Authors: Havana Adams
Not that this was an unusual occurrence but curious in spite
of himself, Alex threw aside his phone and flicked the volume up with the
television remote. Now he spotted that the TV was on Z News, a Hollywood
celebrity news channel, which seemed inescapable wherever one was in the world.
The presenter was in full flow.
“And Hollywood buzz is saying the Alex Golden is out and Max
Maguire is in for the big budget adventure trilogy Defender, we’ll have more on
this breaking story as it comes in.” For a moment Alex was frozen as the
photograph of Max Maguire flicked off the screen to be replaced by another
image as the presenter moved on. He flicked the TV back to silent, noting in a
beat that the tension in his neck was back.
Alex had never been especially competitive, but Max Maguire
infuriated him as few others could. Somehow he seemed determined to cast
himself as “The New Alex Golden” and in recent months they had butted heads and
wound up in talks for the same roles. Not that he needed to compete for scripts
but something about Max unsettled him, not least that he was five years younger
than him. Alex had been determined to land the title role in Defender, a
trilogy of films from Australian director Cole Sidney that seemed likely to do
for sci-fi, what Lord of the Rings had done for fantasy. The buzz was immense
and he had assumed, after a chat with the director that the arrival of an offer
was a mere formality. The azure blue of the sea that had been so calming now
had little effect on him, all he could feel was the onset of a pounding
headache. He would have to call Avital.
He pushed himself off the sofa, just as Isabella emerged from
the bedroom, now naked beneath a sheer silk wrap.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she pouted at him, this time
with a hint of the mischievous smile that made men go weak. Alex grimaced; he
hadn’t time for Isabella, not now. He turned his back on her, reaching for his
mobile phone.
“I have to call Avital.” He scrolled through his contacts
list, even as he could hear the faint slap of Isabella’s bare feet against the
floor as she moved towards him. As he was about to connect the call, he felt a
whisper of silk, followed by her naked breasts, pressed against his back.
“Do you have to?” She asked. Though it wasn’t really a
question. She’d already traced her cool hands around his narrow waist and up
his chest, to his arm before gently squeezing his bicep. She took the phone out
of his hand and threw it onto the sofa, where it landed silently on the thick
pile of cushions. Then, she snaked her arm around his waist again and pulled
him around to face her. Isabella pressed herself against him, pinning him to
the cabinet behind them. Her tongue flicked out to lick her bee-stung lips and
Alex followed the movement with a hungry look, already diverted from his plan;
Avital could wait.
She leaned in
and teased his lips with her tongue and then, in that way that she did, she kissed
him, hard. He’d always been struck by the forceful, almost masculine
single-mindedness that Isabella brought to sex; how she always made sure to
take her pleasure first. But tonight it seemed her earlier bad mood was
forgotten and it was all about him. She kissed him again, her tongue fighting with
his, biting his lower lip roughly and then she leaned down to lick his nipple,
before slowly sinking to her knees. Freeing him from his swimming shorts, she
made a deep appreciative noise in her throat as she gripped him tight before
slowly starting to stroke her hand up and down. As she bent to kiss the tip,
she looked up and winked at him and Alex gave a short, breathless bark of
laughter.
Isabella Murada on her knees with his cock in her mouth; that
truly was a million dollar shot. And movie star or not, Alex was still man
enough to appreciate it.
Later,
as they lay in the massive bed on 750-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, the
windows thrown open so that the silvery white light of the full moon flickered
into the room, Alex watched Isabella sleep, as she always did, naked on her
back. One arm was flung over her head and the other rested low on her abdomen.
Even in sleep she looked ready for sex. He would miss her, he thought. Isabella
was a smart girl and in a town defined by transactional relationships, where
everyone used everyone, Alex understood her desire to be with him. She had left
a Spanish millionaire for him and though the sex was good, great even, Alex
wasn’t so arrogant as to think that was the full story. Isabella was 28, in
model years practically middle-aged. She was a woman looking for her next step,
she wanted to make the crossover from model to actress and she’d decided that
he was her ticket there. He hadn’t minded really but somehow this afternoon,
he’d realised that he was bored, that he needed something new, some new
challenge. He needed to shake things up and as every model that had gone before
Isabella had learned, when Alex moved on, he was gone. The shift was brutal and
immediate and Alex had perfected a principle of never going back and never
looking back. He never hooked up with his exes, never re-visited fields that he
had already ploughed. There’d be a gift, one phone call; the mark of the
English gentleman that he was, but when it was over, it was over. Isabella must
have sensed his boredom.
“You and me, we’re good together,” she had reminded him
earlier, as she had sat astride him, still panting. And Alex had smiled. But
once they were back in LA he knew they’d be over. He’d made a life of loving
and leaving women. There was no reason to change his ways now.
“Harder,
do it harder.”
Three days later and half a world away on a bright London
morning, Talia Blake was woken by this loud, rasping instruction and she
blinked with disorientation even as her bed was shaken beat, after beat, after
beat by a pounding from the room next door.
“Oh for fucks sake. Nina!” Talia yelled in frustration as she
snapped awake and sat upright in bed gritting her teeth, even as the lovers
came, apparently simultaneously, in the kind of crescendo of banging and
squealing that would make a philharmonic orchestra proud. Not for the first
time, she wondered how it was that she always managed to land herself with
nymphomaniacs for flatmates. As the aerobics finally subsided, she glanced at
her bedside alarm clock, 6.15am; she could still have another half hour in bed.
She snuggled down under her thin summer duvet and tried to find a comfortable
spot as another squeal rang through the dividing wall. Nina and her gentleman
caller were going for an encore performance.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath and with a muted scream
of frustration, Talia gave up on sleep. She kicked the duvet aside and swung
her feet on to the floor. She looked down at the improbably high,
attention-grabbing scarlet Charlotte Olympia platform shoes, which she’d kicked
off last night before falling into bed. Reaching down to grab one of the pair,
she banged it hard against the wall giving four hard knocks. It had little
effect and the sound of frantic lovemaking continued unabated, if anything
getting louder.
Nina had once told Talia with a degree of pride that she was
sure she could fuck through an earthquake. Talia was sad to report that she now
knew this to be true, probably. To think after her last two disastrous
flatmates, she'd deliberately sought out a single roommate. Talia thought
longingly about the day when she would finally have a place of her own. She
wished she could afford to rent alone or better still, buy a flat of her own.
Perhaps it was her Only Child Syndrome rearing its head but so many mornings
she longed to lie in for as long as she liked, she longed not to have to race
to the shower, not to be confronted by mess that wasn’t hers, she longed not to
be confronted by evidence of other people’s sex lives.
Wearily she stood up and grimaced as she caught sight of last
night’s makeup now smeared all over her face. She’d been too exhausted to wash
it off when she’d finally rolled in, dropped at her front door by a black cab
after three in the morning. Thinking about last night brought a smile to
Talia’s face. The Gilded Cage, a top London club that routinely welcomed
celebrities from all over the world, had played host to the summer party of
Encounters, the highest rated soap opera on television. Talia as a storyliner
on the show had been there, albeit with some reluctance. She hated parties;
she’d often told herself that she simply didn’t have the party gene. She could
never hear above the music, never knew how to approach people and start off conversations
and she didn’t drink enough for alcohol to save her either. She might have
found an excuse not to go but one of her closest friends, Simone, who also
worked in television, had extracted a promise from her that she would make an
effort and turn up, if only for her career’s sake.
Darting through the throng of paparazzi and autograph hunters
determined to catch a glimpse of the show’s stars, Talia had planned on staying
only an hour or two, get her face seen and then leave but surprisingly she’d
found she actually enjoyed the party. No expense had been spared: from
fire-eaters, to stilt walkers to fortune tellers and she had been glad that
she’d forced herself to put on the only sexy dress in her wardrobe, a Diane Von
Furstenberg, a gift from her best friend, Helena, which she had never worn
before. Even Tamara, the show’s resident bitch, both on and off screen had paid
her compliment.
“Darling, what a transformation, very dramatic,” Tamara had
smiled, air kissing in her general direction before disappearing through the
crowd, leaving Talia dazed in a heavy cloud of Chanel No 5.
The DVF dress, a dramatic statement against her brown skin,
was a distinctive print of vibrant yellows, reds and greens, the kind of bright
colours that Talia usually shunned, but from all the compliments she’d received
the night before, she’d realised that perhaps colour should play a larger part
in her wardrobe. The dress, she’d teamed with the high Charlotte Olympia heels.
The heels also came from Helena, who as an editor on style bible
Époque
, had access to an apparently
limitless fashion cupboard, which meant she was constantly pressing beautiful
designer accessories on Talia. Between Helena and Simone, Talia often found
herself being lectured about her refusal to engage with fashion.
“I’m not into pain and all these clothes are just not
comfortable or even practical,” Talia had once told Helena but her friend had
simply snorted and the gifts continued. It wasn’t that Talia couldn’t see the
beauty in designer clothes; it was simply that her budget didn’t stretch to the
frothy, outlandish garments that were a part of Helena’s world. For Helena,
fashion was life. But for Talia, nothing was more important than her career at
Encounters. She liked comfortable, practical things and as she’d found,
tottering around in the platform shoes the night before, fashionable and
comfortable, didn’t seem to go hand in hand.
Nevertheless, she had actually enjoyed the party and danced
to every song on the dance floor. Once during the night, she’d found herself
pressed against a wall by an insistent First Assistant Director from the show.
“You look so fucking gorgeous in the dress, I should have
talked to you before now.” The drunken confession had been followed by a very
wet kiss. For Talia this was pretty much unheard of and she allowed a small
smile. She could practically hear Helena’s voice now – “You should have
gone home with him.” She might not have followed Helena’s standard advice but
Talia still allowed herself a small pat on the back at her small progress.
She’d not pushed the AD away immediately; she’d allowed him to kiss her for a
moment, never mind that the smell of beer on his breath slightly turned her
stomach.
In the room next door, Nina and her lover had finally
subsided and Talia flicked on the radio then moved to the small desk in the
corner of her bedroom. She powered on her Macbook, as she did every morning
without fail. As the laptop loaded up, Talia pulled some clothes out of the
wardrobe, paying slightly more attention than usual to what she picked out. It
was appraisal day today and she wanted to look smart. She’d already been
prepped for what to expect and Talia felt a shiver of excitement, which she
quickly banked down. As the sound of the computer starting up rang out, an
image appeared on the screen for a moment and Talia, felt a buzz of
appreciation run through her. It was a photograph of a bag; a bag of the finest
burnished leather, an Oak coloured Mulberry Bayswater designer handbag, which
she had promised to herself, when she received her promotion. That day was
today. All her slogging on the story team, all the late nights and early
mornings would finally pay off. Talia thought back to the conversation she’d
had last week with her boss.
“So, Martin’s decided to move to LA and write movies.” Rick
had strolled into her office drawling the words with a confident smirk as Talia
had paused in her typing to look up at him.
“What?” She had squealed. “He has a contract.” Rick had
smiled then.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back. We pay them well, they get too
big for their boots, think they’re going to LA to run things.” Rick had
snorted. “Martin is very well looked after here, he won’t last in LA for long,
being a very small fish writer from England, in a very big pond.”
Talia had nodded, Rick was right but it didn’t solve their
immediate predicament. “But what do we do while he finds himself, we’re already
a writer short on the core team and we’ve got some major storylines coming up.
Martin knows this show better than anyone.”