by Meghan March
“No fair. I said your movie.”
I press PLAY and the surround sound comes to life. “You wanted the one I thought most about you seeing. And that’s what you’re getting.”
Greer looks at me, her features lit with the flashes of white coming from the huge screen. “You’re not even in this movie. Isn’t this a Bruce Pitt action flick?”
I tuck the remote into the side of the couch and wrap an arm around her shoulders to pull her against me. “Then I guess you’re just going to have to watch really closely, because that flash of Bruce Pitt’s ass in the last third of the movie? Not his. The kickass stunts through the entire thing? Not him.”
Her face turns up to mine, shock imprinted on her features. “Women went crazy over seeing that glimpse of his ass! That was you?” Wonder coats her words.
“I’ll pause it during the credits so you can get a good look at my name.”
Greer’s eyes widen further. “No. Way. That’s crazy. This movie only came out like six months after you . . .”
She trails off, but I know what she was about to say . . . six months after I left New York. I might as well fill her in on my past and how I got started in the movie industry.
“It was my first stunt job. I showed up in Hollywood, fresh off a Greyhound, didn’t know a soul. Got a room at an extended stay motel that doubled as a cheap place for hookers to turn tricks and crackheads to find a fix. It wasn’t a good scene. I only had a few grand, and I knew it would go quick. I needed work and took a couple odd jobs working on sets. Manual labor, that kind of thing.”
The opening credits of the movie start to roll, and Greer reaches over me to grab the remote and pause it. “Keep going. I want to hear this.”
“Well, I got to talking to one of the stunt guys on set about gyms nearby that didn’t charge an arm and a leg, and he asked me why the hell I was doing the fetch-and-carry when I could easily be working stunts if I wasn’t afraid to break a few bones on occasion. Told me I had the right build for it.”
“And then what?”
Greer’s eagerness to hear the story of my past kept me talking. “We met up at the gym and worked out, and he told me he wouldn’t be surprised that if I got into the stunt world, I’d also get asked to be a body double in some scenes. He hooked me up with his union, and that’s how it started.” I nod toward the movie paused on the screen. “So this was my first job. I didn’t expect the body double part, but when Bruce got to that part in the filming, he said no way, he was too old to be flashing that shit around. I was already doing the stunts, and he dragged me in front of the director.”
I close my eyes for a moment, picturing it, and add some grit to my voice as I repeat the words Bruce said to the director that day. “You want ass? Film his. My wife won’t believe it’s mine, but you work the angles right and the rest of the world will.”
Greer’s giggle erupts beside me. “No way! Are you serious?”
My own chuckle follows hers. “Yes, absolutely serious. So that’s how millions of women fell in love with my ass and didn’t even know it was mine.”
Greer leans over and buries her face in my neck. “They would’ve fallen in love with it even harder if they’d known it was connected to a guy who was younger and hotter than Bruce Pitt.” Her hand snakes out and grabs the remote. The movie starts playing immediately. “Now, don’t make me wait any longer. I’ve gotta see this ass.”
I snatch it back from her purely because I’m proving a point. “You can see it anytime you want, baby girl. That ass is all yours.”
Greer bites down on her lip and lets it slide through her teeth. “Is it truly mine?”
“I’m not letting you peg it, but yeah, baby, it’s all yours.”
“Peg?”
I shake my head. “Innocent girl. Watch the movie.”
“I’ll be googling that as soon as I get my phone back.”
“You do that, baby. Now, watch.”
Greer demands that I identify every moment I’m on-screen, and I comply. It might be the most fun I’ve had . . . ever. Even when she makes me replay the ass-flashing scene, in slow motion, seven times.
After the seventh time, she turns to me. “Okay, one more time.”
“Greer.” Her name comes out as a growl. I can only take looking at my ass so many times.
She holds up a hand. “Hear me out.”
I sigh and wait for her to continue.
“You gotta stand up. And, you know . . . drop trou. I need to compare side by side.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
She points to the very serious expression on her face. “Do I look like I’m joking, Hollywood?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “Seriously?”
“Pleeeease.”
Standing, I stare down at her. “Really?”
Greer nods her head so fast, she looks like the cutest and most excited bobblehead on the planet.
The things I would do for this woman.
“Fine, but it’s not like you haven’t seen my ass before.” I turn my back to her and go for the button on my jeans.
“I know, but seriously, I can’t miss this opportunity. I’d be thrown out of the female gender if I passed it up.”
I glance over my shoulder at her. She’s not looking at my face; that’s for damn sure.
“Impossible.”
“Come on, stop stalling. Oh, wait. Closer to the screen first.”
Shaking my head and deciding that payback is going to be fun, I walk toward the screen and lower my pants so my ass is hanging out.
“Shirt, Cav.”
With one hand, I pull up my shirt. “Woman, when I get my hands on—”
“Shhh. I’m appreciating this.”
Several moments of silence follow before I crane my head around to see what she’s doing. Greer stands and comes toward me, her eyes darting from the screen to my ass.
“Well, I’ll be damned. That is the finest ass I’ve ever seen.”
And before I know what she’s going to do, she tosses something at it. I flinch when I feel the edge of something hit my right cheek.
“What the—” My eyes snap to Greer’s.
She’s ducking her head, her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. “I had to see if I could bounce a quarter off it.”
“Where did you find . . .”
She jerks her head toward the couch. “Between the cushions. I took it as a sign.”
I yank my pants back up and drop my shirt before turning and rushing her. Tackling Greer to the couch, I cover her with my body and silence her laughter with my lips. When I finally pull away, I stare into her dark gaze, sparkling with humor.
“I fucking love this, Greer.”
Her eyes go wide and a small smile curves her lips. Both hands slap down on my ass, and she squeezes.
“I do too.”
I’ve been dreading this call, but I know I can’t keep putting it off. Creighton has to be losing his mind. I’m surprised there aren’t already milk cartons with my picture on them, actually.
Do they even still do that? Who drinks milk from a carton anyway? Parents in Manhattan probably don’t allow dairy in schools these days.
And once again, I’m trying to put off calling my brother. He’s going to yell. I hate it when he yells. Especially when I know he’s well within his rights to yell. Although, to be fair, I didn’t kidnap myself. But it’s not like I can use that as an excuse. He’d kill Cav. But then he couldn’t use Dom to bury the body.
Stop.
I woman up and pick up Cav’s house phone. I have very few numbers memorized, but Creighton’s is one of them.
I’m shocked when Creighton answers on the first ring, especially when he shouldn’t recognize the number. Unless he does . . . because Cannon seems to know everything about everyone.
“Greer, is that you? Because if it’s Westman, you better put my sister on the phone right the f—”
“It’s me,” I force out.
> “Thank Christ. I’ve been losing my goddamned mind—and trying to keep this from Holly. She doesn’t need this kind of stress right now.”
Guilt doesn’t trickle into me like it usually does at Creighton’s comments. No, this time it’s a flash flood.
“I’m sorry. I—”
Why didn’t I come up with a plausible excuse before I dialed? Oh, that’s right. I was worried about milk cartons. Brilliant, Greer.
Instead, I do what comes naturally when all little sisters deal with overbearing big brothers. I get defensive and a little bratty.
“You can’t keep me locked up in some Podunk town with a security guard for a babysitter. That’s not cool.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want if it means keeping you safe.”
“From Cav? Because he’s the last person you need to protect me from.” Even when he was keeping his identity from me, Cav’s first priority was keeping me safe.
“He’s a manipulative liar, Greer. You’re too blind to see it. This isn’t like the time you loaned two thousand dollars to the temp doorman because his mother needed surgery, and then he disappeared. It’s not even like the time you offered up your credit card to cover your friends’ bar tab that ended up costing me ten grand.”
“Stop. That’s enough.” My voice is hard when I interrupt Creighton’s warm-up of the litany of stupid or naive things I’ve done. “I get that I don’t always make the best choices. I’ve done a lot of stupid things. But at some point, you’ve got to let me live my own life, Crey. I’m staying out of the press. I’m safe. And most importantly, I’m exactly where I want to be.”
My brother is quiet on the other end, and I can imagine his eyes narrowed and jaw clenching so hard, his teeth grind together. I’m not afraid to stand up to him, and this time, it matters more than it ever has before.
I swallow, my grip on the phone turning sweaty as I wait.
“Are you staying in California?”
I release the breath I was holding. He’s relenting. Well, at least as much as Creighton ever relents.
“For a little while, at least.”
“Say the word and I’ll have a jet waiting on the tarmac for you—day or night.”
“I’m not going to need it.”
A long sigh comes through the phone, but the tail end sounds more like a growl. “You better not, because I don’t care if I share blood with him. I will kill him if he hurts you.”
His death threat brings a smile to my face. This is the brother who wants the best for me, even when he doesn’t agree with what that is.
“No one’s going down for murder in this family, Crey.”
“I wouldn’t get caught.”
“I know you wouldn’t.”
And with that, we say our good-byes and hang up. I nod my head and speak to the empty office.
“That went better than expected.”
Next, I lift the phone to dial Banner. She answers on the first ring.
“This better be my best bitch telling me what the hell happened to you!”
“It’s me.”
Banner sounds like she doesn’t even take a breath. “I’ve been freaking out since you sent me that text. And the person who answered my reply was not you.”
“Crap. Sorry about that. I . . . after I got back to Holly’s grandma’s house, things sorta took an unexpected turn.”
“Tell me everything. Now.”
“Cav kidnapped me.”
“Damn, that sounds hot. Was it hot?”
“Once I realized I wasn’t going to be spending the rest of my reproductive life in a harem wearing a Princess Jasmine costume? And after I got over wanting to murder Cav?” I pause to consider. “Maybe a little.”
“No shit. Adding to my sexual bucket list.” Banner puts me on speaker, and I hear shuffling before the sound of scribbles.
“You have a sexual bucket list? And you keep it updated?” I’m not sure which surprises me more.
“Damn right I do. Goals only become real possibilities once you write them down. I use the SMART goal method. Specific, measurable, achievable, results-driven, and time-bound.” Banner rattles it off so easily.
It’s times like this when I remember my nut job of a best friend has crazy-smart scientists for parents who had her admitted to Mensa after her first qualifying IQ test. I think we were in elementary school. Crazy-smart runs in the family.
And this is just one more example of good intelligence being used for all the wrong reasons. Or maybe she’s smarter than all of us.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“No, but if you sing that song to me, I’m going to reach through this phone and bitch slap you.”
I hum a few bars, and she interrupts.
“Has he fucked you on the Hollywood sign yet? Is he going to?”
“Oh my God, don’t tell me that’s on your list.”
I press my ear closer to the phone to hear what sounds like the tapping of a pen on paper. “No, but I’ll consider it. I think there’s a trespassing issue.”
I snort. “Says the girl who broke into the school to have pool sex during spring break when we were seventeen.”
“Unfair! There was tequila involved. I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
I recall the night I placed the ad. Tequila is a sneaky devil. “Fair enough. So tell me, what did Logan say when you texted him back? He’s a super-cool guy.”
Silence hangs on the line for several beats. “Super-cool as in he needs a good personality to redeem him from being an overall-wearing country hick with a beer belly, or super-cool like he’s a backwoods Ken doll?”
I’m used to Banner’s random questions, so this one doesn’t throw me much. “Definitely not a Ken doll. But not a GI Joe either. He’d be an action figure all his own. You can tell he hasn’t been out of the military long. The buzz cut is grown out to shaggy, but he’s got that posture you can’t miss. Probably because he’s like six three and his shoulders are as wide as Cav’s.”
“Sounds like he’s a brick shithouse. What about his eyes? Is he stubbly? Does he wear all camo?”
Whoa. These aren’t the kind of questions Banner would normally ask. “What exactly happened when you texted him back? Are you intrigued?”
“No, of course not. I just . . . Never mind.”
Did her voice get a little breathy? “Banner? Is there something you need to tell me?”
“Oh shit, I just realized I have a project due by end of business today. I better get back to it. ’Bye, babe. Make sure to use lots of lube!”
Something isn’t adding up here, but before I can question her further, the call has ended.
I’ve never understood what it takes to make a movie, and now I’m in a recording studio listening to Cav and other actors recite their lines so the voices can be layered over part of the film where the mic went out.
Casablanca.
How did I not have any clue they were remaking the movie? A classic, obviously, and not something I would have ever expected to see Cav in. But then again, he makes a perfect Rick. Windsor is gorgeous as Ilsa, and then there’s Peyton DeLong, who I hate on sight, even though I thought he was cute in his last romcom. If Cav determined his face needed smashing because he was talking shit about me, I don’t ever need to meet him.
But Peyton’s done with Victor Laszlo’s lines first and comes out of the booth where they’re recording.
I divert my attention to my nails, which suddenly become the most fascinating things on the planet. I’m staring down at them when feet enter my field of vision. Loafers, actually. The kind you see in Dolce & Gabbana ads but can’t picture any red-blooded man actually wearing. Apparently Peyton DeLong isn’t worried about being mistaken for a red-blooded man.
“You sick of your ride on his dick yet? Because I’ve got six inches waiting for you.”
I choke on the words six inches and lift my head enough to stare directly at his belt buckle. Then I raise my eyes the rest of the
way up to meet his.
“I’m sorry, I must have misheard you.”
Does he really think it’s acceptable to come over here and speak to me like that? I know I opened myself up to all sorts of nasty comments when I posted my ad, but you’d think a guy who’s won so many Teen Choice Awards and statuettes for being a great role model for kids would have some class.
And you’d be wrong.
“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Why is it you little rich girls always go for the trash before finding someone who’s your social equal. We get sick of sloppy seconds, you know.”
Oh. My. God. Is this guy for real? Cav is going to do more than just break his face.
“I would suggest you move along, Mr. DeLong. I think it’s safe to say you never have to worry about my being sloppy seconds for you.”
Even saying the words gives me the creeps. Gross. I wouldn’t go near this guy’s dick for all the money in the world.
And then he touches me. Uninvited. Hand on my chin, tilting my face upward.
I slap it away, but it’s too late. The soundstage door slams open.
“I told you to fucking stay away from her. You just couldn’t do it, could you?”
Cav yanks Peyton’s arm away from me and shoves his chest. The other man stumbles back across the room, falling into a chair.
“You touch me again, and I’ll make sure they blackball you, Westman. You can’t fucking push me around.”
“I can and I will. Watch me, you little fuck. You put your hands on a woman, and every time they’re gonna side with me.”
I stand and move behind Cav, my hand pressing against his back. “Baby, it’s okay. He tried to impress me by telling me he had six inches for me. I hope he was joking, because that’s just sad now that I’ve had a real man.”
My words are pitched low, but I project well enough for Peyton to hear them clearly.
“You little—”
Windsor, who I didn’t realize had followed Cav out of the soundstage, bursts into laughter. “Six inches? God, Peyton, at least tack on a few extra if you’re going to try to make it sound appetizing.” Her laughter quiets for a moment and her next words are hushed. “Oh Lord, did you already artificially inflate your size? Because if you did, that is sad. My ex-husband can recommend some excellent penis pumps. Guaranteed to give you at least a little more length and girth to please the ladies. You want his number?”