Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Max Monroe

  I stare down at her, my eyes strong with confidence. “You knew I was an asshole when you met me, baby. I don’t know why you think that’s all of a sudden gonna change.”

  “God!” she shouts at the top of her lungs. “I hate you!”

  “Nah, you don’t hate me.” A soft chuckle from deep in my chest makes the air shake between us. “You’re angry with me, but you don’t hate me,” I say, and even though I’m Cal right now, I can’t stop myself from going off script…just a little bit…just for fun. Just to see what Birdie does. “You want me to fuck all that anger right out of you? Prove you don’t hate me? You and I both know you’ve been craving my cock since day one.”

  Okay, so I’m going off script a lot. In the scene, Cal doesn’t say anything about fucking or his cock, but in my opinion, now that I have my potential costar standing in front of me, he should.

  Birdie discreetly glances down at the script, but when she realizes I’ve veered, she lifts her gaze to mine and narrows her eyes. “You fucking wish,” she says, both improvising and passive-aggressively telling me, Andrew Watson, that I’m an asshole.

  I grin. “I think we both know you’re picking this fight because you’re frustrated, and you want me and my big cock to solve it.”

  “Screw you,” she spits. We’re both ignoring the script at this point, but my God, it feels right.

  Damn, maybe Howie was right. Birdie Harris is a real-life Arizona Lee.

  “You don’t know shit, Cal!” she shouts again, trying to bring us back to the script by combining the lines and her own words. I don’t miss the way her breasts rise and fall with each deep intake of air. And I certainly don’t miss the way her nipples harden beneath the thin material of her frilly dress. God, if I could just have a taste. “You know what?” she challenges. “I’m done. You and this fucking tour can kiss my ass!”

  Her emotion is so palpable, her voice shakes. Goddamn.

  “You’re not done, darlin’.”

  “Oh yes, I am,” she asserts, turning to leave.

  I grab her by the wrist and spin her back so hard, her body slams into mine. “No,” I say again, “you’re not.”

  Without thought, her warm breath heavily mingling with my own, I pull her tight to my chest with an arm around her back and bring my lips to hers.

  Before I make contact—before I can even anticipate the blow—Birdie reaches out with her right hand and slaps me clear across the face. The sound of her palm hitting my skin echoes inside William Capo’s office, and I swear I hear someone in the room gasp.

  My cheek stings like a son of a bitch.

  That was definitely not in the script.

  My gut reaction is simple—what the fuck is wrong with her?

  But my dick? He’s a total masochist. Sweet Jesus, I should not be so turned on right now.

  When Birdie’s eyes go wide, her anger waning and the realization of her way-off-script slap consuming her thoughts, something inside me refuses to let her fall out of the moment of this scene.

  Stay with me, firecracker. Stay with me.

  I move closer to her, my lips just inches from her mouth despite the proven danger associated with that move, and her breaths turn to pants. “You’re not done, and we’re certainly not done,” I whisper. “Hell, darlin’, we’re just getting started.”

  Our close proximity forces her thoughts back to me, back to this moment. Her eyes search my face, flitting between my eyes and my lips.

  But I don’t make the move because, having just been refused, Cal wouldn’t make the move. He might be a dick, but he’s a gentleman, too.

  This time, he lets Arizona decide.

  I dare you, my eyes say. I dare you to kiss me.

  The sexual tension between these characters—in this script—has been building since Cal met Arizona in a dive bar in Memphis. At this point in their love story, it’s become so potent, so powerful, that neither she nor he can deny it.

  But Birdie and I are just getting started. My God, our chemistry is off the charts.

  “Give in, Ari,” I whisper. “Give in to what you want.”

  Birdie does exactly what Cal needs Arizona to do; she closes the distance between them and presses her lips to his.

  Fuck. Her lips are even softer than I imagined.

  I take over the kiss, tangling our mouths with the kind of intensity that could move worlds. She slides her hands into my hair, and a moan rolls from her throat to my tongue.

  I don’t know whether I’m Cal or me right now. I just know that kissing Birdie Harris feels really damn good.

  Double fuck.

  A throat clears from somewhere outside of our bubble, and I pull away from the kiss and set Birdie back a foot.

  Jesus. I’ve never forgotten myself like that.

  She looks at me with wide, melted eyes, her breaths coming fast and unsteady, and I’ll be damned if I can actually look away. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think she knew entirely what she was doing either.

  The room stays quiet for what feels like an eternity until Willy breaks the silence with several claps of his hands.

  “Nice work,” he says, voice jovial. “Very nice work.”

  William Capo never says anything is nice. His go-to is criticism or silence. But never nice. Or very nice.

  “The slap was certainly an improvisation,” Howie teases, but it doesn’t take a psychic to read between the lines. Looks like there are about to be some script changes that lead to me getting slapped quite a bit during this movie.

  I should probably be pissed about that slap, but…I’m not. In fact, my dick’s halfway done setting up a campsite in my fucking pants.

  “I’m… Oh God… I’m so sorry,” Birdie mutters, bringing a shaking hand to her mouth. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

  Howie is quick to reassure her. “Trust me, Birdie, there’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m sure there’re a lot of jilted women out there who are thankful for that slap, and the four of us will never forget it.”

  I roll my eyes. Funny ha-ha, asshole. Still, as far as Birdie is concerned, his words do nothing to ease her discomfort.

  “Um…do you mind if I take a quick moment?” she asks, her voice wavy with nerves again.

  “Of course,” Serena says. “Take all the time you need.”

  She doesn’t have to tell Birdie twice. She’s out of the office doors between one breath and the next.

  As soon as the door closes behind her, Nell Franz shoves back in her chair, a smile on her face. “I think it’s safe to say we found our Arizona Lee.”

  Yeah, I think we just did.

  And holy shit, am I in trouble.

  Birdie

  Fantasizing about kicking someone in the balls is bad for your health.

  Or, in my case, bad for your career.

  Holy hungry hippos at a Sunday barbecue, I have no idea what happened back there.

  One minute, we were rolling through the scene, and the next, Andrew was going off script and I was…getting pissed. Really pissed, actually.

  What kind of jerk improvises a scene in the middle of an audition with someone he knows damn well has no prior acting experience?

  Was he trying to freaking sabotage me?

  The last thing I remember is watching my hand meet the side of his face. I doubt they were expecting an assault when they asked me to audition, but by God, they got it.

  Sweet baby kittens in a wicker basket, I think I’ve gone crazy.

  Apparently, Andrew Watson brings out my inner she-devil, and she’s not afraid of doing a stint in the slammer.

  Too embarrassed and way too worked up, I know I can’t go back into that room yet—if ever. I may very well need a lifetime to get over what I just did back there.

  Down the elevator and into the lobby, I find a door that leads to a pretty outside terrace, and I plop my ass down on a marble bench.

  It doesn’t take long before my phone is pushed to my ear and I’m calling my sister.

  Thank
fully, she answers on the second ring.

  “Oh my God! How did it go?” she asks, voice far too cheery for this moment in time. “Tell me everything!”

  I cringe and summarize my current situation in three words. “I screwed up.”

  “What?” Confusion fills her voice.

  “I. Screwed. Up,” I repeat. “I slapped him in the face.”

  Good God, it sounds worse when I say it out loud!

  “Hold up…you did whaaaaat?”

  “I slapped Andrew Watson in the face.”

  “Like, on purpose? Or…?”

  I sigh and shut my eyes. “We were in the middle of this scene where Cal and Arizona are in a fight and they end up kissing. But that bastard took it upon himself to go off script, Billie! It’s like he was trying to screw me over, and before I knew it, I was slapping him really hard across the face.”

  Seriously. The damn thing had so much power, it echoed off the walls.

  “And I take it that wasn’t in the script?” she asks, and a deep sigh escapes my lungs.

  “Nope. Not in the script. At all.”

  “I mean, I wasn’t there, but it kind of sounds like you did your own improvisation…”

  Her words are meant to make me feel better, but they do the opposite.

  “Oh yeah,” I comment through a snort. “I certainly improvised. With violence, Billie. They probably think I’m a lunatic!” I throw my free hand in the air and lean my head back to let the warm California sun wash over my face.

  Good God, so much for breaking into Hollywood. Any minute now, security is probably going to come down here and escort me off the premises.

  “So…did you guys kiss? Or did the scene kind of end after you slapped the shit out of him?”

  “I didn’t slap the shit out of him. It was one only slap,” I snap.

  “Okay, okay. Jesus, calm down,” she responds, but also, doesn’t hesitate to push further. “And the kiss? Did it happen? Or…?”

  God, that stupid kiss.

  Stupid kiss? Pretty sure your wits are still scattered up there on William Capo’s marble floor…

  Instantly, my fingertips move to my lips, tracing over the still thrumming spots where Andrew’s mouth was pressed against mine. Ugh. I hate how good that kiss felt. His lips are like God actually made them just for kissing.

  “Hello? Earth to Birdie?” My sister’s voice yanks me from my wayward thoughts.

  “The kiss was…okay, I guess.”

  Liar.

  “Just okay?” she questions on a laugh. “You kissed Andrew freaking Watson, this year’s Hottest Man Alive. Women literally take off their underwear for him in the middle of the street so he will autograph their panties. Surely, it wasn’t just okay. I mean—”

  “Hey now, princess!” I hear Luca yell in the background. “You’re getting a little too giddy over kissing that bastard.”

  “Relax, caveman.” Billie giggles. “You’re the only bastard I want to kiss.”

  “Damn straight!” he calls back. “And did you say that Birdie slapped Andrew in the middle of her audition? Or am I just hearing shit?”

  “Oh, she definitely slapped him,” Billie says through a giggle, like it’s all just fun and games that I attacked someone in William Capo’s office.

  “Fuck, that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.” Luca’s responding laughter can’t be missed.

  “Yeah, well, that’s all well and good he’s amused by it, but you should probably remind him that he’s the one who recommended me for the part. You know, the one I just committed a crime while auditioning for,” I chime in, but before I can add to it, someone else catches my attention.

  “Birdie?”

  I look toward the terrace doors to find Nell Franz.

  Oh shit. This is probably the part where they kindly ask me to leave. Or, hell’s bells, maybe the cops are already on their way, and she’s just, like, trying to distract me until they get here.

  “I gotta go, Billie,” I whisper into the phone and quickly hit end on the call before she can respond.

  “Sorry,” I apologize and rise to my feet. “Just had to make a quick phone call.”

  “No worries,” she responds, and I’m surprised that her voice sounds so open, so friendly. But then again, maybe that’s because she thinks she’s talking to someone who is unhinged. That’s probably how you’re supposed to handle crazy people.

  “Are you ready to come back upstairs?”

  “Uh…” I pause and stare down at my feet. “I think it’s best if you say what you need to say out here.”

  No use making a big show in front of a crowd.

  Nell’s lips quirk up into a smile. “Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone up there wants to be a part of the good news.”

  Good news? Either she has a sick sense of humor, or I’m missing something. Her smile grows.

  “You did fantastic up there, Birdie.”

  “I did?”

  “You don’t think you did?”

  I shake my head. Pretty sure slapping a potential costar in the face is not on the approved guidelines for etiquette.

  “Honey, trust me on this, for your first audition, you were brilliant,” she states, voice unwavering. “Perfect, actually. Howie’s already made a note to add that slap into the scene.”

  My eyes widen. What?

  “So, why don’t you come back upstairs with me,” she says and gestures toward the door, “and let Mr. Capo do the honors of officially offering you the role of Arizona Lee.”

  Holy. Fucking. Shit. I got the part.

  Andrew

  The only kind of wake-up calls I schedule involve a naked woman and my hard cock. Other than that, I prefer to wake up on my own time, when my body feels like it. Today, evidently, my assistant doesn’t give a fuck what I want.

  “Andrew!” The voice is loud and certainly unwelcome. “Andrew!”

  I blink open my eyes and find my assistant Blake standing at the foot of my California King bed. He’s dressed in his typical fashion—a slim suit, crisp shirt, and skinny tie, all color-coordinated to make the rest of the population’s color-scheming feel inferior. Today’s theme is the color purple. So much fucking purple, even Oprah wouldn’t know what to do with herself.

  Blake Barren has been my assistant for the last eight years. For the first five of those years, he played second fiddle to my first assistant Janie. But once Janie chose marriage and kids over dealing with me, Blake became my number one. And, truthfully, he is so good at his job, I haven’t even considered adding another assistant into the mix.

  Although, I would never openly tell him that.

  “What time is it?” I ask, scrubbing a hand down my face and sliding the comforter off my legs.

  “A little after ten,” Blake answers, but then he screeches and covers his eyes with his hand. “Jesus, are you naked?”

  “I always sleep naked.” I laugh. “You’re just not normally here. Quite frankly, you weren’t even fucking invited this time.”

  He scoffs behind his hand.

  Still, I make no move to get out of bed or cover the goods. It’s not my problem he decided to barge into my bedroom.

  And let’s be honest, there are a lot worse-looking cocks he could be face-to-face with than mine. I don’t want to put words in people’s mouths, but I think the women I’ve been with would agree, it wouldn’t be an overreach to refer to it as spectacular.

  “Mind telling me why you’re here?”

  “Because it’s Monday.”

  Shit. It’s already Monday?

  When I’m not on location, every fucking Monday, my team comes together for a weekly meeting. Thankfully, the location is my house, but I’m pretty sure that’s because they know it’s the only way to get me there on time—or at all, to be honest.

  I sigh and stare up at the ceiling. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be downstairs.”

  “Well, thank fuck for that,” he mumbles under his breath before turning on his shiny patent leat
her loafers and walking out of my bedroom.

  The man has more attitude in his fucking pinkie finger than Mariah Carey, and he knows how to handle my bullshit, but apparently, this morning, he thinks I’m hard of hearing.

  I have to give him a pass, though. Because, yes, I am known for bullshit.

  Late arrivals. Missed meetings because I’m otherwise entertained by the company of a beautiful woman. Attempting to head out into public without security. Impulsively skipping town on a whim and going on a trip to Vegas without telling anyone.

  Yeah. You name it, and I’ve probably done it.

  And he handles it all like a handsome, gay version of Rumpelstiltskin—spinning my bullshit into gold every fucking day.

  I slide out of bed, toss on some sweatpants and a hoodie, take a piss and brush my teeth, and head downstairs to face whatever bullshit business is waiting for me this week.

  My whole team sits around the large dining table in my kitchen with coffee and doughnuts and bagels and fruit spread across the center like a buffet.

  “So glad you could make it,” my agent, Liza Rose, teases with a wink. “I know walking from your bed to your kitchen can be a difficult task.”

  Blake and my publicist, Amy Marco, laugh.

  Damien Shultz, my manager, just barely smirks. He apparently has a healthier appreciation for money and job security than the other two.

  “You’d be surprised how difficult it can be, Liza.” I grab an Alfred’s coffee and a banana from the center of the table. “So, what’s on the books for this week?” I ask and sit down beside Blake.

  “Today, you’re on your own. But tomorrow, you’re going to hit the ground running,” Blake updates. “So, for the love of Liza’s paycheck, get some sleep tonight so you don’t look like shit when you wake up.”

  “Me? Look like shit?” I feign confusion at the impossibility. “Have you seen my face?”

  Blake rolls his eyes. “Just get some fucking sleep, okay?”