Already Written (Hollywood Exchange #1)

by Xavier Neal

  “Is that really even necessary? I mean I'm not gonna sleep with him.”

  “You don't know that.”

  “I do know that!” I argue. “I flip out over regular guy I just met at Target sex! Cosmo's top voted to most likely rock in bedroom celebrity sex would surely send me into cardiac arrest. Not to mention, I've never slept with a guy on a first date before.”

  Not judging those of you who have. Swear.

  “Valid point.” She nods to herself, however, my victory is shorter than I imagined. “You should still be prepared. We need all bases covered. That's the bottom line.”

  I groan.

  “I also want you to try on a couple dresses to see if maybe we need to buy something better. Plus you need a few dry runs around in the room in heels. Last thing I need is for you to end up in the ER again with a twisted ankle.”

  Yet she won't let me ever wear flats.

  “What a fun addition to the perfect vacation!” Emerson exclaims.

  “If you say so....”

  You know with Emerson poking and prodding at me most of the day, I'll probably forget the basic idea that I'm about to go out with an actual T.V. star. It's probably for the best anyway, because as soon as that information nestles itself appropriately into my brain I'm going to be hyperventilating into a Doritos bag. I fail miserably at regular dating. What the hell am I going to do with superstar mega dating?

  **

  “All this hard work and he's not even going to come up to the room and see it?” Emerson sneers. “Minus two points for that.”

  I glance down at the text message again.

  Accidental Coffee Guy: The car is waiting out front whenever you're ready.

  Emerson snatches her key card from the edge of her bed. “I should give him minus three for me walking you down.”

  “Y-Y-You're gonna walk me down?” I stutter as I slide my phone into the clutch purse. “That...that sounds like a terrible idea.”

  With a slap of her hand onto her waist, she snips, “Excuse me?”

  “One look at you and he's gonna wanna trade.”

  She gives me a crooked smirk. “As flattered as I am, have a little more confidence in yourself and some of my best work to date.”

  My body wiggles in the tight, black, sleeveless contraption she swears make my boobs look like a goddess' and not trapped cantaloupes. “Confidence isn't high on my list of best qualities.”

  “And yet behind the keys of a computer...”

  “I'm fucking queen of the castle,” I smart off, which gets her to giggle. Seeing the trick causes me to sigh, “That's different. I'm protected. I'm not exposed like an open wound ready for salt. I'm...just an idea sprinkled throughout books.”

  “You're a beautiful idea standing in front of me,” she corrects. “You're the same person behind that keyboard and in front of it. The only real difference is the one you've convinced yourself exists. Be keyboard Minka who I know and love in the real world too.” When she senses I'm starting to cave she demands, “Now, go show Pierce Wyatt why spilling coffee on you was the best mistake he ever made.”

  Ugh. I know. Sexy, successful, and inspirational. I so hate her.

  The two of us leave our hotel room and head straight for the elevator. To my surprise various sets of male eyes wander over me, almost as if Emerson doesn't even exist.

  Guess being boobs-a-poppin' is working.

  She escorts me to the front lobby doors, but stays on her side of the glass. “Have a good time. Remember just because he buys you dinner doesn't mean you have to put out. You only do that if you wanna.”

  Embarrassed by the unnecessary comment, I shoot her a scowl. “Anything else, mom?”

  “Be home before midnight,” she playfully adds before giving the black town car waiting a scrutinizing look.

  Instead of thinking of another witty comeback, I put all my energy into making sure I don't trip on the short stroll to the car. A driver tips his hat at me, opens the door, and helps me into the vehicle.

  “Sorry I couldn't walk up to get you,” Pierce immediately apologizes as the door shuts. “Gunz didn't think it was a good idea.”

  Snapping my head at him, I squeak, “There were guns in the lobby!”

  “No. No,” he quickly tries to calm me down. “Gunz is my body guard. He's the one in the passenger seat.”

  I lean over in an attempt to get a better glance at the large man. As soon as I get closer than he likes his head slightly moves, sending me flying backwards against the leather seat.

  He looks like he was carved out of an actual mountain. If I were as famous as Pierce, I would want a mountain to protect me too. That feels like a safe choice.

  Before I can inquire more about tall, bald, and scary, Pierce compliments, “You look beautiful by the way.”

  His words divert my attention back to him. While his jeans and t-shirt look was incredible, the gray dress pants and tucked in white shirt with pinstripes to match his pants, stuns me speechless.

  Better than looking like a rambling idiot, right?

  Pierce offers me an inquisitive smile. “Is there something on my shirt?”

  Under your shirt. I've watched the show...Pretty sure you could iron your Sunday best on those abs.

  He adjusts in his seat and continues to stare waiting for a response.

  “Oh!” I bark out loud as I realize I hadn't answered his question. “No! No..I'm sorry, I just- Hot as- You- Well- Um...You look very nice too.”

  There's a little chuckle out of him. “Thank you.”

  Did I just say hot? Shit! That was a slip of the tongue...I wanna slip him my tongue. No. No! I...Look at him! If this were ancient times people would fall at his feet to worship because of how toned, tanned, and flawless he is.

  “And thank you,” I rush out. “For telling me I looked nice.”

  “Beautiful.” His correction is followed with a gleam in his hazel eyes. “You look beautiful, Minka.”

  In a whisper I barely repeat, “Thank you.”

  Pierce offers me another smile before glancing out the window beside him. Grateful for the few seconds of attention not on me, my rack, or my exposed thighs, I let out a deep breath, hoping to center myself for the long evening ahead.

  A short drive later, we're being ushered into a deep plush red corner booth with the world's tiniest candles in the center while Gunz is seated at the nearby bar where he can continue to keep an eye on us without technically being the third wheel.

  Unable to stop my mouth I mutter, “It's so weird having a third person on a date.”

  Pierce folds his hands together on top of the white table cloth. “Sorry about that. It's um...a safety precaution.”

  “I get it.” Fiddling with my clutch purse in my lap I continue to ramble, “I mean I don't really get. It's not like I have groupies jumping on the hood of my taxi.” A hand flies over my mouth to try to stifle my unstoppable mouth. After a short breath, I say, “What I meant was, I think I understand why it's a necessity to have him around.”

  He offers me a short smile. “Occasionally, I'm allowed to go places alone. Depends on the city. Size. Distance. But those are only just a few of the factors I have to consider.”

  With my fingers now aimlessly fumbling with the object again, I ask, “Doesn't that bother you after a while? I mean you're basically never alone. That's...so...suffocating.”

  In a sigh, Pierce retorts, “Yeah. Exactly.”

  Hearing the defeated tone in his voice causes my shoulders to drop.

  See what I mean. I'm screwing up this bad already and we've only said like five sentences to each other.

  “Wine?” A smile returns to his face. “I promise not to spill it on you.”

  I giggle as we're greeted by a waiter who doesn't waste a moment announcing his name, the specials, or his recommendations. His over exaggerated presentation has my body scooting closer to Pierce's in hopes of not being hit by a flailing hand. Once we're given our one page paper menus, I quickly observe ho
w there are no prices and how the food titles aren't in English.

  However, the descriptions are. Let's just say my gag reflex is in high working order.

  Pierce orders us each a glass of wine and the waiter disappears promptly.

  “Again, I'm sorry about spilling my coffee on you earlier,” he starts, pushing the menu away from him, clearly already having decided.

  And speaks multiple languages to the list of reasons he's amazing.

  “Well,” a small chortle comes from him. “Kinda.”

  “Kinda?”

  “It lead to a date with you, so I'm not as sorry as I could be.”

  I smile softly. “So who were you yelling at on the phone anyway?”

  Pierce tilts his head. “I wasn't yelling.”

  “You were sooooo yelling. Very loudly.”

  His face starts to redden. “Really?”

  “You're blushing.”

  Pierce scrubs his face with his hands. “I am not.”

  “You are. It's cute.” The moment the word is out of my mouth we're switching places. Now the one with warming cheeks, I stumble over my words until we're back on the correct topic. “I mean I figured you knew the entire lobby could hear your conversation.”

  He groans, “I thought I was just grumbling to myself.”

  “Not unless you have a hearing aid that was going out.” When the embarrassment on his face expands I apologize with celerity, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Again. I just..I...I do this thing and I- Never mind. Sorry. Just...sorry.”

  “It's fine,” he assures as the wine is delivered. “It was work.” Pierce orders food for both us, which allows me to let out a deep sigh of relief. The moment the waiter is out of earshot he continues, “It's safe to assume you know what I do for a living. What about you? What do you do?”

  Reaching for my glass of wine, I reply, “I'm a writer.”

  “Screen?”

  “Book.” The single sip of the wine I have scrunches my face. Louder than intended I murmur, “Bleh.”

  “Everything okay?”

  I try my best to force on a fake smile. “Yeah. Yeah it's um...delicious.”

  He cocks a crooked grin. “It's fine if you don't like it. You don't have to pretend.”

  Disbelief drops my voice to a whisper, “You sure? Pretty sure all the first date rule books say, fake everything until it's over.”

  “Hopefully not everything.” There's another light laugh from him. “Don't fake anything, Minka. Just be you.”

  Hearing the request causes my own smile to appear. “I'm not a wine fan.”

  “No?”

  “More of a Coke kinda girl.”

  “Rum and Coke?”

  “Coke and cherry syrup. Coke and a twist of vanilla. Half Coke and half Dr. Pepper. That's my shit.” As soon as the curse is out of my mouth, I fling a hand over it. “Sorry...”

  God I hope this doesn't smear my make-up. Emerson will murder me.

  Another chuckle comes from Pierce. “You can cuss. It's not a big deal.” He reaches for my hand to help lower it. His hand gripping mine causes a swoon to escape without permission. “So soda is your thing?”

  “If you're gonna be shitty to your body you might as well at least enjoy the taste.”

  “Agreed.” He pushes his glass away from him. “Confession. I'm not actually a wine guy.”

  Confused, I blurt out, “Why'd you order it then?”

  “Most women like wine.” With an innocent shrug he adds, “Or at least pretend to. Most actually pretend to be something they aren't or like a lot of things they don't on the first few dates. It's irritating.”

  “Why? You were pretending too,” I point out.

  Oh...no...wrong line. Where's the delete key?

  “Sorry.”

  “Don't be.” He leans forward. “Don't apologize for being yourself.”

  “How about you be yourself too then?”

  My words get a nod and smirk. “Deal.” There's a short beat before he says, “The reason I pretend is for the exact same one we all do. We feel that's how you're supposed to act on the first date so the other person wants to see you again.”

  “I'd wanna see you again regardless of what you choose to drink.”

  Out loud! I wasn't supposed to say that out loud where his ears can hear!

  Before he has a chance to rebuttal, I clear my throat, and state, “Not a wine guy. Beer?”

  “Yeah. My dad is a beer enthusiast, so growing up it was the thing in our household. I actually prefer dark beer.”

  “Like your beer like you like your women?” I joke.

  Too far? Yeah I told you. Dating is awkward. I'm surprised he hasn't asked for the check yet.

  A loud, sincere chuckle comes from Pierce. Insouciant, he wets his lips. “Something like that.”

  Didn't see that coming.

  I press my lips together to keep from further embarrassing myself.

  “Now, you write books?”

  “I live and breathe books. Thinking of life in terms of books is really the only way I can socially function. Breaking most things down the same way I would a scene or lines or dialog is probably what keeps me from being a complete and total shame every time I open my mouth.”

  Pierce praises, “I like the way you open your mouth as much as I like what comes out of it.”

  Apparently he is a character from one of my novels.

  “What genre do you write?”

  My answer is proceeded with bread being placed on the table along with a side of olive oil sprinkled with crushed red pepper. “Romance.”

  “So like the 50 Shades of Grey woman?”

  Fighting the urge to glare, I sigh, “Not exactly. And for the record, I hate that comparison. No offense to her and her mega billions. There's just more to the romance genre than that one series.”

  Pierce surrenders his hands in defense. “I didn't mean to offend.”

  “I know. I know. I...It's just a sensitive subject. For most writers actually. Personally, it's why I dread telling people what I do for a living. That's always the first question out of their mouth. Truth is there are tons of books in the romance genre, some written better, some written worse, but all deserving to be appreciated for being a book all on their own, not just a shadow of someone else's career.” My own tangent tenses my already uncomfortably stuffed body. “Sorry.”

  “Stop saying sorry.” Pierce replies. “You're passionate about what you do. That's not a bad thing.”

  “The soap box I just did a jig on says otherwise.”

  He chuckles. “Nah. I get it. It took years before people saw me as anything other than my big brother's stand in. It used to piss me off that even though I had been in movies all on my own, the only thing anyone wanted to acknowledge was the one movie I helped fill in for.”

  “For the record, Saved by the Fangz is way better than that movie was or ever could be.”

  Pierce wets his lips. “I appreciate that.”

  The innocent actions has my exposed thighs desperate to open in hopes he'll use it between them.

  Thankfully, our waiter returns to our table, this time with a small dish of food and two additional smaller plates. With a wave of his hand he insists, “Enjoy.”

  I lean in a little closer to examine the entree that doesn't look familiar at all on top of something else that looks equally as foreign, garnished with some sort of baby rain forest leaves. My face contorts helplessly. “What the hell is that?”

  “Octopus.”

  “Like from the ocean?”

  “No, from the jungle.”

  At least our sense of humor matches even if our taste buds don't.

  As he cuts me a piece, he states, “Hope you're hungry.”

  I was...

  After putting a portion on my plate and then his own, he makes a motion towards it. “Go ahead. Tell me what you think.”

  Fighting the urge to gag again, I stab a bite, shut my eyes, and place the alien food in my mouth. Betwee
n the odd flavor and texture, my reflexes become hostile in their efforts to expel it.

  Can't vomit in a fancy restaurant. Nope. Can't do it. Shouldn't do it. Won't do it.

  The moment it's swallowed, I gulp down half my glass of water, praying for a prompt refill.