TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY

by Monroe, Max

  Or, at least, that’s what he better have fucking brought.

  Jeremy is an eighteen-year old Rally local and Earl Harry’s grandson. Once I made the decision to head back to LA, I ensured arrangements were taken care of.

  With my shooting schedule and, well, my attempts at getting Billie to forgive me commandeering most of my time, I had no idea when I would be able to get back to Alaska to check on Lou. Which, thankfully, is where Jeremy comes in.

  Lou: Yeah. He brought a whole bunch of shit. But I already told you I’m good.

  Me: Just make nice with Earl Harry’s grandson and be grateful I still care about your cranky ass.

  Lou: Cranky ass. Ha. Like you should talk. And just be prepared, the next time you’re back in Alaska, I’m kicking your ass.

  A small laugh escapes my throat.

  Me: Bring it on, old man.

  “Mr. Weaver, can I get you anything?”

  Eyes away from my phone, I find a young, twentysomething guy with short brown hair standing beside me.

  “No, I’m good, but thanks.” I shake my head. “And please, no need for formalities. Just call me Luca.”

  He nods, smiles, and then walks away.

  Back to my emails, I hope to find a message from my sister.

  I’ve now resorted to emailing her, at an address she hopefully still uses. But so far, no luck.

  I have no idea what is going on with her or how she is doing, but I refuse to resort to Google and fucking TMZ to figure out what my baby sister is up to these days.

  With all the bad press I received prior to my departure from Tinseltown, I know how shit can get spun and twisted.

  When I was twenty-four, a story broke that I had checked in to rehab for a cocaine addiction.

  But I wasn’t in rehab. And I wasn’t addicted to cocaine.

  I was in fucking Alaska visiting Lou.

  Fucking gossip hounds.

  “Would you like a fresh cup of coffee, Luca?”

  I look up to find the same man standing there, smiling at me while holding out a cup of coffee in his hands.

  “Uh…” I pause and glance down at the coffee I grabbed before I came here today. “I’m all set, actually.”

  “Oh, okay. No problem.”

  He starts to walk away, but stops, turns, and faces me again.

  “What about a donut or a bagel from the craft services table? I’d be more than happy to get something for you.”

  Jesus. This guy. I feel like if I don’t let him get me something, he’s going to follow me into the bathroom and try to hold my dick while I take a piss just to make himself feel useful.

  “Sure. That’d be great.”

  His smile beams. “What would you like?”

  “Anything you think looks good.” Anything to get you to stop coming back over here.

  “I’ll get you a few things, then,” he says and turns on his heel with a skip in his step.

  Unfortunately for me, Mr. Helpful is back in two minutes flat with not one but two platefuls of breakfast foods in his hands. A bagel, a donut, a yogurt, banana, apple, granola bar, and several other odds and ends.

  “Here you go, Luca,” he says and sets the craft services table smorgasbord in front of me. “I got you a little bit of everything.”

  A little bit of everything? Ha. It looks like he hit up a complimentary Holiday Inn breakfast buffet. Any moment, I fear he’ll pull a waffle iron out of his back pocket and start pouring fucking batter into it.

  “This is great. Thanks…uh…” I pause and stare down at the absurdity of this being delivered for a man who already said he ate breakfast. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “I don’t think I did,” he says and chuckles. “I’m Charles, one of Serena’s production assistants.”

  “Thank you, Charles. I think I’m all set for today.”

  “It is my pleasure, and do not hesitate to let me know if there is anything else I can get for you.”

  My brain catches up with his words—one of Serena’s production assistants.

  “Actually, Charles, I do have one more request.”

  “Of course.”

  “Billie Harris’s phone number.”

  He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “You don’t have Billie’s number? That’s strange.”

  He’s skeptical.

  And then it hits me.

  This is the Charles. The one Billie calls the ass-kisser.

  Her competition.

  “I thought you and Billie were close friends,” he adds and searches my eyes for some kind of answer.

  “We are,” I say sternly, leaving no room for argument or doubt. “But I had to change phones. Can you give me the number, or should I ask someone else who can actually be of help?”

  “Oh.” His face falls, and I have to bite my lip. I haven’t gotten this big of a kick out of being an asshole since Billie first showed up on my deck. Now, I’m only enjoying it because it feels like I’m doing it on her behalf. “Yeah, I guess I can give her number to you.”

  His earlier enthusiasm that spurred enough breakfast foods to feed the whole damn cast is long gone, but lucky for me, he slides his phone out of his pocket and proceeds to give me her number.

  It’s ironic that I don’t have the phone number of the girl I’m trying to win back, but everything about Billie and me is irony at its finest.

  The way we met.

  The way I started out hating her, but now, not a day goes by where I don’t wake up with her on my mind.

  Everything about us is a crazy contrast.

  With Billie’s number programmed into my phone and Charles long gone, more of the cast and crew arrive.

  Serena Koontz, our producer.

  Mei Chen, our director.

  Lucy Larson and the rest of my fellow actors.

  And…Billie.

  Beautiful, breathtaking, already glaring at me, Billie.

  “Good morning,” Mei addresses everyone at the table. “I think it’s a wonderful day to finish our read-through of the script.”

  Serena grins. “I second that sentiment.”

  The two of them discuss a few changes in the opening scene, and I don’t hesitate to pull my phone back out of my pocket and type out a text message.

  The instant I hit send, I smile to myself, already anticipating her response.

  Me: Good morning, princess. I’m sure you won’t mind that I managed to get your number from your buddy Charles so that it will be easier to contact you. Only business stuff, obviously. And, I hope you slept well last night.

  She stands beside a few of the camera guys, discussing something quietly, and I watch in fascination as she pulls her phone out of her pocket and reads my message.

  Instantly, her face morphs into annoyance.

  Billie: I do mind, actually. And I hope you didn’t get any sleep at all.

  Goddamn. She’s so pissed at me that it’s cute. Truthfully, it brings back memories of the time we spent fighting with each other before—fighting and falling.

  I have to bite my lip to fight my laughter.

  Me: Don’t be silly about the phone number exchange, princess. Seeing as you’re my go-to person on set, surely, we need to be able to get in touch with one another.

  Billie: I’m one-hundred-percent certain I will not need to get in touch with you.

  Me: One-hundred-percent certain? I’m glad you expect to be that on top of things.

  Billie: Why are you texting me?

  Me: Because I like you, which means, I like texting you.

  Billie: Well, I don’t like you. At all.

  If she really didn’t like me, if she really wanted nothing to do with me, she would’ve already put her phone back into her pocket and ignored my messages.

  But she’s still standing there, phone in her hand, staring at the screen like she’s waiting for me to respond.

  Call me crazy, call me delusional, but I’m taking that as a good sign.

  Me: Well, no ma
tter if you like me or not, you ARE my go-to person, and I have a few things I think need help getting solved.

  Billie: Like what? Babysitting movers? Your damn laundry?

  I type out a reply, hit send, and wait for her sassy response.

  The smile on my lips is too powerful to hide.

  Me: No, but if you would like to do my laundry, I can definitely oblige.

  Billie

  How quickly does underwear burn if you light it on fire? I was just minding my own business, helping our camera crew work out a few issues, and avoiding Luca Weaver like the coronavirus.

  All was good.

  Until my phone vibrated with a text message from the infectious devil himself.

  Back and forth we went, until he offered to let me do his laundry.

  As if I’d even be willing to wash his freaking socks.

  Pretty sure if Serena says to do his laundry, you’ll be there with detergent, you little liar.

  No, brain, I disagree. If Serena says to do his laundry, I’ll somehow manipulate Chuck the Errand Boy into doing it and make him think it’s his brilliant idea.

  Boom. How ’bout them apples?

  Jesus. I am now having arguments with myself. About Luca.

  Pretty sure this is a new low.

  I reread the last stupid text he sent me and don’t hesitate to respond, my fingers quick and my words sassy.

  Me: I know you celebrities are used to the five-star treatment, like having people wipe your ass for you, but I’m no ass-wiper and I’m certainly no maid. You can do your own stupid laundry, buddy.

  Ha. Suck on that.

  I’m two seconds away from tossing out jazz hands and celebrating my text victory when my phone vibrates with another message.

  Unknown: Suit yourself, princess. But just know, the laundry offer always stands. Indefinitely.

  This fucking guy. If I had a voodoo doll of him, I’d stab so many needles into that little bastard. His eyes, his ears, his heart, his penis—nothing would be off the table.

  I huff out a breath and send a sarcastic response.

  Me: Oh wow, that’s so generous of you.

  Unknown: Well, I’m a generous kind of guy.

  Bullshit. He is a lot of things, but he is not that.

  Self-involved? Yes.

  A prick? Oh, hell yes.

  But generous? I don’t think so, bucko.

  Are you sure about that? my brain taunts. Because he’s here. Doing this movie. That you asked him to do.

  I sigh at myself. Yeah, but he decided to do this movie after he wrote me off as some random girl he fucked a couple times.

  Otherwise known as, he broke your heart.

  Ugh. I need a lobotomy. Or a new brain.

  But before I can process the pros and cons of a brain transplant, my phone vibrates in my hand with more bullshit. From him.

  Unknown: By the way, this morning, I overheard some issues with the lighting crew, and it sounds like they are having some serious disagreements on budget. You might want to look into it.

  What the hell?

  Unknown: And Carrie in the makeup department is peeved that FedEx has failed to deliver something that’s apparently needed, but since she’s busy with makeup testing on the cast all day today, she doesn’t have time to figure out how to solve that problem.

  How is he aware of these things and I’m not?

  It’s like he’s undercover with the FBI and has the whole damn cast and crew wired.

  I’m irritated with myself that he knows these things and I don’t.

  And, irrational or not, I’m really fucking irritated that he, of all people, is texting me about them. He is the last person I want to tell me anything, especially when it comes to my job.

  Unknown: Oh, and by the way, you’re going to need to be at my rental today by three.

  I read the text and blink three times. You have got to be kidding me.

  Me: I’m sorry, what?

  Unknown: The movers. They’re going to be there at three, but I can’t be there because I’ll be dealing with fittings until six.

  I just stare down at my phone, wondering how in the hell this is my life now.

  Because, seriously, how is this my life?

  The one person I want to avoid just won’t fucking go away.

  Unknown: Oh, and don’t forget to save my number in your phone. ;)

  See? He. Won’t. Go. Away.

  God help me.

  I look up from my cell, toward the table where all of the Espionage cast sits, and right into the blue eyes of the bastard himself.

  Luca smiles softly, and I lift my middle finger to scratch my nose.

  His eyes twinkle with amusement, and I move that middle finger to my hair and scratch there, too.

  Call it childish, I don’t care. He deserves all my middle fingers and then some.

  If my toes could flip the bird, I’d take my damn boots off.

  My phone vibrates in my hand again, and I look down to find another goddamn text from him. It’s the address for his stupid rental. Followed by the words, thank you for doing this, princess.

  A really large part of me wants to send him a response that revolves around the words, fuck off and deal with the movers yourself.

  But the other part of me, the rational, “I want to keep my job” part of me, knows that urge can only stay a fun fantasy.

  I have to follow through.

  I cannot be a dick to the most important person in the cast.

  Which means, later today, once I’ve put out the fires with the lighting crew and Carrie in makeup, I have to drive to Laurel Canyon, to Luca Weaver’s fancy new rental, to meet with his goddamn movers.

  That voodoo doll isn’t sounding like such a bad idea after all…

  Luca

  You’d think my bones would break since I’ve just been the victim of a hit-and-run. But they just keep on fucking trucking.

  At a little after six, I pull into the driveway of my LA rental, and I’m stoked to find Billie’s Honda Civic parked in front of the garage.

  I know the movers left a little over two hours ago, but she’s still here.

  At my house.

  I grin. The plan is working…hopefully.

  Engine cut and Mexican takeout bags in my hands, I hop out of the car and head inside.

  Billie sits on the floor of the living room, rolling a ball back and forth to Bailey.

  His tail wags. She grins down at him.

  But that expression quickly morphs into a scowl when she glances up to see me.

  God, this woman. She is so fucking stubborn and refuses to take any bullshit.

  I love that about her. Really, I do. But right now, when I’m trying to slide back into her good graces, it’s a fucking bitch of a reality.

  Sassy remarks. Narrowed eyes. Annoyed sighs. That’s about all I’m getting from Billie these days. Hell, she shows more love to my dog than me.

  “How did today go?” I ask and give Bailey a few pats to his head.

  “Awful.”

  “Awful?” I tilt my head to the side in confusion and set the bag of takeout on the island in the center of the kitchen. “What happened?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she says and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Your precious boxes and furniture and whatever other crap you own were delivered as expected.”

  “Did the movers make you move the boxes off the truck or something?”

  “No,” she answers through a snort. “I just didn’t want to be here.”

  I quirk an amused brow in her direction. “Oh, so it was awful because you had to do something for me?”

  “Precisely.”

  A smirk slides over my lips. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I brought you dinner.”

  She raises one scrutinizing eyebrow. “What kind of dinner?”

  “It’s from a little Mexican cantina up the road. Tacos. Enchiladas. Chips and queso. I pretty much ordered the whole menu.” When she doesn’t respond, only glares and sc
owls, I add, “You don’t like Mexican?”

  “I love Mexican.”

  “Then why the scowl?”

  “I’m not scowling.”

  She is. If her lips stay in any firmer of a line, they might turn to stone. “Princess, you’re scowling.”

  “This isn’t a scowl, it’s ABF,” she retorts, as if that makes any fucking sense.

  “ABF? Should I know what that is?”

  “It’s like RBF, but on purpose.”

  “We going to roll through the whole alphabet before you stop talking in acronyms?”

  Her scowl—wait, I mean her ABF—grows firmer. “Active Bitch Face.”

  “Say what?”

  “I’m not scowling, you bastard. I am purposely giving you active bitch face.”

  “I’m guessing that’s bad?” I ask and bite my tongue when I’m tempted to tell her that, despite that scowl or bitchy face or what-the-fuck-ever expression she decides to give me, she never looks anything short of beautiful in my eyes.

  “Yes,” she spits. “It’s awful. Just like my day from two o’clock on.”

  I laugh. “Noted. You didn’t like dealing with the movers.”

  “Correction,” she retorts. “I hated it.”

  I step closer to her, closing the distance between us. She backs up into the kitchen island, but I’m right there, standing before her. I place my hands on the countertop, one on either side of her tiny hips, and will her to meet my gaze. She does. “Do you hate me, princess?” I ask.

  “I don’t like you,” she whispers.

  I smirk down at her. “But you don’t hate me?”

  “I’m trying to hate you. Any day now, it’ll be my reality.”

  I glance down at her mouth, and I can’t stop myself from reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.