Porter (Dick Dynasty #1)

by David Michael

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “Because she’s my ticket out, Preston.”

  It was only a half-lie.

  And Preston knew it. He grinned at me over his martini.

  “There are dozens of other casting directors you could sleep with to get your big break, Porter.”

  “But none of them are Holly Nash.”

  The weight of the statement packed a hell of a punch with me.

  I told myself that my newfound infatuation with her was just because I wasn’t accustomed to being denied. It was sound logic according to my ego, but part of me was screaming “Bullshit!”

  I did my best to school my features so that he didn’t pick up on it. If Preston thought for even an instant that there was something more to my feelings for Holly, he’d turn into a dog with a bone.

  That bone wasn’t one I was ready to chew on just yet.

  “She’s the best, little brother.” I reached around the bar and grabbed the bottle of Blue Label Johnny Walker that he always kept stashed out of sight. I poured a neat two fingers and raised my glass, “You know how I feel about the best.”

  He rolled his eyes and raised his own glass. “When you can have anything you want,” he lowered his voice and did his best imitation of me, “why settle for less than the best?”

  It had been my mantra for more than a decade. My father had asked me that very question once when I was nine and trying to decide on a birthday present. It just stuck.

  We sipped our drinks and settled into a comfortable silence.

  After several long seconds and another sip of scotch, he set his glass down with a gentle clink and leaned his elbows on the gleaming bar top.

  “Cut the shit, Porter. You like her.”

  The little shit was sharp. I didn’t insult him by denying it.

  “You can try to pretend it’s just business all you want, but I’m not stupid. I’ve known you better than you know yourself. I’ve never seen you like this over a woman, regardless of her job title. There’s a hell of a lot more to this than you’re telling me. I’m gonna guess there’s a hell of a lot more to it than you’re willing to admit to yourself, too. But I’ll tell you this, if there’s anything going on between the two of you, it’s worth pursuing. Women like her don’t come along every day.”

  I downed the rest of my Johnny in a single gulp.

  “It’s been nice chatting with you, baby brother, but I have shit to do. Say a word about any of this to Holly and I’ll kick your ass.”

  I walked out of my Preston’s house without another word or a backward glance. There were a lot of things I’d talk to the kid about, but my infatuation with his friend was not one of them. He was reliable in a lot of ways, but keeping secrets for me had never really been one of his strong suits.

  Especially where women were concerned.

  I climbed inside my Land Rover and slammed my finger down on the ignition button. The engine and the stereo roared to life in unison, the soothing sounds of Metallica’s ‘Fuel’ came blaring out of the speakers. There was no room left in my head for Preston’s words to echo around and for this, I was thankful.

  I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal, shooting gravel behind me in an impressive spray of tiny projectiles.

  I shot onto the street and made a right. I wasn’t sure where I was going, or what I’d do when I got there, but it seemed that my foot was in a hurry to arrive.

  I found myself flying south on the Five a few minutes later.

  The windows were rolled down, the music was cranked up, and the faintest hint of the Pacific hung in the summer air. Only the occasional passing car and the glow of streetlights at regular intervals punctuated the rolling darkness of the freeway in front of me.

  It was just after four in the morning when I crossed into San Diego city limits. I headed southwest on Camino Del Rio and continued toward the beach on Rosecrans. Ten minutes later, I parked the Rover at the edge of the sand and changed into my board shorts.

  There was no need to bother with the awkward hassle of changing inside the car. Even if there was anyone else around at four-thirty in the morning, it was hard to find someone in the state of California who didn’t know my name. If they didn’t recognize my face, there were other parts of my anatomy that tended to get me out of trouble.

  The sand was still warm as I stepped onto it. Each tiny granule scrubbed at my feet with every step and the crash of the waves to my left took me away from the city as I walked north along the coast.

  There’s something about the beaches of southern California that just draws me to them like a moth to a flame. I know that hundreds, if not thousands, of deadly creatures live beneath the thunderous surf, but I’ll be damned if I can keep myself out of the ocean. Some people are drawn to the mountains, some to the forest, and some of the most fucked up people I know are actually drawn to the flat no-mans-land of the Bible Belt. I am not one of those people. I have to be close to the ocean. It’s like a giant, wet security blanket full of killer beasts.

  The sun had come up when I finally pulled myself from the hypnotic pull of the ocean to take stock of my surroundings. A few hundred yards further north, the coastline rose sharply out of the sea to form a small range of cliffs.

  I had kayaked them dozens of times.

  One of the main attractions of La Jolla were the caverns that wormed through the rock faces at low tide. The first of the adventure seekers were already packing their boats into the water.

  I found myself walking toward the kayak rental kiosk up the shore a ways to join them when my phone rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where the hell are you, Ryder?”

  My manager, Ryan, sounded pissed.

  “Um, in La Jolla about to hit the caves. Why?”

  “You were supposed to be on set twenty minutes ago, dude! What the fuck are you doing in La Jolla?”

  “Fuck!” I yelled, startling a few nearby kayak-toting passers-by, “I spaced it! I drove down to San Diego early this morning and just started walking. I needed to clear my head.”

  “You’re telling me you walked all the way to La Jolla and your fucking car is in San Diego?”

  “Yeah,” I knew the conversation wasn’t going to end well.

  “Don’t move a fucking inch. I’m sending a car to the cliffs.”

  The line went dead in my ear and I sighed; So much for a relaxing day off.

  As I waited for the car to show up, I watched as dozens of boats, most of them single occupancy, marched passed me in a colorful line of buoyant Kevlar and plastic. I felt a tinge of jealousy over the fun they were all going to have without me.

  Not to mention the workout.

  Even at low tide, some of the waves could get a little choppy and raise the water level in the caverns to the point where you had to lay back to avoid hitting your head on the ceiling. That also meant you had to fight the ebb and flow in both directions to keep from being swept out to sea, capsized, or shoved into the darkest arms of the massive cave structure.

  It hadn’t even been ten minutes when a black sedan skidded to a stop at the edge of the sand and blasted its horn. Ryan must’ve threatened the poor dude within inches of his life to get someone out there so fast.

  The driver stepped out of the car looking a little frazzled as I approached and opened the back door for me.

  “You don’t mind if I sit up front with you, do you?”

  “N-n-n-o sir!” he stammered, “Not at all!”

  The door he held open slammed shut with a bang and he ran around the front of the car to open the passenger side door.

  “Thanks, boss,” I smiled.

  After I was carefully secured in the passenger seat, he jumped back behind the wheel and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. I heard him curse quietly under his breath as he slammed the car into reverse and pounded the accelerator to the floor.

  We spun ninety degrees in the small parking lot and took off like a shot. I didn’t even see him put it in drive.
The dude had to be a stunt driver or something.

  After a harrowing 50-minute drive back into Los Angeles, we skidded to a halt outside a massive warehouse covered in corrugated siding.

  He glanced down at the clock once more and let out a long, relieved sigh.

  “Was it a threat or a bribe?” I asked, knowing all too well that Ryan knew how to light a fire under a person’s ass.

  The driver grinned at me but avoided eye contact, “Bribe.”

  “Damn. I was betting on threat. The mood he was in when I talked to him was working against you.”

  The driver smiled, but didn’t say anything as he nervously ran his hands over the steering wheel.

  “Well, did you make it in time?”

  He nodded his head, “Barely.”

  “Good,” I smiled at him, “Anything I can do to get you to stick around for a few hours and drive me back to San Diego after the shoot?”

  His face turned a brilliant color of red as his hands tightened on the black leather of the wheel in front of him. I knew the telltale signs of a fanboy moment when I saw them and braced myself.

  I’ve heard everything from “Can I have an autograph?” to “Can I suck you off?”, so I always get a little bit nervous when those situations arise.

  I was not expecting what came out of his mouth.

  “Can I come sit on set with you?”

  After a moment of confused silence, I got my shit together and shrugged my shoulders, “Sure! I mean, it’ll probably be boring as hell for you, but I can make that happen.”

  We got out of the car together and headed for the tiny steel entrance next to the sealed jumbo-sized bay door.

  “Just stay with me and play along.”

  He nodded his understanding and we entered the rabbit hole.

  “What’s your name?” I whispered?

  “Brandon,” he hissed back.

  “Brandon!” I yelled as we walked toward the dressing rooms, “I’m gonna need some coffee! Like, ten minutes ago! Get your ass moving!”

  He stood frozen for a moment before catching on and scurrying off to find me what I had asked for.

  I had yelled in order to draw the attention of everyone on set and establish him as my personal assistant. Everyone had seen his face and wouldn’t question his presence for the rest of the day. My end of the bargain had turned out to be unfairly easy to hold up.

  “Ryder!” I could only assume the man stomping toward me from the other side of the set was Ken Farren, the director. I’d never worked with him before, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. My name alone carried enough weight that I knew I didn’t have a whole lot to worry about, but he definitely looked pissed off enough to try something stupid.

  “Ken!” I greeted him with a disarming smile, “Sorry I’m late! I had some personal errands to run and they took a bit longer than expected.”

  “Cut the shit you self-absorbed little prick,” he jammed a finger into the center of my chest, “Going on a bender and waking up too hung-over to function isn’t something I would call an errand. I’ve heard all about you and your brothers. I know that you’re all pains in the ass to work with. You think that the world revolves around you because your father was a legend. Well I’ve got some fucking news for you, kid! These people?” he swung his arm wildly to indicate the rest of the crew, “they all have shit to do, too. Instead, they’ve been sitting here for the last two fucking hours waiting for you to sober up and decide to come to work.”

  My fists were clenched at my sides so tightly that my nails were digging into my palms. I clamped my teeth down on my cheek to keep myself from saying anything I’d regret. The metallic taste of blood told me that I needed to get away from the guy before I lost my shit and my job.

  With a concentrated effort, I unclenched my fists and tried to speak as calmly as possible, “I’m here now. Where’s the dressing room?” The words came out as more of a snarl than I had intended, but I didn’t spit in his face or break his nose, so I decided to call it a win.

  He pointed to a room to my right that was barely more than a closet, “Be on set in two minutes.”

  Brandon returned with a steaming cup of coffee as Ken spun to return to set. The director snatched it from his hand and threw it in his face as he screamed, “He doesn’t deserve any fucking coffee!”

  Brandon stood there in shock as the hot liquid streamed down his face.

  I motioned for him to follow me into the dressing room and slammed the door behind us.

  My clothes were off in record time, even for me. I thrust them in his face, barely remembering not to throw them at him, “Here. They might be a little bit tight, but at least they’re not covered in fucking coffee. I can’t believe that prick!”

  He stood there staring at me with his eyes and mouth wide open for a moment before he seemed to realize he was making it weird.

  “Thanks,” he muttered as he took the swim trunks and tee shirt from my hand.

  I had to give him credit; he only glanced down at my junk once.

  I nodded at him and turned to the chair that had my outfit for the shoot draped over it. “Sometimes I hate this job,” I confided, “I think costume designers are just jealous bastards who like to torture those of us who have to wear the stuff they come up with.”

  I stuffed my legs into the black leather pants and began the slow process of pulling them up.

  My cock was going to look like a damn nightstick in the fucking things.

  Brandon turned around in a show of modesty that I wasn’t accustomed to. He stripped off the black slacks and black button up he’d been wearing and quickly stepped into the board shorts I had given him. It had been a long time since someone had made me feel like we were in a junior high locker room and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What?” he spun around and flushed a brilliant red.

  “Nothing,” I tried to control the chuckles that kept jumping out of me, “I’m just not used to modesty is all. In this industry, everyone just walks around with their cocks swinging freely in your face. It was refreshing, I suppose.”

  “Oh,” he smiled sheepishly as I finally pulled the leather over my hips and tucked my package inside, “I don’t get naked in front of many people, let alone dudes. Not to mention you’re the biggest porn star in the world. It’s… intimidating.”

  “First rule of Porn Club, Brandon:” I chuckled at my own joke, “You’ve got the biggest cock in the room. Even if you have a pencil dick, you act like it’s something Godzilla would be proud to call his own.”

  “What?” confusion and shock washed over his face, “Porn club? What are you talking about?”

  “If you’re gonna make it in this industry, that’s the mentality you have to have. I assume that’s why you wanted to be on set today, right? A foot in the door?”

  “No!” I was growing accustomed to the nice shade of maroon his face could turn in an instant, “I wanted to be here because you’re shooting with Chardonnay Hilton! I own every film she’s ever done and it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to see her perform live!”

  Well that’s a first…

  I was still staring at him in surprise when a bang like a gunshot sounded at the door, “Your two minutes are up! Get your ass out here and do your fucking job!”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow, “Are all porn directors like that asshole?”

  I threw an arm over his shoulder and led him to the door, “Not all of them. He’s an exceptionally irritating case of asshole, even for this industry.”

  Another series of loud bangs filled the room, spiking my blood pressure and causing us both to jump.

  I ripped the door open with such force that Ken stumbled backwards several steps in surprise.

  I held up my left hand to Brandon, “Help me get into this stupid thing?”

  Dangling from my fingertips was a leather shoulder harness. Two-inch strips of black leather, studded with metal rivets formed the straps that would go over my shoulders. They were attached
in a figure-eight formation by a stainless steel D-ring that would sit right between my shoulder blades. The contraption would force my shoulders back, highlighting my pecs for the camera, and the leather would be pulled tight enough to dig into my shoulders a little bit and make my already large biceps look absolutely massive.

  Shoulder gear had always been a plus in my book. Leather was one of the few things from work that I was willing to take into the privacy of my own bedroom. I was just glad that I didn’t get paid to wear the pants for very long. They were already starting to chafe.

  Brandon made a show of helping me into the harness that I very clearly could have gotten into myself, and followed a few steps behind me as I made my way to the set.

  A massive four-poster bed loomed in the center of the room. The frame had been painted a matte black as well as the backdrop and floor. A shockingly vibrant splash of red silk covered the mattress and box spring. Sprawled in the center of the sea of strawberry-colored bedding was a redhead with a delicate frame, loose flowing hair, and milky-white skin for days. Her patent leather stilettos were the same color as the sheets and so was her corset.

  Even her lips popped with the color.

  All I could think about was how much of a bitch it would be to wash that lipstick off my junk after the shoot was finished.

  “She’s even more perfect in person,” Brandon whispered from my side.

  “Just stay quiet and keep out of everyone’s way,” I advised, “Assistant or no, you get in the way, they will make you leave. If you have to, find a dark corner and rub one out. You might have to fight a camera guy for it though. You’ve been warned.”

  We parted ways at the toy rack.

  After a cursory glance, I could tell we’d probably only end up using three or four of the two-dozen props they had brought in. My bets were on the dildo, the butt plug, the riding crop, and, God willing, the ball gag.

  Chardonnay and I exchanged brief introductions. It was just enough for me to decide that she was a frosty bitch both on and off the set. I wasn’t sure who I was less excited about working with for the next three hours, her or the psychotic director.