Hollywood Prince

by Kim Karr

  Hollywood Prince

  Copyright © 2017 by Kim Karr

  ISBN-10: 0-9976194-4-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9976194-4-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Designer:

  Michele Catalano-Creative

  Model:

  Andrew Biernat

  Photographer:

  Wander Aguiar Photography

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  Table of Contents

  Hollywood Prince

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Books by Kim Karr

  About the Author

  To the Reader

  And Now A Look Into No Pants Required

  And Also A Look Into Bedwrecker

  “Never lose hope in love . . .

  sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince.” ~Unknown

  THE PRINCE OF TIDES

  Amelia

  I’m listening to this song by the Spin Doctors called “Two Princes.”

  The lyrics are similar to my story. Two princes. One princess. A choice to make. And perhaps even a happily ever after.

  Unlike a fairy tale, though, my story doesn’t start with “Once upon a time.” Oh, how I wish it did. The thing is, a lot has happened in my life that made me who I am. And because of this, I have a lot of issues to resolve before I can get to the end. Yet, rest assured, in its true form—this will be a love story.

  It has to be.

  Like the song, it’s about me and . . .

  This one.

  And that one.

  You’d think choosing between Mr. Right over Mr. Oh-So-Wrong would be easy, but it isn’t.

  In the light of day, it all seems so clear, but now, in the dark of the night, Mr. Right doesn’t seem so right, and Mr. Oh-So-Wrong doesn’t seem that wrong.

  I met one before the other. Spent more time with one than the other. Now one is ready for the next step, but I’m not sure about the other.

  None of that matters.

  What matters is in my heart, and I just have to dig deep enough inside to figure out what it is telling me. Move forward or go back. God, I wish I knew.

  The doorbell rings.

  Rushing over to the door, I swing it open wide, expecting my mother, my father, my best friend—anyone but him.

  There he stands with a smile on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Before I can even take the flowers, I look at the cell clutched tight in my fingers. At the two words I don’t know what to do with. They’re from him. The other him. The other man, I guess you could say.

  This isn’t a love triangle; it never was. It’s simply about choices.

  This one.

  Or that one.

  Mr. Right, or Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.

  With the text still unanswered, I stare into this man’s face, and then at my screen.

  Who should I choose?

  I stand here, reeling, my mind wandering back to how it all began. How I went from searching for the right one to finding two men within twenty-four hours.

  Two princes, but only one is meant to be mine.

  BLIND DATE

  Amelia

  A common misconception is that the just be me philosophy works in all situations.

  Not true.

  Yes, it’s wrong to project a false idea of who you are, but a blind date is not the time to let all the skeletons out of the closet. The goal is to present the best version of yourself.

  Right?

  With that in mind, I stand tall and stare at the golden doors to a club that was once like my oldest brother’s second home. Pushing away the memories of him, both good and bad, I suck in a breath and walk inside.

  I can do this.

  The Griffin is beyond filled to capacity. Wall-to-wall people. Anyone that is anyone in the city is here because this is the place to be. To party. Have fun. Who knows, maybe even hook up with an A-lister looking to have a good time—if that’s your thing.

  Glass chandeliers sparkle as I make my way through the crowd.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  After my last debacle of a blind date with the creepy guy who wanted to suck my toes, I told myself never again.

  And yet, here I am. My stomach a-flutter with nerves and my heart filled with a little more hope than I should have in a situation like this.

  Mr. Right has to be out here somewhere.

  After all, there is someone for everyone in this world, or that’s what I keep telling myself every time Mr. Right turns out to be Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.

  It might sound like I’m always looking for a man, but I’m not. It’s just at twenty-five I don’t want to waste any more time with someone who doesn’t get me, or that I don’t get. I want to find, and yes I’m going to say it, the one who completes me.

  Noisemakers and party hats poke me with each step I take. I glance around, over, and through the people. The velvet benches are occupied by couples shoving their tongues down each other’s throats, girls chatting animatedly while smoothing their hair into place, and men high-fiving each other as women walk past them with a suggestive sway to their hips.

  I forgot how entertaining places like this can be, and I slow a little to pay more attention.

  A woman pushes her breasts into a man’s hard chest and looks up at him with fluttering lashes. A guy squeezes a girl’s ass, and she whirls around and slaps him in the face. A couple bump and grind like porn stars in a booth.

  A tap on my shoulder has me whirling around, wondering if I need to slap someone or rather if my blind date has found me before I could find him.

  “Aren’t you Brandon Waters little sister?” the stranger asks.

  The stranger standing in front of me is a tall guy. Very tall. He has jet-black hair and blue eyes. Just by looking at him I know he’s not my date. With his earring, his designer jeans, and his ultra-expensive leather jacket, there’s no denying, though, that he must have been one of my older brother’s friends. “Yes, I am,” I answer.

  He sniffs, and his blue eyes start to glaze over as his pupils swallow up their color. A look I know all too well. “
I thought so. I wanted to say hi. Brandon and I used to have a great time together. I miss him. He was one of the best guys I ever knew.”

  I find myself smiling. That was Brandon. Just a giant ball of fun. Everyone loved my oldest brother.

  “Sucks about what happened to him,” the guy tacks on.

  Just like that, my smile fades, and I have to curl my hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

  The memory of Brandon’s overdose is still so raw, even though it has been almost three years since I found him unconscious on his bed, needle at his side, dressed in his suit as if he’d needed a hit before going to work. I called 911. He was dead before he arrived at the hospital. DOA. Three letters never hurt so much.

  That day changed my life.

  My brother Camden couldn’t forgive him for the longest time, but now seems to have let his anger go.

  Me, on the other hand, I can’t seem to let anything go. Everything in this city reminds me of him, which is why I can’t stop thinking about him and the if onlys.

  If only I’d gotten there a little earlier.

  If only I’d known.

  If only he had confided about his addiction to me.

  If only.

  If only.

  If only.

  Then again, how had I never seen how bad his addiction was? Too caught up in living my own life, I hadn’t paid enough attention. College had meant freedom for me, and freedom had wrung its bell—loud and bold.

  Dazed, I force the smile back on my face at the guy standing in front of me. “Yeah, it sucks, that’s for sure.”

  That might have come across snarky. It wasn’t meant to. It’s just that words meant to ease heartache don’t always do it.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he responds with a bite of his own in his tone.

  Taking hold of his arm, I look into his eyes. “No, I get it. I miss him too.”

  The guy shakes his head as if I’ve disappointed him in some small way. Like I’m a bitch who doesn’t understand. I get it, okay? I get it.

  “Well, anyway, it was good running into you,” he tells me uncomfortably, and then walks away, more than likely to join a group of others I am certain also loved Brandon.

  I watch him for a moment.

  Wistful.

  Full of memories that I don’t want to spill over into tonight.

  Brandon’s sticky note on my bedroom door that read, “I needed to borrow your laptop. I’ll have it back to you first thing in the morning.”

  The laptop had my paper on it.

  I needed it.

  The next morning, and surprise, surprise, no Brandon.

  My anger.

  The phone call I made—how mad I was when he hadn’t answered.

  The fact that I stormed over to his apartment at nine in the morning, yelling how irresponsible he was as I walked through the door, angrily grabbing my MacBook off his couch, almost leaving, but taking a minute to peek into his bedroom . . . and finding him.

  So still.

  So cold.

  Lifeless.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I look around and let it out, along with the memories. The memories of the three Waters children. The ABCs is what we called ourselves. Amelia, Brandon, and Camden.

  This was Brandon’s favorite club. See, everything in this city has Brandon’s imprint on it. He’d been sneaking in since he was seventeen. I wasn’t even fourteen the first time I overheard him talking about the place. I used to listen and think about how much fun it would be to go with him.

  I asked.

  I begged.

  He never let me.

  In fact, he and Camden never even let me go to a bar. Said they’d tell our father if I did. So I didn’t, not until the day I turned twenty-one.

  Drinking wasn’t the only thing my two older brothers curtailed.

  Dating in high school was also a challenge.

  Each of them in his own was so protective of me, but the two of them together were enough to send any potential suitors away.

  Looking around at this scene, I’m sort of glad they were the way they were.

  I kind of miss it.

  Shoving aside my sadness, I grab my camera—I use the real thing, not a smart-phone app—and focus on the neon lights before I start to take photos.

  Snap.

  Click.

  Scan.

  Behind the lens, I can lose myself. Forget who I am. Forget what happened to Brandon. Forget the fact that Camden left New York. Even push aside who I wish I could be. In another life, I tell myself, like I always do.

  Shrieking has me lowering my camera and looking around. I think that might be Justin Bieber over in the corner. Yes, by the horde of girls flocking to him and screaming out his name, it definitely is. They have stars in their eyes and hearts to be broken, and they don’t even know it.

  It sounds cynical, but it isn’t.

  Reality is not cynical.

  Reality isn’t defined as thinking you are going to meet the love of your life in a bar, either.

  So what am I doing here, you ask?

  I’ll tell you—I felt this little thing called hope in my belly and couldn’t ignore it. It happened when Carter Kincaid, my best friend, uttered that dreaded phrase: “I have the perfect person to set you up with.”

  Yes, I rolled my eyes. Like we haven’t heard those words a million times. Still, I thought, what if I say no and this one frog finally turns out to be a prince? The guy I’m searching for to spend my life with.

  The one.

  My unicorn.

  The pessimist in me didn’t jump at the opportunity. It took some convincing, a little bribery on Carter’s part, but finally I relented and said yes.

  Clean cut. Wavy brown hair. Nice build. Above average height. That’s how my best friend described the guy I am meeting tonight.

  Seriously, could the depiction be any more generic?

  Eyes searching, I hope to locate Carter and perhaps wring his neck before finding my date, because this is a mob scene that I could have done without. There is no way I’m going to find anyone I know tonight, let alone someone I’ve never met before.

  Click.

  Snap.

  Scan.

  I take a few more photos.

  Looking through the shutter of my lens, I search for the up-and-coming Yankees baseball player who is to be my date.

  With a description as generic as tall, dark, and handsome, my chances of finding him were close to zero.

  Luckily I searched him out on social media, so I have an idea of what he looks like.

  Click.

  Snap.

  Scan.

  I’ll give myself five minutes to locate him; if I don’t find him by then, I’m out of here.

  Pushing my way through the crowd, I stop at the staircase and look down. Much to my surprise, I spot the Yankees pitcher in the sea of black tuxes and silver-sequined dresses at the bar. Then again, who wouldn’t be able to spot him? His Bahama-blue bow tie is bright enough to light up all of Manhattan.

  Totally cute, by the way.

  Feeling a little nervous, I let my camera drop and slowly walk toward him.

  Wearing a shorter-than-normal dress and a pair of higher-than-usual heels, I attempt to gracefully descend the steps.

  Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

  Carter told his new boyfriend’s brother’s newer roommate that I’d be the one wearing the pink mod dress with the gold braiding around the neck, a big gold bangle up high above my elbow, and that I’d be further accessorized with a large camera around my neck.

  Now, that is a much better description for locating a blind date. And kudos to myself for finding the Twiggy-replicated dress in a vintage store in the Village.

  It is fantastic.

  Not to my surprise, I catch the soon-to-be star baseball player’s eye just as my gold vintage heels hit the marble floor.

  It’s the camera.

  To be expected, he’s sitting with his head twiste
d over his shoulder, looking around. Even after halting his search, he looks uncertain. To assure him it’s me, I tap my camera. Right away his face breaks into a grin.

  Okay, this is a good sign.

  As I get closer, he stands up from the stool and heads in my direction to greet me.

  Nice manners.

  Big brown eyes focus on me. I smile at him with a nervous, “Landon Reese?” to which he cutely replies, “Guilty.”

  This is going so well.

  “Amelia Waters?” he asks as if still questioning I’m his date for the night.

  “Guilty,” I repeat with a smirk that makes me feel more than a little spunky right now.

  His grin grows wider.

  Mesmerized by it, I stare at his handsome face. With his square jaw, chiseled nose, and strands of curly hair that dip over his brows in the sexiest way, I have only one thought—he’s no frog.

  SAY ANYTHING

  Amelia

  There are three defined phases of a blind date.

  The first, and definitely the hardest, being the greeting. The second being the actual date itself. And the third, well, that would be the good-night kiss.

  I feel a little warm and giddy inside because Landon and I have successfully made it through the first phase. That is, until he goes in for a hug as I go in for a forearm pat, and his embrace locks my right arm to my chest and presses my camera into my ribs.

  Awkward.

  Even worse, he smells like Tom Ford, the Tobacco Vanille scent—the very same kind of cologne my father wears. Instead of being left with the heady impression the scent claims to have on women, I feel a little less enthused than I had five seconds ago, and for some reason less excited to be here.

  Things aren’t going as well as I had originally thought.

  “Happy New Year!” he shouts into my ear, still holding onto me.

  “Happy New Year,” I echo, trying to wiggle out of his big-muscled hold.

  Letting go of me, his hand slides down to my ass and his fingers splay wide, like as in they cover an entire cheek.

  Whoa!

  He is way too aggressive for this stage of our date. He needs to back down. Way down.

  “Come on, let me get you a drink and then we can dance,” he says, already ushering me toward the bar with that large palm of his.

  Dance?

  I haven’t danced since Brandon died. Perhaps I should keep that little fact to myself. Yeah, I probably shouldn’t tell him my dead brother danced all the time and dancing will probably remind me of him, and in turn make me sad.