Dane: Hollywood's Finest

by Wilde, Delilah

  Dane

  Hollywood’s Finest

  Delilah Wilde

  Copyright © 2016 Delilah Wilde

  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.

  DISCLAIMER

  This story contains explicit language, sex, violence, and sexual situations that some might find offensive. This book is intended for adults 18+ years of age.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Savannah

  Waking up next to a movie star is every girl's dream but mine. Dane Reynolds is a jerk with a bad reputation and a giant ego. I don't care how many blockbusters he's been in.

  If he thinks his star power will get me to bend over for him he can think again. I'm no showbiz groupie and I won't go down without a fight.

  He's never met a girl like me.

  Dane

  I have my pick of the hottest Hollywood starlets but my eyes are set on Savannah. Her feisty attitude is just a front. No woman can resist my movie star charm. She'll be dropping her panties before the night is over.

  I'll have my way with her and move on. Dane Reynolds flies solo and that's the way it's going to stay, whether she likes it or not.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Bonus Novel

  Chapter One

  Savannah

  At twenty-five years old, spending a night alone getting wasted in a dive bar wasn't how I'd imagined my life. After all, I'd had so much potential. My name, Savannah Finn, was still plastered all over the design school where I'd graduated with a top qualification in textiles. They used the dresses I'd designed to show new students what they could achieve some day if they really put their minds to it. On graduation day they handed me that scroll and I knew that I was going somewhere. I was going to be somebody. All of my teachers would be so proud of me a few years down the line when I returned from my first show at fashion week.

  “We knew she was going to do big things from the start,” was what they would say. I had talent. I had a boyfriend who loved me. I was going somewhere.

  Two years later and things had changed quite a bit. It turned out that my boyfriend hadn't loved me enough not to cheat on me with every girl and one or two guys that took his fancy. I'd found him in bed with one of my friends and that was the last straw. I'd sworn off men since then. That was all right, as I still graduated first in my class. All I had to do was wait for the perfect job to come by and the rest of my life would fall into place. Men didn't matter. I was a career woman. So I waited. And waited. If I'd waited any longer then I would have starved to death and been kicked out of my apartment. For the last two years I had been stuck working as a glorified seamstress, visiting clients in their homes and turning up their kids' pants when they had growth spurts or altering the occasional wedding dress. There was no room for creativity and there was certainly no room for any enjoyment. It was only marginally better than working in fast food, though some days made me doubt that. Today had been particularly tough. Elderly clients were usually kind but this one was something else. Mrs Brown was a haughty woman who clearly saw me as beneath her. When I told her that the dress she had bought three sizes too small simply couldn't be altered to fit, she had called me an idiot and ranted about entitled, ignorant young people. I hadn't even managed to drive away before my agency was calling, warning me that if I let a client get that upset again that I'd be fired. It wasn't the first warning I'd ever gotten from them, though I always tried to do the best job that I could. They yelled at me like I was a child and it took everything for me to not live up to it and burst into tears right there and then. Instead, I saved them until they hung up.

  It was the last straw. I needed a drink. It wasn't like me to go to a bar alone, but it wasn't as if I had a choice. All of my friends were sickeningly busy. It was either 'date night' with their husbands or they had to do a little bit of overtime at their fabulous jobs. I didn't push any of them. Seeing them would only have irritated me anyway. To them I was the sad case. The girl who had so much potential and squandered it in a crappy day job that only just allowed her to pay the bills. The girl who was so pretty but wouldn't settle for the creeps on dating websites who could barely form a sentence. I was to be pitied. Well, I didn't need pity tonight. I needed a drink.

  I made my way to The Black Horse bar without even going home to get changed. I always overdressed for work in an attempt to feel like it actually mattered. My black pencil skirt and sheer blouse flattered my soft curves and I pulled my hair down from its tight bun. It fell in soft blonde waves around my shoulders. According to the rear view mirror, I looked presentable. The crying hadn't even smudged my mascara. It wasn't like it mattered anyway. I wasn't entering a beauty contest. I was getting drunk.

  After finding a suitable parking spot I walked as confidently as I could into the bar, reminding myself that there was no reason I couldn't go for a drink by myself. It wasn't pathetic. It was independence. Who needed a husband? Who needed a great job? I lived life on my own terms. Fuck the people who expected me to conform to their narrow ideas of success. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted without a husband or a real job to tie me down.

  The bar was almost deserted. I shouldn't have been surprised that most peoples' Monday night plans didn't include getting drunk, but I would have appreciated some white noise to block out my thoughts. The bar was dead silent, apart from the bartender and a single patron who were talking, though they paused to look at me once I stepped in. I'd been here a few times in college but it had been busy back then. I hadn't notice how dank it really was and how much it stank of cigarette smoke. Maybe this had been a bad idea. I stood there, frozen to the spot as the two men looked at me expectantly.

  “Come on Blondie, no one's gonna bite you!” said the one sitting at the bar. The two of them burst into peals of laughter at his stupid remark. A women with any sense would have turned on her heel and walked out, but I wasn't that kind of girl. I marched straight up to the bar and sat down, as far away from that man as I could.

  The bartender himself was nothing spectacular but the man who called me Blondie was admittedly rather handsome. Tall, broad and chiseled and surprisingly well dressed for such a place. He was wearing a pair of smart black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his Japanese style tattoos. I'd never been very interested in tattoos but these ones were beautiful, adding a fantastic array of color and detail to his skin. I tried not to stare.

  He smiled at me but I didn't reciprocate. The bartender looked rather apologetic for laughing at me. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Cocktail night is Saturday, sweetie!” said the other guy, but the bartender shushed him. What a jackass. His sparkling blue eyes and chiseled jawline didn't make up for his arrogance. If there was one thing that I had learned in my quarter of a century on the planet it was that good looks didn't make up for a shitty personality. Even if his stubble looked sexy as
hell.

  I ignored him and looked at the bartender with determination.

  “Whiskey on the rocks please. The strongest you've got,” I said. I'd never had it before but it sounded a little bit more impressive than my usual order of rum and diet coke. Both men looked taken a back but the bartender quickly snapped out of it and poured it for me.

  The irritating gentleman moved a seat closer to me, looking at me with curiosity.

  “Did you get dumped or something?” he asked. Jesus Christ, this guy had no tact whatsoever. The way he spoke whatever was on his mind without any regard for anyone was reminiscence of a nasty child. If we were still in the playground I would have pushed him off of the slide to teach the little fucker a lesson.

  “No,” I said curtly. The bartender, whose name tag said 'Jack' handed me my whiskey. I thanked him and rifled through my purse for money.

  “It's on me,” said the asshole. I rolled my eyes.

  “No thanks.”

  “Seriously, you look like you can't afford it,” he said. Typical.

  “Ah, you're doing that schoolyard thing of being mean to me to get me to like you then? No thanks,” I said, handing the bartender a twenty. He pushed it back.

  “Really miss, he can afford it. You should keep your money,” he said. I frowned and pushed the money back.

  “I don't care. I'll pay for my own drinks, thanks,” I said. Jack raised his eyebrows but took my money and handed me my change. Though I intentionally didn't look at him, I could feel the other man's eyes on me. It was unnerving. I made a mental note to never come to this bar again. I certainly wouldn't be coming back alone. I began to understand why most women preferred to go to bars in groups. That way they could avoid talking to jerks like this guy.

  “What's your name?” asked the man. I ignored him. Jack laughed, watching bemusedly.

  I took another sip of my drink. It was stronger than I had been expecting, but not unpleasant. The boys seemed impressed by how easily I drank it down.

  “Oh come on sweet cheeks, don't ignore me now. No one ignores me,” he said. Jack shook his head. “Stop pushing the girl, Dane. She's embarrassed,” he said. His voice was kind but I found it infuriating. Embarrassed? Why on earth would I be embarrassed? The only one who should have been embarrassed was the stupid man with the sexy body.

  “I'm not embarrassed,” I said. I turned to Dane, “Now, could you please leave me alone Dane, or whatever it is you're called.”

  For some reason that I couldn't quite understand, the two men looked baffled. God, handsome guys were the worst. I'd never come across a handsome guy who didn't know how good looking he was and get pissed off when not all women fell at his feet. Well, I wasn't that shallow. A pretty face meant jack shit to me if it didn't come with a brain and a personality attached to it. I just wished that most men thought the same way.

  I drained the last of my glass and handed the bartender a wad of notes. My groceries from last week would have to carry me over to this week, judging by the rate I was spending tonight. Drinks just seemed a lot more appealing to me at the present time.

  “I'm going to sit at one of the booths and read a book. If you see my glass is empty I want you to come over and bring me a new one, OK?” I said and he nodded slowly. I left and marched over to the booth, sitting down on the soft leather and pulling a battered old copy of Mansfield Park out of my handbag. I usually liked to read at home, curled up with a hot drink and a blanket but I didn't see why I couldn't read in the bar. It was better than talking to those idiots anyway.

  Of course it wasn't long before Dane had followed me over with my drink in one hand and his beer in the other. He placed them down on the table and grinned at me.

  “Oh, you're part of the wait staff now?” I said. My insults seemed to just rebound, to go through one ear and right out the other. Maybe the boy was a complete moron and I was being too cruel. Then again, that knowing smile made me question it. I'd keep be cruel for as long as he kept being annoying. It didn't seem like either of us were going to stop. He slid into the seat across me and nodded at my book.

  “Jane Austen, huh? You like all that garbage?” he said. I was surprised that he even knew who she was. Impressed, even. I shouldn't have been, but most handsome guys didn't even read the back of the cereal box regularly. This one wasn't totally brain dead. He did make one fatal mistake, however. There was one thing that you didn't do, and that was insult Savannah Finn's favorite authors. Especially Jane Austen.

  “Oh please, you've never read a book in your life. How would you know if it was good or not?” I snorted. I made a point of staring at the page, though the words were blurry. Dane knew that there was no way I would ignore him. He seemed genuinely offended by my remark.

  “Uh, you are so wrong. Only, I usually read good books not that mushy crap where everyone's in love with everyone and all the chicks wear corsets. Not that I mind corsets, they kind be kinda sexy if you put them with stockings on the right chick, I digress. But I did read Mansfield Park a few years back for research,” He said. I put the book down and knocked back my whiskey. It didn't seem quite as strong anymore and slid down my throat easily. Maybe this would become a regular drink for me. My friends, who considered two cocktails in one night to be 'going wild' would feel even more pity for me if they thought I was an alcoholic.

  Dane was looking at me expectantly. I sighed and gave in.

  “And I bet you're just dying for me to ask you what you were researching for, aren't you? If I do will you bug off?” I asked. Dane shrugged.

  “I can't make any promises, but you're going to ask me anyway,” he said. God damn it, it was annoying how right he was. I sucked in my lips in an attempt to keep quiet, but I couldn't resist asking why this tattooed beefcake would be reading historical romance novels. It was such a strange image that there had to be a good story behind it.

  “What were you researching?” I sighed, hating the triumphant look on that stupid, perfect face.

  “I had an audition to play Tom in a mini-series. This was years ago, when I still did television,” he said, “It didn't work out. Apparently being heavily tattooed throws off the realism in historical dramas. I thought it might add another dimension to his character, but the casting directors didn't think so. Eh, wasn't my thing anyway.”

  Ah, a failed actor. My school had been right next to a drama academy so I'd met them often. They would get drunk and talk about their glory days as an extra in some major soap opera or insist that I go see their one woman show about the evils of consumerism. They were still young, but it was obvious to me and anyone else that they were going nowhere. Would I really have to sit down and politely listen to this guy regal me with his tales of being Frightened Man #3 in some low budget horror sequel? I decided to nip it in the bud.

  “Look, I'm really not interested in hearing anymore about your acting experience. I was in a fast food commercial when I was nine and a nativity play when I was four -I played Mary, by the way.

  So you could say I starred in it. Guess what? No one gives a shit, buddy. When you've made a few million dollar movies then we can talk,” I said, polishing off the last of my whiskey. Jack came over immediately with another whiskey for me and another beer for Dane. As he returned to the bar I saw that Dane was smiling at me like he'd just discovered some kind of rare diamond.

  “Do you go to the movies a lot?” he asked. That was a weird question. When I was a kid we'd lived down the street from a movie theater and went every weekend, sometimes twice if my parents had worked overtime. Once I hit my teens I'd discovered my love of books and movies had kind of fallen by the wayside. I still watched old classics now and then but new films just didn't appeal to me. There were too many explosions, too many naked girls and too many musclebound meat heads with no character development. I hated the artificial buttery taste of movie theater popcorn and seeing the inevitable couple mauling in the front row. By reading my books and watching old movies I got to stay comfortable at home without subjecti
ng myself to any of that crap. I explained as much to Dane.

  “No, not really. I think movies started to go down the shitter after the sixties,” I said. Dane took a long gulp of his beer and sat back. I hated the way he looked at me, like I was a stupid kid saying something very silly.

  “Really? Why's that?” he asked. His tone was so patronizing but I did my best to show him that I wasn't an idiot.

  “Yes, really. They lost all their style and the budgets got too big and the actors are total dipshits,” I said. The last part was especially true. My friends all swooned over the latest action star's muscles but I wasn't impressed. I would chose Marlon Brando or James Dean over those losers any day.

  “Yeah, a lot of the actors are shit,” he said, “You know, a lot of people have compared me to James Dean.”

  I laughed uproariously though the comparison wasn't completely ridiculous. Dane had the same bad boy attitude and good looks. Even so, he had to be taken down a peg or two.

  “I don't see it,” I said, “Who said, that your mother?”

  Dane shrugged.

  “Lots of people, but I guess we don't all see things the same way. And who are you, Savannah?” he said. The way he said my name made me tingle on the inside. The way he was looking at my cleavage only made it intensify, “Marilyn? Jayne Mansfield?”

  “Shut up,” I said, feeling myself blushing at the comparison to my favorite starlets. How did he know what to say to get me all hot and bothered?