I yank open the mini fridge door and snag two bottles of water. Wishing they were beer doesn’t replace the cans I crushed last night.
Almost done with this fucking movie, I remind myself. Then I don’t ever have to work with DeLong again.
I toss one to Mitch and twist the cap off the other before lowering myself into a recliner.
“I wasn’t talking about a bottle of water, kid.”
Mitch won’t let this go until he has some sort of explanation. I can bullshit him, but instead I go with the truth out of respect.
“He was runnin’ his mouth about a woman.”
The old man sinks onto the kitchenette bench, drops the bottle of water onto the table, and runs a hand through his thinning gray hair. “For fuck’s sake, Cav. A piece of tail ain’t worth your reputation.”
That’s where he’s wrong. Especially when she’s a hell of a lot more than a piece of tail.
“It’s a long story.” I want him to drop it and save me from getting sucked any deeper into the life I left behind.
“Enlighten me.” The steel in his gaze has made its way into his voice, but I don’t follow orders any more.
“Not important.” A lie. Because it’s damn important to me.
“Important enough to put your career at risk. Come on, kid. Spill. Maybe I can help before you make this into a bigger mess.”
Mitch is the only guy I’ve met in this business who has ever made me an offer of help, expecting nothing in return. That’s not something I can buy, and the knowledge pushes me to loosen my tight grip on my secrets.
“There’s a girl I was hung up on back in the day. She put herself front and center in the news, and DeLong was looking to cash in on what he considers an easy score.” Little does DeLong know, nothing about Greer Karas is easy.
Mitch cranks open his bottle of water, his eyes never leaving mine as he sucks half of it down. He replaces the cap, his brain working over everything I’ve told him before he finally speaks.
“Is this going to be a problem?”
I follow his lead, drinking and considering before I answer.
“I think DeLong got the message loud and clear.”
Mitch lays an arm on the kitchenette table and leans forward. “Fuck DeLong. Is this a problem for you? Because we’ve got two days to wrap this project so I can start my vacation.”
Mitch’s daughter is taking him to Italy for some relaxation over his birthday. No one on this set will let filming slip even a day because no one wants to be responsible for fucking that up for him. Me included. Even when all I want to do is get on a jet and get my ass back to New York so I can shake some sense into that girl.
“No, man. My head’s in the game. I’ve only got the one scene left, and I’m done. I ain’t holding up shit.”
“You sure? Because you’re goddamn lucky I don’t need Peyton’s face anymore.”
A twinge of guilt slips into my chest. I didn’t even consider whether Mitch did or not before I popped DeLong in the nose with a jab. He’s lucky I didn’t swing with a right hook, or he would have a broken face for sure.
Mitch waits for an answer, his attention fixed on me.
“I’m sure.”
“Good.” He pushes to his feet. “If that shit happens again on one of my projects, I’ll make you wish you’d never stepped foot in Hollywood, regardless of how much I like you.”
I say nothing as he turns and shoulders open the trailer door, letting it bang shut behind him as he mutters to himself.
“Fucking kids these days . . .”
Mitch is old guard, from a dying breed of directors. I know I’m lucky to have a chance to work with him, not just on this film but the first one he used to drag me into this business and out of being a glorified crash-test dummy. Disappointing him wasn’t on my schedule for today, but the guilt remains regardless.
Slumping against the back of the recliner, I fish my phone out of my pocket. I don’t know why I pull it up again, but I can’t help it.
What the fuck were you thinking, Greer? God, but I want to shake that girl. She’s not the slutty little princess this ad makes her out to be.
I read through it again, stumbling over the part about her giving great head. I wouldn’t know. We hadn’t made it that far, no matter how badly I wanted her lips wrapped around my cock back then.
Screw shaking her—I want to take her over my knee and turn that luscious ass red. She’s begging to be taken in hand, and in my gut, I know this ad was a direct shot aimed at me.
Greer Karas, sister of the legendary billionaire Creighton Karas, has no idea how effective that shot is.
My cock pulses against my jeans when I think of her on her knees, her pouty lips wrapped around my dick as I teach her how to swallow it down. Greer might think she knows how to give good head, but I’m not one of the trust fund kids she’s used to.