Jeffery fucked everything that moved and that was a poorly kept secret. I’d been aware of what a whore he was, but I just hadn’t cared. You wouldn’t find an honorable man in the business, and if you did they were either taken, gay, or rightly thought I was a total bitch.
There was one man I’d been trying to get out of my bed the night I’d decided to sleep with Jeffery. We’d been on location in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, I’d had one too many whiskies and decided to swap out my vibrator for a real man.
Not that he was one.
But that didn’t matter. The truth didn’t matter. What mattered was that me being a home-wrecking slut would sell a lot more magazines. Even though newspapers were dying a slow death, tabloids were thriving.
Oh what a world.
“You know better than I do that female and male leads in most movies with a romantic element have to face these predictable rumors,” I said, still softly, but there was an edge to my voice. One I knew she’d recognize. A warning. My eyes narrowed. “Usually, it’s the female lead being asked, of course. The man is usually given time to speak about the movie itself, his career achievements, not belittled about achievements or his personal life. But as a woman, I’m sure you understand the reasons for that.” I smiled tightly. I wanted to rip her skinny fucking neck off.
She tilted her head. She’d got the warning. But she wasn’t as faint-hearted as she seemed. There was no blush of embarrassment in her cheek, not even fear in her eyes. “You’ve been linked to a number of men you’ve filmed with. Most notably, Kieran Love, whom you were engaged to. Have you been looking for the same love since? Or have you been looking to ruin prominent relationships in Hollywood as polished revenge?”
Because I was practiced at this game, I didn’t give any inclination that the mere mention of that name forced bile up my throat. I kept that placid, superior smile firmly in place and regarded this woman a little more closely.
Not mousy at all.
Someone was looking to make their career. Make a reputation for herself. She’d certainly done her research. All of the barbed comments snuck through my barriers and drew blood.
I smiled at her, more genuine now. Impressed. Women had a unique talent to injure other women by poking at wounds men had created.
“Revenge?” I repeated with a chuckle. “No, I do not waste time or energy on revenge.” I paused, not moving my eyes. “On men, at least. It’s in their nature to betray. Not that I accept that, but at least it’s not to be expected. Women who betray women on the other hand, I would consider worthy of revenge. Even in the town where half the female population have scars from the heels of their sisters using them as footstools to further themselves.” I purposefully crossed my legs, showing off the sharp point of my Louboutin’s. “I’d be sure to remember that, if I were you.”
She blinked at me. Once. Twice. The feline disappeared. The mouse returned. Once again, I’d made an enemy. One I’d hopefully scared enough to put off trying to cross me. Because I did not do idle threats.
I did not get my cheese or my multiple martinis that night.
No.
I did get to witness a murder though, and that caused me to forget about everything but the way the blood spattered from the man’s head when the back of it was blown off.
I’d been casually dating him, which I guessed made witnessing his murder that much worse.
Salvador Esposito. He was a rich Italian who was as shady as they came but he was nice-looking and gave great head. He also didn’t give a fuck about who I was or how rich I was. He didn’t really give a fuck about me at all, which was great because the feeling was mutual.
Since the broken engagement and heartbreak fiasco, I’d made a vow not to become that cliché woman again. You know, the heartbroken, pathetic woman that latched on to the boring, safe accountant just so she’d have someone to sleep next to.
No, I hated sleeping in the same bed with anyone. I chose to have sex like a man. No connections, no sleepovers, no cuddling. I’d been doing extremely well at this, and Salvador had seemed to revel in the fact he’d found a woman he didn’t have to woo. We’d only been screwing for a couple months, and I could honestly say I knew nothing about the man that did not pertain to the size of his dick or the way he used it.
Still, I didn’t want to see him get his head blown off.
I’d played in a lot of scenes where someone was murdered.
Died in plenty more at the beginning of my career when I was the hot girl destined to be murdered in the first ten minutes.
None of that was like the real thing.
Obviously.
Death had a smell, a feeling, a silence.
It was ugly, rancid and terrifying.
Terrifying, because I witnessed it and the man holding the gun doing the murdering was vaguely familiar. I’d seen his photo in many newspaper headlines—I still bought the dying medium—and he was well known in Hollywood. Shit, I think I’d been introduced to him at a save the animals, or save the oceans charity benefit.
His name escaped me, which I didn’t think would be the social faux pas it normally would considering he’d likely murder me too if he saw I was there. Tucked behind a bookshelf that was sparse thanks to some asshole interior designer obsessed with minimalism. If he looked up and to his right, he’d see me and I’d be dead. Everything inside me that wasn’t urging me to throw up—luckily my stomach was empty—was screaming at me to run.
But if I moved, if I breathed too loud, it would call attention to me. He was in front of me, in front of my only means to escape. So I had to somehow leave it up to fate if he would see me and kill me.
It wasn’t fate that got me here, it was my anger. That little bitch reporter had gotten far deeper under my skin than she should’ve. It was common knowledge in Hollywood that mentioning Kieran in an interview was a sure-fire way to get fired. Our relationship had been public, all-encompassing and for a time, we’d been the darlings of Hollywood and the world. People had been obsessed with our fairy-tale romance. Our careers skyrocketed. There wasn’t a day that went by that we weren’t headlines. But it was not the reason for our engagement—not for me at least.
I’d loved him.
My first love.
And, what I decided would be my only love.
He was intoxicating. Older. Classically handsome and rugged in a way not many Hollywood men were. He was a method actor, which meant when he got a role about a man who got lost in the woods and lived off the land for years, he’d trained to be authentic. Not for years, of course. But two months. No cameras. No handlers. When he was cast in an overdone Shakespearean epic, he would only speak in Elizabethan English for the entire period of filming. Which would’ve had his female counterpart labeled as a deranged bitch, but he’d been considered a genius.
So yeah, he’d impressed me. He gave me a kind of attention I’d never known. And that was saying something considering I’d just become accustomed to having the entire world paying attention to me. Of course, as a foster child starved of love, I’d sucked it all up. Sucked him up. The man who was so sure of himself. So distinguished. So talented. He was a presence. One of the true movie stars—which were rare in Hollywood, no matter what it seemed.
I should’ve known better. Life had jaded me, so I didn’t have naiveté as an excuse. Worse than that, I let myself love. Trust. And then my heart was split open for the entire world to see.