The Rockstar's Virgin

by M. S. Parker

  She needed to figure that out, and maybe this was the best way to show her.

  And at the same time, I could show Maya just what would happen if I did turn my attentions toward Florence.

  I had a feeling it would eat her alive.

  I spent that afternoon doing what Maya had insisted I do; I paid more attention to Florence.

  Florence didn’t seem to know what to think, and neither did half the people in the studio.

  While I was taking a break, I asked her to go get me some coffee. After a moment’s hesitation, she went and did just that. I could tell she wasn’t happy about it—nor did she want to do it, either.

  She was used to having people bring her things. She’d worked her way up the rungs of the Hollywood ladder. Back then, she’d ran and fetched coffee, missing things from wardrobe, the works. Now it was her turn to be catered to.

  Except us guys could be assholes. Typically, this was one area where I actually tried not to be—show business could be brutal to the women in the industry, something I’d learned from an early age, thanks to having both parents connected, in one way or the other, to film. Eventually, it had destroyed my mother.

  I was an asshole outside the studio though. I was grouchy and surly and self-centered. I rarely thought about what others wanted, and was more concerned about what I wanted.

  So I was going to make Florence see that.

  Thus, I’d ask her to bring me coffee every damn break if that was what it would take. I’d kick the ass of anybody else who tried it, though. I, at least, had reasons.

  I could imagine what Maya would have said if I’d asked her, though: Go get it yourself.

  As a matter of fact, she had said that very thing to more than a few men during the time she had been here.

  They didn’t like it, either. When they responded with irritation—and most of them did—she would point out that she was Florence’s assistant, and if Florence suggested she go get everybody on the set coffee, then she would happily do so. But none of the studio employees were going to approach the star of the show and ask her to tell her assistant to go fetch coffee.

  I was a different beast altogether, though. I was Florence’s costar, and I was also much more established in Hollywood.

  Part of me was tempted to ask Maya to get me some coffee.

  I thought about doing it, just to see the fire in her eyes.

  I didn’t though.

  I kept my attention on Florence, and when she brought me the coffee, I tugged her down onto my lap.

  She was stiff, clearly annoyed and probably a bit hurt, and it bothered me more than I’d thought it would. Her cheeks were flushed and after a stroke of my hand down her back, I nudged her back to her feet.

  “Thanks for the coffee, sweetheart,” I said, offering what I hoped was an apologetic smile.

  I wouldn’t do that again.

  Still, I could tell it had the desired effect. She was both aggravated and confused.

  And Maya was pissed off.

  Tomorrow, I was going to start on the next part of the plan. I just had to figure out exactly what that was.

  I was up an hour earlier than normal.

  I was clear-headed and sober, and still crankier than a son of a bitch.

  Or maybe the fact that I was clear-headed and sober was why I was crankier than a son of a bitch. Also, being awake earlier than normal wasn’t helping with my mood.

  But I didn’t roll over and go back to bed, and when Mrs. Blanchard knocked on my door to let me know I had breakfast waiting downstairs, I didn’t bite her head off.

  “Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute,” I shouted through the door.

  I heard a distinct—and disbelieving—muttered, “I just bet you will,” through the door and it was enough to make me grin.

  I’d show her.

  I had things to accomplish today.

  Peter had put things in motion last night, which meant I had to get my ass in gear.

  That wasn’t going to happen without massive amounts of coffee and food. Hot food. Preferably the bacon and eggs and pancakes kind.

  Apparently, Mrs. Blanchard had known exactly what I’d need to get my motor going this morning. The air was redolent with the scents of bacon and coffee, and when I walked into the kitchen, I saw the pristine white table was already set.

  There were two places.

  Mrs. Blanchard had long since figured out I didn’t like to eat alone. Neither did she.

  Her husband had died four years earlier and since then, she’d moved from the gatehouse into one of the guest suites in the lower level of my home. I had more than enough room, and sometimes, I slept better just knowing I wasn’t the only one in the big, old place.

  She sniffed as she caught sight of my bare chest. “What would you parents think of you walking around half-naked?”

  “Probably not much.” I sat down and picked up my coffee. The first sip sent caffeine jolting through me, and I sighed in satisfaction. More. Much, much more. “Seeing as how they saw me bare-ass naked when I was a baby. And so did you.”

  She sniffed in response, but I saw a hint of a smile on her lips. She’d been taking care of me in one way or another since I was born.

  “Eat, you troublemaker. Whatever you’re up to, eat and get on with it. I’m cleaning house today, and I don’t need you in my way.” She pointed a fork at me and with that, dug into a fluffy set of pancakes.

  I followed suit.

  I loved arguing with her, but she was also one of the very few people who I’d listen to with hardly any hesitation.

  I pulled up in front of Florence’s house at roughly the same time I was normally pulling my miserable ass out of bed. I had a thermos of coffee and I took it with me, cradling it the same way a drunkard might clutch his last bottle of rotgut. As I started up the steps, I took a tentative swig—it had been too hot on the way out of my place, but the twenty-minute drive had allowed it to cool down a bit.

  I knocked, waiting for the caffeine to hit my system.

  To my surprise, it was Maya who answered the door.

  “What, she has you answering her doors now?” I asked without thinking.

  “Harrison is taking his vacation.”

  Blankly, I stared at her. “Who’s Harrison?”

  “The butler,” she offered in a cool voice. “Or did you think he didn’t have a name?”

  “Why would I think that?” Dammit, she pissed me off, even as I wanted to kiss the hell out of her.

  Her lips pursed as she studied me and after a moment, she shrugged and turned, leaving me to come inside and shut the door. “Come on in. Florence is finishing her breakfast.”

  I almost asked her if she had to make breakfast since Harrison wasn’t there, but decided it wasn’t worth the sharp edge of her tongue. “Have you eaten? I don’t want us to be late.”

  “Oh, I won’t be riding along.” She glanced past me out the window, then gave me a sweet smile. “When Florence said you were picking her up, I told her I’d use the studio’s car service. And the car has just arrived.”

  Testily, I said, “I was going to drive you both.”

  “But the offer was for Florence.” Maya smiled, but it was more like a little tigress baring her teeth. “And she was so excited. I didn’t want to intrude.” Then she took a step forward, her voice low. “Don’t hurt her. I’m not kidding.”

  Bewildered, I stared at her and she strode past me. She opened the door and before I could get my brain working and string a few words together, she was already heading down the pathway.

  I went after her, but the driver was out of the car and coming around to open the door.

  This wasn’t a conversation I could have around others.

  And as I debated on telling the driver to come back in five minutes, I heard a voice calling my name.

  “Good morning, Glenn.”

  Turning, I looked up the walkway and smiled at Florence. “Good morning.”

  Don’t hurt her.


  The drive to the studio passed in a blur of Florence’s chatter, and my puzzlement over Maya’s words. Had somebody gone and told her that I hurt women? I’d never laid a hand on a woman in my life—not violently. Granted, I’d sure as hell screwed my way through a number of beds, but that wasn’t the same as physically harming somebody.

  She’s fragile…

  “I was so glad when Maya asked if she could use the studio’s car service.” Florence reached over to touch my arm as I pulled into my parking spot at the studio. They’d offered the service to me as well and sometimes I’d used it, but I liked driving.

  Turning off the engine, I looked over at Florence but she was already climbing out of the car. Sighing, I got out and joined her at the trunk. She had her hands clasped in front of her.

  “Maybe we can try dinner again, Glenn?”

  Her eyes looked hesitant. She licked her lips and her shoulders were tight, like she was already expecting a rejection. Don’t hurt her.

  How was I supposed to handle this? I didn’t want the same things from Florence that she wanted from me—the things she thought she wanted, at least.

  Maybe what I needed to do was explain that to her. Just explain that and fuck this stupid game I was playing with Maya.

  Once Florence understood that I liked her, cared for her—but that I didn’t love her—she could move on and find somebody who did. She’d be happier for it.

  “Yeah.” I offered her a smile. “Maybe we should. There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about anyway.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes brightened and before I could figure out what to think about that, Florence flung her arms around me and kissed me. Instinctively, my hands went to her hips and I kissed her back.

  She tasted like coffee and toothpaste…and whiskey.

  She’s fragile…

  Realizing my mistake, I eased back, just in time to catch a glimpse of a woman’s pale face as she stepped out a car.

  It was Maya.

  Even though she’d left before we had, she was only just now getting to the studio. I could tell from the look on her face, she’d seen Florence kiss me.

  I wanted to go after her. I wanted to tell her this wasn’t what it looked like.

  But she turned on her heel and started for the studio, carrying a white bakery bag with her.

  Donuts. She’d gone and gotten fucking donuts and showed up at the worst possible time.

  Fuck. Way to go, genius.

  Seventeen

  Maya

  I’d bought the damn donuts just to make myself feel a little better. On the ride over, I’d been trying to come to grips—again—with the difference in prices with everything from my time to things in 1962.

  It was…unreal.

  The money Florence was paying me seemed like a pittance, but she’d seemed so proud to be able to offer me a whole three dollars an hour.

  But those checks, three dollars an hour, amounting to a whopping $120 a week, stretched pretty damn far when things like donuts cost seventy cents a dozen.

  The yeasty, sugary smell promised all sorts of ways to eat my feelings as the driver drove through the gates to the studio.

  But then he stopped and I climbed out—I never waited for him to open the door—and I stupidly glanced around.

  And there they were.

  Glenn and Florence, caught in a lip lock that hit me like a fist straight to the gut.

  Even though I had encouraged Glenn to pay more attention to Florence, even arranged it so they would spend time alone together this morning, I wanted to throw my seventy-cent bag of donuts at them. I wanted to grab her and push her away. I wanted to hit him.

  Instead, I took a slow, deep breath and turned on my heel, pausing just long enough to look at the driver. “Thanks…ah, it’s Calvin, right?”

  The man with the bright red hair and soft brown eyes smiled at me shyly. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he held up the bag of donuts I’d bought for him—a dozen, another seventy cents. “Thanks for the donuts, Miss Cruz.”

  Nodding, I continued inside, not once looking back, even though I heard Florence calling my name.

  I just kept on walking, as if I hadn’t heard her.

  She didn’t say it again, which saved me the guilt from doing it a second time. But it would have been hard explaining to either of them why I looked like I was about to cry.

  “You aren’t going to believe this!”

  Florence had ended up dragging me into her dressing room nearly two hours after we’d arrived at the studio. It would have been sooner — numerous people had told me she was looking for me – but I’d worked very hard to be where she wasn’t until I had composed myself.

  I knew it was for the best, her being with Glenn, but at the same time, it hurt like hell, and I couldn’t pretend otherwise.

  Now, as stable as I was going to be, I gave her a curious look and offered my best smile. Maybe her acting talents were wearing off on me. “Yes?”

  “I think Glenn is going to propose!”

  I felt lightheaded all of a sudden. Reaching up, I touched the necklace I’d taken to wearing, just making sure it stayed hidden under my sweater or blouse. It pulsed and burned. My stomach pitched and hurled.

  I thought I was going to be sick.

  Seriously sick.

  “You…I…what?”

  “I know!” She bounced on her toes and clasped her hands just above her heart. With a heavy sigh, she dropped down into the chair. “He’s taking me out to dinner tonight. And he said he had something he’d been wanting to talk to me about. I think he’s going to propose!”

  A sound behind me had me turning around.

  Florence looked as well.

  She hadn’t shut the door and now, filling the doorway, Glenn loomed, eyes burning as he stared at her.

  Florence said, “Oops.”

  I just gawped at him.

  “I guess it was supposed to be a surprise,” she said softly.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t get the words out. Instead, I just nodded and strode to the door. When he didn’t move out of my way, I pushed at him until he did.

  I had to get out of here.

  I had to.

  Turning my back on them, I walked briskly down the hall as if nothing was wrong.

  Of course, everything was.

  Absolutely everything.

  Hearing Glenn call my name, I ducked into the first open doorway I saw. It was a long corridor, so I slid inside a door at random and hid behind it, breath held until I heard his footsteps go by, then fade into nothing.

  I couldn’t talk to him right now. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to talk to him again. I’d have to, though. I’d have to talk to both of them.

  Or would I?

  Hadn’t I done what I needed to do? Maybe now, I could go home. Desperately, I closed my eyes with the hope that when I opened them, I would be back down in that dusty little room and my uncle would be frantically searching for me.

  But no.

  I was still exactly where I had been twenty seconds ago. And I wasn’t sure where that was.

  It looked like a small, cramped office.

  There were more filing cabinets than space, it seemed. A tiny little desk was pressed up against the wall, and there was just enough room for a chair. I eased the door closed behind me and went over to it, dropping into a chair that squeaked so loud, I worried Glenn might hear.

  Holding my breath, I waited what felt like a lifetime.

  But it remained quiet.

  Burying my face in my hand, I tried to figure some way out of this mess. How could I do my job and still stay out of Glenn’s path?

  “But it’s not really your job,” I whispered. “It belongs to the other Miss Cruz.”

  Still feeling desperate, I considered tracking her down and telling her that she could have the job back. I didn’t want to be here anymore.

  I’d go back tomorrow, assuming I could figure out how to get back. Hell, I’
d go back now if I could.

  Glenn called my name again, his voice faint, but clearly, he was still looking for me. Moments passed and once more, his footsteps faded.

  Now, I felt even more despondent.

  I was such a mess.

  I had known what I was getting into from the moment I had met him. I’d figured out why I was here, that I needed to help Florence, and I’d done everything I could to resist my attraction to him.

  The ache in my chest didn’t care, but I couldn’t let that matter. I’d done what I needed to do—right?

  The golden locked pulsed once, hotter than normal and I reached up, grabbing it.

  I’d get through this. Sometime soon, I’d figure out how to go back to my own time.

  Then it would be over.

  Florence would be okay, and I’d be home.

  Eighteen

  Maya

  For the rest of the afternoon, Florence all but glided through her scenes, smiling and glowing even when she didn’t need to be, although a few words from the director managed to dim that happy smile suitably. Then the scene would end and she’d go back to glowing and gazing soulfully in Glenn’s direction.

  The hours dragged on and I wasn’t the only one noticing it. The grips glared at each other, people snapped, and the assistants were tripping over their feet to get out of everybody’s way.

  I leaned against a wall, lost in the shadows.

  Normally, Florence didn’t need much from me. If she saw me, she’d flag me down for coffee or just to chat, but if I wasn’t around, she didn’t even seem to think about me.

  So I made sure she didn’t notice me.

  As the day wore on, Kurt grew more and more aggravated with the performance until, eventually, he called things off an hour early, giving up. But he didn’t let everybody loose without first turning his ire on Florence and Glenn.

  He pointed a skinny finger at Glenn. “You. So help me…I don’t know what is up your ass. I don’t know or care if it’s the happy news Florence shared with everybody. Maybe you’re having second thoughts and realizing you’ll have to keep your pants zipped now, but you better figure it out and yank your head out of your ass.”