Oh, right. The million dollars.
“You said you were going to hire a nanny to help me with Brandon?” I say, crossing my arms.
“I did. Her name is Ebba. She’s from Sweden.”
Probably big-boobed and blonde, too. He can’t be serious that I’d just trust Brandon over to anyone just because she has a nice ass.
I let out a huff of air. “No. That’s not going to work out. I want to have say over who watches my son. Otherwise, no deal.”
He takes a glass of water from the table and drains it. “Fine. I’ll have the service send over Ebba and some other applicants tonight. All right?”
I nod. At least he’s amenable to my demands and hasn’t given me too much fight on them. But I have a feeling this is going to be the longest four months of my life. By the time March rolls around, I bet I’m scratching at the front door, begging to leave.
He pulls the silver cover off his tray and starts to dig in, without even waiting for June to return with the new plate. What a gentleman. I catch a glimpse of what he’s completely drowning in ketchup and decide my eyes must be playing tricks on me.
Then I lift the heavy silver cover on my own tray and blink hard.
It’s . . . dinosaur chicken nuggets and mac and cheese. Seriously? The only reason I make this stuff is because it’s Brandon’s favorite meal, and he’ll eat nothing else. But Justin can’t have known that. In fact, despite me lugging Brandon around everywhere I go, I’m not even sure Justin, way out in his la-la-land, knows I have a kid.
“This is your favorite meal?” I ask as he eagerly stirs it with his fork.
He nods and scoops more into his mouth.
“Dinosaurs?”
He shrugs. “They get crispier than the regular kind.”
I am definitely not in Kansas anymore. I don’t even think I’m on the same planet anymore.
“JUNE!” He screams suddenly, making Brandon and me jump.
She appears a second later, carrying a smaller plate for Brandon, which she puts in front of him, then ruffles his sandy hair. “Yes, Justin?”
“Can you get the people at the agency on the horn and tell them we’re having second thoughts about Ebba. Tell them to send over her and . . .” he looks me over. “Just whatever their best candidates are. Tell them we don’t care how much it costs. We want their best. Between six and eight.”
She nods and walks away, and he gives me a look like, Happy? It leaves me to wonder if there is a single thing he does for himself. If he was eating steak, would he have her cut it up for him, too?
“You don’t officially start until tomorrow. That’s when the Nazis’ll come in. I’m having a little get-together tonight. My last official night of freedom. Just close friends. Feel free to join us, if you’d like. Let your hair down.” The corner of his lip curves into a smile. “If you know how to do that.”
The last thing I need is a Hollywood asshole get-together. If his friends are even half as outlandish as he is, I’ll pass. I scoop some mac and cheese onto my fork. “I think I’ll just settle in.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Logan can show you to your room.”
Of course, because he would never do it. What a spoiled brat!
He polishes off the rest of his food wordlessly, and then, without another glance toward me, pushes away from the table, strides to the doorway, leaving his dirty dishes there.
Brandon is happily polishing off his nuggets. I wipe a smear of electric orange off his cheek, but all the while, I can’t help but think that not only am I living with Hollywood’s Top Asshole, I’m also living with the city’s oldest child.
And they happen to be the same fucking person.
Chapter 6
The digs are pretty nice. Not that I expect anything worse than what I came from, but after what I saw in the rest of the house, I was expecting a bed shaped like a racecar, or something ridiculous like that. I would’ve been fine with that, actually—anything without cockroaches and a leaky roof is a definite step up.
But no, it’s pretty normal. The two rooms are joined by a bathroom, secluded in an upper wing of the house, tastefully decorated, and huge. They also smell like fresh paint, and the sheets and blankets seem scratchy and new, which makes me think no one has been in them . . . ever.
I’m glad about that, truly. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to wash sheets regularly. Or ever.
After I finish unpacking, I settle Brandon in for a late afternoon nap until June calls me down and tells me that it’s time to meet the potential nannies. The first one, Ebba, is as expected. Blonde, big-boobed, and beautiful. She also doesn’t speak a lick of English and has never watched a child professionally in her life. When I thank her and say I’ll be in touch, I look at June, who is shrugging as if this is nothing she didn’t expect. “Did he really go through a list of potential nannies?”
She shrugs. “He probably just looked at their pictures, knowing Justin.”
“So you do know him?” I ask, wondering how that’s possible. He seems like a creature that defies logic, someone impossible to figure out. Part of me can’t believe that the guy who stepped in for me at Rudy’s is this immature and out-of-touch with reality.
“I’ve known Justin since he was about this high.” She points to her knee. “I was his nanny, actually, about thirty years ago.”
“You were?” I’m shocked. “How can you stand it? How have you managed to . . .”
She smiles and fills in the rest. “Put up with him for this long? It’s not easy. He’s brilliant when it comes to making movies. His creativity is genius. But on the personal side . . . he hasn’t had the most stable life, as you can imagine. He was ridiculously spoiled.”
I look over the list of other applicants. They’re all much more qualified, though nowhere near as model-perfect as Ebba. “So it’s not an act? He really doesn’t know how to act like a grown-up?”
She shrugs. “Maybe deep down, he does. But he doesn’t care. And everyone in this town knows that’s who he is. He’s tolerated because he’s an institution in this town, because he makes good movies, and because he has the backing of Emblem Studios’ president. Like that crazy drunken uncle you invite to parties because he’s family, but you know he’s going to end up hitting on all the women and probably dancing on the coffee table. There are a lot of crazy people in Hollywood who pride themselves on being as outlandish as possible. It’s their calling card. Justin is one of them.”
And I have to pretend that such a gem is my husband? How does he expect us to actually pull this off?
“Do you know why I’m here?” I ask quietly.
She nods and gives me a sad smile. “Honestly? You have your work cut out for you. It’s a lost cause, honey. I don’t think you being in the picture is going to change that perception of him. It would take a lot more than that. A lot more time, certainly. And even then, an act of god. Justin is Justin, poor, misguided little dear that he is. He has a good heart, but he has never been told no. He’s had his every whim catered to all his life, and he doesn’t know anything about disappointment. Even though he’s been warned by his advisor, time and again this year, I don’t think he thinks he can fail.”
She closes the front door and looks around the playroom of a house with a small snort and disbelieving shake of the head.
“But he’s about to find out what disappointment is,” she adds.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s what all this is about. Didn’t he tell you? The nominations for the Golden Globes are coming out in another few weeks. That’s the start of awards season. If any other director had been responsible for The Last Door on the Right, they’d be a shoo-in for Best Director.”
“The Last Door on the Right? Is that his movie?”
She nods. “I haven’t seen it. But word is, it’s a masterpiece. Easily the best horror film that’s ever been made. Supposedly, it’s transcendent.”
That piques my interest. I hate horror films, but I
do love a good movie. “Wow.”
“But Justin has been blackballed by much of the elite. He’s an industry joke, these days. The movie will likely be nominated for Best Picture-- Drama. But he’ll be skipped over for Best Director. It’s almost certain.”
“I don’t understand. Just because of the way he acts?”
She nods. “I’m an outsider, too. I don’t understand the way Hollywood works, either. But Justin can be blunt. He can rub people the wrong way. He’s gotten tangled with the wrong people. And he’s said a few things people would say are not wise. Because he doesn’t care what people think. His friend and advisor, Joel Kiefer, always said it would come back to bite him.”
“Oh, gosh,” I say, when suddenly, it hits me.
Justin had said that he wanted me to go to a couple of events with him.
Was he talking about the Golden Globes? The . . . oh, my God.
Was he talking about the Academy Awards?
Where I could foreseeably run into Meryl Streep in the restroom?
Relax, Bev. June said had has pretty much no chance of being nominated. That doesn’t help. My throat begins to constrict, and my chest tightens. Before I can have full-on heart palpitations, the doorbell rings.
June opens the door to reveal an older lady with a short bob, glasses and a round, pleasant face. Her cheeks are rosy and she’s wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt with Minnie Mouse prints all over it. She waves in a half circle. “Hello!” she says brightly. “I’m told there’s a little boy here who needs a nanny?”
June and I both fall in love at once. “Yes,” I say. “His name is Brandon. And you are?”
“My name is Michelle, but all my children have called me Minnie,” she says, reaching into her oversize bag and pulling out a long list of references. Before I can ask her why she’s seeking new employment, she adds, “I stayed with my last family for ten years, until the youngest went off to high school.”
We invite Minnie into the living room, and when Brandon wakes up, she plays a little with him. It’s a match made in heaven. Brandon doesn’t usually take to strangers, but he takes to Minnie right away when she begins to play cars with him. By the time she leaves, I’m almost sad that this gig is only until March. I think I want to invite Minnie to be a permanent part of my family.
Maybe, with the million dollars, I can?
June calls the agency and tells them that we want her to start as soon as possible, and they arrange for her to begin work tomorrow. June makes us dinner, and we eat without seeing Justin at all. June mentions something about how Justin is always on the run, doing something, and rarely ever home. I decide that’s a good thing as night falls and I tuck Brandon into his new, enormous bed.
“How do you like your new room?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “It’s okay. But when do we go home?”
“Why? Don’t you like it here?”
“I do. It doesn’t feel like home, though.”
That’s probably because of Justin. He hasn’t been the warmest person to Brandon, so far. Well, like June said, he’s all about himself. Maybe he just needs some time to warm up to him. As I kiss Brandon on the forehead, I tell myself that things will get better.
Then I go to my bedroom, change into boxers and an old t-shirt, and get settled into bed, feeling exhausted. I pull out a romance book that Maude had loaned me, feeling excited to for once have the luxury of relaxing without worrying where my next meal will come from.
The book is kind of cheesy, the man so overly perfect and flowers-and-candy, a royal escaping an arranged marriage to find true love. But I’ve always loved romance. Always believed that there was a man out there for every woman. Even after my misstep with Steven Long, even though Hollywood has proven to have a lot more toads than princes, I’ve always thought that it was a matter of time before I found THE ONE. Sunk down deep in a fortress of fluffy pillows, I feel my heart warm as the prince takes the ordinary heroine into his arms and kisses her on a deserted beach, and . . .
The next thing I know, I’m jarred awake by a loud scream.
I sit bolt upright in bed, trying to remember where the hell I am. This isn’t my cramped apartment.
Then I recall the trip in the limo to the Hollywood Hills. Justin, the asshole. Tucking Brandon into his new bed.
Brandon!
It wasn’t his voice, I know that. I can pick Brandon’s wail out from that of a thousand other children. But still. I throw my feet over the edge of the bed and rush through the connecting door to the bathroom. When I peek into the bedroom, I see Brandon there, sound asleep. As I close the door, though, I hear more noise. Chatter. Loud shrieks. Clinking glassware.
Justin’s little get-together.
I don’t know. The house is enormous. I’d thought that tucked away in our little back wing of the house, we’d be isolated from any sound. But I’m clearly wrong, I realize, as I go back into my room and open my door into the hallway.
The pulse of some horrible techno music is practically shaking the walls. In fact, everything is shaking.
That isn’t just a little get-together.
There’s a regular, rip-roaring, no-holds-barred blow-out happening downstairs. A few friends? It sounds like the whole fucking state is downstairs.
I creep down the hallway until I get to the area where a balcony overlooks the foyer, just as a woman screams so loud it makes my eardrums burst.
I peek over the railing and nearly fall over.
It’s a sea of . . . skin.
There are at least two-hundred bodies crammed into the massive foyer, all gyrating to this ear-splitting music. And every single one is naked. No, there isn’t a stitch of clothing to be found, anywhere.
My mouth drops open, and I clamp my hand over it just as a bunch of people begin chanting Go! Go! Go! Throwing their arms up in the air. They’re clearly enthralled by something happening in the living room. I creep down the hallway a little more and crane my neck so I can see inside, just in time to see two men—fully-naked, of course, scooting across the hardwood floor on bath mats, all the while straddled by a naked woman.
I gape. I am definitely not on the same planet anymore.
Just then, someone hoots off to my right. I see it out of the corner of my eye as a naked body suddenly grabs a hold of a rope and zip lines from the landing I’m on, down over the foyer, into the living room, whooping all the while. He comes in contact with the sofa and barrel-rolls over it, deftly jumping to his feet, his massive dick waggling. Someone gives him a beer, and he chugs it, then tosses the cup down on the ground and raises his hands in victory.
What a fucking loser. What does he think this is, a frat party?
Then I peer closer as recognition dawns.
It’s Justin.
And I shouldn’t look. But I can do nothing else. Because this child? This immature, beer-guzzling baby? He has the most magnificent man’s body I’ve ever seen. Six pack, defined, corded muscles over his shoulders, perfect pecs, and . . . the biggest cock I’ve ever had the pleasure of beholding.
Holy god.
I try to tear my gaze away, but it’s too late. Because the second he finishes celebrating his victory, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up, and sees me.
An easy smirk appears on his face, like he knows he’s something special.
Fuck. I whirl, wanting to dive into my bed as soon as possible and try to scrape the mental image out of my mind, when he suddenly rushes to the staircase and starts to scale it, calling after me.
I’ve almost made it to the place where the balcony ends, where I can escape to the safety of my bedroom, when he says, “Hey, come on. Wait up. Mrs. Avignon.” He says it with a teasing lilt. “Little wifey.”
That part was slurred.
He’s beyond drunk.
I turn back to him. “Just so we’re clear, I would seriously rather marry a toad than you.”
“Well, there’s something we have in common, sweetheart,” he says, low and easy. “But y
ou can’t pretend you don’t want this.”
He’s pointing at his dick. Proudly. Unabashedly. Drunk as he is, those damn eyes still penetrate deep into me. Shit, it’s like he’s fucking me with his eyes. Not to mention, his . . . body. His . . . gorgeous cock. “What are you talking about?”
“You want a taste of it. You might think you’re saying no. But your body is saying otherwise.”
“Ridiculous.” I stiffen my resolve, feeling naked despite having on way more clothes than he does.
I cross my arms over my breasts. As I do, I feel my nipples, hard as pebbles, poking through the fabric, something that clearly isn’t lost on him, considering that’s where his eyes are focused. I feel them, buzzing with need. It’s been a long time since I’ve been laid, four years, in fact . . . and my nipples are proudly proclaiming the fact. Like, Hello, here we are, after four years, still working! Why have you ignored us so long?
Shit.
Change the subject, Bev. I point over the railing, careful not to look as someone lets out a moan of pleasure. “What’s going on down there?”
He looks over the railing, and I can tell he’s proud of the chaotic decadence he’s created. “That? Like I said. A few friends. Oh. Didn’t I tell you? My parties are usually clothing-optional.”
“They are . . .” I can’t even believe I’m going to say this word. Brandon is right in the next room. I whisper hoarsely, “Orgies.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Not always. Sometimes. Yes. This one is definitely heading that way.”
“That’s disgusting!” I hiss. “My son can walk in and see this any moment!”
He studies me carefully, as I do everything possible to avert my eyes from his blatantly sexual body. God, how can he be all man in everywhere but his brain? How is that even fair? His head is everything I despise but his body is everything my body clearly wants. And the body is winning out, which is probably why I’m getting wet, being this close to him.
I hate myself.
“So you don’t want to join us?” he said, his eyes scraping the length of my body. “Too pure and sweet to have a little fun?”
Just Fake It Page 5
