Mr. Hollywood (Celebrity #1) Page 3

  “Look, everyone! It’s the star we’ve all been waiting to see tonight, Mr. Z McCartney!” A microphone was shoved into my hand.

  The screams escalated as I turned and waved to everyone before turning back to the TV anchor, a gorgeous woman who could’ve easily been a star on the carpet herself. Too bad she was blonde. Not that there was anything wrong with blondes, I just preferred stunning brunettes in my bed.

  “Thanks for having me, Margo,” I said smoothly, giving no clue of the thoughts running through my head. “How are you tonight?”

  Smiling, she stared at me as she spoke, and my eyes were riveted on her plump lips. Suddenly I was reconsidering my previous thought. Anyone with lips like that should be a candidate to give me a blow job at least. “I’m great. Just happy to be here visiting with people like you.” Expertly, she turned the conversation back to me. “We’ve all been hearing so many wonderful things about this new movie of yours, Unveiled. Can you tell us what it was like to get into this character, which, from what I understand, is basically at rock bottom due to addiction? Did you have a process?”

  Smooth sailing so far. “Oh yeah, I definitely had a process. For me it’s about mentally getting into that place, dwelling where that character lives and just immersing myself in it.”

  Actually, for me, acting was easy as shit. Hell, I was doing it right now. I could be whatever was needed of me. I could play it exactly like the director envisioned it, because it wasn’t about my vision or me. It was about what they wanted. That’s what paid my bills. That’s what made me the highest paid and most sought after actor in Hollywood. I was good at fooling people. Gifted, even.

  “I bet you feel like you can empathize with people going through treatment like this, can’t you?”

  “Totally! Totally!” I bullshitted. “It’s a crisis point in someone’s life, but I’ve just got to say, if you’re in treatment, be proud! You’ve taken a big step—a step up. And that’s what life is really all about, isn’t it? Moving up?” That was true, at least. Now if I could just figure out how to apply it to myself, I’d have it made. At least I would if I cared.

  Placing a hand on my arm, Margo smiled. Score! She touched me. That blowjob was so going to happen. “Always a pleasure to speak with you, Z.”

  Not as much pleasure as I plan to give you later, I thought. My eyes never left her, and I sent her a heated stare. “The pleasure is all mine,” I replied, imagining her mouth doing crazy things to me. She gave me a knowing look in return. Yeah, she was down for it.

  Turning toward the crowd she presented me again. “Z McCartney, ladies and gentlemen. A first class act, right here!” It was all I could do to not snort, that comment was so far off base. There wasn’t a damn classy thing about me.

  Waving again, I listened as Penelope reappeared at my side. “You have a minute to run over and do autographs and pictures with the fans.”

  Some unseen person snatched the microphone from my hand, and I smiled and jogged down the steps as I’d been told, merely a dancing puppet on a string.

  The crowd rippled and surged in my direction, bodies pressing forward in every which way, holding out pens and paper, or photos and memorabilia to be signed. Others were furiously snapping images or video with their cameras, the light causing my eyes to blur.

  “Hey, everyone!” I shouted so they could hear me. “Thanks for coming tonight!” A marker magically appeared in my hand, and I reached for someone’s paper, scrawling my signature as quickly as possible. Hands grabbed at me, some clutching my jacket and pulling me closer. I could barely hear over the people shouting my name, trying to get my attention. Laughing, I shook my head as the bodyguards pressed in, telling people to calm down and move back. Thankfully, they obeyed, saving any further drama, and I hastily signed several more things—including one very nice breast—before posing for a couple of pictures. “Sorry! I’ve got to go!” I yelled with a wave, returning to Penelope’s side so she could continue to usher me along.

  After a couple more interview stops and repeat interactions with fans, we finally reached the end of the carpet and were escorted the rest of the way into the theater itself. Glancing around the room, I saw several people that I knew, but right now I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Right now I wanted to make my escape.

  “Penelope, I’m gonna use the restroom real quick,” I said, easily slipping back into my old comfortable lazy speech patterns. I didn’t do it often, and when I did, it really was only one or two words, but it still annoyed her. She called it my “country farm boy” accent. I hadn’t been on a farm in so long, I wasn’t sure if I remembered what one looked like. If I were being honest though, I was glad someone could still see anything in me that resembled that farm boy. Wistfully—for at least the millionth time—I wished I could be back in that life again, even if just for a day. But that was never going to happen. I’d fucked too much shit up.

  Ducking around the corner, I made my way through the building. Spotting a little used side door, I hurried toward it.

  “Z!” someone called out. I didn’t want to turn around when I was so close to getting away. Turning, I glanced behind me, not surprised to find Margo Tamson hurrying in my direction.

  Smiling, I stopped and faced her. I knew exactly what she was after and I didn’t mind giving it to her.

  “Hey,” I said casually as she got closer, my eyes traveling over the way her gown molded to her figure. “What’s up?” A guy had to play it casual and make it seem like he could just as easily walk away as staying to talk. I knew all the tricks.

  “I wanted to speak to you in private,” she said, and I glanced around. There was an unmarked door down the opposite wall a few feet away. Moving next to it. I tested a knob, surprised when it opened. Peering inside, I saw it was a small supply closet, big enough to hold a vacuum, a couple of brooms and some cleaning supplies.

  Turning, I smiled and gestured to her. “Step into my private office then.”

  Happily, she entered without question. Yep, I’d pegged it just right. I knew exactly what she wanted from me. Too bad she wasn’t going to get it, but I was going to get what I wanted from her.

  Ten minutes later, I stepped out of the closet, zipping my pants up over my penis, which was now smeared with red lipstick, and carrying a card with her private number on it so we could hook up again later. Margo wouldn’t need any of those lip plumping injections she was famous for any time soon. I’d fucked the shit out of those lips. They were going to be nice and swollen, at least for the rest of the evening.

  Glancing around to make sure Penelope was nowhere in sight, I slipped out the back exit. The waiting limousine was sitting right where I told the driver to park, in the lot behind Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. Flinging the door open, I slipped inside and found a grinning Stephanie. Smiling, I felt proud I remembered her name, especially since I’d been with someone else in the thirty minutes since I’d seen her.

  “Ready to pick up where we left off?” she asked, holding the mirror out toward me.

  With more coke? Hell, yes. The answer was always yes to coke, but I like to space it out at decent intervals. Cocaine could turn a person into a sexual beast with a drive that was insane, but too much could kill it just as quickly.

  “You have no idea how ready,” I replied, thumping my fist against the roof and the car pulled away from the curb. Taking the mirror, I accepted the rolled up bill she handed me and began snorting away, hoping to feel some blessed relief from the demons working overtime in my head.

  Wincing slightly, I mustered enough energy to crack open one eye before immediately shutting it again, the filtered sunlight almost too much to bear. It took several moments before I ventured an attempt again, this time glancing around as my vision adjusted.

  Where the hell was I?

  Nothing in the room looked familiar, and a quick inspection of the bed revealed not one, but two very naked girls. One of them I recognized from last night—Stephanie. She’d been the party girl sent with the d
rugs I’d ordered. Had we ordered more? I seriously couldn’t remember hardly anything about last night. It was all a blur—but I liked it that way. It got me out of my own head.

  Groaning slightly, I reached under the sheet and palmed my dick. It seemed pretty tender, suggesting a lot of hard fucking had happened. Glancing back at the slumbering women, I hoped they’d enjoyed it. For that matter, I hope that I had enjoyed it, too.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t stuck in the middle of the two. Moving carefully, I stood and began gathering pieces of clothing, putting them on as I recovered them. My phone was still in my pocket, but I couldn’t even call for a cab. I had no idea where I was.

  Quietly, I slipped out the door, into a hallway with a bunch of other doors like this one. Clearly I was in an apartment building. I made my way downstairs and out onto the street.

  Residential.

  I was unfamiliar with this part of town, despite living here for ten years. It wasn’t the first time I’d waken and not known where I was. In fact, it was happening a lot more frequently. Guilt pricked at my conscience. Apparently I wasn’t one of those people who learned from my past mistakes. I brushed that thought away before I could dwell on it any further.

  Walking down to the corner, I read the street signs, quickly taking out my phone and calling a cab, before settling down on the sidewalk to wait. Patting my coat, which was way too hot to be wearing this morning, I located my sunglasses I always carried, just in case there was a need to hide my identity a little. I slipped them on, even though sitting on a corner in a crumpled suit was probably going to make me stick out like a sore thumb anyway.

  If only my diehard fans could see me now. They’d think of me a whole lot differently. Everyone idolized me. People constantly told me how lucky I was, and how they wished they could trade places with me.

  Bullshit. It was all bullshit. I wasn’t even close to the person I’d been portrayed as. Nope, I was just a chicken shit—a washed up sell out with no happiness in his life.

  Sure, I had it all—the glass penthouse in the sky, bought with my massive fat paychecks. I had cars, and fancy clothes, along with every tech gadget in the world. Women were always after me. Most men wanted to be me. But at what cost? What did it really matter?

  My life meant nothing to me. It was just a blur of different faces, most of who were only interested in what I could give them. Of course, I guess I was using all of them in some form or another, too.

  Staring at my phone, which was somehow still clinging to life, I wondered if I had enough battery to check my texts and messages.

  “Oh my gosh, Z. Where the hell are you? Everyone is asking for you.” Penelope’s frantic voice filled my ear and I felt my second twinge of guilt. She was a good assistant. It was wrong of me to ditch her like I had and leave her holding the bag.

  More messages of the same ilk left me feeling pretty sucky, but the last one took the cake. It had been sent this morning. Glancing at the time, I realized it was almost ten AM.

  Shit! I had press junkets I was supposed to do today.

  “Z, so help me if you don’t call me the minute you get this, I will hunt you down and shoot you myself. The studio is on my back this morning, as well as the media, thanks to your little drunken display last night. I need to speak with you immediately. Your future depends on it! Call me now!”

  Drunken display? What the hell was she talking about?

  Hurriedly, I typed my name into the search bar and several article headlines immediately came up.

  “Z McCartney Disappears from the Kodak Theater at Premiere!”

  “Z McCartney Viral Video Tells What He’s Really Been Doing!”

  “Hollywood’s Finest at His Not So Finest!”

  Clicking one of the links, I watched in horror as someone captured me coming out of a club, stumbling, as I attempted to walk with my arms around two girls . . . the two I’d found in bed with me this morning. Well, that was good, wasn’t it? I’d stuck to the original two. There’d been nights I’d woken up in a room full of people after a party, and I had no idea who I’d slept with, only knowing that I’d slept with someone—or lots of “someones,” depending on the party.

  This wasn’t so bad.

  The video kept rolling though, giving me a sinking feeling. Jaw clenched, I watched as I pushed one of the girls against the wall, the one who wasn’t Stephanie—kissing her heavily as my hand drifted lower, hiking up her short skirt.

  “Oh. Em. Gee! I swear he’s going to do her right against the wall!” an overly excited female voice said from behind the camera.

  “Get a room!” Someone else shouted and more people started crowding around, jostling whoever was holding the camera.

  Another voice started belting out, “Bow chicka wow wow!”

  Nerves tightening, I forced myself to continue watching as I ravished this woman, grateful when the tape finally clicked off. Skimming the rest of the article, I read that the video in its entirety was not available due to its extremely graphic nature.

  “Well, fuck!” There was no doubt about it. I’d made a really big mess of things this time and I was definitely in a whole lot of hot water.

  Pocketing my phone, I still didn’t call Penelope. If things were already this bad, there was nothing I could do about it, so as far as I was concerned, my top priority was a shower, a nap, and maybe a couple more lines of coke before I addressed the shit hitting the fan.

  “Watch the Shocking Viral Video that has Hollywood Superstar, Z McCartney, in Trouble with the Law!”

  ~Hollywood Grapevine~

  Chapter Two

  Z

  Feeling as if my head was going to split open, I sat slouched in a rather comfy leather chair in some executive office. Glancing briefly around, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever been in this room before, but really, I didn’t care. A fistful of my hair was clenched in one hand, as I listened to the ranting coming at me full force from Penelope, interspersed with comments from my agent, Luke Hayward, and my lawyer, Mike Larson.

  “I don’t think you’re understanding just how serious this is!” Penelope continued on. “Some big changes are going to need to be made!” Whenever she was upset with me like this, it seemed as if her voice got higher and higher until it reached an octave only dogs could hear. Driving a nail through my skull sounded more appealing.

  “If we can even recover from something like this,” Luke muttered, his tie askew and the top button of his shirt undone. I’d never seen him this ruffled before. Apparently things were bad—worse than I’d thought.

  “We also have legal issues to address with the police. They’re wanting to press charges for indecent exposure,” Mike added, staring at me as if I’d committed the most heinous of crimes.

  “The studio is wanting to get you into rehab.” Penelope’s eyes were glittering with anger. I wasn’t surprised. She didn’t like cleaning up my messes.

  “Whatever,” I growled out, irritated by the whole subject. “I do not need to go to rehab. Seriously? One strike and I’m out—just like that?”

  “One strike?” Penelope’s eyes widened so big, I feared they might actually pop out of her head. “What about the girls you snuck into your trailer on set so you could party with them—remember? You missed your call time and people had to come looking for you, but you were so strung out by that point they had to put shooting off for a day. Or what about the time they had to have a medic come give you an IV to help flush out the damn hangover you had? Or the time you left set in the middle of filming for no reason at all?”

  “I had a reason,” I mumbled, remembering the cute redhead I skipped out to party with. “It just wasn’t a very good one.” I’d gotten in so much trouble I’d even been docked pay. It sucked, too. She wasn’t even that good of a fuck.

  “The point is, you’re making bad choices and it’s plain to anyone watching that you are sinking fast and you need some help.”

  “Hey, I still got their damn movie filmed, didn’t I? I did a good job and finis
hed the product on time. This scandal is just more publicity for their film. They should be eating it up.”

  “Except that you just portrayed a recovering addict and then basically thumbed your nose at everyone while you went out and participated in the same behavior. It’s a bit insulting, if you ask me.” Penelope’s hands were on her hips and she was glaring at me like I was a child.

  Damn, she was hot when she was mad. Too bad I thought of her as more of a sister than a fling. Not that she’d give me the time of day. Penelope never crossed lines with her clients. She made that very clear from day one. I’d respected that and never made a pass at her. In fact, she might be the only woman I saw on a regular basis that I’d never had a sexual relationship with. It simply wasn’t in the cards, and I was okay with that.

  “Well, fine. Tell them to walk away, then. I’m finished making their film and I’ll be ready to start shooting for the new one next week.”

  “That’s the problem. There is no new film next week,” Luke jumped in, not a hint of humor in his eyes.

  “What?” Now I felt my panic level rising. Something was wrong with the film? Was the studio angry? Had the project been put on hold? I’d never had anyone cancel me before. Surely they wouldn’t start now over something as dumb as public sex. Would they?

  If they wanted my attention, they had it.

  “It’s not your current studio who is asking us to send you to rehab, it’s the one producing your next movie, Trident Pictures. They’ve put production on hold until you receive at least six weeks of rehab therapy. If all goes well and a doctor signs off to clear you for work after that time, they will hold everything for you.

  “However, if you don’t get a clean bill of health from a licensed medical professional, the studio is going to recast the role and sue you for breach of contract. If you don’t want this to turn into a massive ugly disaster, then I suggest you take this gift they’re offering, and do as they ask.” He tossed a thick file at me. “These are some of the facilities they’re recommending. They also sent over personnel folders in case we wanted to tailor the staff to our liking. You can look through those and see if any seem appealing to you, but choose one, because you are going.”