Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason Read online

  Hollywood Bad Boys Club

  Book 2: Mason

  Alexis Adaire

  Twisted Pair Publishing

  Contents

  1. Mason

  2. Claire

  3. Mason

  4. Claire

  5. Mason

  6. Claire

  7. Mason

  8. Claire

  9. Mason

  10. Claire

  11. Mason

  12. Claire

  13. Mason

  14. Claire

  15. Mason

  16. Claire

  17. Mason

  18. Claire

  19. Mason

  20. Claire

  21. Mason

  22. Claire

  23. Mason

  24. Claire

  25. Mason

  26. Claire

  27. Mason

  More in this series

  Thanks for reading!

  “Sleeping With the Enemy” - Free Sample

  Also by Alexis Adaire

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Mason

  I’ve been the cause of many a fist slammed on desks and conference tables all over Hollywood. It’s a legacy I’m especially proud of, and even more so considering I’ve been in “the industry” for less than a decade.

  At this point, I could have one of my agents handle meetings like the one I’m currently in, but why let them have all the fun? The fist in question brings a smile to my face when it smacks against the polished cocobolo table. At least it does until the fist’s owner calls my manliness into question.

  “You wouldn’t dare pull Manning out of a film this big!”

  Like the fist, the skull-piercing voice belongs to Jacqueline Hightower, head of Trident Pictures. Jackie didn’t make her way to the top of the industry as a woman by being timid or a poor negotiator, so I’m not caught off guard by the display of ferocity. I’ve known her for a few years and this isn’t my first time to lock horns with her directly, face-to-face.

  Jackie should know better than to challenge me, since I have a well-earned reputation and a cool nickname to go with it: Mason Stark, sometimes called “Mason Shark.” I’m the owner of Media Arts Unlimited, a mid-level talent agency that has in six short years firmly established itself in the Hollywood pecking order. The big agencies like CAA and IMG aren’t exactly shaking in their boots over MAU, but they will be one day in the not-too-distant future.

  There are two other women seated at the gorgeous table. Three women and me: It’s the Hollywood version of a unicorn, one of those almost mythical studio meetings where males are the minority. Right now all three of them are staring intently at me, waiting to hear my response.

  “Don’t try me,” I say, maintaining my composure while Jackie loses hers. “Drake does whatever I tell him. That arrangement works spectacularly for both of us.”

  The topic of heated discussion is the compensation of actress Cheyenne Parris, who has signed on as the female lead in Texas Flood. Based on the steamy detective novel by Richard Erlewine, Jackie Hightower has been determined to bring Texas Flood to the screen for years. A problem has reared its ugly head a mere two months before production is scheduled to start: Just moments ago, I was informed that Ms. Parris would like to be paid as much for her work in the movie as its male star. That happens to be Drake Manning, my client and best friend, not to mention the biggest movie star in the entire fucking world.

  Cheyenne’s demand for equal pay is ludicrous, and because the film’s budget has been set and the producers refuse to increase it, Jackie is asking me to convince Drake to take less money. Seven million dollars less, which would be given to Cheyenne to bring both of their salaries to twenty-three million. It’s an absurd request, especially considering that Drake has already waived his standard additional compensation of a small percentage of the box office receipts. Jackie knows Drake has also been keen to make Texas Flood and is using that to get her way.

  The next most important male character in the film is also being played by one of my clients, T.J. Holland. I’ve just threatened to extract both of my actors from Jackie’s pet project, and she is not happy with me – hence the slammed fist. So Jackie Hightower can bang her fist right through the table, but we both know I’m the one sitting here with the leverage.

  “You don’t have the balls, Mason,” Jackie says, fire in her eyes.

  The phenomenally gorgeous blonde at the table, Claire Jarrett, stifles a chortle. Claire is one of my biggest rivals; her Creative Talents is also a highly rated mid-level agency, about the same as MAU in size. Although our recent yearly gross bested theirs, they’ve got more clients, 1700 to my 1400. Claire’s a cutthroat businesswoman who started CT eight years ago, right out of USC’s Marshall School of Business. Smart as a whip, and definitely knows how to sting like one.

  Our two agencies have risen together and it wouldn’t surprise anyone if either eventually surpassed all but the mightiest three or four atop the talent agency pyramid. I’ve known Claire for at least five years, but the two of us have only rarely been in the same room, usually at industry events with hundreds of others in attendance. We’ve tussled over a few dozen clients, each winning our share, and we have a habit of sending the other snarky, boastful emails when we do. The rivalry is usually fun and occasionally contentious, but before today I doubt we’ve said a few dozen words to each other in person.

  The third woman at the table is Mona Simmons, a brunette who is Cheyenne’s business manager. She’s way too green to be managing an A-list actress, but the two of them are apparently friends. Mona’s also lacks the experience to be included in a meeting like this one, but Cheyenne insisted on it. Everyone else here knows her presence serves no real purpose. I suspect this equal-pay idea may have started with Mona, but Claire is Cheyenne’s agent, and she and Jackie are the ones doing all the heavy lifting today.

  I look across the table at my adversary du jour. Jackie is in her mid-forties and has straight black hair styled in a layered bob. Nice big tits and a shapely ass, especially for her age. She’s the complete package, a smart, elegant, attractive woman. Hard as nails, though, and a fierce competitor. She took the reins at Trident while still in her thirties – one of the few women to ever run a major studio.

  You don’t have the balls, Mason.

  Jackie actually said that, apparently unable to recognize a perfect set-up line.

  I smile pleasantly so that no one knows something vicious is coming. Pausing dramatically, I milk the moment, setting it up. Then…

  “You’re an expert on balls, Jackie. We’ve all heard how many you had to lick on your way up.”

  Their three mouths fall open simultaneously. I’m already aware this exchange will soon become legendary in Hollywood circles, laughed about at coke-fueled parties for years to come. It’s the kind of comment that could get me banned from any industry not so male-dominated, but in this town it will actually enhance my cred. Everyone in the business has heard the rumors that Jackie gained her lofty post by fucking her way there, first to get a foot in the door, then again with nearly every rung of the ladder on the way up.

  Who knows if the rumors are true? What’s undisputed is that Jackie had a relationship with her boss and predecessor, Laurence Warner, and that she happily dumped him and took his place as president of Trident when he was squeezed out. That’s at least two balls she licked, so I’m not exactly wrong.

  Jackie’s face turns as red as her beloved Porsche Panamera. Fury fires her dark brown eyes.

  “Get the fuck out of my studio! I’m done with you.”

  She rises from her chair, towering over the tab
le at five-foot-ten, and storms out of the conference room. It’s not even noon and I’ve already ruined her day.

  I’ve made my point, though. The notion of paying Cheyenne Parris as much as Drake Manning for Texas Flood is fucking absurd. Despite them getting nearly equal screen time, everyone knows actors earn more than actresses in this town. Right or wrong, that’s just the way it is, and I won’t let them pay Drake a penny less than he’s worth. Over his last seven movies, he’s on the hottest box office streak Hollywood has ever seen and in all honesty deserves twice what he’s getting because Drake is as close to a sure thing as there is in this town.

  So fuck Jackie Hightower and her studio. And fuck her equal rights shit, too.

  I realize Claire is staring at me. She has deep blue eyes, a cute little nose, and plump lips that obviously don’t require injections to keep them that way. Her long flaxen hair is lush and luminous, with just the right amount of wave – she and that hair could do shampoo commercials. The fitted slate jacket and matching skirt she’s wearing look like they cost thousands, and I’m sure her black heels did as well. She’s got one button too many undone on that cream-colored blouse because she thinks it’ll distract me, but it’s those lips I can’t ignore. It sucks having a rival who is this ravishing, but I resist my physical impulses as I meet her steely gaze.

  “I’ll go talk to her,” Claire says, rising from her chair. “Don’t go anywhere, Mason. When I return, I want to point out a few holes in your rationale for Drake getting paid more.” I smirk at the idea of her giving me orders, and she leaves the room knowing I likely won’t be here when she gets back. I watch her ass sway in that tight little skirt beneath her jacket until the door shuts behind her.

  I’m left at the table with Mona, who appeared on the scene less than three years ago as the manager of a fashion model-turned-actress. Against all odds, Cheyenne turned out to be as talented as she is beautiful. She found work quickly after Mona convinced her to sign with Claire’s agency. Mona has done well, but this little equal-pay idea of hers and Cheyenne’s shows she’s still got a lot to learn.

  More importantly for my own selfish purposes, Mona is twenty-four years old and while not as elegantly sexy as Jackie or downright gorgeous as Claire, she’s cute in her own way. Her slightly curly brown hair frames a fresh face that makes her look closer to twenty. Her body’s not nearly as enticing as the other two, but it’s not bad. There’s an innocence about her that everyone else at this meeting lacks, but her actions today prove she’s also ambitious, an intriguing combination.

  The plan currently hatching in my brain is to use that ambition to fuck her naiveté away, and send an unambiguous message to my rival agency owner in the process.

  I stand to leave and Mona gives me a look, unsure whether she should remind me that Claire requested I wait. Extending a hand in her direction, I say, “Mona, it was lovely meeting you. I’m sure you understand I have nothing against Cheyenne.” I really don’t. She’s quite a talented actress, and I got to hang out with her a little because she and Drake were seeing each other for a month. “Unfortunately, this equal-salary thing isn’t going to happen, at least not for this film. You and I need to talk about your future in this business, though. Meet me at the Melrose Star tonight at eight.”

  I button my suit jacket and make a quick exit without giving her a chance to respond. She’ll be there, the hungry little thing.

  * * *

  Mona’s already seated at the bar at the Melrose Star when I enter a few minutes after eight. She turns to eye me the moment I walk in, as I’m guessing she’s turned every time the door has opened for the last fifteen minutes.

  The Melrose Star is famous as one of the few remaining Old Hollywood bars. This main room is small, with a handful of bright red leather booths and a dozen black leather stools lining the dark green – you guessed it – leather bar. The place is painted in red and black and the top of each wall is trimmed with personally signed glossies of damn near every major movie star dating all the way back to silent pictures.

  I have to admit, Mona looks rather sexy in her too-tight jeans and silk tank top, her curly brown hair spilling over her shoulders. She just happens to be sitting directly across the bar from Drake Manning’s photo, his megawatt smile mocking me as I slide onto the stool next to her. I laugh to myself, knowing how much he would approve of what I’m about to do.

  I start to ask the bartender for one of whatever Mona is drinking, then I see the pink color and the strawberry and decide instead to order a scotch neat and another drink for her.

  “This is my second,” Mona protests, indicating the glass in front of her. I ignore the comment and soon she’s got a third pink whatever waiting its turn.

  We clink glasses and I get right down to business. “Please tell me you didn’t actually expect Cheyenne to make anywhere near as much as Drake Manning on this movie.”

  Caught off-guard, she can’t reply before I continue. “Drake’s fourteen films have grossed over five billion dollars worldwide. He gets big money because he’s as close to a guarantee as this town has. Cheyenne’s a talented actress with great screen presence, but she can’t make back a hundred-million-dollar budget on opening weekend.”

  Mona sets her glass aside, empty save for the strawberry at the bottom, and picks up the fresh one. “Of course I knew we wouldn’t get it. Claire warned me in advance, but Cheyenne insisted on the meeting. We’re confident we’ll get equal pay one day soon, and it was important to put the demand out there now to use in future negotiations. You know that every deal you do is setting you up for the next one as well.”

  Something she gleaned from a Donald Trump book, I suppose. “I’m glad you’re realistic about this, because there’s no way I’ll ask Drake to take a pay cut. So the matter is officially settled, then. Now tell me about yourself.”

  Mona talks and I half-listen. It’s a valuable skill in Hollywood, the ability to look someone in the face while they’re blathering on about their next project, when you’re in fact thinking about something else entirely. I nod and smile, and my brain jumps into action every time I sense a response is required. It’s an art, and I am proud to be among its finest practitioners.

  I glance around the room and see only half a dozen other people here on a slow Tuesday night, exactly what I was counting on. The only other person at the bar is a young guy who keeps looking our way, but I have no idea which of us he’s interested in. Everybody in this town wants something from you.

  “But you didn’t ask to meet me to crow about your predetermined victory or hear my life story,” Mona says halfway through her third pink drink. “What do you really want, Mason?”

  It’s an astute conclusion. “I want to save you time, pain, embarrassment, and possibly clients,” I say.

  Mona leans toward me ever-so-slightly and I get a quick peek at her cleavage. The alcohol has already relaxed her; she’s not nearly as stiff as when I walked in.

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  I fix my gaze on her eyes and wait. There’s a moment that occurs between humans, much like with animals, when one gaze wins. The object for me is not to make it a staring contest, but nevertheless to wait until I see that eventual acquiescence. Mona’s comes quickly when she keeps eye contact but lifts her straw to her lips for another sip.

  “I’m going to fuck you,” I say.

  Bless her heart, Mona holds steady. She’s not offended, but that’s because she thinks I’m still talking about the meeting at Trident.

  “Business is business,” she says. “I’m sure you understand I have to strike while the iron is hot, to jack up Cheyenne’s pay while she’s got the industry’s attention.”

  I’m calm and cool as I give her a half-smile.

  “I’m not going to fuck you business-wise, I’m going to fuck you by forcefully and repeatedly driving my hard cock into your pussy until I come.”

  That definitely gets her attention. Her eyebrows furrow slightly and there’s appre
hension in her eyes. No fear, though. She does her best to appear blasé and unaffected. “And why would I let you do that?”

  I set down my scotch and turn toward her, putting my hands on the outsides of her knees.

  “Mona, I’ve been in this business for a while now and have some of its biggest talents in my fold. You’re a smart girl who obviously has a grasp on things, so you know that I’m in another league altogether. I can place a call to anyone in Hollywood and they’ll actually pick up the phone. That takes experience and skill and no small degree of charm.”

  I gesture toward Drake’s photo. “Not to mention the number one movie star in the world is my best friend.”

  Mona doesn’t quite understand my offer. “If I slept with someone just because they’re higher up the showbiz ladder, I’d have no time for anything else.” She still hasn’t said no or told me I’m an asshole, though.

  “I’m not just anyone,” I say. “In return for you letting me fuck you very, very hard, I will serve as a sounding board for you until you get more established. Call me with questions. If you’re unsure of an idea, bounce it off me first. And as long as you don’t embarrass me, I agree to put you in touch with anyone you want. You can’t buy that.”

  “Except that’s exactly what you’re asking me to do — paying with my dignity.” I’ve got to hand it to her, Mona has some snap for someone her age.

  “True,” I say, “but that’s a price everyone in this town pays at some point.”

  It’s not really true, but it sounds like words of wisdom from someone who’s seen it all. While she ponders my fake truism, I look her over again. Let’s be honest here: Mona isn’t bad looking, but I’m in another league there as well. I’d be able to pull tail even if I were managing a Best Buy, but with my Hollywood power, I pretty much get what and who I want. If Mona met me randomly in a bar, she’d be thrilled to leave with me. The only reason she’s hesitating now is because this involves her business, and she doesn’t want to make a wrong move.