Bound To The Billionaire (The Girl Who Can't Say No, #1)

Bound To The Billionaire (The Girl Who Can't Say No, #1) By Ashley Spector


Chapter One


I watch as shiny beads of water drain from the tips of my knees, running down the length of my pale thighs to join the body of water below. When every bead of water falls from me, leaving nothing more than a trail of glistening liquid behind, I sink my knees back underwater, only to surface them again and repeat the process. I'm time-wasting; pointlessly distracting myself from the task at hand, but whatever.

After a few minutes soaking myself, dipping my head beneath the water briefly, only to resurface to face reality yet again, I reach over and grasp the thin paper pages of the script.


Intended for Chloe Everett's eyes only - When The Night Is Young - Pages 13 - 15



A set of lines I'd requested from some Hollywood agency, with the intention of attending an audition next week. Little did I know it'd be this explicit. Sinking back into the waters, I hold the pages barely above the surface, and scan across them with my eyes. This is the third time I've read it, and it never gets easier:





Mike and Jessica lie together in the moonlit grasses, naked, their clothes scattered around them. Slowly, he raises a hand to her breasts, and runs a fingertip along her skin, thoughtfully. She shudders in ecstasy, the pair of them struggling to contain their teenage urges.

MIKE: I love you Jessica,

JESSICA: I love you too, Mike.

They're disturbed by the howling of a wolf, but Jessica knows she's safe with him. He wraps his arms around her, and their bodies become one.

MIKE: You'll be safe with me.

Jessica: I know.





I close the pages, holding them tightly between wet fingertips, and shut my eyes slowly, basking in the warm, sweet embrace of the bath water, and try to put my mind to work. I can feel it - the moonlight upon my skin, the windswept fluttering of grass blades against my body - and I like it. I imagine hands on me, caressing my skin, feeling the soft, fleshy mounds of my breasts. I look over to see a faceless man - whoever would be unfortunate enough to act alongside me in this role - and immediately begin to feel the heat.

I try to recite the line to myself. I love you too, Mike. Suddenly, my heart begins pounding, and I feel a lump beginning to gather in my throat. My fingers tremble beneath the water, and my cheeks start to blush. It's no use. I can't f*cking do this.

I toss the pages of the script onto the floor beside me, and surface from the water, holding onto the sides of the bathtub tightly. Why am I so scared of things like this? I can't even watch a love scene on TV, it makes me so anxious. I jump out of the bath, and begin to dry myself with a towel, excising all thoughts of the script and the audition out of my mind. Fuck it, I think to myself, two auditions in a week is too many anyway. I have the one tomorrow, and I'll have to make it count.

It's the night before. I truly hate this feeling, really I do; knowing that the very imprecise actions I'll take the next day will decide whether I eat for the next month. There it is, that dreadful feeling that the tone, depth, and manner in which I say a bunch of words clumsily printed upon a sheet of paper tomorrow will dictate whether I have to beg my sister to feed us yet again. God it kills me. Maybe I'm being overly dramatic, but that can't be a bad thing. It's my business, after all.

I've never been happy in my own skin. I know that's something people say when they want to change their lives, but I really mean it; I'm pale, and freckled slightly around my shoulders, which roll unenthusiastically from my neck. I haven't got the body of a fifties starlet; my breasts are too small for the Marilyn Monroe look, and today's breed of permanently tanned, ever-immaculate leading ladies would laugh me out of the room.

"What is this life, if it isn't ours to enjoy?"

Reciting some meaningless line of dialogue from a soap-opera I watched earlier this week, it takes me a moment to realize but I'm tensing every muscle in my body. I step backwards, letting go of the sink before me, whilst still staring into my reddened eyes in the mirror. My knuckles turn from white to pink again, and I try to empty my mind, creating a mental image of a tranquil plain. My calm place.

"What is this life, if it isn't ours to enjoy?"

Fuck, I don't look like I even believe what I say. Holding my arms to my breasts, and squeezing the air from my lungs in one last exasperated effort, I finally divert my eyes from own pallid, naked body, and recite it one final time.

"What is this life, if it isn't ours to enjoy!?"

My words echo around the tiled walls of the bathroom, providing a strange and ghostly crescendo to my chorus of anxiety. Of course, I don't think I'll get the part. I never walk into an audition believing I'm the one for the role, because I'm not. I'm the daughter of a lawyer and the sister to a law student; I've experienced no life-affirming moments to draw from, and suffered no more than any other struggling actress straddling the poverty line. Luck seems to be the name of my game.

The part is a supporting role in a rather hush-hush movie; they haven't even revealed the title to me yet, nor any part of the script. How do I know it's even going to be a decent film? Funnily enough, by this point I don't even care. Finding a supporting role in a big production studio's movie is enough for me. The paycheck is a nice convenient bonus, of course.

Again, without realizing it, I've leant forward to the sink once again, clutching it tightly with trembling fingers, and inch my face closer and closer to the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, mascara beginning to run, and wet black hair clumped up around my face in matted, uneven tangles. I should really sleep.