by M. S. Parker
Her tongue slicked across my lower lip and she bit me, making me shudder.
She wasn’t shy.
She wasn’t pushy.
She just knew exactly what she wanted, and that made me even hotter.
Her body was warm, soft, and fluid as the water crashing against the sand behind me. And strong. She wore nothing, save for a pearl necklace which shimmered against her skin. And that skin was soft as satin.
I shifted over her on my hands, one knee wedged between hers. She kissed my chin and wrapped her legs around my waist.
“That’s it,” I muttered. “Just like that.”
She sighed as I drove inside her, and then she whimpered, scraping her nails down my arms as she arched up. Her pussy squeezed me tight, and I grunted in approval.
I went to kiss her again. She said my name, but although I could see the word forming on her lips, that wasn’t the sound that emerged.
It was ringing.
Loud, obnoxious ringing.
And then she said my name.
But it wasn’t her voice.
“Mr. Jackson, will you please wake up?”
I jerked upright and the dream fell apart around me.
The phone rang again.
Mrs. Blanchard stood there, frowning down at me. Arms crossed over her ample breasts, she had one foot tapping madly, letting me know she wasn’t happy.
She was my housekeeper, cook, and generally acted as my keeper—I needed one. She didn’t put up with my bullshit, and she was unfazed by my smile or whatever charm I supposedly had.
It was the main reason I kept her around. I liked that she wasn’t put off by me.
“Your manager keeps calling. He called five minutes ago, and I told him you were sleeping. Apparently, he’s decided you’ve slept enough.” She gave the phone a harsh look. “You can speak to him this time.”
She turned on her heel and strode out, her sturdy shoes clunking on the floor.
At the door, she paused and looked back. “You really should sleep with clothing on.” She muttered under her breath and closed the door with a decisive click.
I shouted at her back, “I love you too, baby.”
Then I gave the ever-ringing phone a dirty look.
Grabbing it, I said, “You interrupted one hell of a dream. This better be good.”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Peter drawled.
“It’s a little early for phone calls.” Flopping back on the bed, I flung my arm over my eyes.
“It’s noon. That means it’s not too early. You know, if you had your way, you would sleep in till two or three in the afternoon and stay up until well past midnight.” He sounded amused. “That’s no way to handle yourself in Hollywood. The early bird catches the worm. Don’t you know that?”
“There aren’t any worms for me to catch right now. Not since I was so politely asked to step down from my role in the movie. I’m good.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. A part might be opening up for you.” He paused, then added, “Assuming you’re up for it.”
Interest stirred. I’d been persona non-grata ever since the incident in Las Vegas. Part of me got it, but at the same time, I was pissed. I’d tried to stop her. I’d tried to help. I hadn’t known the drugs would mess her up that bad.
But nobody wanted to hear that.
Slowly, I sat up. “Really?”
“The male lead in the movie Florence is shooting apparently got into a heated argument with the director, so he isn’t going to stick around. They need somebody, and they need somebody now, somebody who can be ready to shoot fast. They were getting ready to start filming, so they don’t want to have to wait for some guy who’ll take forever to learn the lines.”
That was something I’d never had a problem with—my memory was like a steel trap. It wasn’t anything I made a big deal of, but I could have a script memorized within a few days, if that.
Nerves had my hands shaking as I rubbed my face, trying to clear the dregs of sleep away.
This was the chance I’d been hoping for: that somebody would need me and reach out. I would be able to show them that I was still the same guy, able to do the job and work under pressure. Once I did that, all the bad shit from the past few weeks—hell, years even—would fade away.
People would see me again.
“Florence,” I said slowly.
Peter said, “Is there a problem with that?”
I hadn’t been talking to him, but myself. I might have a problem with that, but nothing I could point out to him. “No, it’s good. Just trying to remember if she mentioned anything about the flick.”
“What do you say, kid”? Peter asked. He always called me kid when he wanted to remind me of his position. “Should I call them and tell them you’ll come in and do a reading? Or are you just going to brush it off?”
I heard the slight challenge in his voice and knew what he was thinking.
“Fuck you, Peter. Shit.” I sat up, feet braced on the floor as I studied the wall in front of me. I’d been doing too much of that lately—brushing things off, ignoring them, thinking everything would smooth itself out in time.
It hadn’t.
“What do you think I should do?”
“Well, it’s a great part,” he said. “It could boost your career in a whole new direction. It could make people start taking you seriously again…and it wouldn’t hurt to be around Florence, spend more time with her. Let people see you’ve settled down. It would be good for you.”
Fuck. Closing my eyes, I bit back the instinctive no. I didn’t want to do anything that would tie me to Florence like that.
But I wanted my career back on track.
Giving myself time to think, I asked, “Are you going to see Maya again?”
If the change of subject surprised him, he didn’t let on. “I don’t know. She wasn’t exactly my type.”
“You certainly talked to her quite a bit.”
“Yes. We talked. Quite a bit. She’s smart, funny, nice.” He hesitated before continuing, “There’s just something a little…off. I can’t explain it. But she’s just not my type.”
“Off…like how? Crazy girl off?” Wary now, I gripped the mattress, thinking of her unreadable eyes, that mysterious smile.
“No. It’s just…I can’t explain it.”
“Maybe you just can’t handle a smart woman,” I quipped, amused at the idea.
“You’re one to talk,” he replied. “Most of the women you date have more going on in their bras than they do in their brains.”
“Yeah, well I’m not looking to start conversations with them—and they don’t seem to want to talk to me, either. Besides, you’re the one who’s pushing me toward Florence. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with her? She doesn’t want to talk. She just sits there and stares at me with those big eyes of hers and smiles.”
“I’m not the one who’s pushing you toward her. It’s the studio people. And if she’s not your type, then find somebody decent who is. But you need to get away from those other women. This tomcatting of yours is going to ruin your reputation and your career.”
With a grunt, I got out of bed. Pacing over to the window, I stared outside. The sun danced over the water of the pool, but I didn’t have the time—nor the energy—to go for a swim. I had a feeling Peter was going to be sending a car to get me soon.
“So, do I have the okay to tell the studio that you’re interested?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.” I’d be spending more time around Florence. But also…Maya. More than anything, that was why I’d agreed.
When the conversation ended a minute later, I headed into my bathroom, already naked. Once I was inside the shower, I let myself bring her face to mind.
I liked her face. I liked her mouth. I liked just about everything about her, including the fact that she didn’t seem inclined to giggle or just gaze at me, like other women. I liked the fact that she wasn’t constantly fussing about how she looked and tho
se legs that went on for years. I’d only spent a couple of hours around her, and that had been in spurts, but I couldn’t think of anything that I hadn’t liked about her.
Fragments of the dream came back to me, and I closed my eyes, arousal pulsing inside. Sliding a hand down my chest, I pulled the dream to the forefront of my mind.
I was already half-aroused, just from the mental image of her.
It took little more than a few seconds to go from half to a full-on erection. Wrapping my hand around my cock, I pictured having her here with me, in the shower, her hands on my chest, sliding down, down, down…until she was kneeling in front of me, those pretty lips wrapping around my dick.
I wanted to see her smile at me. I wanted to hear her gasp, then moan. I wanted to feel the wet heat of her mouth, the rasp of her tongue.
Water pounded down on my chest, belly and thighs. The moisture eased my rhythm as I fisted myself. I could almost imagine it was her. Almost. With each stroke, I pumped harder, faster. Imagined her squirming under me, breasts wet and naked, lifted up for me as she arched her back.
I imagined her calling out my name as she came. And then I was moaning and cursing as I climaxed, semen jetting from my cock to hit the floor of the shower before being washed down the drain.
Momentarily sated, I closed my eyes and let the hot water continue to pound me.
I already had a bad feeling about this.
I’d just met her, and I was borderline obsessed.
How was I supposed to focus on being on my best behavior and wooing Florence, when all I could think about was Maya?
11
Maya
“You look beautiful, darling. Absolutely beautiful.”
Standing off to the side, I had to agree with the director.
Florence looked absolutely stunning. The movie they were filming was called Unsung, a wartime flick I didn’t really remember hearing about, and she was playing the part of a widow. Somehow, she even managed to make the plain gingham dress she wore look pretty.
Or maybe the dress accentuated how pretty she was.
Rumors were flying around the set. People were saying the romantic lead had been fired, and they were bringing a new person to play opposite her. I could tell she was nervous. Now, as the director spoke with Florence, I worried at the chain of my necklace and wondered if I’d heard the truth.
If it was true, I was torn between elation and sickness, and I had a bad feeling that I knew exactly who they were waiting to come in to save the day.
How else were they supposed to spend time together? In her diary, she’d written about scenes she’d shot with Glenn, and times he’d held her and kissed her, and even though it had only been for a scene, it had felt real.
But when I’d asked her about movies they’d done together, she’d laughed and told me they’d never been in a movie before—she just wished it would happen.
It was him. I knew it in my gut.
“Maya!”
I looked up to see Florence flagging me down, and I crossed over to her, an inquisitive smile plastered on my face. So far, the only jobs I’d completed for her included taking some mail to her, and grabbing her some coffee. Once or twice, I had gone to pick up something she had forgotten from her dressing room. It was an insanely easy job. I think I was there more for her to have somebody to talk to than anything else.
She caught my hand and squeezed. “You’re not going to believe what Thomas just told me.”
“What?”
“Well…” She cast a conspiratorial look around, then focused back on me, grinning. “I don’t know if you have heard people talking, but the actor who was going to be playing opposite me was fired. I don’t know why, nobody will say. But they have to bring in somebody new. And guess who is coming in to do a line reading?”
Without thinking, I quipped, “Johnny Depp?”
“Johnny…who?” She blinked, looking caught off-guard.
“Oh, nobody. I’m just being silly. So, who are they bringing in?” I could have kicked myself.
“Glenn!” She clapped her hands, looking like she wanted to dance. “He’s coming in to do a line reading, and if the director and producers like him, he’ll get the part. And they will like him, I know it. He’s one of the best actors in Hollywood right now!”
She clutched her hands to her chest and bounced a little on her toes, looking more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman.
“That’s wonderful!” I said. But I felt a little sick. Guilty, too, because my heart leaped at the thought of seeing him again. Yet at the same time, I was scared. If they were going to be shooting a film together, then maybe that was the movie she’d been referring to in her diary.
It had to be.
It was June 1962.
She died in the summer of 1962.
She wouldn’t have a chance to do another movie this summer, would she?
So this had to be when they started having problems.
“I bet you’re excited, aren’t you?” I said, forcing myself to keep on smiling.
“Oh, yes.” She sighed dramatically. “I’ve wanted to be in a movie with him ever since I met him. Now we can spend more time together. Maybe...No. Never mind.” Then she shook her head, smiling. “I’ll just be happy that we’ve got this chance.”
“Maybe what?” I tried. I needed to know more. Okay, I wanted to know more, but I also needed to know more about her—and about Glenn. I hardly knew anything about him or their relationship, and I had to figure out what it was he did that would eventually lead to her ending her life.
“Nothing.” She shook her head, giving me a sad smile. “It’s nothing.”
“Florence!”
The director waved at her from across the set, and she nodded at me before turning away.
“See you in a bit,” she called over her shoulder.
I watched her go, and a moment later, I jolted in surprise when the director swatted her on the butt.
“Let’s get to work, gorgeous,” he said.
She just continued on to the set, taking her place, completely ignoring what he’d done.
“What the hell?” I muttered, looking around. Hadn’t anybody else seen that? If they did, nobody looked bothered.
Maybe that wasn’t unusual here and now. There were so many things going on here that would never happen in my time, but nobody thought twice about them. Shaking my head, I retreated to a corner and settled in to watch her run lines again. They were supposed to start filming soon, but with a new lead coming on, would they have to start over?
I didn’t know enough about movie making to say. I watched as Florence went through receiving the news that her husband had been killed, then watched as the director gave her some pointers on how to cry better.
How to cry better. I almost laughed, but suspected it wouldn’t be received well, so I swallowed my amusement and hid my smile behind my hand.
“I think a woman would know how to cry like a woman better than he would.”
I jumped at the sound of the low voice coming from right over my shoulder.
Spinning around, I found myself face-to-face with Glenn.
He angled his chin toward the set and slanted a look at me. “What do you think? You figure Florence already knows how to cry?”
I had to laugh. “I think she can figure it out.” The tears had looked real enough to me. “I guess the director doesn’t want anybody telling him how to do his job, though.”
Glenn snorted. “Watch this.”
I wasn’t so sure I wanted to, but I rested my elbow against the wall as he strolled past me to the center of the set, waiting until one by one, people took notice.
When Florence went still, a blush coloring her pretty face, he nodded at her and said, “I think you’re doing amazing, Florence. I’m choking up just watching you.”
“Thank you, Glenn.”
The director saw him and beamed. “Glenn! I can’t tell you how happy we are to have you on board here.” He came toward the o
ther man, hand outstretched.
“I still haven’t read any lines. Don’t go pouring any champagne yet.” Glenn gave the director a quick handshake, then nodded at Florence. “I think she’s got it nailed. Too much more and it’s going to look forced. Maybe try it again and see?”
A few minutes later the director was nodding slowly. “Yes, yes…I think you’re right. We don’t want anybody thinking she’s overacting.” He chuckled and added, “It’s drama, of course, but we don’t want it overdramatic.”
“Right.” Glenn nodded at Florence then came back to stand by me.
“What was that supposed to prove? That a guy can get another guy to listen, but a woman can’t?” I asked, eying him narrowly.
He looked caught off-guard. “That…I wasn’t…” He scowled. “I was trying to get him to see that she already had it nailed.”
I felt foolish and wrapped my arms around myself. I was looking at him, at Florence, at this entire world through the lenses of a woman who’d been born in a whole other time. We’d had a black president. Women were in the House and in the Senate. We had equal rights. Gay people could marry.
But that was another century. Another millennium.
Right now…?
I looked around and didn’t see a single black person around me.
The only person who had any color to their skin was me, and I could easily pass for somebody who’d just gotten some sun at the beach—and right now, that was probably a good thing.
I suddenly wished I’d paid more attention in history class when we’d covered the Civil Rights movement. And Women’s Lib. And, well, anything, really.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“Nothing.” I shook my head and focused on Florence. There was no way to tell him how out of place I felt, how strange everything was.
“Glenn!”
The sound of Florence’s voice had me stiffening. I forcibly relaxed my spine and put a smile in place as Florence came rushing over.
