3. Jenna
Chapter three
Jenna
The night is going exactly how I expected it to: a snooze fest.
Aside from my earlier interaction with Mr. GQ, nothing memorable has happened so far.
I’m sitting at a table surrounded by people who want to be industry professionals but never quite made it past the pilot of a show. All hoping to finally catch their break.
It almost feels like the singles table at a wedding. Good enough to be there, but not good enough for someone to want you.
And with the way people have been staring at me all night, it’s like I have the words ‘cursed forever’ written across my forehead in big, bold letters. “Another drink?” The same bartender from earlier asks me, noting my empty glass. I nod madly at him as if to say ‘please save me,’ but, instead, he chuckles.
Handing me the ready-made drink on the tray that he holds close to his body, he winks before walking away.
“So, Jennifer.” The older lady beside me, Dorothy, has been talking my ear off all night. She’s in her seventies at least , and she doesn’t try to hide it. Her white hair is in what I assume are her natural waves, her green eyes tired. Her lips are pink and barely visible when she talks.
“Mmm?” I say, peeling my eyes off the back of the bartender’s head, forcing my attention to my new friend.
“You said you’re working with Cole Green and Mara Scott on their next film?” she asks, her shaky hand rising to her mouth as she takes a slow sip from her champagne flute. Placing the glass back down, she fixes the napkin over her mustard dress, carefully flattening out any creases.
“Yes, that’s right. In a small town about four hours from here. Filming starts in three weeks,” I tell her with a soft smile. She’s probably been the only person tonight who isn’t insufferable to be around.
Well, her, the bartender, and the love of my life, but I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off at my table.
He’s probably already forgotten about my existence.
“You lucky thing. Cole Green is a handsome boy,” she replies, using her hands to fan her face. The room is cool, but she still has tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip.
“So I’ve heard.” Nodding, I take a sip of my watered-down vodka, scrunching my nose up at the burn as it slides down the back of my throat.
“Oh, good! It’s about to start. I bet Mara wins best lead actor for her work in Heavy Hearts. ” She claps her hands together, turning her attention to the stage, and suddenly forgetting all about my existence.
We watch as announcers come out, reading the names of the nominees off the cards they hold in their fingertips, and the winners come to collect their statue. Every person on that stage dressed with impeccable taste, or stylists that should’ve been fired a long time ago.
There’s no in between.
“Here’s her category,” I tell Dorothy, who averts her attention from the stage to the big screen in front of us. She heard me, but she doesn’t acknowledge me while her knee bounces against mine.
“And the winner for best lead actress is… Mara Scott!” The crowd all rises to their feet with applause, every set of eyes on her as she makes her way to the stage. Her number one fan beside me cheers her heart out.
“Wow, what an honor,” Mara says breathlessly, with a widespread smile across her face. She thanks the entire cast and crew for the parts they played in Heavy Hearts , and the audience hangs on to her every word. “Lastly, I just want to thank my leading man, Derrick Chaplin. What an incredible experience it was to play a badass woman by your side.” She raises her metallic blue man into the air for everyone to see, and heads to the back of the stage.
“What a talent,” Dorothy says after her applause slowly ends and we each sit back down in our seats. I shake my now numb hands, finally free of her grip. “I hear she has a little fling with most of her on screen lovers.” She wiggles her brows at me, and I chuckle.
We spend the next two hours watching people give and receive awards. The host tells bad jokes about women and how they don’t belong on a man’s stage, which receives a mix of applause and boos. The announcer calls last drinks from the bar, sending a flock of people rushing to get their fix.
I remain seated as I watch people desperately trying to refill their glass, while I take my phone out to alert the driver that I’m ready to be picked up.
“Are you ready to get out of here?”
I hear his voice before I see his face. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, my body stiffening as the warmth from his body radiates into my back.
I slide my phone back into my clutch.
Did he actually mean what he said earlier?
Goosebumps dance over every single inch of my skin, putting on the performance of a lifetime, while Dorothy elbows my ribs with a wide grin slapped on her face.
“Seriously?” I ask, turning to face the tall, sexy as hell, mysterious stranger, shocked that he actually came back to find me.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” He extends his hand for me to take. His fingers wiggle their invitation for mine, with the other tucked behind his back as if to say, ‘ I’m a gentleman, asking his lady to dance.’
“Well…no, I guess not.” I feel my lips tug up at the sides in amusement. Turning back to face my table, I hesitate briefly before the words ‘ fuck it’ float freely through my head, and I collect my clutch.
Opening it one last time, I triple-check to make sure my belongings are where they’ve been all night, then sling the chain strap over my shoulder and turn around to take his hand, which is still waiting for me. “Where too, Mr…?” I ask, hoping he gives me some sort of name. Anything at all, but he chuckles and shakes his head instead.
“No names tonight.” He intertwines our fingers, leading the way toward the foyer and elevators where ques are slowly forming.
Mr. GQ it is.
“So I don’t get to know the name of the man who claims he’s going to give me twelve orgasms? The man who called himself my boyfriend on more than one occasion tonight?” I ask in a hushed tone, keeping our conversation as private as possible.
“Are you telling me the most orgasms you’ve had in one night is four, Snow?” He nudges his shoulder with mine, and I want to ask him about the nickname he’s decided to call me, but I want to slam him up against the nearest wall and have my way with him more. “Because I’ve got to say…that’s pretty disappointing.” He watches me closely for a reaction, but my expression doesn’t change.
“Disappointing for who, exactly? Because I was pretty satisfied,” I tease, nudging him back, and he quakes a brow, not believing a single thing I’d just said.
“Is that the most you’ve given yourself, or at the hands of somebody else?” He asks while looking at me, his dark eyes focused on mine, and I don’t notice the crowd around us growing until it’s already there.
“I—” dammit.
“That’s what I thought.”
The doors to the elevator finally open, and we ride it to his floor without another word said between us. It’s at capacity, with everyone awkwardly touching the person beside them in some way. He and I are standing so close to each other that he could slide his hand beneath my dress, and no one would even notice.
I can already feel the warmth pooling between my legs.
“This is me,” he finally says once we reach the seventh floor, leaving behind an old man carrying his suit jacket folded over his arm. He looks as though he needs water and Tylenol, like yesterday.
Smiling an awkward goodbye to the strange, older gentleman, I step out of the elevator and walk to the room he holds the door open for, and I hesitate before my legs take the step inside without my go-ahead.
I don’t get the chance to take in my surroundings before he spins me to face him, his lips crashing down on mine in an instant, ripping the air from my lungs, and a light whimper barely escapes the back of my throat.
His hands remain gripped on my shoulders before his fingertips glide up the sides of my neck, his thumbs moving to caress my cheeks.
It feels like he’s holding the entire weight of my body in the palm of his hands, and I hate how light it makes me feel—almost like I’m floating.
I don’t even know his name.
His hands slowly move down my back, fingers picking up speed as he attempts to find a zip, our mouths continuing to explore each other’s.
Our tongues fight for victory, but it’s not messy. It’s frantic—and God dammit—it’s necessary.
His tongue sweeps my bottom lip before he nibbles on it, trickling kisses across my jaw. His stubble is rough against my skin. All the while his hands still move feverishly in search of a way to take the dress off me.
“The zip is on…” I try to say through heavy breaths, but he cuts me off.
“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself and to me, my body stiffening when I hear the loudest rip sound I’ve ever heard in my life.
That’s when I feel the material of my black, satin dress pooling at my feet, ripped completely down the middle. “Oops.” He chuckles, his hands immediately on my bare skin. My dress is ruined, and I’m going to have to walk the streets of California in my bra and underwear when I leave.
Fantastic.
If that wasn’t the hottest thing any man has ever done to me, I would be fucking pissed that the only word he said in replace of an apology was ‘ oops ’.
Two can play at that game.
He claims my mouth again with his, and I place my open palms on his cotton-covered chest, using just the right amount of force to push him backward slowly, until they hit the base of the bed. He sits on the edge of it voluntarily, a deep grumble vibrating through his chest when our lips part.
I rip straight down the middle of what I imagine is a very expensive shirt. His buttons fly off in every direction, hitting the walls, the window, the lampshade, and the tiny dining table in the room's corner.
“Oops,” I say with a smirk.
“I deserved that.”