by Cora Kenborn
Angel takes the card and folds it in her hand. “Of course.”
I open the door, ready to help him along his way with a boot in his ass when he stops and looks over his shoulder. “By the way, my father was Miguel Rubio.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll be sure to send you both Christmas cards.”
“You’ll have to send his to Valhalla Cemetery. He went to his grave still searching for you, Miss Romanov.”
I don’t like where this is going.
She clears her throat. “Excuse me?”
“Detective Miguel Rubio,” he clarifies. “LAPD. My father was the lead detective on your family’s murder case. First on the scene and last to care about finding you.”
Angel stiffens, her calm demeanor cracking. “Detective—”
“Until now,” he interrupts, letting the words settle for a moment before tipping his chin. “Have a good day, Miss Romanov.” Neither of us speak, watching as the salivating swarm of press rush toward him. Halfway down the walkway, he stops and turns around, a brittle smile on his face. “Oh, and welcome home.”
Chapter Twenty
Dominic
The term overnight success has been tossed around so much in this town it has lost its true meaning. Now it’s just a label slapped on actors who have paid their dues for years. A narrative created by people like me to sensationalize and capitalize on people like them. That’s why the movie industry is full of addicts and untimely deaths. Eventually, the smokescreen clears, and reality pushes them aside to make room for newer headlines.
A brand-new overnight success.
That’s what I woke up to this morning. A global obsession. Every media outlet has labeled Angel “Hollywood’s newest ‘It’ girl”. Offers are pouring in every fifteen minutes from big name production companies and indie start-ups. Every eye in the world is watching her, and while I knew the eventual path this scam would take, I didn’t anticipate the guilt that would come with it.
I’m walking away with half a million in my pocket, but leaving Angel trapped in a fishbowl. Now Detective Rubio is lurking around every corner trying to drown her in it.
So, I woke up in a bad mood.
I’ve said before, I don’t do guilt, and I’m pissed at her for forcing it out of me. For swinging around balls of steel last night in front of that detective and then deflating into complete silence like someone let the air out of her balloon. For giving me whiplash by waking up this morning acting like a skittish pony, barely saying two words the whole drive to Bel Air.
Now, a house full of people stand staring at her—waiting for some grand speech. So, I do the first thing that comes to mind. I pinch her ass. Hard.
Angel lets out a yelp, jumping forward and covering her mouth. Probably not the best idea I could’ve come up with, but at least she doesn’t look catatonic anymore. Clearing her throat, she turns a shy gaze toward Michaela. “I-I don’t know what to say. It’s very white.” Her eyes snap to me as a rumble of laughter ripples through the crowd of people gathered in the front parlor of the Romanov estate. Blushing at the attention, she lowers her eyes to her feet.
High heels to be exact. Six-inch fuck-me ones. Along with a tight black dress and smart gray jacket. Another delivery, courtesy of Milly—the woman I might skewer like a damn stiletto-ka-bob next time I see her.
It’s bad enough I’ve spent the last two weeks jerking my dick raw to the memory of Angel’s wet pussy. And now this? I’m not sure how to deal with this transformation.
“You don’t have to say anything, Miss Romanov.” Michaela flashes her a professional smile. “That’s the point. Your staff is here to take care of any need you may have before it arises. Your privacy is of their utmost concern, so they’ll remain in the shadows until that time comes.”
Angel slowly turns her gaze toward the small gathering of uniformed staff still staring at her. “Do they live here, too?”
“Of course.” Michaela nods, tucking a strand of her short blonde hair behind her ear. “Hilda is your housekeeper, Franz is your chef, Isaac is your groundskeeper, and Lars”—she points toward a guy I swear is the lab-created clone of Arnold Schwarzenegger—“is your personal driver.”
With the exception of muscle boy, each one is in their late forties or early fifties. Although I’ve only known Angel a little over three weeks, that bizarre electric connection we have starts to sizzle, and as she takes them in one by one, I know the question that’s coming before she asks it.
“Did they work here when...when...”
“Only me, ma’am.” Every eye turns as Hilda steps forward. A grandmotherly-looking woman with gray hair tucked in a tight bun. “I was asleep in the staff quarters when…” her voice trails off, and she forces a smile. “Well, it’s my honor to serve this family again.”
Angel returns her smile. “Thank you.” Looking toward Michaela, she adds, “This is a little overwhelming.”
Michaela pats her arm. “I’m sure. You have plenty of time to relax. Staff, you are dismissed.” As the staff disperse like ants, Michaela heads toward an elevator leading to an underground garage. “I’ll leave you to get reacquainted.” As the doors open, she smiles over her shoulder. “Welcome home, Alexandra.”
As soon as she’s gone, Angel lets out a labored breath. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true,” I whisper behind her ear.
“Right.” Tipping her head back, she leans into me, and who am I to complain? We’re like a magnetic force field. It doesn’t matter whether we want it or not, our bodies do, and they’re in control.
My hands slip under her jacket, molding around her hips. “Alexandra…”
She stiffens, and right away, I know that was the wrong thing to say. She’s still getting used to her new name, and hearing it used as a come-on is bad enough. Hearing it used as a come-on while being trapped inside the walls of a mass homicide?
Not my finest moment.
Shrugging out of my hold, she walks the perimeter of the massive foyer, running her fingers over things. Furniture. Piano. Paintings. Sculptures.
Portraits.
Fuck.
She stops at the oil painting hanging on the wall, her finger tracing the outline of eight year old Alexandra Romanov’s face. Beside her sit her three sisters and her brother, and behind them stand her parents. Rich, regal, and riddled with sin.
“Is this where it happened?”
“Sort of,” I admit, and knowing anyone could be listening, I continue playing our roles. “Your father, brother, and two of your sisters were shot by the rear west stairs. The other not far from there.”
“And the…” She clears her throat. “And my mother?”
I palm the back of my neck, the turn in conversation setting me on edge. “Rook, this is your home, do you really want those images in your head? This is your chance at a fresh start. Don’t fuck it up by filling it with ghosts from the past.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my tongue feels dry. My head pounds, and it feels like I took a sledgehammer straight to the chest. Too bad I didn’t take my own advice.
Angel stills and then spins around, the meaning of my words hitting her. “My chance? What about you?”
Damn. I wanted to avoid a big confrontation, but this is Angel. I should’ve known better. With her, there will be no fading away quietly into the background. As much of a pain in my ass as she’s become, I’ve gotten used to having her around. Which is dangerous for both of us.
She’s a liability. In my world, attachments are seen as weaknesses and weaknesses are used as pawns. My mother has already been turned into a chess piece. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them get to Angel.
“I never lied to you. I told you I was only in this for the money.”
Angel rears back as if I slapped her. “So, that’s it? You’re just going to leave? I thought—”
“You thought what?” I force a smirk as tears well up in her eyes. “That because you let me touch your pussy we
were going to live happily ever after in this fucked up house of horrors?” The words burn like acid on my tongue, but I don’t stop. “This was a business deal, cupcake, and now it’s done. We both got what we wanted. I got my money, and you got the career you kept bitching I stole. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone wins, huh?” I’ll give her credit, as quickly as the tears form, she blinks them back. “So, what happens when Rubio comes calling again?” Balling her fists, she stomps toward me, her voice lowering to a whispered hiss. “What happens when he finds out the test was faked?”
“Will you lower your fucking voice?”
“What happens if the real Alexandra shows up?” she continues, shoving a finger in my chest. “Because if you think I’m taking the fall for this, you’re insane.”
Gritting my teeth, I back her up until she stumbles into the wall, and with a low growl, I cage her in. “As long as you keep your mouth shut, Rubio doesn’t have shit. My contacts at QuestTech can’t be traced.”
“And the real Alexandra Romanov?”
I glance to the left where that damn portrait stares back at me. “Trust me, if she hasn’t come forward by now, she won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She doesn’t want to be found for a reason, rook.” Shaking my head, I push away from the wall, putting distance between us before I do something stupid. I glance around at the house drenched in blood and secrecy one last time. “Would you want to come back to this?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I’m across the foyer headed toward the elevator.
All I hear is the frantic click-clack of Angel’s heels, and then she’s behind me, grabbing a fistful of my T-shirt. “You’re really leaving. Just like that.”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
“But what about the party?” she yells, her nails digging into my skin through the thin fabric. “You agreed to that, not me. Michaela said the press will be there. They’re expecting to see you, Dominic. What am I supposed to tell them if you don’t—”
Fuck it.
Turning around, I crush my mouth onto hers, swallowing the rest of her tirade. As pissed as she is, she doesn’t pull away, instead, transferring her anger into the kiss. Our tongues twist in frantic need and lust, and hate, and whatever the hell this is blotting out common sense.
Her nails scrape down my back as my hands dig into that uptight hairdo. The more she moans, the more my brain wars with my dick, and I have to admit, right now, I’m team dick.
Until my phone rings and knocks some sense back into me.
Pulling away, I lick my lips, watching as her pupils dilate. “I am the press, rook.” I give her an arrogant wink as my phone rings again. “See you Friday, Miss Romanov.”
I don’t answer until the fourth time he calls. I’m driving down Stone Canyon Road when I hit the button on the hands-free device. “I was wondering how long it would take you to call.”
His low chuckle grates on my nerves, and my grip tightens on the steering wheel. “I have to hand it to you, McCallum, I expected you to do a lot of crazy shit to save your own ass, but faking an heiress? That was brilliant.”
“I didn’t pull anything, Rosten. Alexandra’s the real deal. The estate confirmed it. Besides, you’re hardly one to talk. Not after the shit you pulled at Moss Valley.”
“I was simply downsizing.”
I slam my foot on the gas, blowing through a red light. “This is between you and me, asshole, not my mother.” Damn it, I need to pull it together. “Fate smiled down on me for once,” I say, forcing an even tone. “I was at the right place at the right time.”
Fate always finds a way.
“Speaking of your mother, meet me at my office in an hour,” he says, dragging me out of the muddled memory. “We have business to discuss.”
I laugh. “We have nothing to discuss. I have the money to pay your bullshit settlement and get my lawyers off my back now. Our business is finished.”
There’s dead silence.
“Is that right? Why don’t you check the email I just sent you and then see how finished we are?” A sadistic laugh echoes through the line. “See you in an hour, McCallum.”
The line goes dead. Grabbing my phone from the passenger’s seat, I scroll through my email and click the one from an unrecognizable address. There’s no text—only an attachment.
Once it downloads, my blood pressure hits stroke level.
“Motherfucker.”
It was taken two weeks ago outside my house. A clear shot of Angel splayed out on the lounge chair with my fingers buried inside her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dominic
Gaining access into Silverline Studios requires a photo ID, birth certificate, passport, fingerprint, background check, blood sample, and full body cavity search.
And that’s just at the front security booth checkpoint.
After I’m granted access, I drive up to the main studio building. Slamming the car door, I stand there stewing in my own anger, fueled by the bright green lawn surrounding me like a grassy moat. It’s immaculate, flashy, and glaringly out of place. Almost as if someone dug up a tropical island and air dropped it over LA’s scorched brown earth.
Typical excess, just like Rosten himself.
And since I’m in no mood for horticultural dick swinging, I pick up the pace, grinding my teeth as I pass through the metal detector and enter the fancy glass enclosed reception area.
“Greg Rosten is expecting me,” I say to the receptionist. There’s no need for pleasantries. I’m not a pleasant guy. Plus, she’s on his payroll, which automatically puts her on my shit list.
“Name?”
She knows damn well who I am, but I’ll give her two points for attitude. At least this one has some fire in her, unlike the mannequins wandering around here fighting over who’s next in line to shove their tongue up Rosten’s asshole.
“Are we really going to play this game? I’ve got places to be and people to do. A few of whom are going to be put out if they miss getting dicked down because I was dicking with you.”
Glaring at me, she punches a few numbers into her desk phone, scowling as she speaks into the wireless headset strapped to her face. “Dominic McCallum is here to see Mr. Rosten.”
Told ya.
She gives me a barbed wire smile. “Down the hall, exit, and go to the main studio building then take the elevator to the penthouse.” She slides a square piece of plastic across the top of her desk. “Use this keycard once you’re in the elevator. It’ll provide you access to the penthouse where Susan will collect it.”
“Perfect.” I give her a wink and head toward the lion’s den.
The damn place is like a maze. Doors leading to more doors and studios that look like construction warehouses. By the time I make it to the main building and board the elevator with the magical keycard, my fists are clenched, and I’m out of patience.
“Mr. McCallum.” Rosten’s secretary stares up at me from behind her expensive desk. It’s not a question. And why should it be? Breaking into the White House would be easier than gaining access to the president of Silverline Studios.
“Sue.”
She holds out her hand. “Your keycard.”
I hand it over without arguing, and she stands without speaking, motioning me to follow her. She knocks on a door, opening it barely a crack. “He’s here.”
My mind is still swirling with images of that picture, not only with fear over what damage it could do, but with rage over knowing Rosten saw Angel like that. Half-naked and vulnerable. That sick, twisted fuck probably jerked off to it already.
Just the thought makes me force my way through Sue’s little cracked open doorway.
“Hey you can’t—”
“Fuck off, Sue.”
Once I lock eyes with Rosten, we might as well be the only two in the room anyway. I haven’t seen him since the arbitration, but he hasn’t changed. He’s still the same overprocessed cocksucker he’s always been.
“Yes, sir,” she concedes, and just before closing the door I hear her mutter, “My name is Susan, asshole.”
Greg Rosten’s office is just as pretentious as the sprayed lawn. All marble and mirrors with walls lined with multiple television screens and big glass windows overlooking the movie studios. I assume that’s by design, so he can feel like king of the castle. The master of his domain, looking out over all his loyal subjects and eenie meenie minie mo’ing the next in line to pluck out of obscurity and bend over his desk.
He smiles, showing off his obscenely white veneers. “Dominic, so glad you could make it. Have a seat.”
No wonder this fucker has to drug women to get laid. Everything about him screams douchebag from his Dumbo ears, to his patchy gray beard, to his beady little rat eyes, to his fuzzy balding head. If I were a chick, I’d rather suck off a horse.
“I prefer to stand, thanks.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. I assume you got my present.”
“You mean your blackmail?”
“That’s such an ugly word. I prefer incentive.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I tilt my chin. “Is this about me outing your audition with benefits bullshit? Is your pride still hurt? Well, get the fuck over it. You’ve already sued me, Rosten. You won. What can you possibly have left to gain by doing this?”
“You’re damn right I won. I’ll always win. Just the fact you thought someone like you could take down someone like me is pathetic. You tried to ruin me?” He lets out a theatrical laugh, his lip curling into a smug smile. “Well, I annihilated you.”
“Maybe I have nothing, but I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. You’re four-hundred-thousand dollars richer, and my debt is paid.”
“You think I give a flying fuck about your pathetic four-hundred-thousand dollars? I made twice that in the time it took for you to fumble your ass from reception to my office. I didn’t even deposit your check. I cashed it and jerked off with a fistful of hundred-dollar bills.” As if the words weren’t enough, he follows it up with a hand gesture.