AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Prologue
Tyson Lord
Three Months Ago
Ihate being idle. Despite being fresh off a multi-Oscar win forLust & Other Problems, I need to get back to work. My producing partner, Marsha Klein, brought me the script forPirate Among Usand insisted we produce it. The Lord Brothers have produced fifteen movies and two television series in the last ten years. My slightly younger brother, Tyler, handles TV production. My youngest brother, Terrence, does something for this company, but I couldn’t tell you what that is because he’s never at work. Never.
I’m not strictly a producer; I’ve been known to act. I’ve won awards for it, but lately, it hasn’t been my passion. I slid into making the movies because I was disappointed by my experience with my last co-star three years ago. Hannah Lyon, a French starlet, was just rising then. Now, she’s at the top because she rode my good name through the fucking mud to get there. She’s not a bad actress, but a bad human being. Not only was she a diva on set with outrageous demands like she’d only work without extras on set or only Evian water to drink and some kind of crazy filtered water for the shower in her trailer, she tried to ruin my career. It didn’t quite work, but with carefully doctored photos and well-placed lies, there will always be doubt. I don’t go a single day without being reminded of her and her lies. The press refuses to let it die down. Nothing lives this long except for this.
We’ve had two years of a hard-hitting disease, a fucking war in two countries I’ve never heard of on the Iberian Peninsula, baby pandas being born, shit any and everything that should be getting press, but instead, it’s all Hannah Lyon, poor little actress, all the fucking time. She’s nothing more than a fucking spoiled child who never heard the word no. She claimed that I fucked her and made her promises. Promises of fame and fortune and my name. I didn’t fucking do that. I wouldn’t do any of that with a woman like her. Everyone else in the whole fucking world thinks she’s beautiful and perfect, but I know she’s a fucking monster.
Since I moved to LA from Ohio, brothers in tow, fifteen years ago, I haven’t touched a woman.
Hell, I didn’t do that in Ohio, either. If you had the parents and the grandparents my brothers and I have, you’d know not to waste your seed nor energy on the woman you weren’t absolutely made for. A woman who wasn’t made to be your wife. There for, I’m thirty-five years old, and I’ve never fucked a woman. Never done more than kiss as required for a movie. This isn’t public knowledge, of course, but whenever the need arises, I’ve got a perfectly good hand to fuck. It’s enough for now.
After reading the script Marsha brought me, I knew it was a winner. Maybe not an award winner, but women of all ages are going to love it. It’s basically romantic porn set on the high seas after what appears to be a devastating loss for the heroine. Fuck, I think men will even enjoy it. It’s that good. We’ve been doing auditions for two weeks now, and the only roles not cast are the leads. There are two callbacks and one new audition for Audrey, the female lead. I am not impressed with the callbacks, but I don’t say anything until the second of them leave the room.
“They were not right,” Marsha says.
“No they were not. The first one was abysmal. What the hell accent was that?” I ask.
“Posh Cockney, maybe. Awful, just awful. Let’s see what this one does.”
“Who is it?” I ask, picking up the last resume on the table.
“Stacee Beaufort. Relative newcomer. She might actually be too young for the role, but she’s good. She’s only twenty-two, twenty-three in May. She has three feature film roles, none starring, two made-for-television movies that she starred in, and several guest spots on TV shows. One Golden Globe nomination for a TV movie and two Primetime Emmy awards for guest starring roles. One onBleary Manorand the other onPeak Season.” Marsha continues to list her accolades while we wait for her. She’s late.Bleary Manoris a British show about a debutante finishing school set in modern times. It’s pretty good.
I’ve seen most of the episodes with my mother. It’s her favorite show. She still lives in Akron. My father passed away ten years ago now, but Mom refuses to move. She loved him so fucking much she barely leaves her house now. I run her household from LA. I visit her several times a month, and if I’m not with her, Tyler or is. I’ve tried to get her to move out here for years, but have had no luck, so we do what we have to do to ensure her happiness. For now, she’s content with living in a mausoleum-esque shrine to my dad, but I know that can’t last forever.
“Okay. She’s late,” I say, looking at my watch. I can’t stand lateness. To me, if you are on time, you are late.
“Jenny says she’s in the building. She checked in at reception,” Marsha says after setting her phone back down on the table. I stand, ready to go on the hunt for the missing actress, when the door bursts open, and an elaborately dressed woman with long blonde hair seemingly sails into the room. I am struck by her beauty. She’s got to be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She looks elegant and graceful, that is, until she falls flat on her face just over the threshold.
“Ow…fuck,” the pile of fabric heaped on the floor says as I move around the table to get to her. I stifle a chuckle at her muttered curse.
“Shit,” Marsha says at the same time, standing but not moving from her spot behind the table.
“Miss Beaufort?” I ask, reaching her and dropping to my knees on the floor in front of her, trying to help her.
“Yes. Stacee Beaufort, reading for the part of Audrey.” I can’t help chuckling at her this time.
“Yes, well, let’s get you into a more comfortable position, shall we?” I should not have said that. Her in all kinds of naughty positions flits through my mind. She thrusts her hand out of the pile of fabric, and I take it. The nanosecond that I do, my skin sizzles to life like I’ve been struck by lightning. My heart beats erratically, and I can’t control my breathing. It sounds raggedly harsh to my ears.
“Ummm…” she kind of moans, and it goes straight to my cock. I shake my head to clear it of all manner of erotic, one-of-a-kind thoughts about the two of us and stand, pulling her up with me. She stumbles forward again until she’s pressed firmly against me. So completely against me, I can feel her hard nipples through the thin… gauze of her dress. She moans softly again, and my cock twitches between us. Her amber eyes widen, and I know she feels it too. The more I stare down into her eyes, I realize that while they are indeed amber-colored, they are rimmed with a champagne-colored circle that makes her eyes appear bright and big. They are tinged with a little bit of sadness, and I want to fix whatever has made her sad. I could get lost in her eyes. For some reason, they remind me of the amber waves of grain lyric inAmerica The Beautiful, probably because this girl is beyond beautiful. I’m fucked in the head. It’s official.
“Miss. Beaufort. I. Apologize,” I growl each word quietly and painfully. Then she fucking smiles up at me, and I lose it. My grip tightens on her hand, and I know that I’ve got to have her. I have to possess her. That primal bit inside my brain, which should have mutated out of my DNA long ago, sparks to life. All I can hear in my head, beating like a drum, isMINE! MINE! MINE!
“Tyson,” Marsha says after clearing her throat. I turn my head to face her and see that she’s sitting back down. She’s wearing a shit-eating grin like she can read my mind. She came with us from Ohio University when my brothers and I moved out here. I thought she’d end up with Tyler, but they are both procrastinating hardcore on that front.
“Marsha, yes. Let’s move along shall we? Are you alright Miss Beaufort? Your face has a welt,” I say, still not letting her go, willing my cock to go down so that I can turn around again. She reaches up and touches the mark on her face and winces. I hate that she’s in pain. The raised welt on her face is already changing color. She’ll bruise for sure.
“Stacee, please. I’m fine. Just… really embarrassed. I swear I’m not usually clumsy or rather this clumsy.”
“It could be the dress,” Marsha offers helpfully.
“Yes. The dress. I think I overestimated the dress. It didn’t seem this fluffy when I put it on this morning nor when I got in my car.”
“You drove in this thing?” I ask, knowing that it can’t be safe to drive in a dress as voluminous as this.
