Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  Clearing my throat, I use my most seductive voice. The one that used to open legs for me everywhere I went, when teamed with my best smile. “I’d like to get you on your back.”

  Her throat bobs as she swallows.

  I’ve got her right where I want her. She’s falling for me. It’s been so long since I had—

  A shock of liquid smacks me. Ice tumbles from my head to the floor. “What the actual fuck?”

  The woman shrugs and places her now empty glass on the bar top. “Looked like you could use some cooling off.”

  I wipe the liquid from my eyes and lick my lips. Gin and tonic. Typical chick drink.

  I should be mad. I should be fuming.

  But I’m turned on. No one argues with me like that. No one pushes the limits, aside from Janie, and she’s family.

  This woman could be my undoing.

  I stumble back to my seat, shaking my head, and turn to the bartender. “Another. And I’ll grab a gin and tonic for my friend over here.” I nod toward the woman, who shoots me a look of scorn. It just makes me grin. I don’t know what it is about making her mad, but I like it.

  “He is not buying me a drink,” she tells the bartender.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re not.” She pauses, staring at her empty glass. “But I’ll buy myself a new one, please.”

  “And I’ll pay for it.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  The bartender gives us a look that clearly implies he thinks we’ve both lost our minds, and gets to work preparing the two drinks.

  “So, you come here often?” I try.

  “Good grief.” The woman shakes her head and calls out across the bar. “Can you make mine a double?”

  Okay then. Ouch.

  “Quit looking like I just ran over a puppy or something.” She shakes her head. “I’m allowed to not be impressed by you and your skeezy lines. You have a girlfriend.”

  And for the first time in twelve months, I do something very, very stupid.

  I tell the truth.

  “It’s not how it seems.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “So you don’t have a girlfriend?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She tilts her head and shrugs one shoulder. “Shoot.”

  “Do you believe in karma? That everything happens for a reason?”

  She pauses, as if considering the answer. “I believe that hopefully, the good in life outweighs the bad.” She looks down at the empty glass in front of her. “But that sometimes, shit stuff happens to good people, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  She looks so lost, so alone as she says that, and I have to stop myself from reaching out a hand to cheer her up. She’s gone from firecracker to forlorn in a heartbeat.

  “You?” she asks.

  I swallow down the bitter taste in my mouth. All my life, I fought to be free of the shitty upbringing Janie and I had, and I presumed that this, finishing this movie and finally hitting the big time, would be the reward. The karmic pay-off.

  Then, I got that email.

  “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

  Somewhere behind me, the locals cheer at the projector screen. Silence stretches between the mystery woman and me.

  “Well, I used to believe in classic love stories.”

  “Classic love stories?” I ask.

  “You know the kind. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Gone With The Wind. All that shit.” She shakes her head. “Now, though? Now I believe in vodka.” She smiles at me, but it’s broken.

  “Cheers to that.” I nod, and pick up my now refilled glass. The mood between us has turned dark, and I’m desperate to lighten it again, so I give my new friend a cheeky grin. “So you’re an alcoholic. Coming to the locals only bar. Hates cheaters. Drinks gin and tonic.” I process the information. “What are you running from?”

  Her gaze slides over to me. “I’m not running from anything. I’m here for work.”

  “Work?”

  The woman sighs. “I’m at a yoga retreat.”

  Images of this woman stretching flash before my eyes, her long legs raised up above my head. Her body tilted one of those poses where it’s all “ass in the air” as I pump into her from behind.

  No.

  I’m being good.

  Sensible.

  I won’t go home with anyone, not until this whole Shade mess is sorted out.

  “Quit looing at me like that.”

  I blink. I hadn’t realised I was. “Like what?”

  She swipes at her hair and gives a small smile. “Like I’m somehow interesting to you.”

  And as I look at her, her long, brown hair, her mesmerising eyes and her sassy mouth, I can’t help but wonder if maybe she is.

  “I’m not interested in you.” I force the words out.

  “Well I’m not interested in you.”

  “You’re not my type.” I step up again, fire boiling in my veins.

  “You’re not mine either. I don’t do liars,” she sasses.

  “I don’t do yoga freaks.”

  It’s a lie.

  I totally would.

  “I don’t do Americans.” She wobbles as she slides from the stool.

  “I don’t do Austrians.”

  “I’m Australian.” Her eyes flash as she stabs my chest with her painted finger.

  “I know.” I sneer. Tension flairs between us.

  “I don’t do egotistical Hollywood movie stars who think they’re better than everyone else!”

  “I don’t do women with gorgeous eyes who throw their gin and tonic over my head when I’m just trying to pay them a compliment.”

  “I don’t do—”

  She doesn’t get to finish that sentence.

  My lips crash to hers in a fiery passion. Hers still, her body frozen, and for one long moment I think she’s not into this. That she’s not just as turned on by me as I am by her.

  Then her lips part and the tension that had curled in my belly springs to life. My hands clasp her arms, jerking her closer to me and our bodies meet in a passionate collision.

  She tastes like gin and citrus, and smells like salt and sweet. She’s a contradiction to my senses in the headiest possible way. I wrap my arm around her lower back and pull her in, wanting her delicious softness nearer.

  My tongue seeks hers, and it’s met by her own needy one. God, I want her, with every part of my body.

  I pull away from her mouth and kiss along her jaw to her ear, pulling on her lobe. My hand travels up her back to fist in her hair, those luscious dark locks, and when I give a sharp tug her neck offers itself up in return.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she breathes in between kisses, and yes, let’s, because being in here is too hard. Not being inside her is hard. I’m hard.

  With one hand still curled in her hair, my other takes my wallet from my pocket. For a moment, a second, I pull away to take out a few notes and slam them onto the bar.

  I glance around the room. Toothless raises his eyebrows. The men in the corner grin, nudging one another. No one has a mobile out, or a camera. I’m not even sure they own any.

  I pull out another note and slam it on the counter. “Beers. For everyone.”

  The bartender nods and I grab the girl’s hand, pulling her along behind me and out the front of the bar.

  Outside, our lips collide again, and damn, I need this woman, need her now. My hands roam her body, touching, teasing, exploring, and lust is thick in my veins.

  I have to have her.

  Now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Madison

  My body aches. I’ve slept in some crazy uncomfortable position, and now every limb feels as if it’s been stretched in a way it shouldn’t be stretched. Lucky I’m here for a yoga retreat.

  I move my head left to try and soothe the ache in my neck, but it doesn’t work. It’s the most uncomfortable pillow I’ve ever slept on. I shift, kneading it with my hand, but it groans, an
d—

  Holy shit.

  That is not a pillow.

  Blinking open one eye, I squint against the early dawn light. My now chipped nails rest on a tanned torso. Golden brown. And, judging from my pillow reshaping attempt a few seconds earlier, hard.

  Oh no.

  Oh no no no no no no no no.

  I put the pieces together.

  Uninterrupted ocean view.

  Sore, stretched limbs.

  Tanned torso (aka my mortal weakness).

  I’ve had sex with a stranger on the beach on my first night in Bali.

  I glance down, relieved to see my dress is still on, if a little askew. I move my legs together, and—damn! My G-string has most definitely gone walkabouts.

  I push up a little to see if I can locate my missing underwear. In front of me, the man’s jeans are on, but not completely done up, and I feel a momentary pang of disappointment that I don’t remember what lies under those black pants.

  I laugh, only my throat is hoarse, probably from all the drinking I did last night, so it comes out more like a cough. It’s for the best I don’t remember a thing, because there is no way in hell this was a good idea. The hurt Mike left me with is still raw—just thinking his name is like pressing against the wound. I miss him … and I can’t believe I just screwed the second guy I’ve ever been with in my entire life and I don’t remember the event.

  Scratch that.

  I don’t even remember his name.

  A giant hand tousles my hair. It feels nice. Safe.

  For just one moment I let the pleasant head massage continue, and then I remember what every article I’ve ever written for Lola has said.

  The first rule of one-night stands is that you don’t stick around, not unless you’re hoping for something more.

  And I am definitely not hoping for something more.

  I push to my knees and then stagger to my feet, blood rushing to my head.

  “Whoa, whoa.”

  So he’s American.

  Interesting.

  I spy one of my flip-flops close to the water and rush forward to grab it. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. I’ll just let you …” I turn around and trail off.

  Lying on the beach, propped up on his elbows and watching me with a quizzical smile on his face, is Tate Masters.

  The Tate Masters.

  Memories flood my mind. The bar. Fighting. Me throwing my drink over him.

  God, I threw a drink over a movie star?

  “You’re really …” I shake my head.

  “Handsome?” He winks, and I swear a damn twinkle lights his eye.

  “I was going to say ugly in the morning.”

  Hurt mars his face, but he quickly schools it back with another sure-of-himself grin. “You didn’t think I was ugly last night.”

  “I was drunk out of my brain …” I scan the sand for my other piece of footwear. A flash of blue reaches me from the left, near a palm tree. “And broken-hearted. What sort of an arse takes advantage of a woman like that?”

  “I was drunk out of, as you so eloquently put it, my brain, too.” He pauses for a moment, then licks cracked lips. His tongue moves slowly, and as it does I have a flash of that tongue running along my own lips. Flicking at my nipple.

  Heat rushes through me, and I blink the thought away. No. This is not happening. I did not just have sex with Tate Masters.

  “Well, I think we can both agree we never want to talk about this again. Do you have a NDA or something you want me to sign?” I take a few steps left and look behind the nearest palm tree. Nope. No black lacy G-string there. Damn it.

  “N … DA?”

  I whip my head back around to look at him. “Non-disclosure agreement. You know, to make sure I don’t run and sell my story to the press.”

  He nods slowly. “That’s a good idea.”

  How has he not thought of this before? “Not just for you. For me, too. I want to make sure you don’t talk about this either. It goes both ways, you got that?”

  “Why?” He tilts his head. “Are you famous?”

  “Ha!” I bark a laugh. “No. I just have self-respect and some semblance of a reputation to keep in tact.” And running off to screw some slutty Hollywood celebrity the second my fiancé walks out the door is not exactly doing much for my image. Not only that, but sleeping with the enemy is almost bound to ensure that I never get a position at Lola again. I’m supposed to report the celebrity stories. I’m not supposed to be in them.

  I shadow my eyes with my hand and scan the beach again. Where the hell are my—

  “Looking for this?”

  Tate Masters has my LaPerla G-string dangling from one of his fingers. A cheeky-as-all-get-out smile twists his lips, and I hate the stupid pang that twists low in my body.

  I stalk over and snatch the G-string from his grasp, stuffing it in my small purse. “Thank you.” After all, a lady should never forget her manners. “I don’t have a card, but I’ll send you an email now to get the paperwork done up, if you give me your address?”

  “Sure. It’s Tate dot Masters at gmail dot com.”

  I look down at him. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “That is the easiest address in the world. Anyone could guess that.”

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I have to read the emails that come through.”

  I shake my head and tap in his address, then hit send. The email makes a rushing sound as it flies off into cyberspace, and I take one last glance at the hottest new thing to hit Hollywood. The hottest new cheating thing.

  “Well … it was nice meeting you.” I manage, because manners.

  “It certainly was memorable.”

  Except for those of us who can’t remember a damn thing.

  My silence must speak volumes, because Tate breaks out in a laugh, a long easy rumble that does stupid things to me. “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Of course I do!” I have no idea what happened. I glance at my purse, and think of the G-string stuffed in there.

  Okay.

  I have some idea.

  “That thing you do with your mouth when you …” Tate trails off, and my eyes widen. What thing do I do with my mouth? Frick!

  “I expect to hear from you with the NDA. And then I never want to hear from you again.” I pause, scanning the beach. Farther along to the right, a clearing is visible. A Balinese boy bolts from the path and dives into the turquoise water, splashing about. Must be the path back to the main road. “Goodbye.”

  And with that, I turn and do the walk of shame back to the yoga retreat.

  This so wasn’t what I had in mind when I went on my search for inner peace.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tate

  The woman walks away, but for once, my eyes aren’t following one of the hottest pieces of ass I’ve ever seen. Instead, they’re on the kid splashing about in the water.

  He dives, his lithe body charging through the water, leaving a wake behind him. Back on shore, a small girl dawdles down the beach, heading toward the boy. They could be brother and sister, with their dark hair and even darker eyes. She fiddles with the side of her pink bathing suit, then sticks her thumb in her mouth.

  A man strolls down to the shore, hands in his pockets, sunglasses shading his face. He calls out something to the boy, and seconds later his little fish swims back in, takes his sister’s hand, and walks out with her, encouraging her when she hesitates. The man smiles, his eyes never leaving his charges.

  And for the briefest moment, I wonder what life will be like. I may not be the biological father of a baby, but I’m about to help Janie care for her kid. A little kid to do things with, like go to the beach, and teach lessons about right and wrong. I’m going to have a mini-Tate in my life.

  It’s weird.

  But it’s also kinda cool.

  I push to my feet and wipe the sand from my jeans, grabbing my balled up shirt and slinging it over one shoulder. I button my fly and give a
rueful smile. If only last night they’d come completely off.

  When we’d made it to the beach, we’d fooled around for a while. She was like wildfire, running through my veins—I wanted her so bad. But when she’d gone to remove her panties, she’d stumbled, and I’d called it quits. I’d had a few, but she was blind drunk. And I might have been a lot of things, but one thing I was not was an asshole.

  So, because I couldn’t take her back to my hotel and face the wrath of Janie, and because all she could say was she was staying at Hotel Yoga, which, upon checking my phone, I discovered was not a thing, I’d stayed on the beach with her.

  For the first twenty minutes, I’d watched her sleep. The ocean whispered at the sandy beach, and she gave off these soft little murmurs every now and then, a frown crossing her face as if darkness haunted her dreams.

  There was something about her—it stirred something in me. She was one of a kind.

  And then to suggest an NDA—genius! Not that we’d need one, of course, but it showed she was a thinker. I could use someone like that in my life.

  Except for the fact that I have Mikaela.

  The thought smacks me upside the head. How could I have been so careless?

  For twelve long months, I’ve been the model boyfriend. Attending red-carpet events? Check. Calling every day to see how she’s doing? Check. And the big one, not so much as looking at another woman?

  Checkity-fucking-check.

  So how did this fiery Aussie bombshell nearly undo me?

  The ocean water is cool as I splash it on my face, but in seconds it dries, leaving a salt film in its place. I need a shower. And to brush my teeth.

  And to work out how the hell I just made such a colossal mistake and prevent myself from doing it again.

  As I head back to the main road, I pull out my phone. The screen is blank; I must have run out of battery at some point during the night. Oops. Janie is going to lose her shit.

  My prediction isn’t wrong. As I walk through the doors of the the hotel, frosty air-conditioning smacks me in the face.

  Then, Janie does.

  “Ow!” I bring my hand to my cheek. “You sure got a swinging backhand there, Sis.”