Hollywood Playboy
Natasha Madison
Copyright © 2019 Natasha Madison. E-Book and Print Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons or living or dead, events or locals are entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ Use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
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Cover Design: Jay Aheer https://www.simplydefinedart.com/
Editing done by Jenny Sims Editing4Indies
Proofing Julie Deaton by Deaton Author Services https://www.facebook.com/jdproofs/
Content Editing done By Elaine York
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
EPILOGUE ONE
EPILOGUE TWO
Hollywood Princess & Hollywood Prince
Books By Natasha Madison
Acknowledgments
To Dani who knew one picture could lead to a whole series. Thank you for holding my hand through everything!
Chapter One
Jessica
Breaking News: Tyler Beckett is ready to take on the press. Sources say no expense will be spared, and the press will be handpicked. The question is, who will be the lucky ones?
“Knock-knock,” I say, knocking on the big brown door to my editor Stephanie’s office. Laser-focused on her computer screen, she looks up at the unexpected, yet hopefully welcome intrusion and removes her glasses. Her button-down white silk shirt is tied at the neck with a bow sash off to the side, showcasing how put together this woman really is.
“Hey, Jessica,” she says, smiling at me. “Come on in.” She motions with her hands to the empty seat in front of her executive desk, causing her gold and silver bangles to clink together.
“You said to come see you before I head out for the day,” I say, acknowledging the reason I’m invading her space. Walking into her corner office, I’m drawn to the view of the Hollywood sign like a beacon in the distance.
When I walked into this office seven years ago, I intended to get some experience under my belt to add to my resume. I busted my ass in high school and had my master’s in foreign communications by the time I was twenty-two. I had a plan to travel the world and bring people stories that they often didn’t hear about. Aspirations for seeing my byline on articles and published in print and online were what I dreamed about the most.
But here I am, seven years later, getting the juicy Hollywood scoop that people crave. And the best part? I am not just good at my job; I am the best at it. I know every single photographers’ number by heart. If something happens in this town, people call me to offer first dibs on the scuttlebutt.
“Yes,” she answers. “Please sit.” I walk toward her, my long, flowing black skirt moving between my legs as I take a seat in one of the chairs. After crossing my legs, I wait for her to tell me why I’m here. “I got a call today from HillCrest.” She looks at me, rocking back in her chair.
“What now?” I ask. HillCrest is one of the biggest production companies out there. They began with indie films, and then one of their movies blew up and won seventeen Academy Awards. That was fifteen years ago … now, if you want them to back your movie, it means a blockbuster, even if it’s shit. Trust me, some pretty shitty ones have gone on to gross over the one-hundred-million mark that weren’t worth the paper the tickets were printed on.
“I’ll cut right to the chase.” Getting up and walking to the corner window, she keeps her back to me. “Tyler Beckett’s new film.”
“Adrenaline Run?” I ask her, thinking about the chatter of it becoming the biggest box office hit ever, or at least that is the word on the street. The trailers have been playing nonstop for the past two weeks, the billboards are everywhere, and the mass transit ads on every bus around every corner have a larger-than-life picture of Tyler Beckett in all his cockiness. Unless you live under a rock, you know that this movie is coming. “I’ve seen some of the trailers, and I’m not going to lie; no matter how much I want to hate the movie just because of Tyler, it looks like a good one.”
She turns around, now looking at me. “HillCrest is going all out for this film. I mean, all out.” She emphasizes these last words. “They are putting together a press junket.”
“Okay, that isn’t anything new.” I get up and walk over to her, both of us now surveying our respective kingdoms.
“No, you’re right,” she says and then turns to me, “but it isn’t going to be your ordinary hotel junket.”
“Well, then, what are they doing?” I ask her, my interest piqued now. “Knowing Tyler Beckett, it will be a spectacle no doubt.” I’m tempted to roll my eyes.
“Yeah, you can say that.” She turns and walks back to her chair. “It’s definitely something no one has seen or done before, which is why we need to be at the forefront of the promotion.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, he’s so damn irritating,” I say in exasperation. She just stares at me, probably wondering where in the hell that outburst came from. I can’t tell you why I feel like this when it comes to Tyler, but I just do. Maybe it’s because he is always one step ahead of me when I have a juicy scoop about him. It’s like he knows I’m going to blow the lid on whatever salacious deets I have on his latest scandal, so what does he do? He releases a statement of his own right before I publish my story, sinking my breaking news before the ink even dries on the page.
He is known to play hardball, though. Three years ago, I got an exclusive video of him and a certain woman, a married woman even, who just so happened to be his best friend’s wife. They were on a yacht somewhere in the middle of Italy, and the hour before my story was set to run, he put out a press release that they were dating, and she was getting a divorce. Needless to say, I spent much of that night getting drunk and slurring a few choice words for the asshole. I don’t know where his spies are, but they are all around with their ears to the literal ground, so I learned quickly not to show my hand to anyone. But even with that, he remains one step ahead of me. Every. Damn. Time. It’s the most irritating thing.
“Thirty days,” she says, my mind still out in Tyler Beckett Purgatory, so I’m not comprehending what she’s saying. “Jessica, they are going on a thirty-day tour.”
“Thirty days?” I look up at Stephanie, not believing what she’s saying, but then I look back down again. Realizing she’s dead-ass serious, I roll my eyes at the audacity of a tour that lasts longer than some relationships in Hollywood. “That’s insane an
d dare I say a tad overkill.” I walk back to the chair and sit down. “How the hell are they going to pull that off?”
“They bought a plane, a big ass plane.” She stops talking, allowing that last part to sink in. “A select number of press are going to be traveling with them. They are doing ten worldwide stops. The stop in Paris will be the official movie premiere, then it will end in Australia, but the press tour stops before that in Los Angeles. There is talk of taking a few of you to Australia, but it’s still up in the air right now.”
“That schedule alone is crazy. Can you imagine a whole press tour and the logistics of something of that magnitude?” As I shake my head, my mind’s a whirlwind of what it would take to pull off a press junket that lasted that long.
“I honestly can’t fathom it.” She taps her finger on her desk, staring me down. “But they are taking ten journalists with them.” We stare at each other when she drops the bomb on me. The reason I’m here in her office right now. “You are one of the select few chosen.”
“No.” Sitting up straight, I look her dead in the eye, not even believing what I’m about to say to my boss. But there’s no other way to say it. “Not a chance in hell, Stephanie . . . no way.”
“You know what’s so damn funny?” She wears a knowing smirk on her face as she leans back in her chair, tapping her index finger on her chin. “That is exactly what Tyler said when he saw your name on the list of press members who would be joining him on the month-long tour.”
“He said that because of me?” I ask, shocked. I mean, I’m not shocked but still. “Me?”
“I need to know what that is all about. You aren’t telling me the whole story, and before I send you off to be a part of history in the making with this exclusive opportunity, I want the goods.” She knows I’m holding something back, yet refusing to say a word of truth.
“I have no idea. We don’t exactly run in the same circles.” I think we’ve been in the same room maybe ten times, and during each of those encounters, we were surrounded by hundreds of other people.
“Well, according to Ryan from HillCrest, yours was the only name he dragged his heels about.” Her eyes remain on me, waiting for me to confess all my dirty little secrets.
“Good.” I cross my arms over my stomach, mumbling under my breath to no one in particular. “He’s an asshole, and I don’t want to be anywhere near him either.” I think about the times I got cheated of an exclusive story because he got the jump ahead of me to put out his own story. The times on the red carpet when he would walk right past me, only to stop at the reporter next to me. The times I interviewed him, pushing his buttons by asking him questions I knew were off-limits. So it really comes as no surprise that he doesn’t want me on the tour.
“Ryan overrode him,” she tells me. My eyes plead with her to override Ryan even though I know her hands are just as tied as mine are in this situation. She then says the sentence I’ve been dreading to hear since she mentioned a thirty-day press junket and Tyler Beckett in the same breath. “Pack your bags, Jessica. You’re going on tour.”
Chapter Two
Jessica
Trending tonight on Twitter: Tyler Beckett gears up for the most intense press tour ever seen or heard of in the history of movie premieres.
“So you’re telling me that you have to go on tour with Tyler?” Mary, one of my best friends, asks as she laughs in front of me. After I left Stephanie’s office, I had stopped at my cubicle in a daze. The first thing I did was send Mary an SOS text, then I sat there just staring at the black computer screen that I had turned off right before going into Stephanie’s office. There was no arguing and no talking my way out of it. I was expected to get on that plane in three days and smile and wave, then wave and kiss ass. I knew that once I sat down with Mary, she would more or less talk me off the ledge . . . just as she has been doing since we sat next to each other in psychology on the first day of college.
“It’s not funny, Mary,” I tell her. “In fact, it’s the opposite of funny.” I grab my wine glass and look around Nobu, but for what, I have no idea. Four tables over, the hottest reality television queen sits on her phone. No doubt she’s taking duck selfies, which is never a good look for someone her age. The press hovers outside, anxiously awaiting the next picture to show up on her social media.
“What is the plan?” she asks as she picks up a piece of salad all the while trying not to laugh at my current predicament.
“I have no idea.” Shrugging in defeat, I say, “None, all she said is pack your bags.”
Smirking at me, she says, “For one month, you’ll be on a plane, living out of a suitcase.” Picking up her water and taking a drink before continuing, she boasts, “I mean, talk about a dream job, right?”
“Mary, you know me. I’m going to hate every second.” I lean in, hissing the next words. “It’s one thing to get the in on who is screwing whom, finding out who got stopped for a DUI, or reporting which celebrity is dissing another celebrity, but I get to go home at five o’clock every night, let my hair down, and watch freaking Dateline.” Leaning back in my chair, I continue, “You know this about me. I’m not the type of person who will enjoy being on the job for thirty days straight.”
She sits up in her chair. “Then why are you still at the magazine?” I ask myself that same question each day; a reminder of a time not that long ago when I wanted to report the stories that no one knows about on this side of the world.
“Because I’m good at it, of course. I also have the best closet out of all my friends.” I look around, then lean forward. “And because I’m chicken shit to put it out there and be told that I’m nothing but a paparazzi journalist.” Admitting that out loud just made my stomach do this weird little flip thing . . . and was that bile that just creeped up my esophagus?
“No one thinks of you like that.” She rolls her eyes. “Oprah, freaking Oprah, demanded that you interview her.”
Now I’m the one rolling my eyes. “She didn’t make me do it. She called the magazine, and they swapped stories. It’s not like she picked up the phone, and said, ‘Hey, can you get Jessica to come over for lunch?’”
She puts her hands up. “Semantics . . . it’s almost the same thing.” I don’t bother pointing out to her the difference while she rolls her eyes at me. “Do you know how many people would die to be on that plane with Tyler freaking Beckett?” she asks me, and I just shake my head. “Me, for one. But that’s because I want to sleep with him, and I’m not ashamed to admit all the dirty things that he and I could do together. Some of them could quite possibly be award-winning performances, if I do say so myself.”
With that revelation, I almost choke on the drink I’d just taken and look at my bestie as if she’s lost her damn mind.
“It’s so top secret, they aren’t even telling us the exact itinerary. We will be getting dates and events but not where it will be,” I tell her. “Until then, I’m going to try to get replaced.”
“Tomorrow night, we convene at your place for food and wine before you leave me for a month,” she says while the waiter sets the bill down and clears away our empty plates. I throw my credit card in the check holder. “I’m letting you know now that I’m going to bring more wine than food. Then we can decide what to pack for your trip and make sure you stand out better than any of the other bitches do.” Her eyebrows wiggle.
I laugh, knowing that she probably wouldn’t have brought food either. I sign the bill and stand, grabbing my little black blazer and slipping it on, but not bothering to button it. Walking out of the restaurant, we kiss each other’s cheek and confirm what time we are meeting tomorrow night as she walks to the left to get into the Uber she ordered. I turn to start toward the parking garage when a white car pulls up in front of me. Annoyed at the obstruction, I start to walk around the vehicle, but I’m stopped by the herd of paparazzi swarming the sidewalk as soon as the driver of the white car opens the door and places one foot out. At that moment, I hear his name before I look up. My anno
yance meter is now at maximum level when I spot him.
“Tyler! Tyler!” I hear the shouts and the shutters of the cameras, their flashes blinding me as I try to walk around them. “Tyler, Tyler, do you have a moment to answer some questions?”
I look to the side and see he’s wearing jeans and a long brown shirt with two buttons open in the front. His trademark gold aviator glasses shield his eyes from their intrusion; his hair is brushed to the side, and he has scruff on his cheeks. He doesn’t make eye contact and doesn’t acknowledge their questions as he tries to walk into the restaurant. But the paparazzi just follows him, keeping a respectable distance and maintaining that bubble of sacred space that they know they can’t encroach. I put my head down and walk away from the restaurant. Not only am I glad to be away from that chaos, but I’m also thrilled Tyler didn’t notice me when he pulled up.
Pulling into my parking spot, I grab my Louis bag from the passenger seat and walk up the cement steps, enjoying the warm breeze caressing my skin. I inhale a much-needed breath as the palm trees make a swishing sound in the wind. Today has been overwhelming, and I think it’s finally sinking in that I have to go on a thirty-day tour with the very man whose presence I just escaped. The only things that will wash away the chaos of this day are a long shower and my amazing king-size bed. After my nightly routine, the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on finally hits me, and I’m pretty sure I fall asleep before my head even hits the pillow.
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