On Heartbreak Ridge: Movie Trilogy Prequel Novella (The Movie)

by Kimberly Adams

  “Keaton,” I replied, my mind darting through the names that I’d toyed with over the last week. “Thane. Keaton Thane.”

  “You’re going places, kid,” he replied, nodding to my beat-up pickup. “But not in that.”

  I nodded toward his Porsche, grinning. “Want to trade?”

  He laughed, a hearty chuckle that made me think that maybe- maybe- I’d found a friend. “No way. You’ve gotta earn it yourself. I’ll give you a chance, but I’m not doing you any favors.”

  “I appreciate the opportunity, sir.”

  He laughed again, clasping my shoulder with his strong arm. “We put a little muscle on you, the girls are gonna buy memberships just to watch you sweat.”

  Against my better judgment, I shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Well, it takes a shower, to start,” he replied, laughing.

  Frank gave me a space to sleep in above his office. The storage alcove had room enough for an air mattress, a small, overturned box to act as a table, and a newspaper. I hadn’t negotiated any pay- or actual job objectives- with Frank yet, but the monthly rent for the available apartments that I was finding in the ads would eat most of whatever I’d be making for sure.

  By the end of my second week in LA, I realized that the room and the showers were my paycheck. I didn’t have an actual job; Frank let me hang around, use his facilities, and basically serve as a billboard for his gym.

  But holy hell, he was right about the girls.

  They came in droves to wherever I was in the gym, and at first, I took full advantage of the situation. When memberships tripled after my first month, I marched into Frank’s office with a list of available apartments.

  He glanced at the classifieds, and then back down at his laptop. “What, kid?”

  “I need an apartment. I found three. Do I have a job here?”

  Frank snickered, continuing to type. “You’ve got food, a place to shower and sleep, and you’re telling me you need an apartment.”

  “Yes.”

  “You getting pussy?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. But when I start turning them down, I’m pretty sure they won’t be as interested in coming here anymore.”

  He scowled, lifting his eyes from the screen. “Kid, you’d still be living in that piece-of-shit pickup if it weren’t for me.”

  “I didn’t say I was ungrateful. I said I needed an apartment. You want me bringing in the clients, fucking them in the storage room? Classy.”

  He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I’m not your pimp, Keaton. I’ve got some morals. This feels a little shitty to me. If you want to sleep with them, that’s up to you. I’m not keeping you here to do that. I’m paying it forward. Someone gave me a chance when I got here to LA, and I’m doing the same for you.”

  I eased up a little, dropping the newspaper to his desk. “I appreciate that. And I plan to pay you back- two-fold- when I’m a successful director.”

  He smirked, rolling his eyes. “That’s not how it works. You pay if forward, not back. So when you’re Mr. Hollywood big-shot director, give someone a break. The break I gave you.”

  “Fine. But I need an apartment.”

  He shook his head, laughing his throaty laugh. “Fine. Pick one. It’s yours. Be conservative. I got college tuition for my girls to think about.”

  I grinned. “You won’t regret it.”

  The apartment was small but clean, and the location was the main reason I’d chosen the place. I was within walking distance of the Paramount production studio, and I planned to do everything that I could to make myself known there.

  After two months at Pump, I was already getting stronger and putting on muscle. I ran every morning before breakfast, worked out twice a day (usually with gorgeous women eagerly watching my every move) and then finished the day with a work-out in my apartment.

  In bed.

  Frank was right; I had my pick of any woman I wanted, some married, some not. All gorgeous. I’d lied and told him that I was already twenty, so a couple of weeks before my nineteenth birthday, he was ready to shit a brick when I told him my actual age.

  “You know these women are all too old for you, kid. Fuck. You ever lie to me again, I’ll kick your ass.”

  I shrugged, digging my Pennsylvania driver’s license out of my wallet. “My last name is also Thorne, not Thane, but I trust you to keep that a secret.”

  He glared at me, sitting back in his office chair. “Anything else I should know?”

  I couldn’t respond. I could barely form words.

  A girl knocked lightly on the window just outside his office. Her blonde hair was so thick, it fell in layers of spiraling white-gold over her shoulders, nearly reaching her hips.

  Her tits were absolutely perfect. Huge, heavy, mesmerizing.

  “Can I help you, young lady?” Frank asked, sliding his chair back to stand.

  The girl walked through the open door, her bright, brown eyes grazing over me before she turned her attention back to Frank. She wore a white tank top, tiny white shorts, and her skin was evenly tanned.

  “I’d like a membership.”

  Her voice was husky. I guessed her to be maybe in her early twenties; not nearly as old as half the women that I spent bending and stretching with each day.

  “Of course. My assistant manager, Keaton, will get you all signed up.”

  She bit her lower lip, and I had to practically leap behind Frank’s desk to hide my instant hard-on.

  Assistant manager?

  She turned to me, arching one perfectly manicured eyebrow and extending her hand.

  “Kelsey King.”

  “Keaton Thane,” I replied confidently, making sure to brush my thumb over the back of her hand as I shook it.

  “I’m not quite twenty-one yet. Is there an age requirement?” she asked, purposefully waiting to release my hand a moment longer than I’d anticipated.

  “For what, exactly?” I clarified.

  She smirked. “A membership here.”

  “Not at all, Miss King. Come on back, let’s get your contract together.”

  “You’ll be handling me, then?” she clarified, glancing to Frank, and then back to me.

  I turned on the charm, crossing my arms over my chest to purposefully flex my newly-formed biceps. “I could go a million ways with that comment… but I’ll just answer professionally. Yes, Kelsey, I’ll be handling you.”

  She grinned, running her fingertip over her lip before slowly drawing a line down her throat.

  “We’ll see.”

  Holy. Fuck.

  And we did. That afternoon, after the most detailed and extensive orientation I’d ever given.

  I had her up against the wall of the private shower, the hot water cascading over both of us as I drove into her. She arched her back and echoed my thrusts, and I growled, tightening my grip on her hair. With one yank, her throat was mine, and my teeth grazed her skin as she screamed my name.

  She moved into my apartment with me that weekend, on my nineteenth birthday.

  “Keaton?” Kelsey’s voice called from the front door, jerking me from my thoughts.

  I pulled myself from my memories of the past seven years and paused the video on my iPad, lifting my eyes to watch her struggle with more than five shopping bags. “Can you help me with these, please, baby?”

  “Kelsey, what in the hell did you buy?” I demanded, stalking to her and gathering her bags as she pulled her Chanel sunglasses away from her eyes.

  “I didn’t think you’d be home. I thought I’d have time to put it all away.”

  I glared down at her.

  “Are you telling me you planned to hide this all from me?”

  She shrugged, nodding innocently. “Well, yeah, I don’t like to make you mad,” she purred, pouting her lips in a silent plea.

  “Then don’t spend all of our money on fucking purses.”

  “Don’t be like that,” she tried, her hands climbing up my chest before s
liding down my sides. “You want me to be pretty, don’t you? For those cameras you love so much?”

  I only gritted my teeth, trying to resist the urge to reach for a handful of her perfect tits. She had both creamy mounds on full display, and I had to wonder who else was enjoying the view that Kelsey King was offering all of Rodeo Drive that day.

  “And we have the premier tonight, and I needed some shoes.”

  “You needed some shoes.”

  She was kissing my neck now, and I struggled against my instant hard-on.

  Settle the fuck down, dick, we have a point to prove.

  “You’re so tall, and I need to at least come up… to here,” she whispered, her tongue on my jaw.

  Exhaling slowly, I groaned as her fingers worked at the button on my jeans.

  “Do you want me to apologize?” she clarified, her long fingers dipping into my boxers.

  “Why does it feel like you’ve spent our whole marriage apologizing?” I demanded. “We have a budget. I stay within the budget. You don’t. You won’t change. Stop fucking apologizing and just do what we agreed!”

  Her mouth was already wrapped around my dick.

  I jerked, tightening my grip on her blonde hair and throwing my head back.

  Fuck, she knew what she was doing.

  She could have bought the whole goddamn Prada spring collection and I wouldn’t have given a shit at that moment.

  I tensed, thrusting into her mouth. She moaned as I pulled out suddenly, turned her around, and shoved her against the wall.

  “Hard, Keaton,” she begged.

  I gathered her tight little skirt in my hand, tearing it from her hips. Fuck if she didn’t arch her back, shoving her bare ass against my raging erection.

  “Are you going to listen?” I demanded. “Stop. Spending. All. Of our. Money,” I demanded, driving into her with each word. “I won an Oscar, not the fucking lottery.”

  “That Oscar is your ticket to fame,” she managed sharply, and I yanked another handful of her curls. “You should fuck me with it.”

  I stilled, raising my eyes. “Fuck you with what?”

  “Your Oscar,” she cried, nodding toward the fireplace mantle.

  I reached around to shove my fingers between her thighs. “You want me to fuck you with that statue.”

  “Yes,” she mewled, bucking against my skilled fingers.

  “Kelsey,” I growled in her ear, my balls tightening for release. “I earned that fucking Oscar. I’ve wanted that thing for a lot longer than I’ve wanted you. The last place I’m putting it is up your pussy.”

  Before she could open her mouth to snap at me, I came, jerking against her.

  After several blissful moments, she pulled away from me, turned, and slapped me across my face.

  “What the fuck?” I demanded, trying to adjust myself.

  “You love that fucking statue more than you love me!” she shrieked, dropping to gather her bags before stalking toward the living room.

  I zipped my pants, following after her.

  “Kelsey, come on.”

  “What? Look at me!” She threw her hands out at her sides, gesturing to her body. “I am beautiful! I can’t go anywhere without men stopping to stare at me, at Kelsey King! Me!”

  “Kelse, you should really work on your self-esteem,” I drawled, moving to the bar along the wall.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she threw her hand in the direction of bar. “If you start drinking, I’m not going to that fucking premier. You want to talk about apologizing? I’m sick and tired of apologizing for your drunk ass, everywhere we go! You’re just like your fucking father,” she hissed.

  My hands stilled over the rocks glass.

  I regretted that I’d married her.

  At that very moment, I admitted it to myself.

  I’d loved her like I loved the red carpet; narcissistically, as though it was meant to be mine.

  A status symbol. Achievement.

  Façade.

  “You know what I love about you, Kelsey King?” I asked evenly, continuing to pour the Maker’s Mark into the glass of ice.

  “What?” she demanded, throwing her bags onto the bed.

  I turned with the glass in my hand, emptying the contents down my throat.

  She stared at me, arms crossed over her enormous chest, eyes blazing.

  “What?” she fired again, fuming. “What do you love about me, Keaton?”

  I raised my eyebrows nonchalantly, shrugging with a smirk.

  “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I can’t remember why I love you, so I was hoping that you did.”

  Her jaw locked, her eyes narrowed, and I knew that she was grinding her Hollywood smile.

  “Keaton, you know what I love about you?” she mused.

  I continued my blank stare.

  “What’s that, baby?”

  She dropped her hands to her hips. “That six years ago, you were too fucking poor to ask me for a pre-nup.”

  Looking up sharply, I met her eyes.

  And I grinned her way.

  She clenched her fists at her side. “Now, I’m going out. You can go to the goddamn premier by yourself, or you can go fuck yourself. Your choice, director.”

  With that, she marched into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  The Marrying Kind

  V

  That first week was a blur of dates that inevitably evolved into make-out sessions. It was the week of Thanksgiving, so by Wednesday school was out for both of us.

  I learned that Matthew had spent his entire life in Ohio. At twenty-seven he had taken a job teaching third graders, moving away from the high school that he’d taught at since he’d graduated college.

  “What made you change grade levels?” I asked, giving up on trying to pay for the bill. He bought my meal every time and paid for every date. He insisted that he was old-fashioned and asked me to just deal with it, to which I could only respond with an amused smile.

  “Well, I love kids. Little kids. I just couldn’t deal with the teenage hormones anymore.”

  “Ah,” I realized, my lips curling into a smirk. “The girls had crushes on you.”

  I loved the adorable stain that reddened his cheeks. “They have very big imaginations at that age.”

  “Riiight. And it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re freaking gorgeous.”

  He raised one eyebrow and leaned forward at the table. “Freaking gorgeous, huh?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You need to come here.”

  It was our sixth date, six days since I’d met him, and there was no way either of us could hold back that night.

  He brought me to his house, about twenty minutes away from my parents’ home. It was a fifties-style bungalow tucked neatly in a row of matching structures, with an adorable yard and big, picturesque windows.

  And he kissed me.

  He swept me into his arms and carried me up his stairs, his mouth never leaving mine. I held onto him with all of my strength, dizzy with desire, yielding to his every touch.

  He lowered me to his bed.

  His dark eyes shadowed with desire, and I widened my own.

  “Vivian,” he began quietly. “I want to make love to you.”

  I smiled, slowly, nodding once. “Matthew, I’m about one hundred and ten percent okay with that.”

  He smiled and pulled his shirt over his head, and I fumbled with my own clothes until his hand surrounded mine.

  “I’ll undress you. Lift your arms.”

  I stilled for a breathless moment before raising both of my arms.

  He pulled my shirt up and over my head. My skirt took seconds to slide over my legs, and I inched backward, suddenly a bundle of nerves.

  “Wait… wait…”

  “What’s wrong?” His mouth continued over my neck, and I reached for his jaw, turning his face toward mine in the darkness.

  “I want you to know that… I love you. I know it’s only been six days,
but I do. Okay?”

  He closed his eyes, sighing deeply as he moved to hold himself over me in the shadows of his bedroom. “God. You are perfect.”

  “I’m not perfect,” I protested, and his lips took over, beginning on my sensitive stomach. I gasped, moaning against his tongue.

  “Yes you are. I love you, Vivian.”

  I was on stage again, moving with the ebb and flow of our touching, my heart thundering in my chest as he positioned himself just inside of my naked body. When he thrust forward, he whispered that he loved me again, but it was all I could do to press my face to his shoulder to muffle my scream.

  “Wait- stop- Matthew,” I begged, feeling like I’d been torn in two.

  “Are you okay?” he asked tenderly, holding himself steady, so deep inside of me.

  I saw stars. The pain was nothing like my friends had described. I wanted out; I wanted him off of me, and I knew that I was bleeding.

  “It hurts too much,” I breathed, tears racing down the sides of my face to the pillow below.

  “It’ll hurt less soon,” he promised, but when he moved, I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders.

  “Please stop, I can’t do this, something’s wrong,” I poured frantically.

  “Okay, baby, I’m sorry,” he cajoled. “I’m pulling away, Vivian. I’m sorry.”

  I practically leapt off of his bed and ran to the bathroom.

  I was bleeding. A lot. When I realized that I had absolutely no idea if he’d put on a condom, my knees nearly gave out beneath me.

  What in the hell was wrong with me? How could the build up and the kissing and the touching and… well, all of it, be so fucking amazing, and yet the pain be so intense?

  “Vivian, are you okay? Can I come in?”

  I turned the doorknob, and he caught me in his arms. “Did you use a condom?”

  He cupped my face in his hands. “Of course I did. Oh, beauty. I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

  Relief took over, and I pressed my forehead to his chest. “It’s not your fault. I must have some kind of- deformity or something- I don’t know.”

  He exhaled a breathy laugh, pulling back to gaze at me. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I’m going to take my time on you. It won’t hurt forever. Come here.”

  He led me to the bed, and I noticed that he’d changed the sheet and balled the other one into the corner.