Hollywood Rebel by Misti Murphy
Chapter Two
Summer
“Hi, I’m Summer Heart.”
“Hello, I’m Summer.”
“Hey there, I’m Summer Heart from Knightly PR. Yes, I’m Bernadette Knight’s assistant. Yes, she is the best at what she does. Yes, I’m sure she remembers bailing you out of that mess where you were banging your producer’s wife. Oh, you still are? You have Bernadette on speed dial. Well done.”
“Hi, I’m Summer. No, I will not touch your weenis.”
Oh my God, this party is insane. Until an hour ago, I would never have thought I’d be uttering the words I will not touch your weenis to anyone other than my nephew Ernie who is five. But when that one guy decided to follow up by asking me to touch another body part that rhymes with the name Ernie likes to use for his elbow, I was over it.
Hollywood is so different from where I grew up in Devil’s Bend, Kansas. Well, not the summertime temperatures, actually. They’re fairly similar. Although we have rain and tornados in Kansas, while L.A. has fires.
It’s the people who are different.
Back home everyone is laid back. We don’t live on top of each other and no one is thumping a broomstick against the ceiling of their apartment because the neighbor upstairs won’t turn down their TV. And there certainly aren’t parties like this one.
Everyone here is so glamorous and beautiful. They’re trendsetters and artists and moguls. And, okay, some of them are a little rude and others can be downright awful in their suggestions. Never mind the small fortune it costs the rest of us to keep up with the rich and the famous. But it’s not boring like it often is back home.
I check my phone as I wander along the hallway where I found my escape. It’s quiet up here on the second floor. The music from the band still pumps through the walls and into my aching head like it’s personally attacking me, but not another soul moves along this particular section of the house. Wow, I’ve only been here for thirty minutes. It felt like the longest three hours of my life.
Unfortunately I can’t leave yet. I’ve only been with Knightly PR for a couple of months and I need the networking that coming to these parties affords me if I want to prove to Bernadette that I was worth hiring in the first place. Which, if the meeting this morning was anything to go by, she does not think is the case. But that’s because she hasn’t given me the opportunity to show her what I can do. So far it’s been all bring me my coffee and color code my calendar. Of course those jobs are important too, but they aren’t why I studied to get my bachelor’s in Public Relations. And it isn’t why I wanted to work for the best public relations manager in the city.
I slide my phone back into my little shoulder purse and lift my champagne glass toward my lips. It’s as I glance up that I come face to face with the biggest, er, longest, um… how do I put this delicately? “Oh cock-a-doodle-doo.”
My feet do this thing where they decide not to cooperate with my brain and go their own way, taking my balance with them. I’d really like to blame the stilettos I’m currently wearing, but unfortunately this isn’t the first time I’ve tripped over my own feet. And I doubt it will be the last. I brace for impact as I topple forward into the wall sized portrait of a Maddox. My forehead bumps the glass. “Which one are you, hmm? Rebel or Rogue?”
It’s easy to tell. Rebel Maddox has been caught naked in public more times than anyone else I can think of. His buff body is all over the internet. And unlike some more humble celebrities he’s proud of his Full Monty image. Why else would he have this huge nude portrait of himself? Which is why I know that he has a… well, he has a piercing in his, uh… ding-a-ling.
A slight change of the direction in which I’m glancing, and my suspicions are confirmed. A metal ring runs through the tip of his peen. What on earth would that feel like?
“Rebel Maddox, it is very nice to meet you,” I whisper with my forehead still pressed to the glass covering the photo of his penis and balls—which may appear bigger than reality from this viewpoint. With my palms against the glass and my body bowing to my total clumsiness, my mouth is practically on his ball sack. All the heat of Hades concentrates in my face. “You shave? That’s so nice. Thoughtful, truly.”
He doesn’t respond. Probably because I’m not looking him in the eyes. Nope, I’m looking him directly in the head of his mighty fine snake. And also because he’s thankfully not the real flesh and blood deal. “That is one hell of a weenis you’ve got there, Mr. Maddox.”
Behind me someone clears their throat.
“Oh shit,” I whisper, making absolutely no effort to stop eyeballing the giant, still life man junk while talking to myself. Okay, so I may have mismanaged my champagne intake. Oops. It was bubbly and sweet and going down right, and it is so hard to know how much you’ve had when your glass is constantly being topped off.
I push away from the image, close my eyes, and run my hands down the front of my dress while I try to regain some composure. On wobbly heels I turn to face the other guest in this hallway.
Rebel Maddox, in the flesh. The same hard blue eyes from the photo stare down at me. I do a double take, glance over my shoulder to check. Consider the idea that it’s not him but his twin. Dismiss it when the piercing in his eyebrow matches the one in the portrait. “You’re him. Rebel Maddox.”
“I am.” In real life those steely orbs dance with a lazy humor that curves his mouth.
He rubs a hand over the back of his head. His hair is a little unkempt, unlike the pictures I’ve seen of him, including the behemoth behind me. The longer strands beg for my fingers to run through them. They’re so glossy and why is that so sexy?
“Isn’t that like trying to eat an orange out of a still life?” he asks.
“An orange from a still life?” I echo. He looks at me like he wants to peel me out of my dress like an orange out of its skin. Like he wants to suck the sweet juice from my, uh, segments. But surely that’s not what he meant.
“Yeah.” He smiles over my shoulder and for a second I think someone else has joined us. And then it clicks. He thinks I was trying to…kiss… the picture of his dick. “Looked to me like you wanted to get personally acquainted. What color is that? Sexy Mother Pucker?”
“What?” I spin around to find he’s staring at my lipstick smudged on his, yep, you guessed it, ball sack. Apparently I lip smacked the glass when I fell. I cover my face with my hand. Inhale sharply. I am certain every part of me turns as red as my hair. From the tips of my toes all the way to the ends of my curls I am sure I am the color of copper. “You have to be kidding me. That isn’t…that wasn’t…what was happening here.”
“If you say so.” He hums in amusement as his gaze settles somewhere beneath the material of my dress. Not that that’s possible, but I swear he’s undressing me in his head and he likes what he sees.
And I might like it too. Even if it’s just a fantasy.
Tattoos peek from the collar of his T-shirt and run down both arms, making him look as devilish and wicked as those gossip rag articles claim. I can practically see the outline of his abs under the thin cotton of his shirt. The cut lines of his hips draw me in. The outline of his, erm, penis is prominent in his jeans.
Holy hell, a little too prominent. That’s like… woah, wait… is he hard? It’s soooo… thick. I’ve met wine bottles that aren’t that wide. It didn’t seem that gigantic in the photo. I glance over my shoulder. Nope, it definitely doesn’t look like a battering ram in the photo. Just a nice, decent dick. One you wouldn’t mind shaking hands with, not the freaking Godzilla of erections.
“What are you doing up here, little girl?”
“Firstly, don’t call me little girl, ever,” I retort before I have a chance to reel myself in. It’s a fault of mine. Sometimes my mouth runs away on me before I can engage my brain, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, but Rebel Maddox isn’t exactly known for being nice. In fact he’s been arrested for disturbing the peace and public indecency many times, but that isn’t the worst of it. The last party Hollywood’s most infamous Rebel threw, he assaulted one of his guests in front of everyone there.
The guy—an up-and-coming new actor—ended up in the hospital with a dislocated jaw, a fractured eye socket, and broken ribs. And the whole event ended up in the papers and online. “Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”
Oh God, why did I say that? I open my mouth to take it back and then promptly shut it again when nothing I think to say seems right.
A bottle of whisky hangs from one big paw. A tray of mini foods rests on the other. Saliva pools on my tongue. It’s the champagne that has me unable to open my mouth without inserting my foot in it. Food would be welcome right about now.
The whisky bottle is open and he somehow manages to bring it to his lips so he can knock back a mouthful without it being a calamity. “Got out today.”
“Oh.” So this party is in his honor? His welcome home. “Congratulations.”
“Answer the question…” he tips his head as though waiting for something while he puts the tray down on a modern looking console table before coming back to me.
“Oh, my name.” I am not usually this terrible at communicating. “It’s Summer.”
“Summer.” He pushes my name around with his lips. It sounds kind of dirty the way he says it. Like I imagine his hot, wet tongue would if it were rasping along my skin.
It makes me shiver.
“That wasn’t the question.” He brings that bottle to his mouth again. Swallows the last mouthful of the amber liquid before his focus intimidates me. “Why are you invading my privacy? No one is allowed in this area. It’s off limits.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” It’s not like he had signs on the walls or anything. Even my brothers knew how to put up a good No Girls Allowed or Keep Out sign, complete with skull and cross bones. In case I wasn’t aware that I’d be dead if I entered.
“If you were invited here, you would know.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand as he puts the empty bottle on the floor. He nudges it with his foot and it rolls to a stop against the wall. “Are you trespassing, little girl?”
“No. I was invited.” I twist the truth a little. I’d gotten the invite thanks to my friend Jennie. She knew a guy who knew a guy. It was all very aboveboard. Whatever, I need to be at these parties to network. I don’t really have a choice.
He takes another step toward me. “Did Rogue put you up to this?”
“Your twin?” I met his twin earlier this evening. Rogue Maddox. He was a charming flirt. But Rebel is dangerous. And not just because he’s intimidatingly sexy. Which blows my mind, considering I didn’t get this intense attraction to his identical twin. He’s dangerous because he is a loose cannon.
“Yeah.”
“Mmm.” I find the pulse point in my neck with my fingers. It’s racing a little fast from all the embarrassment. Or because he’s watching me like I’m the criminal and not him.
His eyes are so intense. I feel like he can see through me. No, inside me to my deepest, darkest desires. I drop my gaze but get stuck on his waist when he slides his hand inside the band of his jeans.
“Red.” He pulls a new bottle from the waistband and unscrews the cap so he can chug from the neck. “If you want to put your mouth on my dick that bad, all you have to do is ask.”
“Oh.”
He smirks at my expression as the thickness of the outline in his jeans suddenly makes sense. The actual outline of his package is way less frightening now that it isn’t the size of a whisky bottle.
“Pretty please goes a long way with me. Especially today.” He eyeballs the curls I’ve loosely tied back from my face. His gaze on my neck is like a smoking hot brand as he invades my personal space. Picking up the end of one tress, he tugs on it so that it makes my scalp tingle. “It’s been a long six months and I wouldn’t mind some company.”
“I don’t think…”
He pulls his lip in with his teeth in a move I’ve seen a million times. On the screen. In the gossip rags. On TM-freaking-Z. But never in person. It’s the Kung Fu Panda Wuxi Finger Hold of sexy moves, when viewed in real life.
“Skadoosh,” I whisper.
“What?” He frowns and makes a soft noise that sounds like the start of a very unsure chuckle as he eats up the gap I try to create by stepping back.
“Nothing.” I swallow. I need to get out of here. Leave, while he’s distracted from doing that thing with his mouth that has my panties melting. The things those lips could do if I only said yes. But I’m not going to say yes. Trusting a drunk criminal in a hallway… God, that would be so dumb. “I should go.”
“Are you sure, Red? You could stay. We could get drunk. You could let me do all those things you’re imagining me doing to you in that pretty little head of yours.”
“I am not imagining anything.” I think I’m having an allergic reaction to his cologne. It settles in my nose at the same time his words slide into my ear. It tickles my nostrils and makes my mouth water. So much saliva. It gets caught on an intake of breath and I almost choke on it. What is it about this guy that makes my brain as fumbled as my feet?
Is the inability to blink an allergy symptom? Because I feel like it’s unnatural to stare this long while considering my options. On the one hand there are stories that make a girl not want to look a gift dick in the mouth. See, even considering it in those terms makes it hard not to imagine what letting Rebel Maddox take me to bed would be like.
On the other hand, I am a tad past tipsy; on the corner of I need to take a nap, and this guy chews women up and spits them out. And that is not on my things to do list. Today, tomorrow, or even a year from now.
He clasps the back of my neck and presses his warm lips to my ear. His thumb is running circles on my skin that is making it impossible to think clearly. “You’re sexy as hell. I bet you’d look amazing with my cock in your mouth.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Am I flirting with him? Awkwardly? No, that can’t be it. That would be the equivalent of taunting the bull. And I do not want that big horn anywhere near me. Even if I’m melting into a puddle under his touch.
“Where do you want to start? You want to get down on your knees? Or should I?”
I put a hand up between us. I need space. Air. I can’t breathe with him so close. The mere inches between us does nothing to slow the effect he’s having on me. “I should go.”
“So you keep saying.” He smirks as my back meets the glass frame. Even now my palms are flattening on his abdomen, feeling how hard and virile he is. “Yet, you’re still here.”
“Because you’re in my way.” And the funny thing is I didn’t realize how much so until my back hit the wall. My heart jackrabbits at the idea that we’re alone up here. That he’s dangerous. That he’s used to women falling all over themselves to please him. That I’ve got enough champagne in my system to make that seem like, if not a good idea, the best of regrets. Or the worst mistake. And I don’t make mistakes. “Let me go.”
He glances down at my hands, which are still on his chest. His brow grows craggy while his lips try to decide between whether they want to turn up or down in the corners until the get stuck somewhere in the middle. “Are you screwing with me?”
“No. No, I’m not screwing with you.” I shove at his chest.
He moves more easily than I expected. Like he’s touched a live wire and it’s sent him sailing backwards. He falls into the console table against the wall. Salmon blinis and bite sized chicken pieces avalanche onto the floor by his feet. His molten gaze turns ice cold and he throws the arm with the bottle of whisky out in the direction of the open end of the passage. Some of the liquid splashes on his hand and the floor. “Get the fuck out of my house. Now.”
“Wow, what an asshole,” I retort as I march past him. Though, honestly I don’t know why I’m surprised. The guy did urinate on two of the prettiest dogs I’ve ever seen grace a magazine cover, after all.
In fact, everything I’ve ever read about him backs up the fact that Rebel Maddox is the biggest and baddest of all Hollywood’s A-List Rebels. Even Bernadette, who the worst of Hollywood have labelled the fixer because she can turn any narrative around, wouldn’t touch Rebel Maddox after that.