I’m cool and collected as I wait in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont.
At least I am until my eyes land on Drake Manning the moment he enters the room. Mine and everyone else’s there, as heads turn all around me. Even in Hollywood, which is filled with celebrities, Manning stands out. I stop breathing as I move toward him, my hand extended.
“Hi, Drake. I’m Allie Winters.”
The smile I receive in return unexpectedly melts me. I had reminded myself so many times not to stare at his body that I never considered that I’d be pulled in this hard by the radiance of that famous smile.
“Hi, Allie, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you hungry? I’m starving, and I thought we could chat over lunch.”
“Sure, that sounds perfect,” I tell him. Thinking I’d be tied up for a while, I’d eaten a huge breakfast just an hour earlier. I also hate doing interviews while eating because it slows everything down, but I feel powerless to say no. I mentally chastise myself for not holding my ground. He already has me at a disadvantage and the interview hasn’t even begun yet. As we exit the lobby together, though, I can’t help but see the look on other women’s faces, wondering who is the lucky girl who’s leaving with Drake Manning.
I tell him we can take my car, but when the valet brings my brown Fiat 500 around, Manning changes his mind. “I can’t be seen in that!” he laughs. “I have a reputation to protect.” Somehow I’m not offended. Minutes later, we roar up Laurel Canyon in his red Ferrari, turning on Mulholland and heading west at double the posted speed limit. I should be scared out of my wits, but the truth is it’s thrilling. The engine is directly behind our heads and sounds like an enraged lion, and I feel its vibrations in the very core of my body. As much as I hate to think it, riding in this car at this speed with this man has a distinctly sexual aspect to it. And Manning drives like he knows what he’s doing; I feel safe with him, despite the excessive speed.
“Do you always drive this fast?” I ask.
“Yep. Driving fast is like—“ He stops mid-sentence and looks at me. “Off the record?”
“Sure.”
“Driving fast is like fucking,” he says, not elaborating so that I’ll be forced to ask him what he means.
Despite my having had the very same thought seconds earlier, I refuse to let him get away with that line. If I do, I know the interview will likely be filled with stupid little quips and the readers won’t gain any actual insight into their hero.
“Like fucking, in that you often feel compelled to do it out of habit, even when it might not be in the best interest of you and whoever else is along for the ride?”
He turns to me, hesitates for a second, then laughs. “Touché, Ms. Winters,” he says. “Interviewer – 1, movie star – 0.”
Good. My snarky response could have backfired, which would have made for a long next few hours. Instead, I appear to have earned Manning’s respect.
We pull into a small shopping center near the top of Beverly Glen, just off Mulholland, and are soon seated in a corner table of the world’s most dimly lit sushi restaurant. I start the interview right away, but try to make it conversational. Peppering Drake Manning with question after question is likely to produce pat responses, which will do neither of us any good.
Avoiding easy questions (“What’s it like to work with Jennifer Lawrence?”), I try to draw him out about the pitfalls of too much fame. He doesn’t bite, instead throwing out phrases I recognize from older interviews he’s done. After an hour, we’ve been interrupted several times by autograph seekers or other movie industry people, I haven’t gotten much of anything I can work with, and my belly hurts because it’s stuffed. Manning seems to like me well enough, but he’s not really cooperating. When he asks if I want to continue the interview while driving around, I dig in my heels. I don’t want him comfortable. I need to get this guy on my turf.
“Do you like bourbon?” I ask, already knowing the answer, thanks to Google.
After a short drive, we’re at FH Lounge, my favorite Hollywood bar. It’s such a dive that it’s not even cool in a retro-hipster kind of way. It’s aggressively uncool, which is the very reason I love this place. It was also crime novelist Raymond Chandler’s favorite haunt and, consequently, is very pro-writer and nobody here gives much of a shit about actors. No one will bother us at FH Lounge because they simply don’t care.
We sit at the bar and order shots of bourbon. The bartender is an old fellow named Scotty who’s been there for decades and has seen it all. I demonstrate my expertise to Manning by asking Scotty for two shots of Constantin’s, a delicious small-batch bourbon.
A short time later we’re both a bit tipsy and Manning is starting to loosen up, just a hair. When Scotty brings us another round, Manning makes the mistake of asking him what FH stands for. “Fuck Hollywood!” the gruff old guy says.
We both laugh. “Hey, Scotty, do you know who this is?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious, because if Scotty knows the world’s biggest movie star is in his bar, he’s certainly not showing it.
“Sure, I know,” Scotty says. “He’s the one who fucks all those girls.” He turns and walks away as I burst out laughing and Manning looks sheepish.
I recognize an open door when I see one and ask, “Drake, do you think your outlandish reputation as a player causes people to regard you less highly as an actor? Does the fact that you’re so handsome and sexy work against you at times?”
“Do you think I’m handsome?”
“That’s not the question.”
“That’s my question,” he says. I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I play along.
“Sure I do,” I say. “In a ‘thinks highly of himself’ kind of way.”
“And sexy?” There’s that smile again.
“Yes, very,” I say, then feel compelled to add, “though you’re not really my type.”
Drake Manning turns his bar stool toward me, then spins mine so that we’re facing each other. He looks deep into my eyes for the first time and I immediately wish I could take back that last comment. God damn, this man is insanely sexy. I feel afraid to gaze into his beautiful green eyes, as if he were some sexual Medusa, so I look at my drink.
“Allie, you know as well as I do that I can’t control what the press says about me. If I protest, I’ll sound like a hypocrite because I do more than my share of sleeping around.”
I notice his hand is resting on my thigh and my breathing becomes slow and deliberate. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect my art.” He pauses for a second, then says, “And I’m everyone’s type.”
I say, in measured tones, “I’m trying to interview you, and that’s not going to be easy while you’re touching my leg.”
He laughs and pulls his hand back. “Sorry, force of habit, I guess.” Just when I think I’m about to pull him out of his player persona, he easily slips right back into it.
“What about that website?” I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but it just slipped out. “Have you seen it? How accurate is it?” Maybe if I can get him to admit how over-the-top the public perception of him as a lover is, he’ll let me dig deeper.
“The Drakecount thing?” Of course he knows about it. “It’s a joke.” I had assumed as much, but he startles me by adding, “They missed quite a few.”
Wait, what? The number on that site is too low? “Missed quite a few?” I ask, incredulous.
“What’s the total right now?”
“Five hundred even, when I checked this morning. Counting three from yesterday.”
Manning’s eyebrow shoots up skeptically. I knew it was bullshit.
I pull out my phone and load the site, then turn the screen so he can see it. “Wait a second,” he says, taking the phone from my hand and clicking a link on the screen. A look of anger comes across his face. “Those little shits,” he says.
I take the phone from his hand and look at the screen. On it is a picture of movie star Drake Manning sleeping like a baby, a smiling brunette o
n one side and a smiling redhead on the other. All three are naked, though the picture chastely crops out everything below their waists.
“Yesterday’s conquests?” I ask.
He nods. “I hate it when they take pics without asking first. It’s an invasion of my privacy.”
“Was this at the Marmont?” I ask. Manning nods again. “They willingly uploaded their topless picture to this website?”
“They probably shared it with friends, who shared it with others, until someone uploaded it to Drakecount.”
“I’m guessing number three took the picture?” I can feel the sudden contempt in my voice, despite my best efforts to disguise it. Why is this bothering me?
He looks me in the eyes again. “So I love sex – I mean, really love everything about it, and I’m in a position that allows me to have a new partner anytime I choose. And of course I have no desire to settle down. Why would I?”
I counter with a question of my own. “Have you had many long-term relationships? Wouldn’t having a girlfriend cramp your style?”
He smiles. “I’ve never had a relationship. Or a girlfriend.”
“Ever?” I ask. It’s almost unfathomable that this guy has never had a steady woman in his life.
“Nope. Not one.”
Though I’m sure it wasn’t his intention, I kind of feel sad for the guy.
“So I fuck a lot of women. What’s so terrible about that?”
I know instinctively if I give him a pat on the head, I’ll blow the interview. It feels like he’s daring me to hold him accountable, so I take a calculated risk that I’m right.
“Nothing’s terrible about it, if that’s what you want out of life,” I say. “I’m sure your guy friends think it’s great, and the women who make your list get a story to tell their friends, and occasionally a picture as proof.”
“It makes them happy.”
“So would an autograph.”
“It makes me happy.”
“You’re better than that,” I say.
“You barely know me.”
“Yeah, but I’m a great judge of character.” I point to the picture on the phone. “And I’m probably smarter than all three of those princesses put together.”
He looks at me whimsically and the tension dissipates. “Nice. Interviewer – 2, movie star – 0.”
“I’m pitching a shutout so far.”
“Okay, so you’re smart,” he says. “Allie, you’d be surprised to know I actually prefer smart women. I just don’t meet too many of them in Hollywood.”
I ease up on him. “Jesus, Drake, stop using these lame lines on me,” I say, laughing so he’ll know I’m kidding. “Can’t you see I’m immune to your charms?” Inside, my head is spinning from the exchange, but I keep my cool.
He throws back a laugh, then says, “It’s getting late. I really should get going,” he says, knocking me for a loop. I look at the clock and see it’s already five. Oh my god, we’ve been talking for five hours and I don’t have anything truly interesting about this guy. Certainly nothing that hasn’t been said before.
Not really wanting to go down in history as the female passenger of the movie star who drove his Ferrari into the La Brea tar pits, I convince Manning to take an Uber with me. We head toward his house in the hills, both of us sitting in the back seat of a Nissan Sentra that smells overly pine-y. Luckily the driver is too star-struck to do much more than repeatedly look in his rearview.
“Did you get everything you need?” Manning asks. I can’t help but hear a sexual undertone to his question, but unsure if it’s just in my head, I ignore it.
“Not even close,” I say. “I appreciate the extra time, though. I know you don’t do this much anymore, and I’m truly grateful for the extra couple of hours. It would be great if we had longer, but I’ll make it work somehow.”
“So you’re going to write a story about how I’m the official bad boy of Hollywood?”
“No, I won’t mention your long list of conquests. To me, that’s the least interesting part of you.”
“Mention it if you want. It’s good for business.” Just like that, he’s a movie-star/player again. I sense something bubbling under the surface, though. There’s a complexity to this man that other interviewers have obviously missed because he’s so adept at hiding it.
“No,” I say. “I want people to know a different Drake Manning than the one they’ve been given. I want them to know the real you.”
He looks out the window, then turns back and floors me by saying, “This was fun. Come to my place for dinner tomorrow night and we’ll continue. If you have no plans, that is.”
I jump at the chance. “No, I have no plans. That would be awesome.” He hands me his phone and tells me to add my number to his contacts list. I resist the urge to count the women’s names. As I hand it back, the bourbon in me has another question. “Is this just because I need more material?” God damn it, that sounded needy.
“No,” he says. “Well, yes. Look, Allie, you’re smart and funny and fun to hang out with. I may have sex with a lot of women, but it’s rare that I actually talk much with one I can respect. And yes, I want the interview to be good, too. Or at least my agent does.”
Before I can respond, we pull up at his house and an armed guard peers into the car, then sees Manning and opens the gate so we can pass. My jaw drops when I see where he lives; this is the biggest house I’ve ever seen, with a beautifully manicured lawn and a six-car garage. The architecture and landscaping make it look like a Tuscan villa. I’m speechless, finding it hard to believe that this is the residence of one person.
“See you tomorrow around six, then?” Manning asks.
“Sure,” I say, as if I hang out with movie stars all the time. Then he leans across the seat and plants a chaste kiss on my lips, his whiskers deliciously rough against my skin.
“See you then,” he says nonchalantly.
He steps out of the car, then sticks his head back in. “Just out of curiosity, why did you let me do that?”
Dammit, I’m still reeling from the sensation of his skin against mine. I fumble for something to say. ““Why not? I’m happy we got along so well, because we both know this could just as easily have been a total disaster. But you’re actually a very cool guy. So when I see this famous movie star is about to kiss me, I let him. Just so I can say I kissed Drake Manning, pretty much. That’s all. Basically, it’s the bourbon.” Jesus, Allie, shut the fuck up already.
Drake serves up that famous smile again. “Ah. That’s what they all say.”
He walks into his house and I sit dumbfounded as we pull away. What the hell did he mean by that? Then my buzzed brain figures out that he was referring to the girls on the list, the ones he sleeps with. They see this famous movie star in front of them and decide to have sex with him so they can say they fucked Drake Manning.
I feel like an idiot. Interviewer – 2, movie star – 1. There goes my shutout.
5
Drake
Allie is on set with me. I’m giving her a tour of the soundstage where we recently shot some scenes for Firehawk. She sits patiently waiting on the bed in the fake condo of Ryan Wellman, the investment banker secret identity of the famed superhero. I come around the corner in my full red and gold Firehawk costume and her eyes light up. Hey, it’s a pretty impressive costume, complete with mask and cape. I’m stunned myself, because when I went to change, Allie got undressed. She’s sitting on the bed absolutely naked, and her lack of clothing reveals the delicious body she’s been hiding. She’s not big at all, just a normal-sized woman with soft round curves where they’re supposed to be.
Allie smiles, no doubt thinking about how much I like her little surprise, until she notices I’ve got a surprise of my own: I’ve removed my costume’s codpiece and my hard cock is protruding as I approach her. Without hesitating, she reaches out to take it in her hand, stroking it. In no time at all it’s in her mouth, and I relish the roleplay aspect of what we’re doing. I
have somehow convinced a Pulitzer-Prize winning writer to have sex with me in costume.
Her mouth feels amazing – hot and soft, and she’s even better at this than I had any reason to think she would be. I grab a sizable tit with each hand and watch her work my hard shaft. When I feel my orgasm rapidly approaching, I try to hold back, but when she cups my balls in her free hand and softly strokes them I lose it and send a forceful stream into her waiting mouth.
“Cut!”
The lights come up and Allie lifts her head up. Why the hell is the director here? And the entire crew? I spurt yet again, cum landing in her hair.
“Drake, cut!” The director sounds pissed. I can’t stop mid-orgasm, though, as another rope of cum shoots into the air and falls right on the dark blue silk comforter. Everyone stares at me with disgust and I know I’m not done so there’s even more cum on its way.
Suddenly my eyes fly open and I’m looking at the ceiling in my own darkened bedroom.
The encounter may have been a dream, but the orgasm I’m having is real and my stomach tightens as I continue to spurt cum into my underwear. When I finish, I lie there with my body tingling as I recall the imagined encounter. I finally recover and head to the bathroom to clean myself up, laughing at my overactive imagination. Unable to go back to sleep, I make coffee and sit on my patio, naked except for the blanket I’ve wrapped around me. I’m still thinking about Allie when the sun comes up.
After my morning workout and a quick breakfast, I hop in the shower to rinse off. As I soap myself up, I realize I’ve been thinking about Allie Winters almost non-stop since I woke up. Since before I woke up, technically, because of that damn dream. I don’t understand why my brain has locked onto her, though, because she’s not nearly as attractive as most of the women I spend time with.
Don’t get me wrong – Allie is cute. Adorable, even. She could easily play the best friend of the female lead in a romantic comedy. Loose curls of medium-length brown hair, dark and mysterious eyes, and full sexy lips. When I first saw her in the lobby of the Marmont, I was struck by how un-Hollywood she looked; not rail-thin, not blonde, not dressed like a slut. She got my attention immediately, even though she’s not really my type.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 1: Drake Page 3