by Torrest, T.
For all the foreplay and teasing leading up to his house, I suddenly wasn’t in the mood. That card had freaked me out enough that we decided it was better to just go to bed.
I didn’t fall asleep until dawn.
* * *
I awoke to a certain body part prodding me from behind.
I’d barely slept the night before, which only added to the half-asleep, dreamlike quality of Trip’s body nudging against mine.
Wordlessly, he slipped his hand under the sheet and around to my front, grasping at my breasts as he continued to shove his hips against my backside.
Mmm. Good morning.
I was only half-conscious as I reached up and back, pulled his face in tighter against my neck, his hot breath against my skin, his hand sliding down inside my panties. He ripped them down my legs and I kicked them off my feet, his fingers exploring again, making delicious circular motions against my pinkest part. Kissing that spot behind my ear where the skin meets the hairline. Is there a name for that spot? I decided to name it a fleeb.
His face was at my ear, his panting, snarling breaths against my neck, the most thrilling shivers traveling along my spine. I let out with a moan, and Trip pulled my tank top off, groping at my skin. I felt him stripping down behind me, then he pushed the sheet down and lifted my leg up, back, and over his hip, exposing my naked body to the breeze.
Heart beating, breath catching, he speared himself into me.
I rocked with him, half in a daze, the cadence of his thrusts driving me over the edge. His body slamming against my backside, his growling against my ear, his hands at my breasts, sliding down my stomach, his body moving inside mine, his fingers pressing in just the right spot, oh my GOD, I’m going to come.
“Yes. Come for me. I want to make you come,” Trip whispered, and until then, I hadn’t realized I’d said that last part aloud.
The electric charges ran along my entire length, the feel of his huge cock smashing into me, filling me, his noises at my ear, the biting of his teeth against my shoulder.
I reached back and grabbed his ass, pulled him tighter to me, deeper, oh God, oh God please, oh yes, and Trip’s fingers were still making those circular motions against my front, his hips still rotating at my back, driving into me as deep as I could take, his voice rough with madness and want, begging me, “Oh babe. I can’t do this much longer. I…”
And I screamed as I came and Trip thrust deeper, faster into me, groaning and swearing and pumping himself into me, so violently as he rolled me to my stomach and flattened me to the mattress, holding my hands fixed to the bed above my head, my face buried in a pillow, muffling my screaming as he jacked into me once more, twice, shuddering and growling as he came, collapsing on top of my back, the weight of him pinning me underneath him, possessing me, owning me.
Breathless. Spent. Euphoric.
Eyes wide open now. Awake.
His.
Chapter 25
NAKED FAME
The day before I was scheduled to head home, I went shopping down in Venice Beach for some souvenirs. If I had spent my time in Los Angeles fruitlessly searching for the clichéd Hollywood scene, Venice Beach is where I found it.
The promenade had a stretch of shops and restaurants along the sand. It is there where I saw bikini-girls rollerblading, meatheads working out at Muscle Beach, a group of guys playing a pickup game of basketball like a scene straight out of White Men Can’t Jump.
There was a Rastafarian on roller skates playing electric guitar. There were random people on soapboxes, speaking to the gathering crowds. And there were lots and lots of tourists like me.
I took advantage of the fabulous shopping, however, and found two different wind chimes for Sylvia and Lisa’s parents, and a hand-carved pipe for my father, all of which were purchased from an aging hippie wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt and love beads. I picked up an awesome black leather saddlebag for Bruce’s motorcycle, then stopped at a children’s boutique to get T-shirts for Caleb, Julia, and the new baby, scoring an adorable little bikini for Skylar while I was at it. I was finishing up my shopping with a watercolor from a streetside artist that I knew would look perfect in Lisa and Pickford’s sunroom when I headed next door to the newsstand for some gum.
That’s when I saw the naked pictures of me on the cover of The Backlot.
Oh my God!
I immediately scanned my eyes around the store, hoping my ass wasn’t recognizable to the oblivious patrons milling about the magazine display. I could’ve just died right there by the racks of cellophaned doughnuts.
I’d promised Trip I wouldn’t bring home any more of those awful tabloids, and it was kind of hard to avoid buying up every copy of the one with the picture of my naked body on the front cover. But, with great restraint, I kept my promise and didn’t get a single one.
I stood there staring at the headline: “Trip Wiley and Mystery Vixen Heat Up Poolside”.
The picture was of me sprawled out naked on his chaise lounge in the backyard, Trip still wearing his shorts, but between my knees. It was the day I’d gone dress shopping and came home to surprise him with my newly waxed nether regions. The photo was obviously taken from far away, probably from a freaking helicopter or something based on the angle of the shot. It was fuzzy—thank GOD—but clear enough that they still had to black-bar out some private parts.
And that was the thing. That was the private part of our life. That moment was never intended to be broadcast to the world. I couldn’t even think about the collection of pictures they didn’t publish, probably stashed away in some pervert’s literal spank file.
What the ever-loving fuckity fuck fuck???
It was unsettling and weird, to say the least. I mean, I didn’t sign up to be famous. Yes, I was a slightly well-known author, but even a public career like that was fairly detached. Faceless. Anonymous. Private.
There was nothing private about my naked body sprawled out across the cover of a nationally-distributed periodical.
Oh dear God. Please, please don’t let my father see this.
I may have promised not to bring any more tabloids into Trip’s house, but he hadn’t said anything about me reading them when I wasn’t there. And there was absolutely no way in hell I was not reading this. I mean, those were my hooters on full-out display. My all-natural hooters that up until that moment I had always found to be one of my best attributes, even in The Land of Unnaturally Perky Fun Bags.
So that’s how I found myself standing in the middle of a run-down magazine stand on my last day in California reading a brazen article reveling in my sexual escapades.
Prior to this story, any time I’d seen a photo of myself in a movie magazine, I was normally referred to as: “and date,” which was just fine by me. However, The Backlot had taken things a step further that day. The pictures were bad enough, but I cringed when I saw that they actually printed my name!
In a bombshell Backlot exclusive, we revealed that author Layla Warren is the mystery woman who Trip Wiley escorted to the Oscars last month. But Backlot has just received insider information that the bookish beauty has since taken up residence at the playboy’s compound. The Backlot exclusively revealed photos last week of the wily actor leaving the St. James Hotel with his ex-fiancée, model Jenna Barnes, and one can only wonder at Miss Warren’s reaction to the Academy Award-winning actor’s secret trysts with the leggy lingerie looker. Well, wonder no more. The Backlot nabbed the insider scoop that the fiction-writing femme fatale is fuming about the fornicating film star stepping out with his ex-fiancée. “She’s going bonkers over those photos, but come on. Everyone knows Trip Wiley is no saint,” said a source. “Everyone knows he can’t stay faithful.” The source went on to reveal that Warren is not only Wiley’s current girlfriend, but that the twosome has known each other—and dated on and off—for years. “Oh, yeah. He was cheating on Jenna with her the whole time they were engaged. Guess it’s Jenna’s chance for payback.”
Enough was enough with this
frigging magazine. I flipped to the inside front cover and checked out the stats; know thy enemy and all that garbage.
Only, it turned out that I actually knew my enemy.
Right there in the editorial credits, a very familiar name popped out at me.
Thine enemy’s name was Devin Fields.
Okay, God. Now I know you’re just fucking with me.
* * *
I had a ton of packing to tackle and I sure as heck wanted to be able to spend my last hours with Trip before having to get on a plane the following day. But I had one last stop to make before I could go back to the house. I knew Trip had an entire legal department at his disposal, but this was a situation I wanted to handle personally. It was too important to simply let slide. I wanted to make things right before I left.
I pulled the Jeep into the lot of Starz Publications, a large, glass structure located in the heart of Century City.
I made my way into the lobby and waved cheerily to the security guard at the desk. “Good afternoon,” I said as passively as possible. It wouldn’t help my case any if I came storming into the building like the furious wrath-monster I actually was.
I cruised into the elevator as if I knew exactly where I was headed, as if I belonged there, so as not to provoke suspicion. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to press the button for the top floor. Devin wouldn’t be stationed anywhere else.
I channeled my old reporter skills and made my way to the receptionist’s desk. “Good afternoon! I do not have an appointment,” I said jovially, shaking my head at my oversight. “But I’d like to see Mr. Fields. Is he in?”
The receptionist picked up the phone and called his office. I didn’t even know if she really dialed an extension, but I was positive that if she was speaking with someone, it wasn’t Devin. “A young lady is here to see Mr. Fields? Okay, thank you. I’ll tell her.”
The receptionist hung up the phone and gave me the standard runaround. “Mr. Fields will be tied up with meetings all day. I can make an appointment for you to see him next week, if you’d like.”
No, bitch! I need to wring his neck now, and I’m not going to wait a week to do it!
I smiled pleasantly and asked her to call again. “And this time, please have his secretary ask him personally. Just let him know Layla Warren is here. He’ll see me.”
The receptionist didn’t look pleased, but she could tell I wasn’t going anywhere until she carried out my request. This time, she hung up after the call and looked at me in curiosity. “You can go right in. Through the glass doors, all the way down the hall.”
I thanked her, then headed down the hallway, trying to steady my breathing and get my rage under control.
Devin’s secretary buzzed me into his office, a huge, windowed expanse with an enormous oriental carpet along the floor and rich, mahogany paneling along the walls. And there was Devin, standing in front of his massive desk, two black leather club chairs framing his commanding pose.
Some things never change.
“Hello, Devin.”
“Warren! I was wondering when you’d come to pay me a visit. Welcome to the West Coast!”
He spread his arms out in a sweeping gesture, and I didn’t know if it was to exaggerate his statement or to invite me in for a hug.
Aside from the extra gray around his temples, he looked almost exactly the same as the last time I’d seen him. The day he fired me.
I stopped a few feet in front of him—arms at my side—and tried to keep my voice calm. Even though I was fuming internally, I did my best to keep the conversation professional. “This is hardly a social call, Fields.”
“Oh, I’m guessing you’ve seen my new magazine! No need to be angry. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you shouldn’t pay attention to anything you read in the tabloids?” He started to chuckle, like the fact that my naked body was currently splashed all over the country was an amusing little aside.
“It’s not funny, Devin. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you trying to destroy Trip?”
He didn’t even miss a beat to answer, “Oh, you mean aside from the fact that you left me for him?”
Wrong. “Let’s just get one thing straight. I left you for me.”
He wandered over to the built-in bar, grinning smugly as he said, “Now that hurts, Warren. I always thought we made a great team.” He poured some Perrier into a glass, held it out to me and asked, “Care for a drink? Or maybe Wiley’s gotten you used to something a little stronger these days. I have some whiskey, if you’d rather.”
That’s it. I snapped.
“Okay, that’s enough! You’d better pray I don’t sue your ass. You have no right to print those pictures of me and those lies about Trip. And you know it!”
“I’m well within my rights. And I have quite the legal team at my disposal if you need confirmation.” His answer was collected, but I knew him well enough to recognize that my threat had put a bit of fear in his voice. The thing was, I didn’t even know if I had a case. So, I guess I was bluffing, too.
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this.”
“You reap what you sow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You can’t stand here and tell me that you’re still hurting from our breakup.”
“Hardly. I’m actually getting married in a few months.”
Huh. That was certainly interesting. I wondered who the poor girl could possibly be. “Well, congratulations,” I said flatly.
Devin smiled a genuine grin at my well-wishes, but he looked even more pleased with himself when he said, “What I meant was that this is the life you signed on for, this is the life you chose. You want to date a guy like Wiley, you have to be prepared for this kind of attention.”
“I didn’t choose to have my naked body gracing the cover of your magazine. Trip didn’t choose to have you trash him every chance you get.”
He shrugged, dismissing my complaints. “Better get used to it.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being snarky or genuinely offering advice. I didn’t care to figure it out. “When did you become this vindictive person?” I shook my head in disbelief, taken aback by the new Devin in front of me. “How can you print that stuff about him? Do you have any idea what he needed to go through in order to get his life back?”
“It’s not personal. It’s The Backlot, for godsakes. It’s what we do here.” He gave a chuckle at that, and that one, little, trivializing guffaw managed to make me feel like I was in way over my head. As if this was just the way things were done in that city, and I was the oddball for not adhering to their rules. What was wrong with these people?
Devin didn’t notice my epiphany and just continued with his self-inflating commentary. “I turned this magazine around. We went from relative obscurity to the third-highest-selling tabloid in the entire country. I turned this place into an empire, and you’re looking at the king, baby.”
“You’re sitting on a throne made of porcelain. It’s a kingdom of crap.”
He stammered a bit at that, caught off guard by my dig. “It pays the bills.”
“Destroying people? I can’t imagine any amount of money is worth that.”
He snickered, but I knew my words had gotten to him. “Always with your high ideals, Layla. You may want to join the real world sometime.”
If that was the real world, I didn’t need to be a part of it. I was much happier living in my delusional bubble, thank you very much. “You’ve changed, Devin. I mean, you were always ambitious, but I never knew you to be cruel before.”
I saw his face fall, but he quickly regained his composure as he shrugged and defended, “It’s just business, baby.”
“It always was with you.”
I paced a few steps around the room, ran a hand over my hair. “Okay, look. I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came here to offer you a deal.”
I stood there with my arms crossed, eyeing up the man I had almost married. I was pr
etty disappointed in myself at that moment for ever considering it and grateful that I’d finally woken up in time before I did. Granted, he wasn’t always this much of a jerk, but the signs had always been there.
Moving out to a sink-or-swim place like Hollywood didn’t help matters any. That city was like a drug in the way it amplified a person’s character. Like that Bill Cosby bit. During one of his standups, he made a joke about talking to some guy, asking what was so great about being on drugs. The guy said, “It intensifies your personality.” Cosby responded, “Yes. But what if you’re an asshole?”
Ladies and gentlemen, please observe Devin Fields overdosing on Hollywood.
His ambition had been enlarged to epic proportions and he was letting it dominate everything, destroying reputations just for a little extra cash in his pocket.
Trip, on the other hand, had used that Hollywood drug to become a mega-star. A generous philanthropist.
And I… well… I found out my insecurities were alive and well, bigger than they ever were.
Devin was staring me down, trying to hide his intrigue. He mirrored my pose, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against his desk again, an incredulous look on his face, a lip snarling above his teeth.
“What kind of deal?”
Chapter 26
TWIST OF FAITH
“You’re letting your ex-fiancé publish my biography?! What the hell are you thinking?!”
Trip was feeling uneasy enough as it was that I’d gone to see Devin without telling him first. I’d told him the whole story, explained why I was there. But by the time I told him about the book, he just about blew his top.
“It’s a memoir, not a biography, and I was thinking I was arranging for our life together to be a little more private. I was thinking that you’d be grateful to have him off your back. I thought I was protecting you, protecting us.”
