TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY

by Monroe, Max

  I don’t miss the way she shuts her eyes at my touch.

  I don’t miss the way she takes a deep inhale and exhale as my fingers brush across her cheek and behind her ear.

  And I certainly don’t miss the way her lips part and a stilted breath escapes her lungs.

  “Do you want to know something?” I ask, my voice soft.

  “What?”

  “I don’t hate you,” I say and lean closer to her, my lips near her ear. “I could never hate you. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I go to sleep at night.”

  She doesn’t say anything. Instead, Billie’s big green eyes stare up into mine, and fuck, I want to lean down and press my lips to hers, but I steel myself not to follow through.

  Even though I want her so fucking badly, I know I hurt her.

  I know I have a hell of a lot of work to do to get back in her good graces.

  And I know that if I do something crazy like kiss her, it will just confuse her, overwhelm her, push her further away.

  Patience is a virtue, and I’ll be damned if I’m anything but patient when it comes to her.

  Her eyes blink once, twice, three times, and as if she’s snapped right out of a trance, those big eyes of hers narrow, and her lips turn into a firm line again.

  “Well…” She pauses and clears her throat. “I try not to think about you at all, but it’s very hard to achieve when you’re pretty much around all the freaking time.”

  I smirk and step away, giving her the space she’s telling herself she needs, and proceed to pull the takeout boxes out of the bags.

  “How about some tacos?”

  She nods and heads toward the fridge. Visibly comfortable in my new home, she snags a can of Diet Coke and proceeds to look through each takeout box before she finds what she’s looking for—one taco, one enchilada, refried beans, and chips and queso.

  Not even a minute later, her purse is over her shoulder and her car keys are in hand.

  “You’re not going to eat?”

  “Oh, I’m going to eat,” she says and picks up the can of cola and box of food. “I’m just not going to eat it here. With you.”

  “Okay.” I bite my lip to fight my laughter. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And just like that, without another word, Billie is out of the kitchen and through the front door.

  Not a goodbye. Not a see ya later. Not even a middle finger tossed in my direction.

  Which I guess is a good thing?

  Fuck if I know…

  Patience, Luca. Just stay patient.

  Billie

  Goddammit, Cindy Lou Who, why’d you have to make this so hard? Loathing someone and being grateful for them at the same time is one serious mindfuck.

  “How goes it in Hollywood?” Birdie asks, her voice echoing from the speakers of my car.

  “Meh. It’s all right.”

  All right? Pfft. More like, really fucking sad.

  There are hundreds of places to eat lunch—craft services room, a café on Melrose, pretty much anywhere but my car. Yet here I am, eating lunch by myself, inside my Honda Civic, on purpose.

  “Well, that sounds lame,” my sister retorts on a snort. “There has to be at least something new happening…”

  I can read between the lines. And my response is straight to the point.

  “If you’re wanting an update on Luca Weaver, there’s nothing to tell.”

  “But I thought he was doing the movie?” she asks, her voice edging toward concern. “What happened?”

  “Oh, trust me,” I say through a sigh. “He’s doing the movie. He’s just making my life a fucking hell.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, since Serena is under the impression that I am friends with him, she has given me the terrible position of being Luca’s go-to person,” I update and take a sip of my Diet Mountain Dew. “And, in true Luca Weaver fashion, that bastard is taking advantage of it. Has me doing errands and shit. Walking his dog—”

  “But I thought you loved his dog?”

  “Dammit, Birdie, you know what I mean,” I retort. “I do love his dog, but I shouldn’t be responsible for his dog or dealing with movers dropping off boxes and furniture at his rental or wiping his celebrity ass—”

  “Wait…what?”

  “Get real, Birdie.” I huff out a breath. “Obviously, I’m not actually wiping his ass. It’s a metaphor.”

  Her giggle fills my ears. “Goodness, you remind me so much of Granny when you’re pissed, it’s not even funny.”

  “I do not.”

  She cracks up. “You do.”

  “Birdie. Now is not the freaking time to start comparing me to our ornery, mean old biddy of a granny,” I respond, then add quietly, “may she rest in peace.”

  “Fine. Fine. I take it back. And I’m sorry he’s giving you such a hard time.”

  Her words are meant to be serious, but laughter is still present in her voice.

  “This isn’t fucking funny, Birdie! This is hell. I’m in hell.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re in hell. Luca Weaver is always around. What a hell.”

  “He’s a jerk.”

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “No,” I answer. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “I think Luca is hard-core into you. Even though he tossed cruel words your way, I think they were a bunch of bullshit. I think what happened in Alaska meant something to him, too.”

  Memories of the things he’s said to me over the past few weeks fill my head.

  Missing me.

  Not hating me.

  Thinking about me.

  Liking me.

  But I shake those memories out real fucking quick. The last thing I’ll let myself do is fall into his trap…again. I learned my lesson the first damn time.

  “Whatever. I’m just someone he fucked. That’s it. He made that known.”

  “Like I said, I don’t think that’s the case, Billie.”

  “Yeah, well, it is the case,” I snap. “Now, enough about my shitty LA life. How is the tour going?”

  “Oh my god! Billie! I have so much to tell you!” Her excitement is palpable as she dives straight into all the music updates.

  The large crowds. The fans.

  The fact that she is opening for Blue Street Band—one of country music’s biggest bands.

  All of it is amazing. It is truly everything my sister has dreamed of and more, and I couldn’t be happier for her right now.

  But even though I’m listening and responding and letting her know how proud I am of her, my brain wants to drift off to other things.

  My mind feels like it’s a thousand miles away, wandering in and out of memories of a man I wish I weren’t thinking about. A man I don’t want to be thinking about, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

  Son of a biscuit, why can’t he just go away?

  Because you don’t want him to just go away. Deep down, you’re not ready for that.

  Ugh. I’m an idiot.

  I force myself to focus on the phone conversation with Birdie, but thankfully, she can only chat for another minute or two before music starts calling her name.

  “Hey, I hate to cut this short, but I gotta run to rehearsal,” she updates. “Call me later?”

  “For sure,” I answer without hesitation. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too!”

  I hang up the phone, and even though food is the last thing on my mind right now, I force myself to take a bite of my turkey sandwich.

  This whole Luca situation has really messed with my appetite.

  God, I just need to get him the hell out of my head. For good.

  Then I’ll be fine.

  Then I’ll be happy.

  Yeah, good luck with that, sister.

  Annoyed with myself, annoyed with this day, annoyed with every-fucking-thing, I get out of my car, slide my phone int
o the back pocket of my jeans, toss my half-eaten food in the trash and head back toward the set.

  First agenda item on my afternoon to-do list, make sure Denny from lighting got all the cables and outlets he needed.

  But I don’t even make it halfway toward his makeshift office before I’m pulled away from the task.

  “Billie!” Serena calls out from her spot beside the director of the movie. They sit in director’s chairs and are watching playback from one of the cameras. “Come over here for just a second!”

  I close the distance between us, and she smiles.

  “I’ve been trying to catch up with you today, but you’ve been a busy little bee.”

  “A lot of little random things, you know.” I shrug. “Is everything okay?”

  “It is.” Her smile grows. “I just wanted you to know that, even when I don’t actually see all of the things you’ve been doing, I’m hearing about them. From Luca. From Lucy. From everyone. And, Billie, you’re doing a fantastic job on this project. Just…fantastic. You’re anticipating needs. You’re following up. You’re preventing catastrophes that even I wouldn’t have seen coming. I didn’t want you to think your work goes unnoticed.”

  “Wow,” I say, voice quiet and surprised. “Thank you… I don’t know what else to say…”

  “You don’t need to say anything else.” She grins. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m glad you’re on my team.”

  “Will do.” I nod. “So…is that all you needed?” I question. “Because I was on my way over to find Denny.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Of course, yeah. There was a bit of an issue yesterday, but I think we ironed it out. Nothing for you to worry about,” I answer confidently, and then add, “Oh hey, by the way, just want to make you aware, the makeup department was running low on quite a bit of stuff. I checked with Callie, and she said we were well below budget. So, if you see a large Sephora shipment arriving today at three, do not panic.”

  “Got it,” she says through a laugh. “I swear, you remind me so much of myself at your age,” she adds. “I fucking love it.”

  Holy hell, Serena Koontz just compared me to…Serena Koontz?

  It’s like I’ve died and gone to Hollywood heaven.

  I’m high off her words, off her compliments.

  And I’m so fucking proud of myself.

  But as I’m heading back to check on Denny and replaying her words in my mind, I can’t stop myself from really understanding. From really realizing.

  Luca was one of the people who told Serena I’m doing a good job.

  Luca is also the one person who has been giving me little updates on any issues he overhears or sees going on with the cast and crew. Because of his nearly constant insights for the past few weeks, I’ve learned so much, and I’ve grown more aware of the things I need to be looking out for on a daily basis.

  The one man who broke my fucking heart is the same man who is a major part of why Serena said the things she said.

  On the one hand, I loathe him. On the other hand, I’m secretly grateful for him.

  Fuck. The realization of it all makes my head want to explode.

  Luca

  I guess putting lipstick on a pig can make it look good. Maybe, just maybe, Hollywood doesn’t have to be so bad.

  “Luca?” Adele’s voice crackles through the speakers of my car. “You still there?”

  “Yeah, Adele, I’m here.”

  “Fuck a duck, why is this reception shit? Have you switched your cell to a goddamn potato?”

  “No potatoes here.” A chuckle jumps from my lungs. “Just me, my cell phone, and my car sitting in awful LA traffic.”

  “Fucking LA traffic,” she mutters.

  “What do you need, Adele?”

  “Just want to check in with you,” she responds, and I can hear her inhale smoke into her lungs. She blows it out one breath later. “Make sure you’re doing okay.”

  “Things are going pretty well.”

  “Good to hear, kid,” she answers, voice throaty. “Did you ever get in touch with your sister?”

  “No,” I answer on a sigh. “I think I’ve left her about fifty voice mails at this point, but she hasn’t responded. I’m still trying, though.”

  Once Adele tracked down Rocky’s new number, I’ve tried like hell to get in contact with her.

  But she’s yet to answer or return any of my calls. At this stage in the reconnecting with my sister game, she’s even ignoring my text messages.

  “You want me to try to schedule a meeting with her? I know some ways to get people to show up to places when they would otherwise refuse…”

  I laugh. “While I appreciate the offer, I’ll handle it on my own.” I don’t think a kidnapping attempt is in any way going to help my relationship with my sister.

  Eight years ago, I left Hollywood and Rocky behind. So, I’m not all that surprised she isn’t answering my calls. If anything, I deserve the cold shoulder right now.

  “You got it, kid.”

  A few minutes later, we end the call, and I continue to head toward my dinner destination.

  Going to dinner at Tao with two of my oldest Hollywood friends is the last thing I feel like doing, but I’m trying to turn over a new leaf and not be such a fucking loner. I’ve spent eight years living in Alaska, with my closest neighbor fifteen miles away.

  So, it’s probably time I reinsert myself into normal society.

  Although, this restaurant is anything but normal society. A hot spot for the rich and famous of LA, the meals are overpriced, and the guests are more focused on closing deals, checking their cell phones, or being seen by paparazzi.

  Most likely, all three.

  I pull up my rental to the front of the restaurant and let the valet park it.

  The instant I step out of the driver’s seat, cameras flash and paparazzi shout questions toward me in rapid succession.

  “Luca Weaver! Over here!”

  “Luca, what made you come back to Hollywood?”

  “What have you been up to for the past eight years?”

  “What do you think of your costar Lucy Larson? Did you know she just broke up with her longtime boyfriend, Carson Denny?”

  Christ. They don’t fucking give up.

  I ignore their questions and head toward the entrance doors, but just before I step inside, one last paparazzi shouts, “So, you haven’t changed much, huh? Still a prick who thinks he’s too good for the media?”

  A part of me wants to stop, turn around, and let the dickhead know what I really think of people like him. Eight years ago, I would’ve. Eight years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to step right up to him, yanking the camera out of his fucking hands, and tossing it into the street.

  But I’m not that guy anymore.

  I’m not the angry bastard I used to be. I’m grounded. Content in my life. And I’m certainly not looking to get assault charges on my record.

  Just before I go inside, I turn around, offer a smile and a wave, and say, “Have a good night, everyone.”

  Wide, confused eyes stare back at me, but the cameras continue to flash in quick succession.

  I might’ve been a real prick to paparazzi back in the day, but I sure as fuck am not that guy now.

  I mean, I’m not going to go out of my way to talk to them, but I will continue to keep my composure.

  A tall, blond hostess meets me at the door and doesn’t waste any time leading me toward my friends.

  “Luca fucking Weaver,” Howie announces as I’m walking toward the table. He smirks like the devil and stands up to give me a one-armed hug and a pat on the back. “Man, it’s good to see you.”

  “You too,” I respond, my voice genuine.

  Howie King is one of Hollywood’s most brilliant directors. Edgy, original, and, a lot of times, shocking, he doesn’t hold back. Actors have been winning Oscars because of his movies since the beginning of his career. It’s probably why there’s always an overwhelming slog
through competitors if you want to work with him.

  I move my eyes away from Howie and grin at Andrew Watson, the other old pal at the table.

  “How the fuck are you?” he asks and follows it up with a bro hug. “It’s been eight goddamn years, and you still look twenty-fucking-six, you bastard.”

  “Good to see you, man,” I say through a laugh. “And like you should talk, Mr. Sexiest Man of the Year.”

  He smirks like the devil. “I’m glad they made that decision before you decided to make your big comeback.”

  He’s ridiculous.

  Andrew Watson is a fellow actor, a costar back in the day, and from what I’ve heard since I’ve been back in town, one of Hollywood’s hottest stars these days.

  We sit down at the table, and a waitress steps up to take our drink orders.

  I order a scotch on the rocks, and Howie and Andrew order their second rounds.

  “So, what the hell have you been up to?” Andrew asks, his eyes bright with intrigue. “Have you really been in Alaska all this fucking time?”

  “Yep.”

  “No women, in the middle of fucking nowhere,” he muses on a dramatic sigh. “Dude, I don’t know how you did it.”

  I laugh. “I had to do it. You both know I was a fucking disaster just waiting to happen.”

  “But you were a fun disaster,” Howie chimes in with a grin etched on his lips.

  “Yeah, I was a real good time, but I was a loose fucking cannon. I had to get out before I completely lost myself.”

  “Well, I missed my wingman. It’s been hell without you.” Andrew waggles his brows. “You ready to get back in the LA pussy game with me?”

  “Nah, man. I’m spoken for.” A soft chuckle slips from my lips. “Anyway, it sounds like you’re doing just fine on your own.”

  “Spoken for? Last I knew you were solo in the wilderness,” Andrew questions, his eyes narrowing. “Explain yourself.”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” I respond without hesitation. “I’m with someone, end of story.”

  Technically, I’m not with anyone yet, but that’s really only a matter of time and semantics.

  I only have eyes for Billie Harris, and in my mind, that truly is the end of the fucking story.