Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(16)
My pity party was interrupted by the clink of ice in Ben’s drink. He looked down at the glass, and I stood up to get him a refill. Opening the fridge, I pushed any thoughts of Cole Masten and sex out of my mind.
CHAPTER 18
9:27 AM. The redhead knelt on the bed over Cole’s face, her legs trembling on either side of his head, her smooth thighs cool against his skin. She panted his name, her fingers in his hair, pulling then releasing, a string of motions she wasn’t even aware of doing.
“I can’t,” she gasped, one hand reaching wildly back and grabbing at the flat plane of his stomach, her body bucking against his mouth. He held her in place, his mouth devouring, tongue fluttering against her clit, all of his focus on getting her up and over this mountain.
Well, almost all focus. He closed his eyes for a moment, holding off his own orgasm, the mouth on his cock, talented, and he moved one hand off the redhead, reaching down and threading his fingers through the hair of the blonde, her movements never stopping, never slowing—a perfect blowjob.
The redhead was close, his mouth soaked with her juices, her taste everywhere, the sweetness of a woman. She fought him, her mouth begging, wanting more but unable to handle it until the moment that she broke, her guttural cry loud and long, his fingers biting into her skin as he held her down, his mouth carrying her through, stretching it out gently before she rolled off his face, her body twitching against the bed as he propped himself up, his hand pulling at the hair of the blonde, pulling her off his cock and up to his mouth.
She tasted like masculinity and he kissed her hard, then pushed her away, rolling to the side of the bed and standing, his cock at attention, ready for more. He pulled open the bedside table drawer and grabbed at the pile of condoms, pulling one out and sticking the foil piece in his mouth, tearing it open with his teeth. “On your knees,” he ordered, their bodies scrambling into place, and he felt, in the moment before he knelt back on the mattress, his hand gripping at the first arched ass, a stab of loneliness. Loneliness. A new emotion that was growing increasingly familiar. Two women before him now, the prior night spent with their legs entangled with his, their hands on his skin, and he’d laid there, in the dark, and never felt so alone.
He pulled the girl backward and onto his cock. Listened to her moan and tried to find validation in the sound.
“You’re late.” Brad DeLuca barked the words, hanging up a call and tossing his cell onto the white linen tablecloth, the iPhone hitting a glass stem with a loud crack.
“Sorry. Business to attend to.” Cole sat down, a waiter appearing, fresh water set out with lemon.
“Bullshit.”
“What?” Cole looked up.
“* isn’t business, and this, right now, is the most important thing in your life, so when we make an appointment, keep it.” DeLuca leaned forward on the table and stared at his client.
He’d been trying to get DeLuca to LA for two weeks and a lecture was the first thing out of the man’s mouth? Cole stared at the man warily, an eyebrow raised. “You work for me, you know that, right?”
When the attorney laughed, it was a low chuckle, one born out of confidence and experience, and one with absolutely no trace of humor in it. The man stood, a grin on his face, and pulled a card from an inner pocket of his suit. “Here.” He set the business card down before Cole, one finger tapping at the white surface. “This is Leonard McCort. He’ll put up with your bullshit and cover your ass in court.”
Cole felt a moment of panic. “But, you’re the best.” Justin had confirmed it, vetted DeLuca, already had confidentiality paperwork signed, retainers paid, a suite at the Chateau Marmont booked. Not to mention the phone calls, filed responses already in play. The man couldn’t waltz out now.
“Exactly.” DeLuca said the word like that was it, like Cole Masten wasn’t the biggest thing to happen to Hollywood since CGI, like he would just walk away and leave Cole with some second-rate *.
“I’ve paid your advance,” Cole sputtered.
The man looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’ll refund it.” It was, in retrospect, a fairly idiotic statement.
“Just… Just sit down for a second. Please.” The word was disgusting as it came out, rank with misuse, and he felt irritation in the midst of his panic. But it was the panic that drove this train, panic that pushed every retort out of his mind and left him broken and desperate, in front of this man.
The attorney didn’t sit; he stayed in place, his eyebrows raised, and waited.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” He risked a glance at his watch. Twenty-two minutes. This dick was giving him hell for twenty-two measly minutes.
It took DeLuca a quarter hour to get over Cole’s tardiness, but finally the attorney was reseated, had downed an omelet, and the conversation had moved on to the matter at hand.
“You’ve lived your life as a celebrity for a long time, but in the courtroom, against your wife?” DeLuca tapped the table. “You’re equals to each other. You’re nothing to the judge. You’re normal.” He leaned back, and Cole looked away. Normal. The word was painful as it crawled in his ears.
“If I’m going to represent you, you have to know that life as you know it is over. You are not a bachelor yet, not until this divorce is final. You are my bitch, and I will say if and who you f*ck, what you say to whom, and when and how you work. If you want to keep this movie as yours, you will leave this shithole of a city and go to Georgia. You will keep your dick clean and pretty-boy head down and do your job… nothing else. I’ve buried five of your f*cks since Sunday, and my team doesn’t have time for the popularity contest your dick has entered. Before you break a paparazzi’s neck or barge into the hospital and finish that director off, let me do my job. We are going to return you to being Hollywood’s Golden Boy and remind everyone of who the slut in this relationship was. You listen to me, and I promise you that I will keep The Fortune Bottle yours—along with any other shared asset you want.”