I remember the surprised look on her face when I leaned in to kiss her in the car. When I thought about it afterward, I told myself that I did it out of curiosity, just to see what she’d do. Allie had managed to remain unflustered during the entire interview, as if she really didn’t give a shit about how important I am in Hollywood. And she’d laughed about the women I’ve slept with, even mocking them. I was testing her to see if she really was that uninterested. To be honest, I’m still not sure.
As the hot water streams down my naked body, I wonder what her body is like, what she’d look like naked in real life instead of in a dream. I couldn’t tell much because of what she was wearing, but she was definitely a bit bigger than the others. Not too much bigger, but I tend to fuck women with amazingly fit bodies and it was obvious Allie isn’t a workout fiend. Just as I’m thinking she’s appealingly soft, I discover my cock is growing hard again. Lathering it up, I imagine slowly undressing Allie and before long I’m leaning against the shower wall as I furiously stroke myself to another strong orgasm.
What the fuck? I think as I watch my cum flow down the shower drain.
I decide that I definitely need to fuck this Allie Winters chick. Even if she’s not as hot as the typical woman I bang, I want her, and the fact that she’s not impressed by me only makes me want her more. She may think of the women on that list as conquests, but they were mostly just diversions, something to pass the time. A smart woman who’s not interested in me in that way? That would be a conquest, and I’m suddenly determined to make it happen that evening when she comes to finish the interview.
After I towel off, I grab my phone and send Allie a text.
had a dream about you last night
A moment later I get a reply.
Um… how flattering. Was I an evil witch?
I think for a moment about whether to go there, then I decide I’ve got nothing to lose.
lol. you were yourself, though naked.
I send a quick addendum.
and the dream was quite moist, so thanks for that
Her reply is immediate.
Riiiiight. I’m calling bullshit on that, Drake. See you tonight.
Before I can reply, another text comes in.
P.S. Most women hate the word “moist.”
She’s funny, this one. I decide to leave the conversation at that for now.
“This meeting of the Hollywood Bad Boys Club will now come to order!”
Four shots of tequila are raised, then slammed down inside the rear door of a black Cadillac Escalade.
My three buddies and I are in the parking lot of the Beverly Hills Country Club, a membership-only place where if you have to even think about how much a membership costs, you probably can’t afford a guest day pass. We can all easily afford it except Link, who works in private security for celebrities. Don’t get me wrong, he makes an absurd amount of money for a security guard – the Escalade is his – but not Beverly Hills Country Club money. So every year, I pay his dues as a birthday present.
The other two guys are both rich and pay their own way. The rest of us don’t care that Link’s not in the one percent like we are, because he’s a total badass and we’ve known him for years.
I stash the bottle of Rey Sol Añejo in my golf bag and we make our way to the clubhouse. The Beverly Hills Country Club is one of the few places in town where I still feel like a poor kid. Everyone here is rich, and many of these guys (and yes, they’re mostly guys) are ridiculously wealthy. We’re talking billions-with-a-capital-“B” wealthy.
This is my foursome for the day, and pretty much for the last decade. Not only our Friday rounds of tequila golf we play whenever our schedules allow, but for just about any other shenanigans we decide to get into.
Mason Stark and I have known each other since third grade, when his family moved down the street from my dad and me in Rushville. We were best friends by the next day, and have remained so ever since. His folks took me in when Dad died unexpectedly while I was still in high school, and since my own mom died when I was two years old, Mrs. Stark is really the only mother I’ve ever known.
Mason and I met Link – Lincoln Ramirez – one night during our freshman year in college at Colorado State. The two of us were in front of a bar, refusing to back down to two bigger guys who were testing us. This was before I packed on the muscles and Mason and I were just a couple of skinny dudes who’d had too much to drink. Just as we were getting our asses kicked by these douchebags, this huge semi-Latino dude appeared out of nowhere. He was massive, six-five and nearly three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Two perfectly timed punches later, the guys stumbled back to their douchemobile. Link turned to Mason and me, calm as can be, and said, “You two are buying tonight.”
Link was the reason I got into weightlifting in the first place, so I pretty much owe my entire career to the guy. His dad was Mexican and his mom Canadian, so we tell him he’s American as a compromise, even though he was born in Rushville like me, before his mom put him up for adoption. Link is one big, mean, ugly bastard, and a great friend. He’s also one of the few people I know whose childhood was much, much more fucked up than my own, and I never knew my mom and was an orphan at sixteen.
When I dropped out of college, I worked construction around Fort Collins for two years before deciding to try my hand at acting. Link dropped out at the same time and did house framing with me. Mason, the smartest of us, actually stayed in school. Truth was my grades weren’t the problem: I simply couldn’t afford tuition after that first year. When I decided to move to Los Angeles, Link came with me and we shared a place for a couple of years. He found security work right away because he’s so fucking huge and takes shit from absolutely no one. His salary paid the rent for our little Echo Park apartment until I finally started landing some small acting gigs a year later. Meanwhile, Mason got his degree at CSU, then joined us in LA to attend UCLA School of Law so he could get into entertainment law. Now not even a decade later, he’s the founder of Media Arts Unlimited, one of the most powerful talent agencies in Hollywood even though it’s still considered the new kid on the block.
Marcus Jennings is the most recent addition to our little gang, and the youngest as well. I met Marcus during his rookie year with the Lakers five years ago. My first huge purchase with the two million I earned from Dream Lover, even before the Ferrari, was to get Lakers seasons tickets, courtside near the baseline. Marcus was all of twenty years old and starry-eyed, having moved to LA after his lone year at University of Kentucky. He was the third pick in the NBA draft, and he would have been first if not for his nasty habit of almost never passing the ball to his teammates. Marcus may be the most talented basketball player I’ve ever seen, and for years his nickname has been MJ2 – as in the second coming of Michael Jordan. Anyway, in his very first game, Marcus chased a rebound out of bounds and ended up in my lap. He stared at me for a second, then said, “Drake fucking Manning!” We’ve been buddies ever since. Marcus still jokes that we only let him into the group because we needed a token black guy.
The way tequila golf works is this: We each do a shot in the parking lot, then again after holes four, eight and twelve. From that point, whoever has the high score for a hole has to do a shot. A bad back nine can leave you rather drunk by the end of the game. On more than one occasion we’ve had to pour someone into the cart on the later holes, then drive them home afterward. The country club frowns on such nonsense, but it’s good fun and a few bills slipped to the right person makes them look the other away.
The Rey Sol Añejo tequila I bring to these games is four hundred bucks a bottle, but is smoother than a supermodel’s airbrushed ass. Today we’ve managed to reach the fifteenth hole without anyone doing more than five shots. That’s when Mason decides to bring up the interview, which I wasn’t planning on talking about.
“Drake, how did it go with the chick from the Times?”
I can tell by the looks on their faces that Marcus and Link automatically assume this is
about sex.
“It was an interview, you dicks,” I say, laughing at them. “It went really well, I think.”
“You two didn’t show up at my office, so I was afraid maybe you’d bailed on her,” Mason says. “Where did you go? Did you stay for all three hours?”
“We ate lunch, then went to a dive bar and drank bourbon. It was pretty chill. And Allie was awesome. Really cool chick. I spent about five hours with her.”
“Seriously?” Mason nods his approval.
“Did you fuck her?” Link asks. It may seem harsh, but this is a common question after any of us has been around a woman for the first time. We tend to share details.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say. “It was just business, that’s all. Show business, not monkey business.”
They’re all staring at me. Am I really that fucking transparent?
“Is she hot?” Marcus asks. “Good body?”
“She’s a writer, not a cheerleader,” I say. My defensive tone makes them think something’s up.
“You’re going to see her again, aren’t you?” Mason knows me too well. Hell, they all do.
“She’s coming over for dinner tonight, so we can wrap up the interview.”
Link has a bright idea. “Hell, we’re coming over, too. I wanna see this hottie.”
“Not a good idea,” I say. “After the interview, I’m going to get this chick in my bed, and I don’t need you guys there to help me.”
They refuse to entertain the idea of not coming by to meet Allie. By the time we finish the round and I have a hard buzz, I relent and tell them to stop by, but not too late. Them dropping in will make it seem to Allie like I’m not trying to seduce her. I know women well enough to know that’ll make her want me even more.
Allie may think she’s going to get inside my head tonight, but I plan to get inside her panties instead.
6
Allie
I may be naïve at times, but there’s no way I would ever believe that Drake Manning had a wet dream about me.
For some insane reason I spent an hour last night again looking at pictures of many of the women he’s supposedly slept with, and I don’t fit his type at all. I’m certain he’s just trying to get under my skin, to throw me off-guard for the remainder of the interview — as if it weren’t already bad enough that we’re doing it at his house.
Thoughts of Manning having an orgasm alone in his bed dissolve when Nicole knocks on my door. I had texted her that Drake Manning said he had a dream about me, and twenty minutes later she shows up.
“Let me see the text!” she says the moment I let her in. I had spent an hour on the phone last night telling her how the interview had gone, but for some reason withheld the fact that I was going back tonight for round two.
I grab my phone and show her the text from Manning. Her jaw drops, then she scrolls down, reading the rest of the sequence of messages.
“Oh my god, Allie, he had a wet dream about you!” The look on her cute face is priceless.
“He says he did, but I’m telling you this guy is totally full of shit. Why would Drake Manning have a sex dream about me?”
Nicole doesn’t buy my self-deprecation. “Girl, you’re mad sexy!” she says. “And those breasts. Every guy I’ve ever brought near you felt the need to comment about them later. ‘She’s really got some tits, doesn’t she?’ It’s sickening.”
We both burst out laughing. Nikki is so pretty, about the same size as I am, but with smaller boobs and slightly slimmer hips. She has luxuriously thick blonde hair that I would die for.
“I’m going to his house for dinner tonight, to finish the interview.”
“You’re going to have dinner with Drake Manning at his house? This is so unfair! You don’t even like that kind of guy. You like those skinny rockers like Johnny.”
“Johnny is history, and I’m just going there to wrap up the interview. I have a few more questions I need answers to.”
“Like how good is he in bed?” she asks. “And does he have a big cock?”
“Stop!” I say, unable not to laugh at her silliness. Regardless of his text, I find it impossible to believe Manning would be interested in me sexually.
Later that afternoon I’m freshly showered and made up, looking with approval in the mirror. I may not be a model, but I clean up pretty well. I’m wearing jeans a size tighter than the ones I wore yesterday, and a nice, elegant sweater that’s not too loose, but not too tight. I also have a secret weapon: under the sweater is a lavender tank top, chosen because my breasts look amazing in it. I’m not wearing a bra underneath, and if Manning has me on my heels at any point during the interview, removing my sweater should help to swing the equilibrium back in my direction. Although I don’t have an amazing body, I’ve seen the slack-jawed way men stare at my boobs. And Drake Manning may be a big-deal movie star, but he’s still a man.
As I finish getting ready, I find myself thinking about what it would be like to see that famous body in person, right in front of me. I’ve seen much of it on-screen, but since he’s never done a full frontal scene, I definitely haven’t seen everything. I think about being naked with him, touching him. And that leads to imagining actually fucking him. When I think about lying on my back and letting him enter my body, I realize I’m becoming aroused and force myself to stop this nonsense. Sure, it would be fun and I might even be able to talk him into it because apparently he’ll fuck anything that moves, but I refuse to be another of his many bedpost notches.
Damn, I really need to get laid. As soon as I turn in this interview, I’m going to open a Tinder account and find a fuckbuddy. This is ridiculous.
As I drive to Manning’s house, I remind myself that my goal is to get him to open up to me. I need him to confide in me, to trust that I will not betray him in this interview. The previous day I’d been surprised to feel a little friendship chemistry between us. Tonight I’ll play that up. At first I’ll focus on just having fun, holding back on any deep questions until I feel he’s ready.
When I arrive, a man looks out at me from the small guardhouse next to the gate. I roll down my window and he smiles and says, “Good evening, Ms. Winters.” The gate opens and I pull up to the front of that gorgeous mansion to find Manning standing in front of the door. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a gray-green pullover that clings to his chiseled frame.
He’s all smiles as I exit the car. “There she is, the girl of my dreams!”
I immediately blush, and just like that he’s already got me at a disadvantage.
For the next hour we chat over wine and delicious appetizers. “Oh my God, did you make these?” I ask.
“Fuck no. Simon, my chef, did. He’s making dinner, too. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to eat anything I cook.”
“Oh, come on, everyone has at least one dish they excel at.”
“I do make a mean instant ramen. You’ll have to try it sometime.”
I ask him how Drake Manning the movie star spends a typical weekday when he’s not filming, and he tells me he golfs with the same three friends every Friday when they’re all in town. The four men have known each other for years and his eyes light up when he talks about them.
“Do you have any close friends who are women?” I ask.
“Wait, it’s my turn to ask a question now,” he says. “Are we really going to completely ignore the fact that I had a wet dream about you?”
I blush, instantly angry at myself for doing so. It’s a question, though, and if I expect him to answer mine, I’ll need to answer his.
“Drake, forgive me, but I have serious doubts that you actually had any dream about me, damp or otherwise. We both know I am very much not your type.”
“I know, that’s the crazy thing.” His agreeing with me stings, and that in turn annoys me. Why should I give a shit whether I’m his type or not? He’s not even my type. “But there you were in my head.”
“Can we get back to the interview?” I ask.
“Sure,” he sa
ys. “I just wanted you to know I wasn’t joking about it. That actually happened.”
“Noted.”
“And you were gloriously naked.”
“Stop it.” I’m blushing again.
“And I woke up mid-orgasm, pissed off.”
“Drake, seriously.”
“Okay, I’ll be good. I promise.”
He’s laughing at my embarrassment, but I think this is a good sign. Anything I can do to make him feel close to me might help get him to open up.
We have more wine with dinner, and both are incredible. I could get used to having a personal chef, and silently vow to find some easy recipes to replace the Lean Cuisines I eat way too often. Drake isn’t really opening up much, though, and keeps asking me questions to prevent having to answer mine. After dinner we move outside to his patio, sitting under a heat lamp with his huge pool not far away.
The alcohol and the lamp make me feel deliciously warm, maybe even a little too much. Deciding to try to reclaim the upper hand, I casually slip off my sweater. Drake audibly sucks in a breath at the sight and his eyes remain on my breasts a second longer than he probably intended. I feel my nipples pucker and instantly regret not wearing a bra, even though the look is having the intended effect on him.
“Wait right here,” Manning says and jumps off his seat, hurrying into the house. I adjust my tank top for maximum effect, ready to bear down on my interview subject when he returns. He can look all he wants, as long as he’s answering my questions.
He returns with a bottle and two tumblers, pouring a little dark gold liquid into each. “This is Jefferson Reserve, known among bourbon fiends as Old Jeff. Oak barrel aged twenty-five years.”
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 1: Drake Page 4
