Dirty Dealer: A Hero Club Novel

by Kacey Shea

  “You come highly recommended.”

  Right. This is some sort of follow-up satisfaction survey. God, I hope I’m not in trouble for anything. I was very careful to follow all the rules in my contract, and used my pass and everything. My pass. Shit. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone on set, which I didn’t, but I did allow Jude to borrow my parking clearance pass to get inside the security gate. I swallow, hoping and praying this mistake doesn’t blacklist me from ever working on Americana’s lots for future projects. “Yes, I worked on The Sentencing. We wrapped production today.” If need be, I am prepared to apologize, grovel, and beg for forgiveness.

  “That’s right. Yes.” He clears his throat. “I’m gonna get down to the reason for my call. I’m short a makeup artist on one of our feature films. It’s a six-week contract, six days a week. Starts Monday. If you’re interested I can send over the contract.”

  A job. My jaw falls open, as my mind repeats his words over again just to ensure I heard him right. A big job! I spring from my bed and do a little dance, resisting the urge to scream. Holy crap! A feature film makeup artist job! I school my features and force myself to play it cool and collected. “Yes, I’m very interested.”

  “Great. Fantastic. This email address on your Instagram account still best?”

  “Yes, that works perfect.”

  “Good. Sending now,” he says, and my phone buzzes with an alert. I pull it away from my ear enough to see the incoming email. “You have any questions, or decide it’s not a good fit, please let me know by tomorrow at nine. Otherwise, the job’s yours.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ryan.” I want to ask him who referred me. I wonder if it was one of the techs, or if my work on set stood out to one of the producers. In this industry, it’s all about who you know, which is why I made a point to be friendly to everyone. Today’s struggling screenwriter could be tomorrow’s Spielberg.

  “You have a good night.” He hangs up before I ask the question, though it doesn’t matter. Work is work, and I’m no longer looking at a month in the poor house.

  Opening the email, I pull up the contract to scan the terms. The set—wow—my eyes bulge and I almost scream again. This is one of the larger ones usually reserved for films, and the pay—I blink to make sure I’m not mixing up the numbers. Holy . . . crap! Scrolling down to read the movie title, I plug it into a new web browser and when the articles populate showcasing Cora Bentley, one of the biggest female actors in Hollywood, I almost die. This gig isn’t just gonna pay my bills. This is going to be my big break.

  A glimmer of hope breaks through the clouds and blooms with possibility. This is happening. All the struggle. All the doubt. The crappy days and hard work, it’ll all be worth it. My eyes sting with tears for the second time tonight. Things are finally happening. I squeal and jump off my bed to pump my fist. “Yes! Oh, my God! Yes!”

  “Good news?” Jenni peeks her head in my open door.

  “The best! I just got booked on a dream job.” I stop dancing but there’s no holding back the grin on my face. I swipe away a few happy tears. “Sorry!”

  “Don’t apologize.” She laughs, skipping down the hallway to her bedroom. “Now we both have something to celebrate on Saturday.”

  I slide onto my bed, my nightly beauty routine temporarily delayed. I’ve never been more delighted to read through the fine print of a contract. There’s no way I could sleep right now anyway. Hot damn. This week might’ve started out disastrous, but now the horizon is filled with promise.

  On set: 8:00 AM.

  Crap. My scrolling halts at that time. Not only because I’m not the biggest morning person. No, it’s because I need a ride, at least for a few days. Iron Maiden will still be in the shop by then, which means . . .

  I have to ask Jude for a ride.

  No. I could just Uber. I’ll be making good money on this job. I can afford it. But . . . I shake my head. I don’t have the freedom to throw cash around. At least not until I get my first paycheck. Maybe one of my roommates will take me? I cringe at the thought of asking anyone other than Jenni, and she has her own work to deal with.

  I don’t want to ask Jude. I don’t want to be that needy woman reliant on a favor from a man to get to work. I don’t have to call him. He’d never know.

  But I promised.

  Ugh. Why did I do that? I’ll be riddled with my own guilt if I don’t ask him for a ride. Whatever. It’ll be a day or two at most. “Suck it up, buttercup,” I grumble to myself and pull up his contact on my phone. I decide to send a text rather than call.

  Me: Looks like I’ll need that ride after all.

  Jude: So what you’re saying is I’m right?

  Me: Never mind.

  Jude: Don’t be a poor loser. Besides, I take it this is good news?

  Me: Yeah, I’ll be on set at Americana Studios. They want me there Monday morning.

  Jude: That’s fantastic! Congrats.

  My stomach flutters with excitement. I don’t know why his validation matters, but it does. Another smile blooms on my lips.

  Me: Thank you.

  Jude: What time should I pick you up?

  Me: You really don’t have to do this. I’m only reaching out because I promised.

  Jude: What time, sweetheart?

  Does he really have to use pet names? And why do I like it so much? Ugh. He probably uses them with all women. I’ve known men like him. Privileged. Beautiful. Wealthy. A player in a well-made suit. Jude is the kind of man to make a woman feel special even when she’s just another one of many. Not like it matters, because I don’t have feelings for the man.

  Liar.

  Ugh. Not going there. So he rocks a suit like he’s born to wear them. That, and his smile gives me butterflies. Doesn’t matter. I didn’t come to Los Angeles for a man. He’s offering me a ride out of the goodness of his heart, and I’d be a fool to pass up the offer.

  Me: Can you get here by 6:30? I need to be on set by 8.

  Jude: It’d be my pleasure. Sweet dreams, beautiful.

  I can almost hear him say the words in his deep timbre. Maybe his voice is scratchy with sleep. Where is he this moment? Home in his bed? Out of his suit and wearing nothing but boxers? Or maybe nothing at all. Fuck me. My eyes squeeze shut, but the image is still there. Is his chest clean-shaven or smattered with hair? Is he a grunter or dirty talker? My face flushes as my body tingles with the thrum of desire.

  Glancing around the room, I decide to take advantage of my roomie being out, along with most everyone else, and tiptoe to the door to shut and lock it. The only dreams I’ll be enjoying tonight will be of the dirty variety. Might as well put my vibrator to good use. Besides, it’s not as if Jude will ever know. Minutes later, when I come with visions of him sweaty and spent, his body heavy above mine, I’m not sure that’s exactly true. The next time I look him in the eye, I won’t be able to stop wondering if real Jude fucks anywhere close to imaginary Jude. That’s a very dangerous thought.

  14

  Jude

  I’m bored. I’m horny. And since it’s Saturday and I’m caught up on client work, I have nothing to distract myself. I surfed this morning. I even longboarded to and from lunch. Still, I’m restless with pent-up sexual energy. One can only jerk off so many times before chafing is involved.

  I know because I’ve put that theory to the test. A strong libido is something to be proud of for a man of any age. Not that I am worried. I’ve never had a problem getting it up. But the number of times I’ve gotten hard this past week would put my teenage self to shame. And that’s all thanks to one woman.

  Rachel. I can’t get her out of my head. I haven’t slept with the woman, yet the very idea has me rock hard and stroking myself as if the world is ending and I’ll never get to use my dick again.

  Fuck me. I’m pathetic. Lusting after a woman who only agrees to spend time with me in exchange for free transportation. Hell, she’s even begrudging about that. She doesn’t want to sleep with me. She doesn’t even want to see me.


  I’ve only known her a matter of days but she isn’t the kind of woman you fuck once. She isn’t in it for money. She doesn’t use people for connections. She’s the kind of woman you cherish, thank your lucky stars she ever gave you a shot, and put a ring on as soon as possible so every other fucker knows to keep his hands off.

  But that’s crazy talk. We hardly know each other. She could be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She hasn’t shown any interest, and I’m not the forever kind of man. Yet the thought of her with anyone else sends me into an unexplainable fit of alpha male rage.

  How pathetic can a grown man be? I need to do something. Or rather, I need to do someone. Since work isn’t an option at the moment I scroll through my contact list, checking my digital black book for a potential good time.

  Jessica. Nope. Too chatty.

  Vanessa. No. I think she got married.

  Jenese. Promising. I tap on her number and wait.

  “Look at that! He is alive.” Her melodic laughter skirts through the line. “How the hell are you, Jude?”

  “Better now that I’m talking to you.”

  “Always the charmer. What do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

  I’m bored and my dick is aching for some real pussy. That’s the heart of the matter, but I’m not such a ruthless asshole to say it. “I was hoping for the pleasure of your company. What do you have going tonight?”

  “My friends and I are hitting up a few clubs. But I wouldn’t turn down a little man candy. Join us?”

  “Only if I get to take you home afterward.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m counting on it. We’ll swing by and get you about ten?”

  “I’ll be ready.” But when I end the call I find that my dick has gone flaccid at the prospect. “Fucker,” I mutter under my breath. Of course the first time all day I’m not rocking a semi, and it comes with the promise of getting laid.

  Because my dick doesn’t want Jenese. He wants Rachel. Join the club.

  Doesn’t matter, because Rachel doesn’t want me or my dick. No matter. I’m sure by tonight we’ll both have moved on. At the very least I’ll find a shiny new distraction. A willing partner to extinguish some of this sexual frustration. Though I’m probably fooling myself. I doubt I’ll be able to get Rachel out of my mind at all this weekend.

  15

  Rachel

  “Rae Rae, honey. I need more drama. Andrea isn’t glowing. I need her to glow.”

  I pinch my lips together lest I snap at this idiot photographer and turn today into a complete waste. When I took this job—a favor to my roommate since I earn more booking private makeup clients and working half the hours—I knew I’d be working with a newer artist. I didn’t do my usual check—a phone conversation to see how we’d gel. Newsflash, we don’t. This kid is barely legal and a total diva. We’re set up under a pop-up tent in a parking lot with one tiny generator. No fan. No food. I’m hungry and hot, and not in a good way. My patience for his non-directive demands is melting away with my foundation.

  Glow? He wants her to glow? “I can retouch her bronzer. Darken her blush?”

  He pinches his lips together and lets out a long hiss. It’s the sound he makes when he doesn’t agree.

  “What would you like?”

  “Rae Rae, honey. I just need you to feel me.” He sighs again. “Get in this scene with us. She’s high fashion. She’s stepped off a fucking runway, ya know?”

  God, I’d love to throw a dish of glitter on his stupid face. If he calls me Rae Rae once more, I might.

  He throws up his hands and spins away. “This isn’t working. I need a break. Everyone take thirty.” With more flair than a strutting peacock he stomps out of the tent, a half dozen of his minions racing after.

  Andrea glares and makes her way to my side while a few people remain, packing up clothing into the back of a car.

  “You can’t talk to him like that.” Her voice is low, her gaze sharp. She glances over her shoulder, as if to check whether anyone is watching, then turns back to me. “I got you this opportunity because we’re roommates and you’re good at makeup, but if you fuck this up, Randall won’t ever work with me again.”

  I almost scoff when I realize she’s being serious. I think back over the last hour. How horrible he’s been to everyone on this shoot. The cutting things he’s said to the models are worse than anything I’ve ever witnessed. “He’s not a nice person.”

  She rears back, her eyes wide and blinking. “Nice?” She laughs, but it’s a mean sound. “You think anyone gets anywhere by being nice? This is the fashion jungle, Rae. Eat or be eaten. At your age, you should already know that.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling; a dismissal.

  I’ve never really liked Andrea. She’s catty, and I’ve seen it time and time again. But after working under these conditions for the past eight hours, my tolerance is at an all-time low, and I actually hate her. This shoot was supposed to wrap up hours ago. I should be home right now, maybe enjoying a nap before going out with Jenni. But instead, the photographer threw a tantrum for the third time today and I’m left waiting—without lunch or snacks. But I refuse to cause a scene or get into it with her. “Do you know what time we’ll be done?”

  She looks around, and shrugs before going back to her phone. “I don’t know.”

  “Okay.” It’s really difficult to bite my tongue. I press a smile onto my lips. “I’m going to walk over to that Starbucks. Do you mind watching my stuff?”

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, and turns her back. On me. On my makeup supplies.

  Whatever. I need something to eat and a few sacred minutes of air conditioning. I grab my wallet and walk across the busy crosswalk to the promised land. Since I’m still strapped for cash, I go with a sandwich, trenta water, and venti black coffee.

  Settling into a cushioned seat, I relax for the first time all day. Munching on food, I scroll through my phone and take in photos of my brother and his husband at a music festival. A surge of happiness at seeing their smiling faces is doused by loneliness. I’d give almost anything to be back in Chicago for the weekend with people who actually care about me. But it’s not good to wish for things I can’t have. I close out of the app, but before I tuck my phone back in my purse my finger hovers over the texting icon.

  I wonder what Jude’s doing. I almost text him to ask, which is an insane thought. He’s not a friend. We hardly know each other. Yet our interactions have been the closest to what I miss having back in Chicago.

  Putting my phone away, I finish my sandwich and coffee, then drag my ass out of the coffee shop. Back to work I go. We’ve got to be close to wrap; the sun will be setting soon. I can deal with Randall and the ride back with Andrea, though a few more hours and it’ll go down as the absolute worst day of my life. The sun hits my skin and I sweat while waiting for the light to change at the crosswalk. My gaze travels back to the parking lot as I sip my ice water. What the—?

  The tent is gone. The cars are gone. Andrea is gone.

  I blink, wishing and willing my eyesight to be failing. But no, in the lot where we’ve been slaving to a psycho photographer’s whims all day is nothing more than a stack of crates. My makeup!

  The light changes and I race across the street at the first glimpse of green.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit,” I murmur under my breath, my gaze darting around in search of some clue as to what the fuck happened. I was only gone a few minutes. Fifteen tops! Where the hell is my roommate? I reach my makeup and exhale a little sigh of relief that everything seems to be in order. I’m already down a car; if I lose my supplies, I’m screwed.

  Where the hell is Andrea? My fingers shake as I pull out my cell, expecting a missed call or message, something, but find nothing. I’m so angry, I could scream, but instead I touch her name in my contacts list. It rings once before going to voicemail. My stomach clenches with apprehension. She’s my ride home. We’re hours from the apartment. Over one hundred miles. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck.
/>   Me: Where are you?

  I pace while I wait for her reply, tears filling my eyes even as I blink them back.

  Andrea: Hey, went to grab dinner and drinks with friends. Shoot’s canceled.

  Laughter. Manic and unhinged bubbles from my lips.

  Me: And you just left? I asked you to watch my stuff.

  Andrea: I didn’t know how long you’d be. Someone said they’d stay until you showed.

  My pulse races, irritation growing into full-blown anger. How could she just leave? What kind of person does that?

  Me: I was right across the street.

  Me: You could have called.

  Andrea: Sorry.

  But she’s not sorry at all. It’s clear by her actions. And I just got stiffed for a full day’s work. Damn it! What a fucking waste of a day.

  I grate my teeth, ready to scream, or cry, but attempting to calm down. As much as I hate Andrea right now, I need the ride back to LA. Sucking up my pride, I shoot off one more text.

  Me: What time are you coming back to get me?

  Andrea: I’m staying the night in San Diego with friends. Sorry.

  “Fuck!” I scream to the empty parking lot. Great. Just fucking great. Not only has today been a complete waste, but now I’m out an Uber ride back.

  By the time I pull up to the apartment three hours later, I’m done. Done with this day. Done with hemorrhaging money I don’t have. Done with everything. I don’t want to do anything other than shower, put on my comfiest pajamas, and eat an entire bowl of butter noodles. Okay, I’d like to scarf down an entire pepperoni pizza—with extra cheese—but a box of noodles is what I have in the pantry.

  My feet drag as I head up the walkway, praying the rest of my roommates are out for the evening. I don’t think I can handle any drama or niceties.

  “Rae! Hey! You ready to party?” Jenni pops off the couch, her hair wrapped in a towel atop her head. “I was worried you weren’t gonna get back in time. If we leave in thirty does that give you enough time to get ready?”