“What’s in it for you?” she asks.
“A chance to help someone just getting into the business.” When she raises a skeptical eyebrow, I add, “And some pussy at the end of what has been a very long day.”
“I’ll need to mull over whether or not this is actually in my best interest.”
“You’re considering it, then?” I ask.
“I might be, but I want time to think it over when I’m not buzzed, so I definitely won’t be going home with you tonight.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t want you to come home with me. I’m going to fuck you right here, in the restroom. Right now.”
Mona’s more than a little flustered. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Yet you will,” I say with utmost certainty.
“No, Mason, I won’t.”
“Would you like to know why you will?”
She gives me a long look, pretending to be mildly amused at my confidence. When she involuntarily purses her lips, though, I know I’ve got her.
Slowly, I lean closer until only a foot remains between our faces. “Because a young Marilyn Monroe fucked Rudolph Valentino in that restroom. A young Diane Keaton fucked Humphrey Bogart in that restroom.”
Of course she’s heard of them all, but has no idea they never met, much less had sex in a bathroom.
I continue, lowering my voice even more. “In Hollywood, the only way to get ahead is by doing whatever it takes. And this bar is Hollywood. You’re an ambitious woman and you will fuck me right now because you know that with my help, you’ll look smarter and more experienced than you actually are at this point. And that alone might be the difference between a long, prosperous career and one in which you struggle for a few years before eventually flaming out.”
She’s hanging on my every word.
“This is a dirty, sleazy business, my dear Mona, and it helps if you know when and how to be dirty and sleazy. The last thing you want is to attend your twenty-five year high school reunion and tell everyone how you almost made it in Hollywood.”
Mona stares into my eyes, trying to read me. She has no idea she’s already toast.
“Men’s room,” I say as I stand. “I’ll be waiting.”
I don’t look at her as I walk away. No reassuring smile, no playful wink. If she wants to swim with the big fish, it’s time she jumps in the water.
The men’s room is empty and I’m relieved it doesn’t reek. Sure, it smells like a restroom – a men’s restroom at that – but there’s no overwhelming stench to kill my buzz. By the time I got up and walked away from that bar, my cock was already starting to get stiff. These kinds of negotiations, in which I know I’m in a position of power, do that to me.
The small room has a gray stone floor and white tiles in a chevron pattern extending halfway up the wall, where they give in to a chic black-on-white damask wallpaper. There’s a single toilet stall and a urinal. On the opposite wall is a distressed white wood cabinet with two modern vessel sinks, a large mirror on the wall behind them. It’s actually got just the ambience I’m looking for.
I check myself in the mirror. My medium-brown hair is longer on top than on the sides and looks slightly tousled. There’s a faint razor stubble on my tanned face. I came here straight from the gym and still smell of the sandalwood soap they provide there. I’m in designer jeans and a dark gray button-down shirt that cost more than some people’s mortgages.
I fully expect Mona to wait a few minutes before she comes, just for show. She won’t want to seem too eager to take advantage of my offer, but I have no doubt she’ll be here. To her credit, the door cracks open less than a minute after I arrive, and she slips inside.
“So how do we do this?” she asks.
Obviously nervous, she doesn’t approach me or try to hug me sexily, probably because she understands this for what it is: a business transaction. No more, no less.
I slide past her and check the door, but there’s no lock. We’ll just have to hope nobody interrupts us. Then again, this shouldn’t take long.
“Take your shirt off,” I say.
Mona obeys my command, sliding the light blue silk over her head and hanging it on a polished silver hook near the door. Without prompting from me, she unclasps her bra and hangs it as well. Her full tits are bigger than they looked while covered.
She stands anxiously as I appraise her, her body swaying slightly in nervous motion compounded by her buzz. I wasn’t initially doing this to have a good time, but her willingness to go along with something so sordid is suddenly making me very horny.
With my back firmly against the door, I take the single condom from my pocket and hold it out to her.
“Get me hard.”
Because I fuck so may women, I’m as cautious as can be, using condoms and getting tested regularly. And since I know nothing about Mona, I’m not taking any chances.
She takes the condom and reaches for my belt without hesitation. I’m fascinated as I watch her open my pants and take my cock out. I can’t tell you how many women I’ve fucked because I hold power over their lives – a foot in the door, a connection I can make, an easy solution to a tricky problem. It’s said that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. That works both ways; for me, that sense of my own power always makes me want to fuck.
My cock is already partially engorged when she wraps her fingers around it. Again without me explicitly telling her to, she drops down and takes it in her mouth. She squats in front of me, unwilling to kneel on the bathroom floor. With perfunctory precision, she proceeds to blow me till I’m fully hard.
She removes the condom from its package, rolling it over my length. Keeping a hand on my cock as she stands, she squeezes it nervously.
“That should do.”
I want to fuck her in front of the mirror so I can see her face. As I pull her to the twin sinks, she half-motions toward the door, obviously worried someone might walk in. She drops her mild protest when I position her with her back to the mirror.
“Pull your pants down,” I say.
Mona looks toward the door once more, then lowers her pants to the floor. She’s nicely shaved and her body’s a little thick but in decent shape.
I spin her so she’s facing the mirror and I’m looking down at her cute curvy ass. I push her shoulders forward to bend her at the waist, then spit on my palm and rub the saliva over my cock. After locating her opening, I steadily push forward until I’m all the way in. Nice and tight, just like I like ‘em.
I check the mirror while I reach around her, taking her tits in both hands as I begin to thrust slowly. Mona looks back at me in the reflection and we momentarily lock gazes. She looks starved for success in that way the young ones always are when they first arrive in Hollywood. Then she closes her eyes and for the next few minutes I ramp up my assault on her wet little pussy until I’m pounding her hard.
We’re both startled when the door opens and the young man who’d been staring at us at the bar steps in. He sees us and freezes.
“Sorry!” he says as he quickly retreats.
“Guard the door!” My thrusting doesn’t slow at all and Mona’s too stunned to do anything.
The door cracks open and I hear him say, “Sure.” Then I turn my attention back to Mona. Rather than throw me off, the intrusion fuels my dirty little mind and I feel myself getting close now. I grab a fistful of that thick curly hair and pull back hard, jerking Mona’s head up, her eyes flying open again as I hammer into her as hard as possible. The look she gives me is priceless, the visual equivalent of You better keep your word, motherfucker. It pushes me over the edge and I grunt as I explode, coming much harder than I expected. I pound her until I’m spent, then unceremoniously pull out, carefully slipping off the condom and tossing it in the trash.
Mona already has her pants back up and zips them as I catch my breath. She glances at my still-hard cock, then puts on her bra and shirt.
Once she’s dressed, she looks me in the eye and says, “I did my part, M
ason. I trust you will, too.”
I smile as I put my cock away and make myself presentable. “I’m a man of my word. Ask anyone.” That’s good enough for her. Over the next few years, Mona will learn not to be so trusting. Not of me, mind you – I plan to keep my part of the bargain, within reason of course – but of the rest of Hollywood. This town was built on broken dreams begat by broken promises.
I open the door and we see the young guy standing outside. “Thanks,” I say as Mona walks past, head down.
“No problem,” he answers. Before I’m three feet away, he says, “Mr. Stark?”
I turn, knowing what’s coming next. It wasn’t Mona he was staring at earlier, it was me.
Sure enough, he thrusts a head shot toward me, his smiling face on an 8x10 glossy with his resume on the back. “My name’s Jason Halford. I’m an actor.”
“So I see. I’ll keep you in mind in return for your discretion, Jason. Send me your reel.” I hand him a business card, then jerk my head toward Mona, who’s waiting awkwardly a few feet away. “Gotta run.”
It may seem like an empty promise, but I actually will have one of my agents check him out to see if he’s any good. In this industry, you never know.
As I settle the bar tab, Mona says, “I was planning to pay for the drinks, but now I’ll leave that to you.” I look up to see her smiling.
The kid has the right attitude for this business. I walk her to her car and we stand facing each other for an awkward beat before I extend a hand and say, “Miss Simmons, it was a pleasure doing business with you.”
She shakes my hand but doesn’t let go. “The pleasure was all yours. I didn’t come.”
“You should have negotiated for that before we sealed the deal,” I reply. “You’ll learn.” I smile and release her hand, then walk to my car.
You might think I lost respect for Mona Simmons tonight, for her willingness to spread her legs to further her career. On the contrary. I already appreciated her for somehow landing Cheyenne Parris as a client, as well as for making the ridiculous equal-pay demand that will likely raise Cheyenne’s salary in future films. I gained respect for her tonight, though, because she made a smart business decision. She did what she felt she had to do to get ahead and probably won’t lose any sleep over it.
There is one thing about what occurred between us in that restroom, one little detail that Mona will never know: With every thrust of my cock into her willing pussy, I was thinking about another woman.
That was Claire Jarrett I was fucking.
Business-wise, of course.
2
Claire
I relax in my chair and take a sip of chai tea. I’ve just ended a long phone call with Jackie Hightower and need a little time to decompress. It’s barely nine o’clock, but she needed to talk about yesterday’s meeting. Jackie’s still pissed at Mason Stark for his lewd wisecrack, while I’m still pissed at him for leaving quickly afterward so he wouldn’t have to face me without Jackie in the room as a buffer. When she called this morning, I let her vent for a while, then told her I’d talk to Mason and see if I can make any progress.
While trying to relax, I go over that strange meeting in my mind. Stark is an intense and alluring man. I’ve known him for a few years because we own competing talent agencies, but this was the first time we’ve been face-to-face in the line of business. He’s about six feet tall with a fit, tennis-player body, and with his short medium-brown hair and chiseled facial features, he could easily be a leading-man himself. At the meeting, I also learned that his magnetic brown eyes are all but impossible to read, something I’m usually adept at. Maybe that’s because every time he looked at me, it felt like he was deciding which part to eat first.
In addition to being known around town as a ladies’ man, Stark also has a reputation for being a vicious agent. “Mason Shark,” they call him. I’d never witnessed it first-hand until today, and I have to admit it was kind of sexy to see him flex his muscles like that to a studio head. The guy must be unhinged, though, because only a lunatic would take on Jackie Hightower in that manner.
Just as I begin to get back to a more relaxed state, the arrogant asshole in question fires a shot across the bow, via my assistant, Brian. Knowing I just got off the long call with Jackie, Brian is reticent as he buzzes me and asks for a moment of my time. When he steps into my office, I see the look on his face and know immediately that something is amiss.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I have some gossip you need to hear, but you’re not going to like it.”
I wait, and when he doesn’t continue, I gesture with both palms. Spit it out, dammit, I don’t have all day.
He takes a breath, then says, “I have it on very good authority that Mason Stark and Mona Simmons had sex last night in the Melrose Star’s men’s room.”
It feels like an arrow has hit me square in the forehead and is searing my brain. On the outside, though, I’m calm and composed. I lean back in my chair and ask, “Who’s your source?”
“Eric Leininger.”
I recognize the name as one of Mason’s agents, and Brian answers my next question before I can ask it.
“I know him from college.”
What man calls an old college friend to spread gossip about his own boss? Especially this quickly after the alleged incident? It smells fishy.
Brian must see the skepticism on my face because he adds, “Eric thought it was funny. He texted me just twenty minutes ago about it.”
I don’t mind my assistant being on good terms with someone from a competing agency, but I make a mental note to talk to him about keeping that gossip a one-way street.
I thank Brian and dismiss him, then call a detective I keep on retainer for things like this. It shouldn’t be hard for him to verify that Mona and Stark were at the Melrose Star last night. I consider calling Mona and asking her what the hell she’s trying to pull, but refrain because I can’t risk losing Cheyenne Parris since she’s the best-paid actress on my roster. Still, I need to know if Mona is doing something behind my and Jackie’s backs.
Try as I might, I can’t come up with a reason why she would have sex with Stark, especially in a restroom, of all places. She’s not naïve enough to think he would change his mind about Drake Manning taking less money, giving up some seven hundred grand in his own commissions.
Maybe Mona just fell prey to Stark’s looks and charm, which would certainly be understandable. But my instinct tells me this wasn’t her idea as much as it was his.
Even then, why would Stark want to have sex with Mona, who doesn’t remotely fit the profile of the women he dates? He and Manning are notorious for the hard-bodied bimbos they date, but Mona is smart and doesn’t appear to spend much time in the gym. It makes no sense at all from any angle, unless they both just got shitfaced and stupid.
The more I think about it, though, the more I’m convinced something is up. Mason Stark is no chump, and every move he makes is carefully calculated. He’s one of the best agents I know and built his agency even more quickly than I built mine. Last year his Media Arts Unlimited actually squeaked past my Creative Talents by a hair to push CT out of the top ten Los Angeles-based agencies. Of course, he’s got Drake Manning pulling more than his weight, while my artist roster smartly remains more diversified.
The detective calls me back just a few minutes later to tell me the Melrose Star’s bartender said Mona and Stark were indeed together there last night between eight and nine. Neither seemed drunk, though she had three drinks while he only had one. They disappeared for a period before returning to pay their tab and leaving the bar together.
Dammit. What the hell is his angle?
A thought occurs to me: The idea that Brian’s college friend texts him this tidbit just twelve hours after the bathroom coupling took place is a huge red flag. I call my good friend Robin Easter, a publicity agent I’ve known for years. Robin knows more people in town than anyone.
She picks up on the third ring. �
��Robin, this is Claire Jarrett,” I say. “I need to ask a small favor. Do you happen to know any of the first-rung agents at MAU? Someone you know well enough to answer a question regarding his boss?”
“David Simonson and I go way back. He’ll be honest with me if I promise it’s off the record. What do you need?”
“Ask if he’s heard any rumors regarding Mason and Mona Simmons from yesterday. I’ll owe you one.”
I know Robin will call that favor one day, but this is important. She agrees and hangs up.
As I try to work, the image keeps popping into my mind of Stark and Mona going at it in a men’s room stall. Since I know the décor of the Melrose Star’s restrooms, the picture is far too lifelike for my taste. Although I’d never tell him to his face, Mason Stark is a seriously sexy man. Handsome face, tall, great hair, hot body, arrogant as fuck. Throughout the morning, my brain keeps returning to Stark’s naked back and his bare ass as he thrusts in and out of Mona.
Robin calls back just before lunch. “David says the office gossip is about a particularly nasty comment Mason made to Jackie Hightower yesterday, something about her licking balls. Mona was there, but so were you, right?”
I cover myself. “Yes, I was there. I was just curious if word of what happened had already leaked. Jesus, gossip flies at light speed in this town.” I thank Robin and hang up.
That bastard.
Apparently, nobody in his office is talking about the far more salacious act Stark committed with Mona Simmons. That tells me Stark likely told only Eric Leininger, asking him to pass it on as “gossip” to his friend at CT – my assistant, Brian. Stark didn’t want the story to leak as gossip, probably to spare Mona the embarrassment, but he definitely wanted it to get to me. Mission accomplished, asshole.
However he talked Mona into it, I have to admit that although it’s immature and mean, it’s also deviously brilliant. It’s a message from Stark to me:
Fuck you and your equal pay demands.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason Page 2
