6. Nate
Chapter 6
My alarm blares at the ungodly hour of four a.m., making me groan and fumble for my phone before I swipe across the screen to shut the damn thing up. It will buy me five minutes snooze time. I only got in at one in the morning, and I need all the extra sleep I can get. Going out last night might not have been the best idea, especially knowing I have an early morning shoot. I’d regret it if the evening had only consisted of a couple of drinks at a boring club, but the unusual turn of events was worth the heavy eyelids and lethargy I’ll spend the rest of the day struggling to shake off.
I shower, dress, grab an apple from the fruit bowl, and head out to find my driver waiting curbside—a perk provided by the studio, although usually I prefer to drive myself. Sometimes being indulged has its benefits, though. I’ll be able to nap on the way in.
The moving vehicle lulls me to sleep, but the abrupt jolt when we stop wakes me. Feeling worse than if I hadn’t napped, I rub my eyes and scrub my face. My car door opens, and greeting me with a grin far too bright for such an early hour is my director.
“Morning. You made it.”
I swing my legs out, making sure I don’t bang my head, and unfold my large frame. Clapping Mike on the shoulder, I grin. “Did you doubt me?”
“Yep. Especially when I heard you headed off with a petite redhead at about eleven-thirty last night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is nothing sacred in this town?”
“Nope.” Mike laughs. “I hope you’ve got plenty of energy left. Gonna be a long day.”
“Yep, all good. I was in bed by one. Alone.”
Mike’s forehead creases. “She blow you off, or just blow you?” He cackles at his own joke.
“Neither,” I say curtly, the all-too-common disrespect of women in Hollywood grating on my few remaining nerves. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Mike frowns. “Who’s bitten your ass this morning?”
I don’t answer.
Mike huffs and mutters, “Goddamn moody actors,” under his breath, then disappears inside the studio while I head toward makeup, where I’ll spend the next ninety minutes being turned into my character.
“Morning, Shirl,” I say to the lead makeup artist on set—a formidable woman in her early fifties. “I need to grab a quick sandwich before we start. I’ve only had an apple.”
Shirl shakes her head and pats the seat. “Sit. I’ll get one of the girls to fetch you something.”
I do as I’m told. No one messes with Shirl. Not if they want to keep their balls.
Mike hadn’t been joking about the long day, and by the time I crawl into the back of my car later that evening, I can barely keep my eyes open. My thoughts turn to Dex, wondering whether she’s had any trouble with Bernard. When I gave her my contact details last night, her reaction was so damn adorable. The way her brow crinkled and her fingers trembled as she took the rectangular card from me showed her surprise.
What she didn’t know was how shocked I’d been that I’d given her my card at all. My phone number is a closely guarded secret. The only people who have it are my brothers, a couple of close friends, my agent, and whatever director and producer I happen to be working with. Course my number would be in Bernard’s files if Dex cared to look, but she’d never be able to use it, not without consequences.
It could be dangerous. She could sell my number, tell all her friends, or drunk dial me at three in the morning. Though it wouldn’t be a disaster. I’d only have to change my number, but I could do without the hassle. Except I don’t think she’ll do any of those things. Something about her screams integrity—a rarity in this town.
My driver drops me off outside my house, and I head straight inside, thankful the security guard on the gate has done their job and there are no paps hanging around, shoving their cameras in my face. Fame sucks. It’s the biggest downside to this career. The interest of the press and fans alike is something I haven’t gotten used to, and I doubt I ever will. I love the process of making films and TV, and I adore the acting side of the business but hate the surrounding bullshit. The shallowness of the industry and everyone in it is something I put up with, but I refuse to let it touch me. I’m known for being standoffish, never one to mix with other actors or any of the crew. I have a few friends, none of whom work in the same field as me, but they don’t truly know me. No one does. Not even my three brothers.
And for good reason.
If they knew what I’d found out seven years ago, it would blow my family apart.
Hell, it blew me apart when I discovered the letter on a return trip home for Thanksgiving. In an instant, everything I thought to be true went up in flames.
Even all these years later, the pain of it still has the ability to bring me to my knees. Before then, I’d been happy, excited about the future, enjoying my time in London studying at RADA, and loving the independence being in another country had afforded me.
Then boom! My life had exploded. To this day, I can’t eat turkey. Every time I try, it sticks in my throat.
The faded black ink on yellowing paper had explained a lot. A whole damn lot. Right then, I made a vow to myself not to share the details of what I’d found with my brothers. I’d bear the brunt of the truth, bury the devastating news deep down where I hope, over time, my pain will lessen. A side effect I didn’t anticipate is how keeping the details close has created distance between my brothers and me I don’t know how to fix. But I can’t tell them. I can’t do that to their memory of Mom and Dad. Declan isn’t the only one who puts family first.
I open the fridge, remove a chicken pasta salad, and eat the solitary meal for one, then strip down to my boxers and flop onto the bed. With another early start in the morning, I’d better get some rest. But despite the lethargy in my body and the heaviness of my lids, I can’t drift off. My mind is full of a certain pint-sized, redhead with curls that cascade down her back, plump, rosy lips I want to kiss, slate-gray soulful eyes I could drown in, and a temper fiery enough to keep me interested. I can only imagine how such intense passion would manifest itself in the bedroom.
Except imagining such things is a stupid fucking idea, because now I have a raging hard-on to contend with.
I peel myself off the bed, my erection tenting my boxers as I pad into the bathroom, and flick on the shower. My first thought is to turn the water to ice cold, but a second thought creeps in—one much more appealing. Dex is all wrong. Too young, too innocent, too real. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use her image for a little self-care.
I take off my underwear and step into the shower as steam fills the bathroom. Lowering my head, I grip my dick with one hand, and brace the palm of my other hand against the tiled wall. With the image of Dex fixed in my mind, her hip cocked out to one side as she flays me with her eyes, and lashes me with her tongue, it takes less than a minute for me to climax. I groan, my body trembling as pulse after pulse of cum spurts onto my hand before the torrent of water washes it down the drain.
After switching off the shower, I curse. Instead of feeling sleepy, masturbating has made me amped and horny. I towel off and walk naked back into the bedroom, forcing myself between the sheets when what I really want to do is drive over to Dex’s apartment building, knock on every door until I find the right one, and fuck her until my dick begs me to stop.
But I won’t do that because I actually like her. Not only for the soft place between her legs that my cock would like to get acquainted with, but for her. The woman. The last thing she needs is a man like me in her life. She deserves so much better. For once, I’ll do the selfless thing and leave her alone, even if doing the right thing sucks.
On Saturday evening, my driver drops me off at home. It’s been a long, exhausting week, and my body aches from the action scenes I filmed today. Yet as tired as I feel, the thought of another night alone doesn’t appeal to me. Then again, neither did the offer to go for a drink with the crew. My friends would be happy to keep me company, but I don’t have the energy to put on a show tonight, to pretend I have the perfect life when it’s anything but.
The door to my house closes behind me with a hollow thud, and I head straight for the kitchen, my stomach growling with hunger. Today had been too busy to even fit in lunch, so I open the fridge. Damn. Nothing in. Takeout doesn’t appeal tonight, either. I’m craving something fresh. Healthy. With a curse, I grab my keys and set off for the grocery store.
Too busy daydreaming, I miss the turnoff to my local store, and by the time I’ve realized it, I’m a half hour from home. I manage to spot another store, though it’s not my usual haunt, but it’ll do. I drive into a parking space as far away from the entrance as possible and grab a baseball cap from the glove compartment, making sure to pull it low over my eyes while adding sunglasses, even though it’s dusk. I’ll hardly stick out. In LA, people wear sunglasses everywhere.
Turning the collar up on my jacket, I keep my head down and wander inside. Harassed moms drag screaming children by the hands as they dash down aisles, stuffing their carts with chips, chocolate, and ice cream, probably to buy themselves a few minutes of well-earned peace.
I don’t linger. I go straight to the meat counter at the back of the store. What I want is steak, salad, maybe some mango sorbet, or my favorite… frozen yogurt. Once I have everything in hand, I head for the fast lane at the checkout. The guy in front has twelve items. Can’t the fucker read? Ten items. Ten fucking items. I let out a heavy sigh but resist the urge to call him on it. Bringing attention to myself is the last thing I want. In, out, as fast as possible.
I keep my head bowed while the guy in front packs his things, but when my own items remain stationary on the belt, I lift my head, expecting to see the cashier tapping on her cell or picking her teeth. Anything other than what she’s meant to be doing—serving me.
Instead, my gaze meets an elfin face, high cheekbones, dove-gray eyes surrounded by dark lashes, and that mouth I fantasized about fucking while I’d gotten myself off last night.
Dex.
She stares at me, those plump, rosy lips falling open. Color floods her cheeks, and she wrinkles her forehead, following her confusion up with a slight shake of her head.
“Would you like me to pack for you, sir?” she says, clearly deciding to ignore the fact we know each other.
I glance over my shoulder. There are no customers waiting behind me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. “Has Bernard fired you again?”
If he has, I’m going to rip him a new asshole.
She shakes her head and begins scanning my items before placing them carefully into a paper bag.
“Then, what’s going on?”
She scans the last item. “That’ll be nineteen thirty-six, sir.” She avoids eye contact, her gaze fixed somewhere around my navel.
Irritated, I lean in. “The only time I like sir as a form of address is in the bedroom, so call me sir again, and I’ll expect a different kind of service from you.”
Dex’s head snaps up, and the look on her face—a hint of delight tinged with anxiety—triggers something in me. It’s time to stop lying to myself. I want her, this girl I don’t know and didn’t give a shit about until a few days ago. Yet now, with the image of her sprawled naked on my bed, mine to tease, to tantalize, to play with as I see fit, my dick hardens.
“What are you doing here?” she whispers.
I give her one of my best ‘what the fuck?’ stares and jerk my chin at the bag she just packed for me. “Shopping. The reason you’re here, though, is much more interesting.”
She shrugs. “We’re not all mega-rich stars with houses in Malibu and infinity pools overlooking the ocean.”
I bark a laugh. If only she knew that living in one of those places is my worst fucking nightmare. “Correct. We’re not.”
She narrows her eyes, but when I stare her down, she relents. “I need the extra money.”
“Why?”
I’d seen her apartment building. It wasn’t situated in the best part of town, but not in the worst, either. She should be able to more than afford the rent with what Bernard is paying her, even before the raise I forced him into. Why the need to take an extra job? She must be exhausted.
She hands me my shopping bag. “Card or cash?”
Clearly she’s chosen to ignore me. I smirk. “What time do you get off?”
Dex wrinkles her nose and gives me one of those adorable head tilts. “Why?”
I lean in close. Her pupils dilate, and she breathes me in. Now, that is sexy. “Because I want to get off. With you.”
Her cheeks bloom with color again. She glances around, then shushes me. “Stop it. I’m at work. The last thing I need is you getting me fired from yet another job.”
I lick my lips, drawing her gaze to my mouth. “Tell me what time you finish, and I’ll go.”
“Fine,” she says with an annoyed huff. “Eight.” She waits as I tap my card. Once the payment is approved, she lowers her voice again. “Will you go now?”
I check my watch. I can amuse myself for a half hour. “I’ll be waiting for you outside.”
Her spine straightens, adding a couple of much-needed inches to her diminutive stature, and her eyes spark with annoyance, but behind those sharp, slate-gray irises lies attraction. Pleasure rushes through my veins. I might annoy the hell out of her, but she fucking wants me as much as I want her. Hollywood has taught me a lot about reading body language, and Dex’s is sending all the right signals.
“And I’ll be going home. I’m tired and irritable. I want to take a shower, then go to bed.”
I run my tongue along the underside of my top teeth, my eyes locking onto hers. “Sounds good to me, Titch.”
I walk away, leaving Dex slack-jawed. It’s a great look on her, and I know exactly how to fill that delicious mouth of hers.