Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,51

sick, twisted fuck probably jerked off to it already.

Just the thought makes me force my way through Sue’s little cracked open doorway.

“Hey you can’t—”

“Fuck off, Sue.”

Once I lock eyes with Rosten, we might as well be the only two in the room anyway. I haven’t seen him since the arbitration, but he hasn’t changed. He’s still the same overprocessed cocksucker he’s always been.

Rosten’s lips quirk up in a devious smile as he waves a hand at her. “Leave us.”

“Yes, sir,” she concedes, and just before closing the door I hear her mutter, “My name is Susan, asshole.”

Greg Rosten’s office is just as pretentious as the sprayed lawn. All marble and mirrors with walls lined with multiple television screens and big glass windows overlooking the movie studios. I assume that’s by design, so he can feel like king of the castle. The master of his domain, looking out over all his loyal subjects and eenie meenie minie mo’ing the next in line to pluck out of obscurity and bend over his desk.

He smiles, showing off his obscenely white veneers. “Dominic, so glad you could make it. Have a seat.”

No wonder this fucker has to drug women to get laid. Everything about him screams douchebag from his Dumbo ears, to his patchy gray beard, to his beady little rat eyes, to his fuzzy balding head. If I were a chick, I’d rather suck off a horse.

“I prefer to stand, thanks.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. I assume you got my present.”

“You mean your blackmail?”

“That’s such an ugly word. I prefer incentive.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I tilt my chin. “Is this about me outing your audition with benefits bullshit? Is your pride still hurt? Well, get the fuck over it. You’ve already sued me, Rosten. You won. What can you possibly have left to gain by doing this?”

“You’re damn right I won. I’ll always win. Just the fact you thought someone like you could take down someone like me is pathetic. You tried to ruin me?” He lets out a theatrical laugh, his lip curling into a smug smile. “Well, I annihilated you.”

“Maybe I have nothing, but I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. You’re four-hundred-thousand dollars richer, and my debt is paid.”

“You think I give a flying fuck about your pathetic four-hundred-thousand dollars? I made twice that in the time it took for you to fumble your ass from reception to my office. I didn’t even deposit your check. I cashed it and jerked off with a fistful of hundred-dollar bills.” As if the words weren’t enough, he follows it up with a hand gesture.

“I’m flattered, Rosten, but I’m strictly clitly.”

His hardened gaze fills with irritation. “That wasn’t an offer, you shithead.” His attention diverts as he picks up the discarded photo. I don’t like the way he’s staring at it. If I didn’t know half of Burbank worked here, I’d shove the damn thing down his throat. “But maybe I should call up America’s resurrected sweetheart,” he says, licking his lips. “A picture really does say a thousand words, and it looks like she’d scream them all.”

All I see is red.

“Stay away from her, or I’ll—”

He cocks a gray eyebrow. “Or you’ll what? Publish another blast? Out me again? You can’t, McCallum. It’s part of the settlement, remember?” Letting out a dark chuckle, he tosses the photo on his desk. “You can’t say shit about me without invalidating our agreement and being held in contempt.”

He’s right. It’s the only reason he didn’t take BTN in the settlement, as well. A compromise my lawyers negotiated despite my repeated objections. I keep my business, but the names Greg Rosten and Silverline Studios can’t be mentioned in any capacity. Otherwise, the arbitration is considered broken, and I’m fucked, broke, and incarcerated.

Running a hand through my hair, I tug at the roots and turn toward the window. I don’t have a damn thing to hold over him.

Then my gaze wanders back to the photo. The one snapped by a photographer who had the balls to climb a twelve-foot partition. Then my mind reverts back to the front lawn and a question mumbled by a paparazzo in a baseball hat.

“How do you feel about McCallum’s feud with Greg Rosten?”

Son of a bitch.

“That paparazzo wasn’t working for a tabloid. He was on your payroll, and the minute he climbed over a fence and into my backyard, he was trespassing on private property.” I don’t wait for him to answer before I turn back around, adding with a