Last First Kiss

by Sidney Halston

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  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  This is dedicated to all the women who serve in the armed forces, specifically to my beautiful friend who helped me so much with this book: Amanda Beth Wong! This one’s for you, girl!

  PROLOGUE

  Six years ago

  Corporal Annabelle Clad, of the 552nd Military Police Company of the US Army, stood in front of the mirror and fixed her ponytail. Her lips looked bee-stung and her face was flushed. Warm strong hands wrapped around her, followed by lips on her shoulder. “You need to shave. Look at my face, it’s all red.”

  “Beard burn. Nice.” He kissed her neck this time.

  Giggling like a lovestruck teenager, she turned around into his arms. “It’s late. I have to go.”

  “I know. I know.” He kissed her shoulder. “I don’t want you to go, though.”

  “I have to. I shouldn’t have even come here.” She tightened her ponytail making sure all the hairs were slicked back perfectly.

  God, how stupid could she be, making out with Commander Derek McGillis? If anyone found out, it was grounds for . . .

  “Stop thinking about it, darlin’. I’m the one whose hide’s on the line, not yours.”

  “Derek, you’re my superior, you’re from my same company, you can be relieved from command, fined, lose rank.” She shook her head.

  “I don’t care about any of that.” He held her tighter this time. They were in the middle of the desert, stationed in Kandahar, but the heat from outside was nothing compared to the heat he ignited inside her.

  Her whole life she’d been focused on getting into the Army. Following her family’s footsteps. When the girls at school were busy with boys, she was running, training, and practicing her shooting with her four older brothers. When her friends had been getting ready for prom, she was at the airport saying good-bye to Joey, who was leaving for another tour. A Marine through and through, her brother was her hero. All of them were, but Joey especially. Maybe because he was the closest in age, or maybe because they were both computer geeks? Whatever the reason, she’d stood proudly by his side until he walked through the gate together with her three other brothers, Eric, Will, and Leo, who were in the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard respectively. The running joke had always been: if you needed a member of the armed forces, the Clads had one of your choosing.

  Being on the front lines was her dream, and as a woman she had to work doubly hard to get where she was. Landing the job of MP was no easy feat, and there she was, about to fuck it all up, because Derek had swept her off her feet with his fiery red hair and Southern drawl. Their affair had started off slowly, a look here, a small touch there, but now they were sneaking around base making out whenever and wherever they had a chance.

  They had to be careful.

  “Derek, I have to go.” She gave him a kiss and pulled away, but he grabbed her arm and flipped her onto her back, the springs on the hard bed digging into her.

  “Is that why you haven’t slept with me? You’re worried about my career?”

  “Well, yes. And mine too. And you know I haven’t . . . I’m not experienced . . . and—”

  He covered her lips with a finger. “Listen to me, sugar, I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as I have to wait. And stop worrying about my career. Where you’re concerned, I don’t give a shit about my career.”

  “Derek—”

  “No, hear me out.” He rolled them over, bracing his forearms to keep his weight off of her, sweetly touching her cheek and softly kissing her lips. “I love you, Annie. I’m so head over ass in love with you, I don’t know what to do. I’ll request a transfer. I don’t care. Just tell me that I’m not the only one who’s in deep here.”

  Her eyes watered. Except for her mother, no one had ever said those words to her before, and the way he looked at her with those blue eyes and sincere face, she believed him. Her heart thundered in her chest. “Derek, this is so bad. So so bad.”

  “Not the reaction I was looking for, darlin’.”

  She reached up and kissed his lips and then flipped them around. “It’s bad because I love you too. So much, Derek. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. But the fact that you love me too is all that matters. We’ll figure it out.” He kissed her. “It’ll be okay. These past six months having to sneak around has been hell, but now that I know you feel the same way, I promise I’ll figure it out.”

  She tiptoed out of his private room quietly, feeling the happiest she’d ever felt in her life. The thought of being parted from Derek, even for one day, caused her to physically ache. The love she felt right now, this second, was so consuming she’d risk it all to be able to be with him forever.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Critically acclaimed director Steven Spelling has another controversial film in the works. El Traficante is the true story of Gabriel Mendoza, Colombia’s infamous drug lord—hated by many but idolized by more. Adding to Spelling’s unorthodox style, it is rumored that none other than American heartthrob and rom com king Rocco Monroe is set to play the cartel kingpin himself. This can make or break Monroe’s career after a series of box office flops. Monroe, known more for his abs and his latest sexcapades than his acting skills, will be . . .

  Anger that had been at a constant simmer for the last two weeks was now boiling over. The less than complimentary writeup in Actor’s Weekly was just one of the many articles and news stories appearing on every entertainment channel and news rag since NHN Studio leaked the casting of El Traficante.

  Unable to control his temper, Rocco tossed his iPad against the nearest wall. The sound of glass shattering did nothing to mask the roar that came from his lips.

  “Did that make you feel better?” Paul Allen, his agent and best friend, asked.

  Breath heaving in and out, Rocco stood up, walked to his kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of water. “Maybe,” he mumbled petulantly. “What the hell, man? I mean, a series of box office flops? That’s bullshit, Drunk Crush and Bachelor Party made over two hundred and eighty-eight million dollars! Each! How the hell is that a flop?”

  Rocco took a long drink.

  He knew how.

  His previous movies, when he had been at the peak of his career, had made more than five hundred million dollars. So sure, by his standards, the last two movies hadn’t performed as well as they’d hoped, but not when compared to any other movie star. Hell, Ryan Reynolds wished for that kind of streak.

  But he wasn’t just any movie star, he was Rocco fucking Monroe.

  If you wanted your new line of underwear to sell, you hired Rocco Monroe to model it. If you wanted your line of purple polka dot skinny jeans to become the new “in” thing, you had Rocco Monroe strut them on the red carpet on his way to a movie premiere. And if you wanted to see the star quarterback fall in love with the school nerd, you hired Rocco Monroe to play the hot older brother who made his dumb younger brother come to his senses and see the nerd as the swan she really was, because that is what sold hundreds of millions of dollars in tickets.

  Paul sna
gged his own bottle of water and took a gulp, letting Rocco get all the anger out instead of interrupting. No one knew him better than Paul, and right now Rocco just needed time to vent.

  “ . . . And, I can be a serious actor. Some of those movies? Women cried. In Mr. Dancy when I held Eleanor’s hand while she was fighting cancer, dude, that was fucking epic. I choke up just thinking about it. My movies have heart.” He continued to pace, riling himself up with every step he took. “I mean, really . . . who do they think they are? They don’t know how many times I’ve read that script. I’m going to blow their fucking minds! My accent is on fucking point, man. On fucking point!”

  Paul leaned back on the chair. “You finished?”

  Glaring at his friend, he pulled the other chair from his kitchen table and sat down. After a very deep exhale, Rocco finally said, “Yeah, I’m finished.” Of course he was finished. Bad press, shit talking, rumors, lies . . . it all went with the territory and after almost two decades in the spotlight, he had thick skin. Well, thickish skin. He just needed to get that frustration out and move on. Prove the press wrong. He was still relevant and this movie would show everyone he could be a serious actor.

  Paul, ever the calm, cool, and collected guy, pulled out the leather notebook he always used to take copious notes. Rocco never understood why, with so much technology and money, Paul was still writing things down with pen and paper, but he did. All the damn time.

  “So, there’s news. The studio’s been getting a shit-ton of beef from hate groups. Whites who hate Hispanics. Hispanics who hate whites. Colombian nationalists, Colombian exiles, Colombian fucking socialites, Americans who like Colombian coffee . . . everyone.”

  “We knew the film would draw attention.” A movie about the man who made many rich, who was both a hero to the common man and also a ruthless murderer wanted across the globe . . . yeah, it would absolutely draw attention.

  “This isn’t just attention, buddy.” Paul swiped his phone, found something, and turned it around so that Rocco could see. “There was a riot in Bogota last night when the first news of the set location came out.”

  Rocco flipped through some of the photos. “Riot? Maybe a small gathering.” He tried to lighten the situation but the more he looked the worse it got.

  “Monroe. This is serious.” When Paul put on his agent voice, Rocco listened. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it meant something had to be processed and dealt with. “Ten people were arrested. Five were injured.”

  Rocco took the phone out of Paul’s hand and brought it right to his face. His spine stiffened. “Is that me?”

  Paul sat back, comfortably. “The mannequin with the decapitated body and the brains splattered all over the Colombian flag? Yep, that’s your big fat mug. Great artistic detail. The way your blood drips from your neck is a nice touch, don’t you think?”

  Rocco shut down the screen and handed it back to Paul. “Jesus Christ. It’s just a movie.”

  “Not for these people. For these people, Mendoza was a god. Still is. Did you know that the most popular name in Colombia is Gabriel? ”

  “Thanks for the trivia, man.” Rocco rolled his eyes. “Well, people are just overreacting. Once they see the movie they’ll know it’s not a Mendoza hate film. It’s practically a documentary.”

  “People don’t always want to hear the truth, and the truth is Mendoza wasn’t such a great guy.”

  “It’s a love story.” Rocco shrugged. “No one hates love stories.”

  Paul held out both his index fingers and thumbs as if tracing the headline of a newspaper. “The tragic love story between Mendoza and his much younger wife Victoria, set in the jungles of Colombia where he had a palatial estate amidst his miles and miles of coca plants and the thousands of laborers he housed, fed, and kept content while the rest of Colombia’s population faced poverty from the corrupt government. Yeah. Beautiful story.”

  “Aren’t you Little Miss Debbie Downer today.” He glared at his friend.

  “Not a downer, realistic. Come on man, the love story is just to get a wider audience, and you know that,” Paul added. “There’s plenty of reason for people to be upset by this biopic. From his supporters to his victims.”

  “Whatever,” Rocco relented, downing the rest of his water. If he wasn’t about to go work out, he’d be serving himself scotch. This was a scotch-on-the-rocks kind of conversation. “Okay, so now I know. People are angry.”

  Paul leaned forward a bit. Shit, more bad news was coming. “There’s more. The studio’s going to have to shoot most of the film on a lot here in Miami. They can’t get permission to shoot on location and even if they did, it’s not safe, that’s how bad it is.”

  Shit. He never expected this kind of reaction. He’d read the script and wanted the role, badly. It was his chance to shine, to be taken seriously. Boipics always brought extra attention, which he had expected. Truthfully, though, he hadn’t known enough about Colombian politics to understand the backlash this film would cause when he’d signed on for the part. But not filming in Colombia? No . . . that could not happen. Slamming his palms on the table, Rocco leaned forward. “We have to shoot on location! This is total fucking bullshit. It won’t be authentic otherwise. And if this movie flops because it looks like a total shit show, then my career really is on the line.”

  Paul calmly closed his notebook. “I know. I’m working on it, trust me. I’ve expressed to the studio the importance of filming on site. They’re working on finding a safe location.” Then he pushed the notebook aside and exhaled. “But meanwhile, they want you tailed.”

  “Tailed? As in a bodyguard?” Rocco asked, surprised. This was not where he had expected the conversation to go. He thought Paul was going to tell him that the movie was going to be cancelled or maybe he was getting replaced by a less controversial actor, someone who would appease the Colombian people. Someone who’d made more serious films, who wasn’t seen with different women in his arms on every rag, or someone from Colombia who could identify with its people.

  But a bodyguard? No, he hadn’t expected that. He wasn’t in any physical danger, the issues were overseas, not in Miami. A bodyguard was overkill.

  “Yep,” Paul said, scribbling on a page in his notebook and shutting it closed. “Here.” He took out a business card from his back pocket and slid it over to Rocco. “You have an appointment next week with Iron-Clad Security. They’re going to set you up.”

  “I am not going to be tailed for the next four months.”

  Paul grinned. “You most certainly are, buddy.”

  “Paul . . .”

  Paul sat back, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Gonna lay it out for you straight, Rock.” Now this was his best friend talking. Not his agent. And when his best friend laid it out, he knew it would hurt. It was going to be straightforward. No bullshit. “You’re knocking on forty’s door—”

  “I’m thirty-fucking-seven, just like you, motherfucker.”

  “I’m not on screen,” Paul volleyed. “Every day there’s a new star coming out. A new Brad Pitt. A new Ryan Gosling. The only way of staying current is to push your limits. Right now, you’re not the thirty-year-old heartthrob romance actor. That ship is starting to sail, brother. You’re still doing well because you have loyal fans, but that won’t last forever. We need to get you into serious roles. Look at Bradley Cooper. He went from The Hangover to a bunch of Oscar nods because he chose the right projects. This is the movie, Rock. You know it. And I know it. You were lucky to land this job. The rags are right. This isn’t your kind of role and if you blow it—it’ll be the end of your career.”

  “Jesus, man.”

  “I’m just telling you like it is. You need to be someone Spelling wants to work with. You can’t be the heartthrob who’s also a diva. Do what’s in your contract or they will find someone who will.”

  Rocco thought about this. He knew Paul was right, but it didn’t make it any less difficult to hear. “Fine.”

  Paul tapped th
e table twice and stood. “Good. Put it on your schedule.”

  “Fine.” Rocco took out his phone and added it to his calendar.

  “You know you’re the only movie star I know who doesn’t have a PA.”

  “I don’t need a PA. Have I ever missed a meeting? Been late?”

  “Suit yourself, man. Just don’t be late this time. The address is on the card.”

  “If the studio is footing the bill, why am I even going?”

  “Because I thought you’d want to get a lay of the land, choose your own guy, that sort of shit.”

  “Six-five, muscles, black shirt, black pants, and grunts as answers . . . they’re all the same. Who gives a shit which one it is?”

  He did not need a bodyguard—he worked out daily, knew how to shoot a gun, and could protect himself if he needed to. What would his fans think of him? The heartthrob who needed a man by his side to protect him? He wasn’t a pussy, damn it, but it didn’t seem like he’d be able to get around this stipulation on the contract.

  Rocco was not looking forward to meeting the grunting meathead who was going to live with him for the next four months.

  * * *

  “Suck my dick,” Annie seethed. She was this close to reaching over the ridiculously huge solid wood conference room table at Iron-Clad Security and wringing her brother Josef Clad’s neck.

  At the very least he deserved a good sucker punch.

  “Nice, Annie. Very ladylike.”

  “I’m not a lady. Stop treating me like one!”

  Josef, or Joey as most people called him, sat across from her, his arms crossed over his chest, looking as angry as she felt. But she couldn’t help riling him up further. He was being an asshole, after all.

  Jax, Joey’s best friend and part owner of ICS, whispered through clenched teeth as he leaned forward, his big meaty palms on the table “Can you guys cut it out? Rocco Monroe will be here in two minutes. This is the highest-profile client we’ve landed, and I don’t want you two fucking it up for us.”