Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DOMINIC
Gaining access into Silverline Studios requires a photo ID, birth certificate, passport, fingerprint, background check, blood sample, and full body cavity search.
And that’s just at the front security booth checkpoint.
After I’m granted access, I drive up to the main studio building. Slamming the car door, I stand there stewing in my own anger, fueled by the bright green lawn surrounding me like a grassy moat. It’s immaculate, flashy, and glaringly out of place. Almost as if someone dug up a tropical island and air dropped it over LA’s scorched brown earth.
Typical excess, just like Rosten himself.
And since I’m in no mood for horticultural dick swinging, I pick up the pace, grinding my teeth as I pass through the metal detector and enter the fancy glass enclosed reception area.
“Greg Rosten is expecting me,” I say to the receptionist. There’s no need for pleasantries. I’m not a pleasant guy. Plus, she’s on his payroll, which automatically puts her on my shit list.
“Name?”
She knows damn well who I am, but I’ll give her two points for attitude. At least this one has some fire in her, unlike the mannequins wandering around here fighting over who’s next in line to shove their tongue up Rosten’s asshole.
“Are we really going to play this game? I’ve got places to be and people to do. A few of whom are going to be put out if they miss getting dicked down because I was dicking with you.”
Glaring at me, she punches a few numbers into her desk phone, scowling as she speaks into the wireless headset strapped to her face. “Dominic McCallum is here to see Mr. Rosten.”
Told ya.
She gives me a barbed wire smile. “Down the hall, exit, and go to the main studio building then take the elevator to the penthouse.” She slides a square piece of plastic across the top of her desk. “Use this keycard once you’re in the elevator. It’ll provide you access to the penthouse where Susan will collect it.”
“Perfect.” I give her a wink and head toward the lion’s den.
The damn place is like a maze. Doors leading to more doors and studios that look like construction warehouses. By the time I make it to the main building and board the elevator with the magical keycard, my fists are clenched, and I’m out of patience.
“Mr. McCallum.” Rosten’s secretary stares up at me from behind her expensive desk. It’s not a question. And why should it be? Breaking into the White House would be easier than gaining access to the president of Silverline Studios .
“Sue.”
She holds out her hand. “Your keycard.”
I hand it over without arguing, and she stands without speaking, motioning me to follow her. She knocks on a door, opening it barely a crack. “He’s here.”
My mind is still swirling with images of that picture, not only with fear over what damage it could do, but with rage over knowing Rosten saw Angel like that. Half-naked and vulnerable. That sick, twisted fuck probably jerked off to it already.
Just the thought makes me force my way through Sue’s little cracked open doorway.
“Hey you can’t—”
“Fuck off, Sue.”
Once I lock eyes with Rosten, we might as well be the only two in the room anyway. I haven’t seen him since the arbitration, but he hasn’t changed. He’s still the same overprocessed cocksucker he’s always been.
Rosten’s lips quirk up in a devious smile as he waves a hand at her. “Leave us.”
“Yes, sir,” she concedes, and just before closing the door I hear her mutter, “My name is Susan, asshole.”
Greg Rosten’s office is just as pretentious as the sprayed lawn. All marble and mirrors with walls lined with multiple television screens and big glass windows overlooking the movie studios. I assume that’s by design, so he can feel like king of the castle. The master of his domain, looking out over all his loyal subjects and eenie meenie minie mo’ing the next in line to pluck out of obscurity and bend over his desk.
He smiles, showing off his obscenely white veneers. “Dominic, so glad you could make it. Have a seat.”
No wonder this fucker has to drug women to get laid. Everything about him screams douchebag from his Dumbo ears, to his patchy gray beard, to his beady little rat eyes, to his fuzzy balding head. If I were a chick, I’d rather suck off a horse.
“I prefer to stand, thanks.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. I assume you got my present.”
“You mean your blackmail?”
“That’s such an ugly word. I prefer incentive.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I tilt my chin. “Is this about me outing your audition with benefits bullshit? Is your pride still hurt? Well, get the fuck over it. You’ve already sued me, Rosten. You won. What can you possibly have left to gain by doing this?”
“You’re damn right I won. I’ll always win. Just the fact you thought someone like you could take down someone like me is pathetic. You tried to ruin me?” He lets out a theatrical laugh, his lip curling into a smug smile. “Well, I annihilated you.”
“Maybe I have nothing, but I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. You’re four-hundred-thousand dollars richer, and my debt is paid.”
“You think I give a flying fuck about your pathetic four-hundred-thousand dollars? I made twice that in the time it took for you to fumble your ass from reception to my office. I didn’t even deposit your check. I cashed it and jerked off with a fistful of hundred-dollar bills.” As if the words weren’t enough, he follows it up with a hand gesture.
“I’m flattered, Rosten, but I’m strictly clitly.”
His hardened gaze fills with irritation. “That wasn’t an offer, you shithead.” His attention diverts as he picks up the discarded photo. I don’t like the way he’s staring at it. If I didn’t know half of Burbank worked here, I’d shove the damn thing down his throat. “But maybe I should call up America’s resurrected sweetheart,” he says, licking his lips. “ A picture really does say a thousand words, and it looks like she’d scream them all.”
All I see is red.
“Stay away from her, or I’ll—”
He cocks a gray eyebrow. “Or you’ll what? Publish another blast? Out me again? You can’t, McCallum. It’s part of the settlement, remember?” Letting out a dark chuckle, he tosses the photo on his desk. “You can’t say shit about me without invalidating our agreement and being held in contempt.”
He’s right. It’s the only reason he didn’t take BTN in the settlement, as well. A compromise my lawyers negotiated despite my repeated objections. I keep my business, but the names Greg Rosten and Silverline Studios can’t be mentioned in any capacity. Otherwise, the arbitration is considered broken, and I’m fucked, broke, and incarcerated.
Running a hand through my hair, I tug at the roots and turn toward the window. I don’t have a damn thing to hold over him.
Then my gaze wanders back to the photo. The one snapped by a photographer who had the balls to climb a twelve-foot partition. Then my mind reverts back to the front lawn and a question mumbled by a paparazzo in a baseball hat.
“How do you feel about McCallum’s feud with Greg Rosten?”
Son of a bitch.
“That paparazzo wasn’t working for a tabloid. He was on your payroll, and the minute he climbed over a fence and into my backyard, he was trespassing on private property.” I don’t wait for him to answer before I turn back around, adding with a smirk, “And that’s illegal.”
“Prove it. ”
“I’ve got it right here!” I shout, jerking my phone out of my pocket.
“You’ve got a picture emailed to you from a ghost account. Prove it was me. I know you’re not wearing a wire. The metal detectors would’ve taken care of that.”
Damn it, he’s right again. “What do you want?”
A beat passes then he leans forward, “I want her .”
My blood turns to ice. “What?”
“You heard me. I still think you’re full of shit, McCallum, but the Romanov estate wouldn’t bend over solely on the word of some third-rate gossip blog. If this girl really is Alexandra Romanov, she’s guaranteed box office gold.”
“Did you accidentally roofie yourself? I know what you do to your box office golden girls. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you anywhere near her.”
“Technically, the Romanov family is contractually obligated to Silverline. Nicholas Romanov was on the board of directors.”
“Nicholas Romanov is dead,” I growl, my temper blazing. “Along with his wife and four children. Alexandra’s contract voided the minute they were buried.”
“Well, there’s still the matter of this crown jewel.” Picking up the picture, he dangles it between his thumb and index finger. “I bet the tabloids would sell their mothers to buy this.” He pauses, glancing up at me through narrowed eyes. “How about you, Dominic? Would you sell your mother to buy it?”
“Choose your next words very carefully, Rosten.”
“How is dear Brenda doing? I hear Moss Valley is overcrowded these days.”
I swear to fuck if I had my gun, I’d put every damn bullet in his chest, and then pistol whip him just for fun. Greg Rosten has no idea what I’m capable of or what sins I’ve committed. I may have left the life that built me, but every brick of BTN is bathed in blood and then washed in the back of a dirty garage. That kind of violence never leaves you. It’s always there, simmering just under the surface, waiting to erupt.
And the volcano is about to blow.
“You’re the reason she’s there.”
“And you’re the reason she’s leaving.”
Rushing toward him, I slam my fist on his desk. “Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you!” he seethes, narrowing his eyes. “Haven’t you heard? I’m God in this town. I own everybody, and I own you, you little shit.” He shoves his finger in my face, and I smack it away. It doesn’t faze him. “You may have paid off your debt, but you’re still broke as shit. You can’t afford the toilet paper to wipe your ass much less decent long-term psychiatric care.” Leaning back in his oversized chair, he folds his hands behind his head and kicks his feet up on his desk. “Here’s your reality, newsboy, I can have her eighty-sixed from that piece of shit clinic and thrown out on her batshit crazy ass before you even make it to the parking lot.”
My voice shakes with rage. “You can’t do that.”
“You bet your ass I can. And I will, along with sending this”—he points to the photo still lying on his desk—“to every media outlet from here to Antarctica.” A wide smile spreads across his face. “Unless you convince that pretty little thing to sign on the dotted line.”
I’m not a good man, but that’s sending a lamb to slaughter.
What choice do I have?
“I want my mother reinstated to a deluxe suite at Moss Valley.” I taste every bitter lick of betrayal in each word. “A year’s stay paid up front, and I want it all in writing. ”
He nods, victory peeling across his smug face. “Consider it done.”
“I’ll need some time.”
“You have until Friday.”
What the hell? “That’s in three days! There’s no way. Besides, it’ll be too chaotic on Friday. Alexandra has the…” The word trails off as the pieces start clicking together, then I grit out, “party.”
Rosten’s smile widens, the gleam in his eye turning my stomach. “Can’t wait. It’s been a long time since I’ve indulged in a Romanov party. Russian vodka is the best, you know. Should be a good time.”
I want to grab his tongue and rip it out. Instead, I grab the picture off his desk.
“You keep that.” He nods toward my clenched hand. “I have a hundred more where that came from. Now get out of my sight. I have work to do.”
I don’t take orders, but I’m afraid if I’m in this man’s presence another minute, I might throw him out the window.
Just as I get to the elevator, he calls my name. “Dominic?”
I don’t know why I stop. Call it morbid curiosity, or maybe subconsciously, I’m looking for a reason to bloody my hands. Whatever the motivation, I look over my shoulder.
He runs his index finger along his bottom lip and winks. “Tell that special girl to save a dance for me.”
I don’t breathe until I’m back in my car and alone. Only then do I lose it.
Balling up the picture, I slam my fist into the steering wheel over and over. When I run out of steam, I slump back in the seat and close my eyes. The picture is bad enough, but the worst has yet to come. I started this war, but I won’t be the only one who pays the price. I’ve led an unsuspecting, unarmed, and unaware army into battle.
The fucked-up part is, even knowing this, I’ll still march. I’ll still charge. I’ll still drive an innocent woman straight into the arms of the enemy. To the same casting couch that drove my mother off the cliff of reality. Because I have no choice.
War isn’t pretty. It isn’t fair.
Sometimes you have to play dirty.
And sometimes the only way to win is to sacrifice one of your own.