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Lacey
For the millionth time, I smooth the sheets on the bed. Now, they aren't mussed enough.
They need to look lived in without looking messy.
No.
They need to looked fucked in.
This bed is the place where Malcolm Strong is fucking a glamour model turned actress. Only, in the music video, she won't be a model turned actress. She'll be…
Well, I'm not exactly sure what she'll be besides the woman Mal is fucking.
I scrunch the sheets. That's closer to where they need to be. Not that it really matters.
Most days, I don't mind sitting here, waiting for our celebrity client to show.
Today…
Fuck. That's a car pulling up outside.
Parking.
Turning off.
Its door opens and slams shut.
Footsteps move closer.
Those are steady footsteps. The footsteps of a beautiful six-foot-three, musclebound, inked-up rock star sex god.
The butterflies in my stomach rise up in my throat.
This is my job.
I can't freak out.
The butterflies ignore my logic. They spread out to my fingers and toes. My chest gets light. My head too.
The door pulls open.
And there's Mal, surrounded by the soft glow of the morning light.
He steps inside.
It's not like with other famous guys. They're always lacking something, plain, ordinary, dull when they should sparkle.
Mal is as brilliant as he is on stage, in photographs, in the band's six earlier music videos.
He's shining like the star he is.
His deep blue eyes fix on mine. His soft lips curl up at one side. It's a half smile. It's a tiny expression but it still lights up those piercing blue eyes.
God, he's beautiful.
His brown hair is hanging in messy waves. His grey t-shirt is snug around his strong shoulders. And his skinny jeans—god damn, this man is the poster child for form-fitting denim.
Get a grip, Lacey. Your number one job description is not fangirling over hot rock stars. So what if Mal is the only guy with a permanent place in your spank bank? So what if you respect him as a writer as much as you lust after him as a tattooed, tortured celebrity bad boy?
Future music video directors don't gush, no matter how many times they've touched themselves thinking of their actor. Musician. Whatever.
Danielle Kubbie's assistant certainly doesn't gush.
Mal takes another step into the studio. Suddenly, it feels smaller than its 800 square feet.
His deep voice flows from his perfect lips. "I thought the actress was a redhead."
He half-smiles at me. Then at Danielle.
He's teasing.
Or… does he really think I'm the video actress? I am standing next to the bed in a tiny, incredibly unprofessional tank top–and-shorts combo. But Danielle doesn't care. The studio air conditioning is crap and she'd rather I "look like a whore than smell like sweat."
Mal gives me a long, slow once-over. There's something about the shift of his hips. About the ways his pupils dilate.
He wants me in that bed.
As the actress in the video.
Or as…
No. I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm letting my sex dreams bleed into reality. There's no way that Malcolm Strong, celebrity millionaire, rock star sex god wants me.
Danielle laughs. "Mal, sweetheart. It's nice to see you." Her eyes go to the clock on the wall then to him. "Traffic?"
He nods. "It's a long drive from Orange County."
She purses her lips. He's late and Danielle doesn't allow anyone else to out diva her.
She forces a smile. "You don't have to explain. You're the rock star." She motions to the bed. "You ready to start?"
Mal cocks a brow. "No foreplay?"
His deep voice is as hard to read as his beautiful face, but I'm pretty sure he's joking.
His eyes light up.
Yes, definitely joking.
