Baby for the Dragon (No Such Thing as Dragons Book 5)

by Lauren Lively

  “I'm not going to blow anybody,” I say.

  Ashley laughs. “Make a good enough impression on these folks and you won't have to.”

  I looked at her for a long moment, something not quite adding up in my head. “Hey, how did you get an invite to this party anyway? If it's a studio thing –”

  She shrugs. “I didn't,” she says. “I know the doorman. We used to date and we're still friends. He's going to let us in.”

  “We're crashing a studio party?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at her.

  “I like to think of it as making our own luck,” she says. “Don't forget to wear something really nice. Think classy with just a wee bit of slutty mixed in.”

  I laugh and trudge off to the shower to get ready, not really feeling in the party mood at all. But I knew Ashley was right. If there were big, important studio people going, it would be a good way to get my name floating around in the right circles.

  Chapter Two

  Club Ice is one of the most popular and notorious clubs in the city. It's the place where the elite go to see and be seen. Where the movers and shakers go to wheel and deal. And given the number of overdoses inside the club, where some people go to overindulge – to the point of death. And I have a feeling, it's that edge and notoriety about the place that keeps it one of Hollywood's hotspots.

  Ashley leads me to the front of the line – blithely ignoring all of the people casting angry scowls in our direction. She walks up to the doorman and smiles wide. He's a large man bursting with muscles everywhere. He's got light brown eyes, dark skin, and a bald head. He's imposing and intimidating to say the least. But when he looks at Ashley and smiles, he looks – sweet.

  “Robby,” she purrs. “How are ya, honey?”

  “Better now,” he replies. “I'll be even better than that if you have dinner with me.”

  “Well, we'll certainly talk about it,” she says, giving him a flirty little smile. “Call me.”

  “I'll do that.”

  Robby gives me a smile and a nod and then holds the door open for us – to a chorus of loud jeers and objections from everybody still standing in line. As we step through the door, Ashley turns and gives me a wide smile.

  “See? Having connections in this town is everything,” she says. “Don't think of tonight as a night of getting shitfaced and going home with the first hot guy you see. Think of it as a networking event.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Your ability to spin things is amazing,” I say. “You'd have an amazing career in politics if you ever decide to go that way.”

  She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe I'll run for office.”

  We walk down the dimly lit hallway and the bouncer at the door opens them for us. Inside, the music is loud, the dance floor below us is packed, and bodies are writhing together in what looks to be more sex than dancing. Club Ice is mostly dark, the only illumination coming from long neon lights overhead shaped to look like icicles and laser beams, an icy blue color, sweeping the interior. There's a frantic energy in the air and the atmosphere is downright electric.

  Stepping into that club, you can't help but want to move.

  Ashley leads me down the catwalk that opens up to a larger lounge area. There is a bar on the back wall that looks like it's carved from blocks of ice. A closer look though, shows me that it's merely glass with some clever lighting inside.

  A couple gets up from a booth near the railing overlooking the dance floor, so we slide in and take a seat. A waitress wearing a skimpy outfit that barely covers her, looking harried and frazzled, comes over and takes our drink order and disappears quickly.

  “I can't imagine having to sling drinks in a club this crazy,” I say.

  Ashley shakes her head. “I wouldn't want to,” she replies. “I feel bad for the girls here. Not only do they have to dress like prostitutes, they have to deal with the rich, entitled, handsy assholes that come into this place.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, I couldn't do it,” I say. “What we have to deal with is bad enough.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The waitress comes by, drops off her drinks again, and departs without a word. Ashley takes a sip of her Appletini and points to a group of men in suits standing near the bar to the right of the dance floor.

  “The tall, bald guy – that's Rick Mason,” she says. “He's like a super agent. If you can manage to get him to take you on, your career is made.”

  “How do you get him to take you on?”

  She shrugs and laughs. “If I ever figure that out, I'll let you know.”

  “Great,” I say, my tone dry and sarcastic. “Thanks for that.”

  “The guys he's with are directors and producers,” she says. “I can't remember their names, but they've done a few big movies. It wouldn't be a bad idea to go get yourself in front of them.”

  “And how would I do that?” I ask.

  “You start by walking in front of them,” she says. “And make sure you put a little extra shake in that ass of yours.”

  “This is sounding a lot more like my experience with Scott Mack,” I reply. “Should I just get down on my knees and offer to blow them then and there?”

  “You can,” she giggles. “But, it's hardly the same thing.”

  “How do you figure?” I ask. “You're telling me to go parade myself in front of them and shake my ass a bit. How is it different?”

  Our tone is light and joking, but I'm serious about what I'm saying. It's a conversation Ashley and I have had more times than I can count. What she's asking me to do is degrading. It's asking those men to judge me by my ass and not my work. I know that women tend to be dehumanized a bit in Hollywood. I understand it's part of the game. But it doesn't mean I have to like it – or turn myself into a piece of meat for their consumption.

  Maybe it's my Midwestern values or hell, maybe it's just my naivete, but I have to believe that, at the end of the day, talent is going to win out.

  “Think of it as a conversation starter, babe,” she says.

  “My ass is a conversation starter,” I say. “Wonderful.”

  Ashley takes my hands in hers and gives me a smile. “You're looking at this all wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  She nods. “Yes, you are,” she says. “You're seeing this as them having all the power. They don't. You do. You control the situation. Like it or not, Hollywood is an image-driven industry. You have to have a certain look. And you have that look, babe. You're a knockout. But you're also a hell of a lot more than that. You're the smartest person I know. And you've got loads more talent than most of the hacks that get cast these days.”

  I look down and suddenly start feeling a little insecure about myself. I've got long, dark hair that falls to the middle of my back, pale skin, and bright green eyes – which I think are my best feature, aside from my brains. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm smart. But brains aren't what win you roles – those only come in handy later in your career. After you're established.

  Until then, I'm still subject to objectifying cattle calls. And unlike most of the girls in Hollywood, I'm not even close to being stick-thin. I've got hips, naturally full breasts, and an hourglass figure – that figure being really accentuated by the tight, form-fitting black dress I crammed myself into.

  I'm trim and athletic – I work out a lot – which means I'm about as far from the willowy model type as you can get. I won't be featured in a Victoria's Secret catalog anytime soon. I mean, I know I'm pretty, but far from gorgeous.

  “Stop it,” Ashley says. “I know what you're thinking, so stop it right now.”

  I laugh. “I'm not thinking anything.”

  “Bullshit,” she laughs. “You're a stunner, babe. But, if they don't see how gorgeous you are first, they aren't gonna see how damn smart and talented you are. You know how this stupid game works. And one way to get your name on their lips is to go parade yourself in front of them a bit. That turns into a conversation, and from there – who knows what can happen.”


  Intellectually, I know what she's saying makes sense. I know she's right. Ashley has been around this game long enough to know how it works. She's had some successes – albeit minor to this point. She's still waiting for that one big breakthrough, but I know it's going to happen for her – sooner, rather than later. She's a fantastic actress and is absolutely Hollywood-gorgeous.

  “If there's one thing you absolutely need to start doing, babe, it's taking risks. Don't be afraid to roll the dice and put yourself out there. Make your own luck, baby,” she says. “And remember, you're the one with the dice in your hand. You're the one in control. Don't ever let anybody else convince you that you're not.”

  Ashley powers down the last of her drink and slides out of the booth. Pep talk apparently over. She's right and I hate that I know she's right. Like she always says, I have to make my own luck in this game. I don't like it, but if I'm serious about wanting to make it in this industry, it's a reality I'm going to have to embrace.

  “Now, I'm going to go network and you probably should too,” she says. “There are all kinds of studio and movie types crawling around here. I think I even saw Chris Hemsworth running around here somewhere. So, get off that smokin' ass of yours and get your name out there, babe.”

  And with that, she turns and abandons me. Honestly, if I knew that she was going to leave me on my own, I probably never would have agreed to come. And she probably knew that, which is why she didn't tell me in the first place.

  I don't like the idea of being in a club like this on my own. I'm not a social butterfly on the best of days. It's even worse when I'm in an element I feel entirely uncomfortable and out of place in – like a nightclub. It's ridiculous for somebody who wants to build a career in the film industry – but, it is what it is. That's who I am and have always been.

  “Get it together,” I mutter to myself. “Get yourself together.”

  I down my Cosmo and signal to the waitress for another. Maybe another drink will calm my nerves and give me enough courage to go parade myself in front of some of the studio's movers and shakers. The waitress swings by, dropping off my drink and rushing away again, stopping to smile and flirt with a table full of older men – obviously, thinking her chances of a bigger tip are better with them than with me.

  I sip my drink and feel the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I feel like I'm being watched. And when I turn, I see that I am, in fact, being watched. There's a man leaning against the bar, sipping a drink, his eyes boring holes through me. I feel the heat rush into my cheeks and turn away from him.

  He's an attractive man. Maybe around six-feet tall, hair to the middle of his back that's black and has a blue tint to it beneath the light he's standing under. Wearing a black button-down shirt and black jeans, I can see that he's very physically fit. With his chiseled jawline and lean, toned body, I have a feeling he's an actor. Or maybe a model.

  I can still feel him looking at me. I can't explain it, but there's just an energy to his gaze. A physical, tangible weight to it. Ashley says I'm oblivious to the effect I have on men, but I'm not really used to being the one men single out for attention. Somebody like Ashley, with her blonde hair, good looks, and California beach body – she's somebody that draws a crowd. Not me.

  But still, for some reason, when I sneak another glance at him, I can still see him staring at me. The expression on his face is one of curiosity. Like he recognizes me and is trying to figure out who I am.

  Or maybe, he's formulating his best line – something he's sure will wow me so much, I'll immediately tumble into bed with him. I don't know. But the intensity of his gaze is starting to make me a little uneasy and I'm just about to slide out of the booth and go look for Ashley, when another man slides in and sits across from me.

  I'm so taken aback, I say nothing – just stare at him with wide eyes. He's a handsome man who has long, white hair, fair skin, and eyes darker than the nighttime sky. I can see that he's a man who works out and takes care of himself. While not as toned and athletic looking as the man at the bar, the white-haired stranger looks fit.

  “Nyro,” he says by way of greeting in a rich British accent.

  “As in the emperor who played his fiddle while Rome burned?”

  He shrugs and flashes me a thousand-watt smile – a smile that makes my breath catch in my throat. It's a smile that takes his face from handsome to downright gorgeous.

  “Something like that,” he replies. “It's an unfortunate name, but there isn't much I can do about it.”

  “Kaitlyn,” I say.

  “It's a pleasure – no, an honor – to meet you, Kaitlyn,” he says. “I've been waiting a long time to make your acquaintance.”

  His comment catches me off guard and I'm not sure what to make of it. “Are you in the industry?” I ask. “Do you work for the studio?”

  He gives me that breathtaking smile again. “No, not for the studio,” he says.

  I cock my head and look at him, a feeling of unease growing in my belly. I'm not sure what he does or who he works for, but the whole tone of this conversation is making me feel a little unsettled.

  “Let's just say, I'm a man who can make all your dreams come true,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Listen, it was nice meeting you, but I need to go find my friend.”

  He laughs. “Ashley sent me over here, actually,” he says. “I'm sorry if I put you off. I was just trying to make you laugh. I actually work with Rick Mason.”

  Knowing that Ashley sent him and that he apparently works for Rick Mason, agent extraordinaire, makes me feel slightly better. Slightly. I'm still a bit nervous, but at the same time, a rush of excitement runs through me.

  This man very well might be able to make all my dreams come true.

  Chapter Three

  Wyn

  This is my kind of place. The music is going off, the crowd is electric, and the women, of course, are absolutely gorgeous. Not that I would expect any less from a party being thrown by a major film studio. In Hollywood, there's no shortage of actress and model wannabes willing to throw themselves at any man they think can give them their big break.

  Almost makes me wish I was a studio executive instead of what I am -- a Dragonborn Ranger.

  Not that I have regrets about what I do. I'm proud to have been the youngest to ever pass the Trials. Being a Ranger is something I dreamed about when I was a younger. I worked hard to get to where I am. Worked hard to be one of the elite. One of the very best.

  The only regret I have right now is being placed in Warden Quint's territory. I mean, I respect the guy and everything, but he's an absolute hardass. And I don't think he likes me very much. He's always on me about something. About everything, really. I can never seem to do anything right. Or at least, it seems like I can never do anything up to his standards.

  It's exhausting. And frustrating. I work hard and do my job. I'm the youngest to ever pass the Trials and become a Ranger. And yet, Quint sometimes treats me like I'm an idiot. Like I'm a nothing. A nobody. Just another grunt who's only purpose for existing is to do his bidding.

  Although I'm under Quint's thumb right now, that's not always going to be the case. Eventually, he'll have to step down as Warden. Which means, I might have a shot at becoming a Warden myself. If not, then I'll ask to be assigned somewhere else. Chicago. New York. Anywhere but here.

  Which is why I make sure to have fun when and where I can. And I've always had a good time blowing off steam at the clubs. Not only do I enjoy the energy pumping through the atmosphere, but I usually find some gorgeous woman willing to keep me company for the night.

  I almost didn't get into Club Ice tonight though. I'm obviously not on the studio's approved list. But a little persuasion and a few bucks go a long way. Robby, the guy on the door, has let me into Ice when he's not supposed to on a few different occasions. He's a good guy.

  I'm not much of a dancer. When I'm in the club, I prefer watching people. Observing human interaction – something I fi
nd endlessly fascinating. Humans in general are fascinating creatures and I never tire of observing them. Some of the other Rangers seem to think I'm so interested by humans because secretly, I want to be one. Which only makes me laugh, given how many of them have taken human mates – like Warden Quint.

  “How ya doing?”

  I'm leaning against the bar, watching the crowd, and turn at the sound of the woman's voice. She's a tall, leggy blonde with an amazing body. I look her up and down approvingly and then flash her a wide smile.

  “Better now,” I say. “Buy you a drink?”

  Her smile is almost predatory as she holds her hand out to me. “Sandra,” she says. “And I'd love a drink.”

  I take her hand and caress her knuckles with my thumb, never breaking eye contact with her. She's looking me up and down, apparently enjoying what she sees.

  “Wyn,” I say.

  The blonde steps a little closer to me, purposely pressing her breasts against my chest. She leans forward until her lips are inches from my own. She smells of citrus – and cigarettes.

  “So, what do you do with the studio?” she purrs.

  I give her a smile and lean back from her a bit now that I see what her angle is.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Because I'm not with the studio.”

  Sandra frowns and quickly takes a step backward, taking her hand out of mine, a sour look suddenly crossing her face. Without another word, she turns and walks down to the other end of the bar where I see her launch into the same routine with a guy who's got thinning hair and glasses thicker than the tumbler I'm sipping my scotch from.

  All I can do is shake my head and laugh. Actresses.

  I'm standing there sipping my drink when I feel a strange energy come over me. It a magical energy not like anything I've ever felt before. It's powerful and overwhelming. And it makes me feel almost lightheaded. I scan the crowd around me, searching for the source.

  As I look around, my eyes fall on her – and I find it impossible to look away.