"Bree Oscarsson, you're up."
The blonde, tanned, and skinny receptionist barks to an equally blonde, tanned, and skinny girl sat opposite me. With a nervous twitch, she puts aside her magazine, and jumps to her feet, swallowing loudly, and starts her slow walk to the room behind us. A nervous picture of my previous self.
Will he be there? I don't know. He had the usual private driver pick me up from outside his building, and drop me off here. As much as I'd love to see him sat quietly in that corner, watching my every move from behind the script, seeing just how far I've come out of my anxious, edgy shell, I don't know if it will come to pass.
I don't even know what sort of film this is. Another one of Daniel's teen horror flicks? Some cowboy western drama about a quiet, secretive man and a timid, dainty woman? I have to admit, I do expect some sort of sordid test, as is Daniel's way. Still, I can only do my best. A few days ago I'd have died for minor film role.
I close my eyes, thinking back to our time back in that penthouse bedroom, overlooking the streets and cars below. I soon have to avert my mind, feeling the hot, tingling memories go straight back between my legs. When I finally do open them again, five minutes have passed and the receptionist is barking my name, signaling my time before Hollywood's own judgment. I climb to my feet, and make my way through the double doors.
"Hi Chloe," says the guy in the middle. Same face, same sunglasses, same bristly chin and cheeks, but a different baseball cap. Next to him sits a woman, perhaps a little older than myself, who I'm sure I've seen there and about; blonde hair, red lipstick, and a thick layer of eye-shadow that surely can't withstand this heat. Was she in that crappy sci-fi comedy I saw last year? I daren't linger upon her with my eyes long enough to check. And then, of course, sat to the baseball cap guy's left, is the producer. Daniel Grant. Blue suit, pink shirt, hiding his gorgeous and calculating face behind a script.
"Hi there."
He looks up briefly, establishing eye contact with me, and sharing a knowing, gleeful glance. I watch him raise an eyebrow quizzically, as if to state his confidence in me, before dropping his eyes back to the lines held before him.
"How do you feel?" asks the woman, presumably expecting me to be as nervous and tired of the whole audition process as every other applicant that comes through those doors. "Good? Bad?"
"I feel fine. My head is clear."
"Good."
And so, we begin. I pick up a pearly white sheet of paper from their desk, and take a moment to process the lines upon it. I look to Daniel one final time, and announce that I'm ready to begin.
Chapter Sixteen
I get back home to be welcomed by an almighty mess; twenty-four hours away and she's already found the time and effort to return this place to its squalid self. I wouldn't expect anything less. My mind clear, and my conscience cleansed, I walk to the living room, and find her waiting for me on the couch.
"So how did it go?"
Mindlessly, I grin at her, scratching my chin a moment, before answering.
"Very well, thank you."
"You don't even know what I'm asking, do you?"
I knew this was coming. Time to face the righteous judgment of my prim and proper sister. She crosses her arms, and scoots up the couch, yet again giving me a warm and inviting place to sit. This time, though, I choose to remain on my feet. Something tells me I might want to make a quick, agitated exit any moment, call me crazy. We sit staring at one another for an eternity, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
"So, tell me everything, what's he really like?" she finally asks, to my absolute surprise. No slap on the wrist for being so quiet and obtuse, no deafening monologue on the dangers of storming off with strange, wealthy men. Just a morbid curiosity about Daniel Grant.
"Different" is the only thing I can think of. We stand apart for a few moments more, staring into each other's blue eyes, playing this strange game of lingual chicken. She blinks first.
"You know, you don't have to tell me everything, Chlo. We can live separate lives. I just want to know you're not into anything deep."
Deep. That's one way of putting it. I swat a few errant strands of black hair away from my face with the back of my palm, and stare into her, trying to give my identical twin the absolute truth, in expression at least. But then, how can I tell her everything? The sex games, the pain, the submission, the overarching urge to give my whole body away. I've tasted the forbidden fruit, and I like it. She's right. I don't have to tell her everything.
"I had an audition for him, you know that." She nods, her eyes excitedly widening at the mere prospect of learning something about the billionaire. "It went well, but he didn't want me for the part. He wanted me for, well, something else."
She raises an eyebrow, and licks her lips slightly in expectation. I cough, clearing my throat of my mind's objections to what I'm about to say, and continue.
"Some shitty secretarial role. Said I'd look good on reception. I tried it, but it wasn't for me."
She's so disappointed with the banality of my so-called 'truth', she almost chokes on her response.
"But, you came home yesterday, you looked like you were going to cry, what was -"
"Producers," I snap back at her, averting my eyes to the ceiling, digging myself deeper into the untruth. "Some dickhead said I'd fucked things up with an actor, or something. I knew then that the receptionist thing wasn't for me. Too much pressure."
She looks down to the floor, finally releasing me from her prosecutorial eye. My heart is thumping again, my fingers and toes tingling with nervous excitement. Have I done it? Dug myself out of these tricky, unexplainable few days? Did my sister really believe me? All of a sudden I realize that I'm tightly holding onto my wrists, arousing more than a moment of stinging pain.
"Oh," she says, quietly. I see her mind ticking over. I can almost hear the whirring, clinical processes of her brain. "What about the guy? You told me there was a guy!"
"No guy." I reply, digging myself further into this pit, further into a dirty mistruth to protect my billionaire benefactor.
"But, you said -"
"I got a little too carried away. About the producers, about the job, about everything." She still doesn't look like she believes me, arching her eyebrows down to the beginning of her nose, staring through me with those eyes, identical to my own. "Superficial, right? Well, that's fucking employment in Hollywood. I'm sorry if I worried you, Carissa."
Jesus, I scare myself. I have some nerve, lying to my sister like this. But some dark, dirtied impulse from deep within tells me I'm doing the right thing; tells me that every lie is necessary to protect what Daniel and I have.
"And today," I go on to say, "was another audition. You know, a thank you from the higher-ups, mainly for not playing up about the whole malfunctioning coffee machine thing. That's the reason for the little house call yesterday. There's nothing like an apology from the top, huh?"
I push my wrists out to her, bearing the red cord burns of a few days ago. She winces in response, eliminating all traces of doubt from her face. Immediately I feel it; a cool, excited rush. Like a gust of wind bracing my entire body. I might have just gotten away with hiding my billionaire romance.
I smile one final time, exuding a confidence that I know I couldn't summon just a few days prior, when she halts me in my steps once more.
"One more thing Chlo."
My eyes rise nervously to her, wondering what aspect of my story I left open to doubt. Who am I kidding? I'm a terrible liar. I can't act, I can't tell anything but the truth without a burning hot, red face. She opens her mouth, pausing to consider her words for a moment, while I hold my breath anxiously.
"You look different. Easier, more carefree."
The smile returns to my face with a vengeance.
"Let's just say I think I did well in my audition today. I'm not as bad an actress as I thought I was."
She nods, before turning her head back to the TV, an incessantly droning whi
te noise in the corner. I breathe easy, huffing my chest out before me, and taking confident strides. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't have seen it; if I hadn't have been so self-aware right now, it would have passed me by, but in the enlightened state that I'm in, I can't help but pick it out of my mind's eye...
"Carissa, what's this?"
A magazine - one of the big gossip magazines that lie around this filthy, squalid place like newspaper covering a stable floor - lying open on the coffee table. And in big red letters, a phone number.
SEEN ANYONE FAMOUS ABOUT TOWN? ANYONE WE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT? CALL US NOW!
My heart spins inside my ribcage, wrenching itself back into that nervous, anxious wreck I used to know and love. Has she? She can't have, not Carissa...
"What, that?" she sits up from the couch, casting her eye over the magazine, before falling back to her seat, and letting the TV absorb her full attention once more. "It's a gossip magazine Chlo. You remember those don't you? The things you read when you're not buried in some script."
Right. A coincidence I guess. Without another word, I trot out of the living room, and down the corridor, locking myself inside my room, intent on blocking out every dissonant aspect of the outside world, at least until dinnertime. Jumping over to my bed though, something catches on my toe;
"Danjel" I say to myself out loud, finding the flimsy cotton top, kindly donated after our session together inside the armoire, lightly stained with paint. Holding it up to my face, I bury my nose and cheeks within it, inhaling from it, trying to remind myself of that night. Smells and memories come back to me, and another surge of pain from within my wrists jolts me upright. Maybe he was trying to tell me something by painting his name upon me like that. Of all the things that Daniel Grant - the imposter and the undeserving heir - owns in that name, maybe he just wanted something to own in his real name: me.
Like divine intervention, I'm startled from my mindless imagination by a buzzing vibration in my pocket, and the tuneless chords of a ring tone. That number, it's him!
"Hello!"
"Chloe, how are you?"
That voice seems to envelope me, warming the coldest reaches of my body. A controlled monotone, yet a monotone that I know is capable of so much more.
"Good, thank you Daniel."
"You did good today. Well done."
I'd almost forgotten about the audition. A movie role seems to be the least important thing on my mind.
"Oh, good. I'm glad." I pause, feeling it on the tip of my tongue. I gulp, hold my breath, and take the dive; "can I see you today?"
"I'm right outside" he replies. Music to my ears; my veins run wild with electric, buzzing excitement. "Limousine. Black. Tinted windows."
That's all the encouragement I need. I pack a bunch of essentials into my bag - cell, make up, etc - and prepare to run out of the house. Before I unlock my door, though, one thing catches my eye. Slowly, and carefully, I take down my blinds from my window, and unfastening the cords that hold it all together, watch it fall apart on my bed. I pocket the cord, and jump out of my room and onto the street as fast as my creaking, barely-recovered knees will take me.
"Back in a bit!" I yell to my unknowing sister as I pass the living room and throw myself out of the kitchen door. It's just like he said; a black limousine, parked suspiciously in our neighborhood, with tinted windows and shiny silver wheels. Quite out of place, but definitely alluring. The backdoor opens, and the perpetually suited figure of Daniel Grant steps out - a platinum gray suit, with a white shirt beneath, different in fact from the one he wore to the audition - and beckons me closer with an outstretched palm.
Inside is everything I'd expect; an ornate, pristinely tidy set of leather seats, lit by an array of orange lights suspended from the roof of the car. A mini-bar lies opposite, stocked with drinks so far-flung I can barely pronounce their names, and the windows are tinted so darkly I have to squint my eyes to make out what lies beyond. I climb inside; he follows, and the doors are shut behind. I'm back in the billionaire's world. Back in his pocket.
"So, where to?" I ask, feeling the excitement of the moment take me. I look back upon him, seeing those jagged cheekbones riding high in his face, and that sly smile return to his lips.
"I thought I'd better tell you in person," he begins, clasping his hands together diplomatically. "You didn't get the part."
Oh. I scratch my head, folding aside strands of confused black hair as I do so. Is this the part where I'm meant to feel bad again? Curse my acting career and start perusing the job pages?
"That's okay," I reply, finding his eyes warm and understanding. "I didn't even know what the movie was."
One question is still left unanswered; who am I kidding? Every question is unanswered, but one leaps to the forefront of my thoughts. I watch Daniel reach for an intercom, and tell the driver that we're ready to go. Immediately the limousine screeches from the street, and picks up a steady pace.
"But, why make me audition for something in the first place?"
He leans back in his seat, relaxing his arms, and staring out of the tinted windows at the passing cars, people, and buildings.
"I wanted to see you do what you do best. You're a thrilling actress."
A thrilling actress. I think I understand just what he means by that now. I crane my head to the left, and watch the world passing in darkened shades. Just a few days ago I was one of those people, walking the sidewalk with my head slung sullenly downwards. Now I feel as though I'm something much more committed.
"Thank you," I finally say, answering his undue compliment, feeling emboldened and enflamed. I look to the driver, barely visible through a tinted window ahead. "Can he see into here?"
Daniel immediately leans to his right, jamming a small button with his thumb, bringing down a mechanized partition between us and the driver.
"Not anymore."
He watches me curiously, as though I've finally ventured out of his preordained plans; as though I've become something much more liberated and unpredictable to him, and he can no longer take my nervous indecision for granted. He doesn't even smile. Just watches me with those fiery blue eyes, hiding a mysterious intent.
"Good." I reveal from my back jean pocket a length of cord, stolen from my bedroom blinds half an hour earlier. He looks upon it, narrowing his eyes slowly and deviously, before looking back to me, and finally showing me that smile I know so well. "So why don't I get back into role?"
I haven't exactly had much time to think about it; not enough time to ponder the various psychoanalytical possibilities. But I don't care about that now. Daniel's words make things clear to me; I'm a thrilling actress. An actress. Above all else. I like the sound of that. I always have.
I shuffle my t-shirt atop my midriff, and over my shoulders, reveling in the warm delight of his eyes. It's soon over my head, and kicked to the floor of the limousine. My hands quickly dart behind my back, removing my bra; I feel I have to protect myself from the lecherous advances of his gaze with a forearm, precariously placed over my breasts as I throw the bra away too.
Okay, so I'm no longer the girl who can't say no. I invalidated that hallowed little clause on a contract that was never made to make sense, let alone legally bind me. But what's to stop me slipping back into role? My greatest character yet - devotee to Daniel Grant - something I can really sink my teeth into.
I finally drop my forearm after teasing him for a minute, going back to that tightly wound cord of string, and tying it around one wrist, followed by the other. Already I feel the exquisite pain of a rope burn, remorselessly threaded against my reddened, blistered skin like the manifestation of my defeated conscience. But I know what I want. With a dampness between my legs, and an unbridled excitement building within me, I tie my wrists in place together, and look to my billionaire boss for help.
I'm no longer doing this because I have to. I'm no fool, I don't desire to be Daniel Grant's slave anywhere but the bedroom. I'm no longer doing this because of some phony co
ntract, or some vain attempt to impress the biggest movie producer in town. I don't even care about auditions anymore. Why would I, when I've already found the role of a lifetime?
He jumps over to my seat, grasping my forearm, and raising it upward, tying the remnants of rope to the handrail above, imprisoning me once again, signifying just how he wants this to go. For a moment, we're an inch apart, our lips close enough to kiss if I wanted to lunge forward for him. I close my eyes, and feel the hot, ticklish vapors of his breath on my lips. But it never comes.
I've discovered something deep and dark within me; an exuberance I never knew I had. And now I can't dampen the flames of lust that seem to engulf me in his presence. My thighs ache to be prized apart; my pants just seem like a mere barrier to our overwhelming, engulfing passions now, and with every thumping heartbeat, I feel another rush of blood between my legs.
Pulling my jeans off me in one furious motion, he revels in the sight of me almost naked once again, pulling that delicate, wry grin; his cheekbones jumping with glee. He reaches for the intercom once more, just as I look out of the tinted windows to see we're passing the same block, over and over.
"Driver, take us somewhere. Somewhere far."
And with that terse command, we're ready to begin.
"So Chloe. What's it gonna be?"
He needn't even ask the question. He could peel my panties off and have me any way he wants me. Still, I feel compelled to correct him on one simple thing:
"Call me Miss Everett."
I've changed my mind. I think, deep down, I'm still the girl who can't say no.
Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) Page 14
