Page 4 of Her Hollywood Master (Master Me #6)

“Yeah.” He put a hand on her low back, like he still had rights to her and guided her back into the kitchen. “Listen, babe,” he said in his dragged out, stoner-surfer voice. “I’m so glad your sister invited us over, because I’ve been feeling like we have this thing hanging between us.”

“This thing ?”

“Yeah, you know...What happened between us this summer.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “What exactly did happen between us this summer?” She hated the tight, high-pitched timbre of her voice.

The front door opened and closed and the number of voices downstairs increased. Someone turned on the stereo.

“You know, it’s not about you, babe. I hope you understand that. I met Ella and we just had this instant connection .”

“And you’re telling me this now? Two months after I find it out from the tabloids?”

“Okay, hey. I understand you’re a little pissy about it all. But I just wanted you to know that I still love you. I think you’re awesome. I had a ball with you. And I don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us.”

“Well, you can’t always get what you want, now can you?” It wasn’t that snappy of a line, pretty cliché, actually, but it was the best she could come up with. She wasn’t good at confrontation. She stomped out of the kitchen, up to the third floor to her bedroom.

This sucked. Why would Bev invite her ex and his new girlfriend to her house— her house , dammit—to party? Especially on a night when she had to get a good night’s sleep or her career would be over?

She skipped the bath and crawled into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin as the band began to do a sound check. Great. Now she had to listen to Billy Foxx and his boy band playing all night long. She held the pillow over her ears.

So much for a good night’s sleep.

Marissa woke in sweat-dampened pajamas. Sunlight streamed in through her window, baking her with its intensity.

Ugh. She got out of bed and turned on the ceiling fan. What time was it, anyway?

She looked at her clock and shrieked. Literally shrieked.

Nine-forty. She’d been due at the studio at nine.

She hadn’t set her alarm because she figured after going to bed at eight p.m., she’d be up at the crack of dawn.

She raced to the bathroom and took a thirty-second shower, stopping only to heave twice down the drain.

She froze when she climbed out and caught her reflection in the mirror.

No. F-ing. Way. A giant cold sore had appeared on her upper lip.

She looked like she should be starring in a horror movie as the zombie girlfriend from hell.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she wailed as she threw on some clothes and dashed down the stairs.

Her living room was littered with beer and liquor bottles, party guests still hanging out on her couch or passed out around the room.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she repeated as she searched for the keys to her car. Bev had them last, which meant they might be anywhere. She pounded back up the stairs and threw open Bev’s door. Her sister lay naked, one leg tossed over Billy Foxx, also naked.

She started to heave again. This shouldn’t be her life. It really shouldn’t. She found her sister’s purse and dug the keys out.

“I really hate you,” she muttered as she slammed the door and ran down the stairs two at a time.

Downstairs Ella Janes was stumbling around her living room.

“Your boyfriend’s upstairs in my sister’s bed,” she said as she passed her by.

“I know,” the model breezed, her lids half-lowered over red eyes. “It’s cool. We have an open relationship.”

Ugh. “Well, that works out great for you, I guess,” she said, running out the door.

She jumped in the car, cursing her sister and mother the entire time.

Considering it was her money they lived on, you’d think they would pay a little more attention to her career.

Weren’t they supposed to be managing her?

She slammed on the brakes at a red light hard enough that her seatbelt locked.

She hated driving. Bev should be driving her right now.

Pulling the visor down, she flipped open the mirror. Crap. The cold sore was still there, staring back at her, the visual metaphor for uninvited guests in her life. She hit the gas when the light turned green and screeched into the parking lot at the studio, running inside.

The cast and crew were all standing on the set and every head turned when she burst in. She caught a glimpse of Joel, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze stony.

“You,” Antonio shouted, striding up to her. “How dare you show up late again?”

“I know, I’m soooo sorry,” she said.

“You’re sorry? That’s it? After ruining yesterday’s shoot, you have the nerve to show up late today and not at least try to tell me you were in a car accident, or your mother died or something?”

She spread her palms. “I don’t have an excuse. I messed up. But I’m here now, and I’m ready to go.”

He narrowed his eyes, leaning into her personal space.

“What’s on your face?” He pointed a fat finger at her, his lip curling in disgust. “A cold sore?” His face tensed in brutal lines.

“You are finished.” He drew a line across his throat.

“Fired. Get off my set. I can’t wait for you to stop acting like a spoiled diva while I’m trying to make a movie, here. ”

“Please, Antonio—I know this looks bad, but?—”

He walked away, holding up his hand.

She ran after him. “Listen, it won’t happen again. Ever. I promise! I’m really sorry?—”

He left the set and slammed the door in her face.

She pushed back the wedge of emotion that threatened to erupt. Do not fall apart here. Not here. Unable to think of what to do, her legs carried her back outside to her car. She climbed in and sat in the driver’s seat, unseeing and motionless.

No thoughts passed. No emotions. She checked out completely, just sitting there in her parked car with the top down, because the mechanism to close it was broken. She probably sat there forty-five minutes before the sound of a door slamming started her out of her stupor.

Emotion flooding back, she put the key in the ignition and started the car, tearing out of there before she made an even bigger fool out of herself.

Rain poured down, running off his windshield in rivulets.

Joel had spent most of the day in an emergency meeting with Antonio and the other producers discussing the fate of the movie.

Two of the producers were ready to scrap it and walk away.

Joel had too much invested in it to be willing to take a loss.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have the additional funds to invest to hire a new actress and start over.

The filming was two-thirds complete, after all.

Despite Antonio’s adamant protest that he’d never work with Sparks again, Joel had advocated trying to salvage the movie by putting the screws to Marissa and basically forcing her to perform in her contract.

The studio’s lawyer had put in a call to her mother and her agent, letting them know she’d be sued for breach of contract and demanding the return of her advance, plus damages.

He hoped she’d hire a lawyer and they would negotiate for the completion of the movie.

Antonio had insisted he would quit if they brought her back, but eventually, Joel made him see reason. The director wanted this movie—his baby—finished as much as Joel did.

He pulled up to the front gates of his Venice Beach mansion and stopped. There, sitting in an open convertible Porsche, getting soaked in the rain, sat Marissa Sparks. What the hell was she up to?

He threw the car in park and opened the door, standing up in the rain. “Most people put up the top when it rains,” he called out to her.

“It won’t go,” she said.

He waited, but she didn’t explain her presence.

“What are you doing here?”

“May I come in? Please? I just want to talk to you.”

He nodded and stepped back into his dry car, hitting the remote to open the automatic gate.

It swung open and he motioned her inside ahead of him.

He followed her up the drive to where she parked in the circle in front of the house.

Opening the garage door, he drove in, then got out and beckoned to her.

She arrived like a drowned rat: shivering and dripping wet. She wore microscopic shorts and a tank top and both were soaked through, clinging to her curves. Mascara streaked her face. It was hard to tell if the tears that caused the tracks were still flowing or if it was just rain on her cheeks.

“Come on in,” he said, holding his arm out to her and escorting her in with a light touch at her low back.

“Wait here,” he said, leaving her on the tiled floor of his kitchen.

He retrieved a giant fluffy orange towel from the bathroom and returned, wrapping it around her and blotting her hair and face.

“Thanks,” she said, looking as small and forlorn as a lost child, her blue eyes huge in her face.

He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

“Joel,” she said, sounding breathless. “I came here to beg you—please—to give me another chance. I know I screwed up. I screwed up big time. I’m not going to offer you any excuses because I know you don’t want to hear them.

I just want you to know that I’m sorry. Really sorry.

As sorry as a person can be. And if you let me back on the movie, I would work every minute of every day to prove to you I can do the job you hired me for. ”

He looked at her a long time. “What makes you think I can get you back on the movie? The decision isn’t just mine.”

“I know—” she trailed off, her eyes pleading.

His cock stirred. He happened to love that look on a woman.