Bootycall 2 - J. D. Hawkins Page 0,19

flash me a smile. I almost feel like thanking him for it.

“What movie?”

“The new Lars Von Trier one,” he smiles again, with a knowing pleasure in his eyes.

“I love Lars Von Trier!” I squeal. Almost clapping my hands at how much of a nice surprise it is. “How did you know? I never told you that.”

“You didn’t,” Dylan says, his Irish accent getting a little playful, “your dad did.”

“When did you speak with my dad?”

“I called him earlier. I had a few Lakers tickets that I can’t use. Thought he might be interested.”

I laugh at the weirdness of hearing that Dylan Marlowe is now close enough with my dad to offer him free Lakers tickets.

“And you spoke about where to take me?”

“No. We spoke about how the Warriors might go all the way this year, and somehow your taste in movies came up in the conversation.”

“Naturally,” I smile.

Dylan throws another insinuating smile in my direction and I feel all the blood in my body urge me to throw myself on him. Luckily, before my lack of self-control causes us to get into a car accident, we pull up on Sunset Boulevard, outside Soho House.

I let Dylan take my arm gently and help me out of the car, before locking it with his and leading me into the members-only club. There are a few people already there, and almost every single one of them a famous face. Producers, actors, and directors that all seem at ease in each other’s company. I immediately feel out of my depth, and with the way people are checking me out in this dress, virtually naked. Dylan takes me to the bar.

“Relax,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “We’re just watching a movie.”

I try to smile but it comes out as a jagged line.

“This is way too A-list for me.”

“Actually I was planning to take you to McDonalds and then a three-dollar double-feature, but the way you look tonight, it’s either here or the Riviera.”

I laugh and take the drink that the bartender puts in front of me.

“I could say the same about you in that suit.”

Dylan’s eyes roll down my body and back up again slowly, so intently that I feel a chill follow them.

“I wasn’t talking about the dress.”

I try to speak but my mouth goes completely dry. Suddenly the space between us feels like acres. I need him to put his hands on me. I need to press myself up against the unyielding hardness of his body. I want to taste his cock, feel his stubble across my face, beg him to bite my nipples and pull my hair.

Before I can do any of those things, a group of people surround us at the bar.

“Hey Dylan! Good to see you!” says an actress who’s way smaller than she seems on screen, but even more astonishingly beautiful.

“Heard about your new project with Chris West. Looking forward to it,” a young British actor adds.

I scan the faces of the four people who’ve joined us. Each one of them is a name so big I could probably take their empty glasses and sell them on eBay.

“Thanks,” Dylan says. “Good to see you guys too. This is Gemma.”

“Hello,” I smile, keeping my chin up, trying not to feel intimidated.

“Nice to meet you.”

We greet each other normally, politely, as if these are not internationally renowned stars with so much power they could probably order assassinations, and I’m not just some blonde in a nice dress.

“So what do you do, Gemma?” asks the shockingly good-looking actress.

“I…um…I do accounting in a studio financial department.”

There’s a slight pause after I say it.

“She works for the production company,” Dylan adds. “Keeping tabs on things that run out of control, budgets, time, and now me.”

They laugh in unison.

“Quite a big job,” one of them says, though I’m too dazed and confused to know which.

“An impossible job!” another adds.

“How is she doing?”

Dylan looks at me.

“Surprisingly well.”

“Well if that doesn’t deserve an Oscar, I don’t know what does.”

They laugh again, and I let out a few weak-sounding chuckles. Dylan notices my discomfort and looks around.

“We’re gonna go get some seats, see you guys later.”

“Bye Gemma.”

“Bye. Thank you,” I say, immediately cringing.

Dylan leads me into the screening room, where a few other people are already in place, before breaking out into a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I say.

“You really don’t feel like you belong here, do you?”

“No. Because I don’t.”

We sit down, the seats large and comfortable, though it means Dylan and I are separated by