Page 2 of Princes of Hollywood

“Where are you going, Greer? You’ve got nowhere to go. No friends. I’ll be your friend…if you suck me off.” He grins as he strokes his cock.

I sneer at him before charging out of the apartment. Clicking on the number for the ad, I haul ass to the elevator, listening to the ringtone. Almost a year of my life wasted on that asshole. Even though we always used condoms, I got checked because the last thing I wanted from him was an STI.

“What a fucking asshole,” I mutter as I step in and press the first-floor button.

“Bad day?” a groggy deep voice asks on the line.

Fuck, shit. No need to make it worse. “Yes, but I’m hoping to apply for the job as the personal assistant.”

Fake it till you make it is what my foster mother always said. She was talking about smiling and being happy, but it applies to a lot of things in life.

“You do drugs?” His voice is gruff, like he just woke from sleep. It skitters pleasantly down my spine.

“No, but would you believe me on just my word?” I lean against the wall of the elevator as the car moves to the first floor.

“I have a drug test here with your name on it.” The rough voice helps calm me down even as it keys me up. It’s been a while since Chad and I—a disgusted shudder runs through me. Mistake number one: thinking sex equals love. From now on, sex is just sex.

“You don’t even know my name.” I glance at the one light bulb still working in the elevator. This whole place is a shithole. I just want to find somewhere nice to live. Maybe I’ll find an apartment to share on the internet.

“Maybe I’ll just call you poppet.” He chuckles. “I’ll text you the address and you can come by to pee in a cup. We’ll talk about things.”

The way he says things makes my pulse throb. “How will you know it’s me, though?”

“What’s your name, poppet?”

“Greer Morrow.” The elevator stops on the first floor, and I walk into the lobby.

“Sounds very old-school Hollywood. I like it, Greer Morrow.” My name rolling off his tongue is like melting wax dripping on my skin. Hot, dangerous, tantalizing.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I’m sure it’s Chad. That helps cool any fantasies about the voice on the phone. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Roarke Flynn.”

My insides burst with nerves. Had I just been low-key flirting with the Roarke Flynn? Sexiest Man Alive two years running? Whose sex scene in Lost in Vegas gave me the best self-administered orgasm of my life?

My throat closes a little and my mouth gapes like I can’t find air.

“C’mon, poppet, it’s not that shocking, is it? It’s not like you’re seeing my cock for the first time.” There’s humor in his tone, but oof, yeah, not seeing that. In person. Only on the big screen.

I clear my throat. “Would I be working for you?”

“Somewhat,” he hedges, his voice still gritty and low. “But we can discuss that when you get here. I’ll send you a text. You on your way now like a good girl?”

Fuck. Sparks bolt through my whole body at those words. “Yes, I’m coming—”

His deep, rich chuckle cuts me off. “Not so fast, poppet. We should at least get to know each other a little first.”

Heat floods my face. This is dangerous, but I have nothing to lose. “I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

#

I don’t bother changing but fling my bag into the trunk of my heap on wheels, Old Betsy. Better clothes might help a little, but showing up in the old Volkswagen Jetta that’s seen much better days is going to clue them in to how desperate I am for a job. Besides, this is who I am. Take it or leave it.

Most people leave it, but at least I’m not putting on pretenses about being someone I’m not.

The GPS leads me to a set of gates. Beyond the gates, trees line the road that disappears into the sky. I press the Call button on the box and wait. The ocean is just beyond the house. I can hear the waves, and it helps ease some of my nerves.

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