Love Me Like You Do

by Sasha Clinton

  Self-conscious, she checked her reflection on the window glass. Thank goodness she wasn’t crying. Yet.

  “You had it that bad, huh?” She didn’t need his pity.

  Pity hadn’t changed anything then and wouldn’t change anything now.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she ground out through her tight jaw. “Because I’m not going to do the show. Bye.”

  “I can get you Leonardo DiCaprio’s autograph.” Jamie slid back to his light-hearted tone. Bella was thankful that they weren’t going to get into any more serious topics. She didn’t know why she was sharing personal memories with him. “And if there are any celebrities you want to meet, I can arrange that, too.”

  “Nice try, but no.” Bella dropped her eyelids halfway, in a defeated, worn denial. “I can’t. I have a full-time job already. That part was true.”

  University was off for summer and she wasn’t teaching summer school at Harvard this year, but he didn’t have to know that.

  Silently, Bella bent to retrieve her plastic bags.

  “I’ll carry them the rest of the way home if you want,” Jamie offered.

  Bella gave her purse a shake. “Let me check if I got my taser first.”

  Offended, he frowned. “Hey, didn’t we just establish that I’m trustworthy?”

  “All I know is that you write screenplays, and you’re a Gemini. How is that supposed to make you trustworthy?”

  She trusted no one. Especially not him.

  Jamie’s father, Star senior, was a prolific womanizer. The genes could’ve carried through to Jamie. She wasn’t going to be the one to take that risk.

  “Bye.” Bella maneuvered to door, almost buckling under the weight.

  Damn, these bags were heavy.

  Jamie opened the door for her. “Tell me your name before you go.”

  “Bella.” She waited for him to pick a direction to head in, but he didn’t.

  “Family name?”

  “Most of my friends and colleagues call me Bella. You can call me Bella, too.” Bella squinted when the sun blasted into her eyes and nearly blinded her for a split second.

  “I need your full name to search you on Facebook.”

  Bella grunted, “Dude. We met at Trader Joe’s like, an hour ago. I’m not adding you on Facebook.”

  He laughed, which made butterflies run through her stomach. Stupid reaction, but he had a great laugh.

  “If you change your mind, call me. My number’s on the business card I gave you earlier.” Oh, right. That business card, which was somewhere between the cabbage and potatoes. “Have a good day.”

  Then he tipped his head forward, and silently strode away.

  Chapter 3

  Grant Star’s Renaissance style townhouse at 494 Greenwich Street loomed ahead of Jamie, its long, rectangular shadow slanting over the pavement and the road. The yellow-brown terraced stone walls were weather-beaten, but not worn. Curtains were drawn, and there was no movement through the windows, which was, to put it mildly, unusual in the Star household.

  Without bothering to buzz, Jamie entered the code on the keypad to the left of the Lion-shaped door knocker. The black door swung unlocked, and a whoosh of freezing air gusted over him.

  The grand foyer was empty. Jamie spotted several new elements—Warhol paintings, African tribal masks and tall Grecian vases holding stalks of artificial pink flowers. As he walked towards the stairs leading up to Grant’s home office, his sneakers were stifled by the blue Persian rug in the living room.

  Overcrowded with furniture, the living room was different from what it’d been during his childhood. The brand new, modern light fixtures on the wall cast a sophisticated light over the space. The TV had been upgraded to a 50-inch plasma screen, and there was a mini-bar right next to the TV.

  For a few nostalgic moments, Jamie recalled playing hide-and-seek and watching Noddy with his father. Grant had once been a good father. More than good—he’d been cool, present, attentive—the kind of father every boy longed for.

  He’d always called his father Grant, rather than dad, because they’d been so close, more like best friends than father and son. He couldn’t pinpoint the day when Grant had gone from being the best dad in the world to an absent one, who only saw him at dinner with a different woman on his arm every week.

  Maybe the day when he’d not shown up for Jamie’s high school graduation, or maybe even before that. Water under the bridge now. He’d grown used to the new Grant and his stream of blonde women just as he’d grow used to this new house and the constant changes here.

  “Grant?” Jamie called, spinning his gaze around.

  Unflinching silence circled him. Wasn’t Grant home?

  “Grant!” he called again, louder this time.

  He heard hustling from upstairs. Snapping his neck up, Jamie decided to take a chance. The bedroom door was ajar with twin shadows dancing in front of the door. He approached the doorjamb with trepidation and knocked.

  “Grant?”

  “Come in.”

  Every time he heard that tone of voice, it was almost always followed by some unsavory revelation of the carnal kind.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for me to come in?”

  Amused laughter roared out, vibrating over Jamie’s toes. “I have nothing to hide, J. You know all my vices.”

  Throwing the door open, Jamie bustled in, to find a young, hot, naked woman in his father’s arms, her tongue deep inside Grant’s mouth.

  His recoil was only moderate.

  He’d experienced a few too many re-runs of this scenario over the last years. Enough to desensitize him. Now this was normal.

  Like most superstars who’d enjoyed too much free-flowing pussy during the height of their careers, Grant Star had never quite gotten over the delusion that he was Molly in male form. At fifty-six, he had a revolving door of women at his disposal, most of whom were connected to the studio in some way or the other.

  Only difference was, he’d updated his repertoire to include some ‘Fifty Shades,’ if the handcuffs and blindfold were anything to go by.

  “Hey, J,” Wiping away the moisture on his lips with the back of his palm, Grant’s piercing gray eyes crinkled at Jamie. Those were superstar eyes, alright. They were also father eyes.

  Jamie gave a smirk of disgust when Grant reached up to stroke the blonde’s very enhanced butt. While he may have inherited his father’s love for movies, he’d not inherited Grant’s penchant for women who had more plastic in their bodies than a Barbie doll.

  Keen to preserve the image of Grant he had in his head as a kind and supportive dad, Jamie didn’t judge him too harshly for it. Grant had a lot of good in him. He’d helped Jamie get in touch with a number of studios to pitch his TV series, and he’d cheered him on at every step of his career.

  There were many talented writers out there with better scripts who were struggling because they didn’t have a Grant Star to believe in them.

  Which was why Jamie would never hate Grant.

  “I can take two.” The woman crouched at Grant’s side said, winking at Jamie.

  “Let’s not involve J in this, Sheila.” Grant didn’t look very happy.

  Dropping his gaze to the the bottle of Johnnie Walker and tub of ice cubes atop the glass-top coffee table, Jamie grimaced. Scotch whiskey and sex. Surely, that was a combination his father could have come up with.

  “Gage is at 13th precinct,” Jamie informed, his back half-facing his father. “He needs help.”

  In the interest of preserving his modesty, Grant had pulled the sheets to cover half his chest, but the woman with him didn’t see the need for such useless pretensions.

  Looking at a naked woman didn’t make him uncomfortable or turn him on, but he turned his gaze to Monet’s water lilies hanging on the wall, framed in gold. Originals his father had paid a mini-fortune for. It had been Grant’s fiftieth birthday gift to himself.

  Grant curved his head up. “J, why in hell are you still trying to s
ave that boy? Take my word, son, that boy is never gonna stop. He’s addicted to ”

  Jamie tipped his chin at the wall sconce glowing dimly. “He’s in legal trouble, and he doesn’t know how to hire a lawyer. His agent has abandoned him, and his parents want nothing to do with him. Can’t you have one of your lawyers help him?”

  Disgruntled, Grant momentarily stopped making love, and a frown weighed down his lips. Sheila or whatever her name was, also frowned at having her pleasure cut short.

  “He thinks there are no consequences to anything he does because you’re always there to pick up the pieces for him.” Grant’s voice reached a high pitch.

  “Gage is a nice kid—”

  “Was. He isn’t anymore. And you can’t save him, J. I’ve seen too many like him. You can’t save them by bailing them out of trouble every time. I mean, he doesn’t even call his parents when he’s in trouble. He calls you, because he knows his own parents wouldn’t let him off so easily.”

  Grant had said that a million times over the last three years.

  Dismissing his suggestion, Jamie stuck his hand out for a glass of whiskey. “I wish you’d help him, though. He’s only a kid.”

  Grant rebuffed his suggestion, casually brushing his thumb pad on the side of Sheila’s arm.

  “I can’t,” with a long pause, his dad stretched his arms over the oak headboard, “and you shouldn’t, either. Sometimes, you gotta be tough with the people you love.”

  Jamie bent his knee slightly and scraped the edge of an ottoman. “He needs help. If we don’t intervene, he’ll get a crappy public defender and end up having to do months of community service. And as we both know, he’s going to skip on community service and cause us even more headaches in the form of a re-trial. So let’s cut that misery short.”

  Clicking his tongue, Grant moved his head in a definite no.

  “Last time,” Jamie pleaded.

  “Last time was the last time.”

  “Grant—”

  Chopped off midsentence by the housekeeper Diana’s loud voice, Jamie reflexively whipped his body around.

  “What’s is it, Diana?” he shouted to the housekeeper.

  “Eve Rosenberg is here to see Grant,” she shouted back up in her thick Newcastle accent.

  “Who’s Eve Rosenberg?” Jamie put the question to his father.

  Panicked, Grant scanned the entire perimeter of the room, snatching a shirt from under Sheila’s derriere. “Vice-President of Legal and Business Affairs. I need to get dressed, and you two have to leave.” He tapped Sheila.

  Judging from Grant’s extreme reaction, Eve Rosenberg was also a woman who had no problem putting Grant in his place. To be fair, none of the studio’s executives let him walk all over them as much as the twenty-something starry eyed interns did, but a woman with as much spine as this Eve was a rare species at Star Studios.

  Skimming past the living room, where Eve was now sitting and unhappily watching Downton Abbey re-runs with Diana, Jamie observed that she was older than any woman Jamie had ever seen at 494 Greenwich Street, with the exception of Diana.

  That must be why Grant hadn’t hit on her yet. To quote Grant, “older women were for men who had no options left.”

  Still, Eve didn’t look so bad. Her hair might be graying, but it was still thick and shiny. She had small, expressive eyes in an intriguing shade of amber.

  Sheila from upstairs rushed out past him, followed by a put-together Grant who shook Eve’s hand.

  Jamie decided to follow Sheila out.

  Getting out of the townhouse, it took him time to readjust to the humid heat.

  Unable to make up his mind about what to do with Gage, Jamie wandered around the entrance of the townhouse, jogging up a few blocks until he was at a subway station.

  He needed a desperate dose of something funny and interesting at this moment.

  Like that intriguing college professor, for instance.

  *

  Until today, Grant could count the number of times he’d been nervous in his life with one hand. Today was the first time he had to use his other hand to do the counting.

  Eve Rosenberg made him nervous. Very nervous.

  Mostly because she never had any good news for him. All that she ever discussed with him were legal and business problems. But there was something even more disturbing than legal problems that she brought up.

  A strange desire. Arousal.

  Diana set two cups of Earl Grey on the table with a motherly smile. Diana must be the same age as Eve, but unlike Eve, he didn’t even notice Diana. Not as a woman, anyway. She’d worked for him over ten years and he’d always seen her as a motherly figure.

  As a rule, he regarded all women over fifty as motherly or grandmotherly figures, a distinction that served him well when it came to keeping his lust away from housekeepers. Gray hair, wrinkles, and sex appeal did not mix. Beyond fifty, a female was practically a relic to him.

  Eve was the only exception.

  Honestly, he’d never been attracted to a woman her age. Menopausal women had no sex drive, and all he needed was sex—preferably with a tight, hot, and enhanced body.

  “Um...” He nodded like a dummy when Eve took a breath between her long explanation.

  She picked up the teacup and rested the edge of the porcelain between her thin lips.

  Regular trips to the hairdresser were keeping her hair brown, but she must’ve missed an appointment, because there was a shock of gray around her temples.

  Boy, it must be so depressing to grow old as a woman and watch everything you have fade.

  What did he see in her, then, Grant wondered?

  Eve was so flawed. Her breasts sagged despite the tight bra she wore, and she had a symphony of lines and spots around her eyes and mouth. Not the image of Hollywood beauty, really. Not the image of any kind of beauty, really.

  “Are you with me?” Eve prodded, widening her luscious honey-hued eyes. Such a magnificent color.

  As unique as the rest of her.

  “Have you thought about early retirement?” Grant interrupted, drifting off-topic.

  Molding her mouth into a pucker, she gave him a shrug.

  Next year, he was going to add in an option for free Botox to her benefits package. On second thought, she would most likely shoot that suggestion down on the basis of being sexist or ageist.

  There was no pleasing a woman like her. Melanie—his first and only wife—had been notoriously easy to please. Diamonds and joints did it for her every time. This one was impressed by nothing.

  “I don’t believe in quitting early,” she said, something fiery flaring in her eyes. “I’ve got a few more years to go before I hit sixty-five. After that, I’m planning to start my own consulting business. You’re more than welcome to hire me as a consultant and keep using my services.”

  A high chuckle climbed out of his vocal cords. God, she was something. Bustling with plans for the future even at this age. Nothing like the demure, easygoing, submissive women he liked. Entirely too ambitious for her own good.

  “Don’t you want to take it easy?” Grant asked, pretending to humor her.

  “Post-retirement life is excessively glorified.” She made a dreary face. “I want to live and work until my last breath.”

  He decided to try the tea, but after seeing it, changed his mind. Diana made horrible tea, which was ironic, since she was British. “Overworking ages your skin faster.”

  Making a funny sound, she scrunched her face. “What am I going to do with tight skin at this age?”

  “What’re you going to do with more money, then?”

  “It’s not about the money...” She became alert. “Actually, while we’re on the topic of money, I want to renegotiate my salary for next year and discuss my promotion. Atsushi’s retiring next year. I’m the most experienced person in legal. In my seven years at Star Studios, I think I’ve proven myself enough to warrant a promotion.”

  “Eve. We’ve done this before.” A ti
red exhale escaped Grant. Every three years, she got this itch to be promoted. “No.”

  “Why not? I think I deserve it, Grant. I’ve seen everybody but me getting promoted since I joined Star Studios. I think it’s my turn now.”

  Grant picked up the teacup, then bothered by the smell, set it down. “You don’t have sufficient leadership ability. And you don’t put in nearly as many hours as Atsushi does. You want to leave by six on most days. Now, I understand that you have a family and as a woman, that’s your first priority. We’re proud to promote work-life balance at Star Studios. But I have to be fair here. Atsushi works much harder than you, and there are many people in the organization who work longer than you. President is a demanding role. We need someone committed.”

  “I’m committed,” she mumbled, visibly upset. “And you’re not right about me working less than the others. Actually, if you total up the number of hours I’ve worked over the last three years; I’ve worked fifty hours more than anybody else. And I’ve shown plenty of leadership.”

  She rattled off a number of instances. Grant didn’t have to check to know that she was right.

  However, that didn’t mean he could promote her. The board and other senior executives already had a man in mind to be Atsushi’s successor. A man who was, no doubt, less qualified than Eve. But he was young, and Star Studios needed young blood at the top.

  “Eve, we have plenty of high-caliber candidates for President. I don’t want to sound harsh, but I think you’re fighting a losing battle here.”

  She swept her palms over her red cheeks. “So tell me. How do I show more leadership? Do I need to be more proactive in soliciting deals? Do I need to exceed my targets by more than I currently am? Or do I need to have a penis?”

  Grant expected her to apologize, to flinch, take back her words, but she continued to stand by and let those words echo. The word penis was definitely not moving his mind in any fruitful direction.

  “I can see you’re passionate about this,” he started. And I want to fuck this passionate woman. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You say the same thing every year. Don’t you get tired of saying it again and again without meaning it?” She stamped a sharp heel on the hardwood floor. “And it’s not even about me being passionate. There is clearly a culture of discrimination against female employees at the organization. Ninety-five percent of promotions in the last three years went to men. Women are grossly under-represented in the top management. Less than five percent of the board is female. Grant, you’ve got to change that.”