Stolen Hearts (Stolen Romance #3)

Chapter 1

Everyone is one good reason away from making a bad decision. Except I always seem to have a good reason. And those reasons always lead to a chain of bad decisions.

The latest reason on my list? Christopher Foster.

It’s been nine and a half weeks since I left him the voicemail. Sixty-six days since I poured my heart out and explained everything.

Why I left him in the hotel without saying goodbye.

Why I didn’t call him before the TV interview to explain how Connie and Paul were going to spin the leaked footage of us kissing.

Why I went along with their narrative that he was helping me prepare for this film role, rather than coming out and telling the world that he is, or should I say was, my boyfriend.

Yet my voicemail and every subsequent call since has gone unanswered. Like I’m being punished for trying my best to navigate a scandal. For trying to save my career.

So, I’ve had one thousand five hundred and eighty-five hours to start making bad decisions.

Every unanswered call led to me having a drink. One drink turned into two. That turned into one line of coke, followed by another, until the wagon I fell off of was so far out of sight I could barely remember the two years of sobriety I’d celebrated just a few months ago.

But they’re the only things keeping my mind off of Christopher.

Well, that and Johnny, the runner on this movie set.

He’s been sneaking alcohol and cocaine into my trailer and then staying to offer me a helping hand, helping hole, or helping pole to alleviate my stress.

Like right now, just before we start shooting the next scene.

Rob’s banging on the door barely cuts through my pre-orgasm haze.

Testosterone pulses through my veins as I desperately claw for the pillow resting beside Johnny and I on the couch, shoving it over my mouth to silence my moans.

A tingling sensation from the cocaine runs like electricity all through my body as my hips thrust up and down.

His thick throbbing cock batters my G-spot.

With one more thrust, my load shoots out, splattering across my face on the cover of the Rolling Stone magazine laying on the table in front of me. My iced coffee and three remaining lines of coke, barely visible on the white surface, sit next to it.

I slide off his dick, pull up my briefs, and button up my jeans.

The familiar feelings that always follow my post nut clarity come up with them: shame and disappointment.

Johnny may look eerily similar to Christopher.

He has the same height, same brown hair, same hazel eyes and brooding look, but he’s not him. He’ll never be him.

“Same time again Saturday?” Johnny asks, redressing himself before snorting a line of coke.

“I’m not sure what’s on my agenda yet. I’ll get Lucy to let you know.” I turn my back to him and pick up my iced coffee from the table.

What I really want to say is, I don’t ever want to see you again. But I know this won’t be the last time. That invariably, I’ll see him several times over the next month for cocaine, alcohol, and to fuck.

“They’re ready for you on set.” Rob’s voice sounds louder this time as he bangs again on the trailer door.

My body stiffens, my grip loosens, and the iced coffee drops to the floor. The lid flies off, sending the ice cubes and coffee everywhere.

Great. Just what I need. Another mess to clean up.

I reach for the paper towels on the kitchen counter and bend down to start soaking up the coffee, shouting back to Rob that I’m nearly ready and I’ll be out in a minute.

The problem is I’m not sure if I am ready.

The scene we began shooting earlier, with my costar Brian, brought up everything from June that I’ve been trying to bury.

“Right, I’d better get going.” I get up from the floor and chuck the dirty paper towels in the trash. “Can you hang back for five, then leave once the coast is clear?”

“Sure, no problem,” Johnny says, picking up the plastic cup and lid.

I quickly wash my hands before grabbing the script from beside the microwave and then comb my fingers through my hair to put it back into place. I do the same for the beard I’ve grown out for the movie.

My pretty boy aesthetic is gone for now, replaced by this rough-and-ready look. My previously blond hair is now dyed black, and the transformation is so complete that my parents walked straight past me when they visited the set last month.

They’d come to complain to Paul about how quickly everything had moved forward with the film.

But Paul had dismissed their concerns in his usual manager-knows-best way, telling them that we needed to strike while momentum was still with us after the scandal.

He’d not only expedited the Stolen Moments music video to keep the track at number one, but had turned preproduction for Disposed around in a matter of weeks, almost unheard of by Hollywood standards.

Thankfully, both Paul and Connie have been absent from set, bar the one trip out with my parents when shooting began four weeks ago.

In other words, my ongoing anger at the two of them for how they handled the whole situation with Chris, and how they are responsible for the breakdown of our relationship, is reserved for video chats, phone calls, and emails.

When I exit the trailer, the humidity from the late-summer heat makes my T-shirt, worn underneath a black zip-up sweatshirt, cling to my body.

The full moon makes Rob cast a long scary shadow against the wall of stage four here at Albuquerque Studios, where tonight’s scene will be shot.

My heart races more the closer we get to set.

The set is abuzz with action as we enter. Various people tinker with props on the set; others adjust the lighting. Two stand-ins occupy the space that Brian and I will be in shortly.

The set is eerily similar to the ballroom at the Landmark Hotel where I’d kissed Christopher.

The grand chandeliers. The gold curtains.

Half a dozen round tables with white tablecloths, eight chairs at each.

The LED dancefloor. All of them are almost exact replicas—recreated to stage a scene for the film that will make the leaked footage from June believable.

“Move the third table in the background two steps to your right,” shouts the cinematographer, who is sitting by one of the playback monitors and directing various crew members to get everything in frame.

I head over to Erica, who is waiting in a small space to the right of the set.

Having someone I know other than Rob here has been a godsend.

Her makeup kit is laid out, impeccably organized, on the table in front of her. I wince when I see myself. The mirror’s bright lighting is not the kindest when I look like this.

“You might want to be a little more discreet,” Erica says, wiping remnants of coke from my nose with a wet wipe.

“Shit. Do you think anyone noticed?” My gaze darts round the set before returning to meet Erica’s.

“No, you’re good. But they’d have picked it up on camera. And given your history, it’s probably not the best thing to have another scandal right now.”

Erica rests her hand on my shoulder as my head drops. I know she’s right, and I know she means well, but I feel like I’m being reprimanded rather than being looked out for.

I flick through the latest script for the upcoming scene. The numerous markups, of which there have been many, create some distance between what we’re about to shoot and what happened between Christopher and me on that fateful night.

“You’re quieter than usual tonight. What’s up?” Erica’s green eyes study me while she lifts my chin up to apply foundation to my face.

A cold shiver washes over my body.

There’s no hiding from Erica. She’s one of the few people able to see beyond the facade I put on.

“It’s the scene we’re about to shoot. It’s the one about Christopher,” I say, before returning my attention to the script.

Erica bends down to meet my eyes. Her loose-fitted Pat Benatar T-shirt gets caught on the wooden arm of the chair.

“I know it’s been hard for you these past couple of months, but think of this as a way to rewrite your story. To channel all those feelings you have about Christopher and what happened into your performance.”

She’s right. I can use all the emotions I’ve been trying to numb, but I can’t help but feel guilty about everything.

How I left him high and dry. How, just like the title of this film, he must have felt disposed of.

How I distanced myself from him and what our relationship was during the interview.

How I’m the one who now feels disposed of, because no matter what I try to do, he won’t let me explain or apologize.

“We ready over here?” Alfonso, the director, asks as he strides toward us.

“Almost,” Erica says, applying the last of the concealer under my right eye. She dabs at it, evening out my skin tone to hide the dark circles underneath.

“Great. Al, I just want to talk through the scene with you before we begin shooting.” Alfonso’s smile widens as he rests his arm on the back of the wooden chair.

When I stand, I’m instantly reminded that he is slightly shorter than me, although he compensates for his five-foot-six frame with an energy and charisma that makes him seem over six feet tall.

His ever-present black leather jacket adds a youthfulness that is offset by his salt-and-pepper hair, which has grown out slightly since I first met him in London last June.

Stepping over the cables that run across the back of the set for the lighting, he leads me onto the set, where the prop department is making final tweaks.

“We’ll begin the scene here.” Alfonso points to the black dot on the floor by the entrance to the ballroom.

“The camera will pick up on you pulling Brian in through the door, and you’ll make your way to that marker.

” Alfonso points ahead to another black dot and motions me past the tables to the dance floor.