, but I can no longer deny that there’s more at play, something deeper. Does Stark also feel it, or am I alone in this? Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve begun to see us linked by our bet and now I can’t help but wonder if business has gotten in the way of an actual relationship.
Would that have even been possible? Could we have had a real, honest-to-God relationship without all the snarkiness?
Now we may never know.
Before I know it, my smug feelings of victory have given way to a growing melancholy. I find myself actually feeling kind of sorry for Stark. I’m sure he’s not accustomed to losing bets, much less losing one to a woman rival.
I can sense where this is leading and I push back against it. Now that I’m almost certain to win the bet, for some reason I’m getting the idea to release Stark from the wager he agreed to. The million dollars is immaterial, because I’ll make substantially more on my commission from T.J. Holland’s part in the first Phantom movie. But his alpha male ego has to be taking a serious hit over all this. What would making him grovel at my feet prove?
I ponder if Stark would actually hold me to such an insane wager if he won. Something tells me he would. He obviously relishes the idea of having me at his command, of dominating me. Both can be done in the name of great sex, and I would be totally on board with that. If he did them just to be mean, though, I’d have a problem with it. I’m not sure which of those would be his motivation.
However, I’m the one who will win the bet, so Stark’s motivations don’t matter. Mine do. And if I carry through with humiliating him, it would dash any scant hope of a relationship — a sexual one, if nothing more.
I can’t take that chance. Right now I want more of Mason Stark, not less.
When I win the bet, I’m going to absolve him of his obligations to me. Then I’ll hope we still have that connection when all this blows over.
19
Mason
It’s late afternoon when Link and I startle the receptionist at the Trident Studios headquarters. Well, not me so much as Link. It’s not every day you see a six-five, three-hundred-pound boulder of a man with a freshly shaved head, dressed like he’s a Secret Service agent. I’m also in suit and tie, but then again I usually am when I’m working, and it looks great on me because I’m not as big as a truck.
“Can I help you?” she asks, addressing me rather than Link.
“We have a meeting with Jackie Hightower. Mason Stark — she’s expecting us.”
She makes a call, and less than a minute later Jackie’s assistant shows up to escort us. She recognizes me from the previous meeting, but is obviously surprised to see Link.
“Hello, Mr. Stark. Who’s your friend?”
I introduce Link as my business manager.
“Jackie didn’t mention two people,” she says.
“She doesn’t know,” I say with a conspiratorial grin. “It’s a secret.”
“We both know Jackie doesn’t like secrets.”
She walks us back regardless, and as we reach Jackie’s office, my stomach tightens. This is it, sink or swim. If Jackie doesn’t buy my idea, I will be royally fucked.
The assistant opens the door and leans in. I hear her say, “Mr. Stark brought a guest.” It sounds almost like a question. I guess she gets the response she needed, because she opens the door wide. “Come on in, gentlemen. Can I get either of you something to drink? Coffee? San Pellegrino?”
We decline as we enter Jackie’s gorgeous office. I’ve been here several times before, but am always surprised at her incredible executive chick-cave.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Jackie,” I say. “I’d like you to meet my friend Lincoln Ramirez.”
Jackie looks him over, then extends a hand. When Link accepts the gesture, his huge paw dwarfs her much tinier one and I see her quickly scan his body. Everyone marvels at Link’s frame – even Drake, who’s fucking nickname is The Body.
“I was under the impression this would be just the two of us,” Jackie says while gesturing for us to take the two plush seats facing her desk. “No offense, Mr. Ramirez.”
“None taken,” he says in his trademark rumble.
“Lincoln is here because he’ll be involved in our Texas Flood negotiations,” I say.
“Is that so?” She raises an eyebrow. “Well, let’s get to it then, shall we?”
I’m relieved Jackie didn’t ask Link to leave the room. I was afraid she might be uncomfortable with his presence, but that presence is exactly why I had him come. I need Jackie to be distracted just enough to put her out of her comfort zone, and Link will do the trick just by making that huge dark blue leather chair look small. He has a way of getting people uneasy until they get to know him, which can take a while.
First things first. I try to look as sincere and contrite as possible and say, “Before we get started, Jackie, I want to apologize for my comment the last time we saw each other. Things got heated and I took a cheap shot. I hope you know how much respect I have for you, and how I know you earned your position here the right way, by being a tremendous studio executive.”
She’s not surprised by the apology, because we both knew my snarky comment would have been hanging over us like a dark cloud until I addressed it. When she smiles wanly and glances at Link, I sense that she’s wondering if he knows what was said, as well as the rumors about her.
“I understand,” she says. Not exactly a gracious acceptance, but who can blame her? She doesn’t realize that even if she actually did use sex to get ahead, I’d respect her for that. This business we’re in is eat or be eaten, and if the menu included dick and she partook heartily of that particular entrée, who am I to judge? I’ve done things I’m not exactly proud of myself along the way.
“Good. Can we move on?” I ask.
“We have no choice, do we? I’m anxious to hear this big idea of yours, Mason. I figured the Variety article would bring you back to the bargaining table.”
“Was that article you’re doing?” Jackie’s half-smile is all the confirmation I need. “Nice. You really know how to put a guy behind the eight-ball. I suppose casting T.J. as the lead in The Phantom Peril was Claire’s idea, since you would have come to me otherwise, seeing as how he was my client?”
“You can’t deny that T.J. is the perfect choice to play the Phantom. You should have suggested it to me before.” That’s far from a denial of Claire’s involvement.
“Is it actually going to happen, then? You’re going to make Phantom?” I ask.
“Trident was committed to the reboot regardless. So, yes, it will get made. I gave T.J. my word.”
And Claire as well, I assume. I decide I’ll just have to try to ignore the fact that the woman on the other side of this impressively expensive desk was instrumental in robbing me of a big client. No matter how badly I’d love to rake her over the coals for that breach of ethics, I need her right now.
“So here’s our problem as I see it,” I say, “and to be certain, it is our problem – mine, yours, Cheyenne’s, Drakes, Claire’s and Mona’s, with hundreds of other people’s jobs riding on us finding a workable solution.”
Jackie isn’t convinced. She knows at this moment it’s more my problem than anyone else’s.
“Ideally, that solution must be dynamic enough to resolve several issues and keep everyone involved happy. Furthermore, nobody should come out of this looking like they lost a battle. And lastly, Texas Flood needs to be made with no changes to the top-billed cast. Can we agree on those points?”
“Sure,” she says. “And you have this magic solution?” She looks over at Link and smiles. It seems she doesn’t want to look too snarky in front of this quiet stranger.
&nb
sp; “I do. And it’s perfect, if I must say so myself.”
Jackie leans back in her chair and interlaces the fingers of both hands in front of her, her expression reflecting deep skepticism.
“Dazzle me with your brilliance, Mason.”
20
Claire
I’ve just finished my evening workout and shower when Jackie calls. I haven’t heard from her yet today and assume she’s calling to discuss this morning’s Variety article and the future of Texas Flood. I wrap a towel around my dripping body as I answer the call.
“I hope you’re sitting down, Claire.” She pauses dramatically, then says, “We won.”
What?
I’m stunned that anything has been resolved this quickly. It’s so far removed from the realm of possibility that I can’t wrap my brain around it.
“How?” is all I can muster.
“Mason Stark just left my office. Drake Manning has agreed to come down seven million dollars on his salary. That money will go to Cheyenne.”
Impossible.
“How did Stark…?” I can’t complete the question. This makes absolutely no sense.
“There were negotiations involved, but it boils down to Manning wanting to be known as the actor who took less money to make this equal-pay thing a reality. His female fans will love him even more for it.”
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason Page 10