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“It is easy. Schedule me in, and I’ll buy you a ticket.”
“I’m building a company here. I can’t just take off.”
“You can’t take a couple of weeks off for me?”
“Not really.”
“Could you work online? I have a new project coming up.”
“I guess—”
“Good,” he steamrolled, the victory in his tone evident. “I’ll see you soon.” He paused again, a quiet grunt meeting my ears. “Wait. Don’t go yet. Your voice has made me so fucking hard. Just talk to me for a while. Talk dirty to me until I come.”
I was never shy in front of Noah. I never had been, so I did as he asked, describing in great detail what I would do to him and with him if I were there in his bed—treating myself to self-gratification while I was at it.
ChapterOne
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
It was a beautiful day in Los Angeles when I arrived. The sun was shining, and the temperature, though cool, was pleasant compared to the snow I’d left behind. One glance around LAX, and I found the large sign that readStrawberry Sundaeheld by Noah’s personal assistant, Bodhi. He rushed forward the moment he saw me, his grin wide when he took my bags and waved away my complaints.
“Man, is it good to see you,” he said, hoisting my overnight bag over his shoulder while dragging the suitcase behind him.
“You miss me, too, Bo?”
“Always.”
“What’s been going on?”
“Downtime,” Bodhi said, pushing a door open for me with his back and rushing toward a non-descript town car sitting at the curb. “Noah’s been reading scripts for the last three days trying to decide his next project.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Bodhi shrugged a shoulder and loaded my bags in the trunk. He slammed it closed before continuing to speak. “He just doesn’t know what he wants to do. He’s bored with romance. Some asshole told him he was unmarketable as an action star, and he hasn’t found a comedy script he likes yet.”
“Who told him he wasn’t marketable?”
“Marcus Rothman.”
“Ouch.”
Bodhi nodded as we both slid into the car. It pulled away from the curb and into the traffic while my mind ran rampant. Marcus Rothman was one of the biggest names in the industry for fast-paced action movies. He had a niche, and industry professionals and viewers alike respected that, flocking to his blockbuster summertime releases religiously. I wasn’t sure I agreed with Rothman’s assessment of Noah, however. Noah was gorgeous in that James Bond kind of way. He was suave and debonair, handsome and roguish. He could pull off romantic comedy and suspenseful romance as well as the odd thriller here and there. Given a chance, I could see him killing the roles Rothman customarily provided, but I wasn’t the target audience, and I had no say in any of it. I was a woman who warmed Noah Jennings sheets while she was in LA.
“What about a cop drama or a psychological thriller?”
“No options. He wasn’t sent any scripts. His agent is feeding him the usual crap.”
“So, what’s he thinking?”
“Executive producing an action flick and playing the lead.”
“Is that feasible?”
“According to Noah it is.”
Bodhi and I rode in silence for a while, my mind on Noah and the mood we’d find him in. I’d had conversations like this with Noah in the past. Three a.m. phone calls where he paced in frustration, talking a million miles a minute about how the studios took him for granted and didn’t believe in his talent. Alcohol, Ritalin, or cocaine usually fueled it.
The driver drove us toward Malibu rather than Noah’s house in the hills, and I was glad of that. The ocean air always made me feel as though I could breathe deeper, and more often than not helped when Noah was in these kinds of moods. While we spoke, walks on the beach would eat up the extra energy he had and give him an outlet, the cool water easing his erratic mood swings.
