Hollywood Dirt

by Alessandra Torre

  “I understand that,” he murmured and was grateful when she didn’t press it. “Treats?” he said, tilting his head. “I asked the feed store for treats and got laughed out of there.

  She laughed, sucking some steak juice off the side of one finger, and his thought process went dormant for a moment. “Scraps. Boiled eggs, pasta, corn cobs… they love that stuff. Oh, and string cheese.”

  Cole stared at Cocky and felt like the worst parent in the world.

  Cole had been discovered at seventeen, standing outside a club on Sunset Boulevard when, his fake ID in pocket, he had smiled shyly at some women in line. Walked closer and asked their names. They were older than him but attractive. Had seemed friendly. Laughed off his flirtations but one of them handed him her card. Told him to go home and to call her on Monday morning. That woman had been Traci Washington, and she’d been casting a teenage rom-com. Cole had carried her card in his wallet for a week before he called. The moment he did, everything changed. He had ‘it,’ and that teenage movie turned into a string of movies, which turned into the Cole Masten Empire. Washing dishes was not a thing that he had ever done. He pushed his hands into the soapy water and looked over at Summer. “We can just leave these. That girl comes on Monday.”

  “Monday?” Summer repeated. “It’s Friday night. You’re not gonna have a sinkful of dirty dishes for three days. The place will smell.” She leaned over and ran the water, her body brushing against his, and when she dug into the sink for a sponge, he enjoyed the view down her dress. She caught his stare and elbowed him. “Focus. Just get the food off and stack them on the counter. I’ll load them after I get everything put away.”

  For purely peace-keeping purposes, he obeyed, his head down, eyes on the plates, the food coming off cleanly, the chore quick given that there were only two of them. He heard the clang of a pot and glanced over, seeing two dirty skillets stacked with quick precision next to him. Finishing those, he drained the sink and grabbed a hand towel from the hook, drying his hands. He stepped back, to give her room, and watched her work.

  “So… how do you think it’s going?” she glanced over at him as she yanked out the trash can, snatching items from the counter and tossing them in, her movements fluid and unrehearsed, this act one she’d done a thousand times. He thought suddenly of her audition, on the porch, and made a mental note to add a cooking scene with Ida into the movie. Somehow. Though he could think of no clear fit. He had to be careful. This movie wasn’t his personal memory box with which to store pieces of Summer. She stopped before him and waited. He focused on her questions.

  “Well. We’re behind. Script changes always push us behind.”

  “I’m not talking about the timeline,” she snapped. “I mean us. The flow. The scenes.” She turned away from him and bent over, opening the dishwasher, and he suddenly realized why Doing Dishes With Summer was always a good idea. And it had nothing to do with caked-on food and everything to do with the fact that there was nothing more beautiful than Summer loading the dishes in a sundress. When she bent over, her skirt lifted, and he wanted to drop to his knees and more properly enjoy the view. When she straightened, pulling her hair back and into a ponytail, he stared at the lines of her arms, the curve of her waist, the cut of her calves. She was barefoot now, her feet dusty, and when she reached up for a hand towel she went on her tiptoes, and he almost groaned.

  “Cole?” Her feet had turned, and he looked up, to her sweet beautiful face, her eyebrows raised because, oh right, she must have asked another question. The woman never shut up with her questions.

  “Come here.” He had meant the request to sound friendly, but it ripped from his throat with a growl. He gripped the edge of the counter that he leaned against and willed himself not to let go.

  She stepped forward, her movements slow as she ran the towel across the backs of her hands. Then she stopped, and he smelled just a hint of her soap and couldn’t stop himself anymore. He reached forward, pulling her the rest of the way toward him and against his body.

  CHAPTER 96

  I had wondered when it would happen. Had been surprised when I had first gotten there and he had proposed eating. Had been on guard during our meal, my condoms at the ready, no more dumb mistakes for this girl.

  Washing the dishes… I had thought that was a safe activity. But when I turned from the sink, the way he looked at me… maybe cleanliness was a turn-on for him. I’d been nervous walking over to him, my mind flipping through what I had eaten, wondering if there was pepper in my teeth, wondering if I should reach for my box full o’condoms now or—

  He took all of that away when the bite of his fingers cupped against my back and pulled me forward. His kiss was frantic and needy, his tongue tasting me as if wanting the flavors from dinner, his hands sliding down my waist and over my hips and gripping my butt through the dress. It was so rough I almost gasped, his grip holding me against his body, and I could feel everything this man was thinking through those shorts, and God did I want it. I reached down, I couldn’t help myself, my fingers dragging over his T-shirt and down to his mesh shorts, pushing at the top hem and then under. Under. God. I haven’t touched these parts of a man in so long. And Scott—Scott was soft and a little doughy, his skin yielding if I pressed on it. My fingers slid right down the hard lines of Cole, under his underwear and he tilted up his pelvis as if he wanted it, and then my fingers brushed against it, and he groaned in my mouth, and I just about combusted, right there in his kitchen.

  “Grab it,” he choked out against my mouth, his hands now both in my hair, hard against my neck, and he kissed me as if we would never kiss again, desperate and needy, his tongue against mine. I did grab it, wrapped my hands around his shaft, and he literally shuddered, my body pushing harder against his and when I squeezed it, it twitched. “Jack it. Please.” I don’t know how he managed to say the words, his kisses so close together, his lips on mine, on the side of my mouth, on my bottom lip. I felt his teeth for a minute, then they were gone, and my eyes closed as I tightened my hand and stroked it all the way up, then down, my confidence growing as the man freaking whimpered my name against my mouth. “Faster.” He panted and my hand moved faster.

  One of his hands moved to the back of my dress and there was the rip of a zipper and then my dress was falling, his hands pushing the straps down my arms, my bra undone with talented fingers, his hand tugging it off, and I heard the sound of its clasp as it hit the kitchen floor. “Don’t stop.”

  I wouldn’t stop, I couldn’t, because the feel of him in my hand was so beautiful, so perfect, his hips now thrusting, my hand doing nothing but holding tight and still as he jacked himself off in my grip. It was as if he couldn’t get enough, of me, of my mouth, of my touch. My dress was now around my waist, bunched up and stopped by the connection of my hand and him, his shorts still on, my hand still under, and I pulled at the fabric with my other hand, Cole and I fighting over space, both of us too anxious to be polite. I got his shorts over his hips, and they dropped to the floor. Cole pushed me off, and I stumbled back, my hand releasing him, my eyes opening, half-glazed with arousal, but I could see his chest heaving. My eyes focused on his, and he was as affected, maybe even more, than me. He yanked at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head, and I got a brief moment, when his head was covered, to stare at his beauty. Then his shirt was off, his feet were moving, and he was back on me, his hands settling on my bare waist, and he picked me up easily, swinging me to the counter. He yanked at my panties and then they were off and he pushed my knees apart. I reached for him again and he pushed away my hand, looking up at my face.

  “I’m gonna come if you keep that up, and I’ve been waiting for this, fucking dreaming of this for two months.” He dropped to his knees and lifted my knees, pulling me to the edge of the counter, pulling my legs over his shoulders and leaning forward with his mouth.

  Thank God I shaved. That was my first thought as I watched his mouth come closer, his eyes right there on my most private pla
ce, a place that Scott had only seen once or twice, his interest more focused on—I lost thought, literally lost the ability to think when he ran his mouth softly over the space between my legs and then inhaled. Inhaled. The way you would to a peach, when you can’t get enough of the smell and you want more. I’d done it, countless times. I knew the look that crossed over your face, knew the way your eyes closed. I never, not in a million years, thought that a man would have that look at the way I smelled. It made me want to open my legs wider, made me want to grab at the back of his head and say it’s yours and take it please.

  I must have made some sort of a sound because he looked up at me, and I couldn’t stop my eyes from begging, couldn’t stop my hands from pulling slightly on his shoulders, couldn’t stop one of my legs from slowly dragging up his shoulder, my foot finding a resting place, my body opening even more. He held my eyes for one, long second, his tongue dipping into and out of me. Then he closed his eyes, as if in bliss, and leaned forward, his head dropping, his hands sliding up my thighs and under my butt cheeks, lifting me up into his mouth.

  I couldn’t tell you the things I said. The things I screamed so loudly that my lungs hurt. The man shouldn’t be allowed to have a mouth. Shouldn’t be allowed to use that thing like a weapon, to cut open a woman’s soul, her secrets, her control, and rip them all to shreds. I lost myself, in those minutes with his head between my legs. He took all the pieces that made me Summer and swallowed them whole, made them his. I screamed his name and laid myself bare, and when I came I think I told him I loved him. I didn’t really know. I didn’t know who that woman, naked on a kitchen counter, was. I didn’t know who that man, that heartbreakingly beautiful, sexual freak of nature, was. I just knew that right then, in that instance, I loved him.

  And at that moment, in that breakthrough, he stood up in the midst of my orgasm, yanked me back to the edge of the counter, and he pushed himself inside of me. Pumped his hips quick and fast—deep, furious strokes that made my orgasm never stop, never slow; it just stretched further and further until I lost it, somewhere along the line, and it just became gorgeous, beautiful sex. I wrapped my arms around his neck and his lips found mine. He kissed me, then moved to my neck, his teeth grabbing, then his tongue, and I held on to his shoulders and wrapped my feet around his back and I held on to him with all of my strength and what little control I had left. And when he came, I felt his break, felt his mind fall apart, heard him gasp my name, over and over, over and over, a stream of incoherent mumblings as he lost everything and found it in me, his arms locked around me, hugging me to him, and then I was off the counter and on the floor and against his chest, and the kitchen was finally quiet, save our shaky breaths.

  CHAPTER 97

  He loved her. He did. He fucking loved this woman. He loved her giggle when she couldn’t control it. He loved the mischief in her eyes when she was playful. He loved how her body stiffened and hands balled up and her gaze could eat through a grown man when she was mad. But none of that compared to how much he loved her sighs, the sound of his name when she screamed it, the way her mouth responded to his kisses, her scent—God he could bottle her juices and become a billionaire, but he would never because he couldn’t, in that moment, ever imagine another man with her. He would kill to keep her his, pay every cent of his fortune, destroy his career and never have another if it would keep her his. This was not a rebound, this was not infatuation, this was the end of his life as he knew it, and the realization hit that even if she didn’t want him, he would never ever find another woman like her, he would never ever get over her. He closed his eyes, felt her leg move against his, her chest heaving against his, her mouth by his neck, and he had never been so terrified.

  CHAPTER 98

  The decision was made, after I finally rolled off him, my shoulders hitting the cold tile, my legs trembling when I stood, a moment of awkward silence between us before I giggled and he smiled, that we needed dessert. Ice cream, preferably. On that we agreed. I went to the bathroom and felt a moment of panic when the evidence of his orgasm came out. Right. Another unprotected experience. Good thing I had just finished my period, my window of fertility not open yet. Still, I should probably go back to Tallahassee. I should also have my head cut open and examined because I had lost something, somewhere, that kept me intelligent.

  Quincy had no ice cream shops, at least not that were open on a Friday night past ten. We debated over our problem, but there was really only one solution.

  “Walmart?” Cole looked at me as if I had suggested we stage a coup and overtake the Quincy government.

  “Yes. You know, giant superstore, has everything at every moment of the day?”

  “I can’t go in a Walmart.”

  “Because…”

  “Not to sound like a pompous prick, but because of who I am. There will be crowds. Paparazzi. And DeLuca will have my ass if I am photographed with you. Especially with…” He made some general hand gesture that I’m pretty sure was meant to encompass my magazine article.

  “It’s Quincy. At ten-thirty at night. There will be, like, three people there. And look—” I opened the curtain and pointed. “All the photographers are camped out at my house. Waiting for me to go batshit crazy.” It was true, they were still there, a line of six of their cars, stretched out politely to the left of the Holdens’ gate. Mama was going to turn the lights on and off through the night and keep the blinds drawn, television on. She’d wanted to get more creative with the ruse, but I shut that down. Mama, when she got creative, could go a little overboard. “We could get treats for Cocky there!” I added.

  “There are still security cameras in Walmart.” He shook his head at me. “No.”

  I twisted my mouth, then got an idea.

  CHAPTER 99

  “We’ll look like robbers.”

  Summer looked at the two bags laid out on the dining room table, with a serious face. “You’re right.” Her forehead wrinkled, and then she looked back at him, an excited look on her face. “We should decorate them.”

  He scowled in response, a grin pushing at the corners of his mouth. She clapped her hands in excitement, and it was official: he’d never be able to tell her no.

  “This is stupid.” He pulled at the bottom of his paper bag and scratched an itch the paper was causing against his neck.

  “Shut up,” Summer chirped, leaning over the gearshift and adjusting it, his eyes suddenly better lined up with the holes. They were face to face, her own paper bag covering her features, her eyes the only thing visible, shining through two oval circles, her holes much more ‘feminine,’ according to her, than Cole’s basic circles. She’d added blue eye shadow, giant lashes, and carefully drawn eyebrows, courtesy of a thirty-pack of markers they’d found in the study. “Your eye makeup looks fantastic,” he whispered and became suddenly aware of her hand, on his thigh, where she was resting her weight.

  “Thank you,” she whispered back and giggled. “Though you should get that mole looked at. It’s worrisome.” Oh yes, the mole that she’d felt the need to add, drawn on his cartoon cheek. She’d added a thin hair coming out of the top of it, and just like that, his paper bag self was suddenly ugly. He’d compounded the issue, drawing worry lines on the forehead and bags under his ‘eyes.’ “He looks stressed,” she had said, then added a cigarette, limply hanging from his mouth. “There,” she said triumphantly. “Now he has a reason.”

  “Lung cancer?” Cole had guessed.

  “No!” When she’d shoved at his shoulder, he’d wanted to sweep the bags off the table and take her, right there, the markers pushed to the end of the table, her hair spreading out on the walnut surface. He hadn’t. He’d let her finish. “Bad breath and teeth staining,” she’d said somberly. “They are very serious side effects.”

  “And that makes my bag man worry.”

  “YES,” she’d stressed, picking up a watermelon pink marker and filling in the lips of her woman.

  Now, he stared at those lips, then impulsively
leaned forward, the paper bag crinkling as he pushed his lips against hers through two layers of brown papers. Her hand tightened on his thigh, then it was over. Her eyes laughed at him. “Are you done romancing? I want to get inside before you smear this super-expensive Crayola lipstick.”

  “I’m done.”

  “Then let’s do this.” She fist-pumped and opened his door, opting to crawl over his lap and out rather than return to her side. He didn’t mind, helping her on her way out, his hands friendly, and she shrieked out a protest before both feet landed on the ground.

  At almost eleven at night, they were the fifth vehicle in the lot, if you ignored the line of employee cars parked on the far side of the building. Cole’s steps slowed as Summer strode toward the entrance, her feet hopping over a parking curb. Her head turned to him, and she saw his lag, her hand reaching out and grabbing him. “Come on, chicken. Grow some balls.” She tilted her head at him, the giant bag making her look like a bobblehead, and he grinned behind his mask.

  It was stupid.

  It was ridiculous.

  It was also her idea, and she was laughing, and he would be damned if he interfered with that. He let her pull him forward and they stepped up to the front door. Wearing paper bags pulled over their heads. The greeter, a short older man with a belly, turned, a smile on his face, and paused, the unlit cigar hanging from his mouth drooping.

  “Hey Bob,” Summer chirped, snagging a cart from his hand and pushing it forward.

  “Hey Summer,” the old man drawled, the cigar fully dropping from his lips as he watched her pass, his nod in Cole’s direction slow and cautious. “Hey Mr. Masten.”