“That’s exactly what I’m saying, and now that I know why you conned me into coming here, you can expect to get a ton of shit from me and foot the bill.”
Too bad for him, he’s already told me all I need to know.
Birdie Harris left that audition with one thing in mind—me.
Sure, she was calling me every name in the book, but I made an impression. I’ve spurred a reaction.
And I also know that tight little body of hers responded in all sorts of delectable ways when she was kissing me during her audition. Imagine what that body of hers would do if my mouth were on her sweet-as-fuck pussy?
God, I can’t wait until our lunch date tomorrow.
Birdie
Have you ever had someone ring your doorbell and you get all excited, thinking it’s something great, only to find out they’ve ding-dong ditched instead leaving behind a seemingly innocent but actually nefarious box full of human feces? Well, if you have, that’s a perfect metaphor for Andrew Watson.
I’m not saying Andrew Watson is shit, but I’m also not not saying Andrew Watson is shit. All I know is that somehow, some-damn-way, through my assistant Samantha, he ploy-ed me into a lunch meeting. I suppose the silver lining is if for some reason I stick to acting after this movie, I’ll have real-life experience to help me land a role playing the part of a hostage.
His posture is relaxed, a sexy smile etched across his stupid handsome face, and his feet are planted shoulder width apart on the front porch of my new home-away-from-home in California. In contrast, I am an unwilling participant, reaching back to lock my door and leave behind the life I love against my will.
“You ready?” he asks as I finish by jiggling the knob to make sure I haven’t accidentally just turned the key in the wrong direction, effectively achieving nothing—a frequent occurrence for me. When I spin to face him, my eyes do a cursory once-over without my permission.
From the tips of his well-worn boots to his faded blue jeans to the way his thick biceps bulge in a simple long-sleeved Henley that’s pushed up to his elbows, he looks photo-ready. To make matters worse, I have a feeling the bastard spent all of five minutes getting dressed.
Frankly, it’s exasperating. I spend more time just lotioning my alligator elbows than this fool—and just about every other man—spends readying himself for public scrutiny.
“Where are we going?” I ask, putting a defiant hand to my hip and holding my ground.
“To lunch.” He winks and gestures me toward the fancy-schmancy sports car sitting in my driveway. “And since you’ve only penciled me in for forty-five minutes, we better get a move on it.”
I sigh and hitch my purse up onto my shoulder, following his lead toward the shiny black car. Of course he drives something like this. I have no idea what the brand is or what it’s called, but I can tell it’s fast and draws eyes wherever he goes.
Anything to get attention.
He opens my door and helps me inside before mockingly jogging around the hood while tapping his watch. I roll my eyes as he slips into the driver’s seat.
“Here,” he says, after reaching behind the seat. A brown paper bag lands in my lap as he starts up the engine. It rumbles and roars with an addictive purr.
I peer into the bag and scrunch up my nose when I see what looks to be brown hair. “What is this?”
“A disguise.” His explanation is matter-of-fact as he pulls out of the driveway, but I rarely believe sociopaths on the first go.
“You’re joking, right?”
“Birdie, I never joke,” he deadpans.
I exhale so hard a snot bubble forms at the opening of one nostril. Luckily, for the sake of my dignity, he’s facing the other way. “Right.”
Smug enjoyment coloring his cheeks pink, he taps a finger on the steering wheel and elucidates. “I want to introduce you to the best tacos in town, and well, this town knows me a little too well.”
“Oh, right.” I roll my eyes. Autographs and selfies. He likes to give them away like fucking hot cakes. You get a selfie! And you get a selfie! He’s like the Oprah of Hollywood douchebags.
He takes a right out of my street and heads out onto the main road, and I mentally hope that the rest of our drive—the rest of our lunch—goes just like this. No talking. No Andrew saying something that will