Hollywood Hit: Hollywood Girls Club, #3

By Maggie Marr

A Hollywood Romance

Small town girl, Nikki Solange is the niece of the biggest star in the world. When dead bodies start piling up around Nikki, her famous actress-aunt, Cici Solange and Cici's powerful husband, unknown to Nikki hire ex-marine sniper Rush Nelson to protect Nikki. Rush is silent and deadly. The attraction between Nikki and Rush can't be denied and he's committed one of the worst mistakes in security, he's fallen for the woman he's meant to protect. Can Rush find the person who is after Nikki, before they find her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Marr
• Release date: Feb 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386793915

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HOLLYWOOD HIT

Maggie Marr

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Maggie Marr

An Excerpt from Hard Glamour

The book is dedicated to my producing partner, Peg Cafferty.

May the budgets be big, the scripts tight, and the days between productions few.

Chapter 1

D-List Equals Dead

Jebidiah Schmaltzer was a legend in his own mind. His meteoric rise through the Hollywood stratosphere was the result of a long-lived 80s show Bare Chests and Fast Cars. Jeb (as he preferred to be called) relished his ever-dimming celebrity—from that of a white-hot star to a small red dwarf destined to implode into a giant black hole. He currently subsisted on royalty checks from his hit in the 80’s and a late-90’s cable show in which he played the father of the very same type of star Jeb had been circa 1984 (sans the bare chest as he was now pushing fifty). His royalties, combined with his national parade each year to the cottage industry of has-been stars selling memorabilia and signed headshots of themselves in their glory days, plus three mortgages was a large enough revenue stream to maintain an increasingly decrepit home in Beverly Hills.

But Jeb’s cemented status on the D-List was about to change.

He pressed his iPhone against his ear and soaked in the words the once-great producer Bikram Shasta, a doppelganger for Jabba the Hutt, wheezed into the other end of the connection.

"Jeb, with Boundless Bound, you’ve got a Hollywood hit on your hands."

A molten ball of self-satisfaction bounced in Jeb’s chest. He closed his eyes. A smile curved across his lips.

I’ll set this fucker up at Worldwide or Summit, maybe even Galaxy. Bikram said. A wet cough rattled through the phone. But first we need cast.

Jeb’s ball of satisfaction oozed outward into his limbs. Cast. He was already working on cast. Jeb had his own brilliant ideas. One woman, whom he coveted for the female lead, Jeb would woo this very night.

Let me make a few calls, Bikram said. Next week we’ll make a list of actresses.

There would be no need for Bikram’s list of actresses. Jeb was in full-on pursuit of a little lady with no credits but a big name. The kind of name for which Sundance salivated, Tribeca trounced, and South by Southwest wet their Texas britches.

You’ll have another draft by end of week, Jeb said. He couldn’t contain his smile. Hell, why should he? With Bikram Shasta attached to produce Boundless Bound, Jeb would make his full-length directorial debut before the end of the year. He pressed the Off button and set his phone on the kitchen counter.

Finally, people would embrace the genius that was Jeb.

He uncorked a bottle of Chianti (one of Trader Joe’s finest) and decanted the bottle. He pulled two glasses from the cabinet and angled his way to the backyard. The underwater lights from his giant pool added a luminescent glow, enhanced the ambience, and hid the fact that he’d let his gardener Jesus go three weeks before due to an irreparable disagreement—Jesus wanted to be paid and Jeb had no cash.

Jeb glanced at the pool. He’d even kicked on the heater to the aquatic love nest. Financing a warm pool was like burning hundred-dollar bills with a Bic lighter. Jeb hoped his investment in hot water would culminate in a naked swim. Women loved to fuck in the pool. He lit the fire in the outdoor fireplace next to the chaise lounge and two chairs. Tonight, Jeb would get his starlet.

Having written five scripts in five months——he was nothing if not prolific——he’d been pleased when Boundless Bound garnered the attention of indie producer Bikram Shasta. Based on Bikram’s interest, Jeb was set to propel himself and his stalled career into the oxygen-thin heights of superstardom. He would inhabit the pinnacle where he would have been—should have been—if every agent and manager he’d ever hired hadn’t spent the majority of their time fucking up his career.

His chest warmed with the pride of a man who knew his worth in the world.   Jeb would fly high with the best; Coppola, Spielberg, Scorsese, and now Schmaltzer.  He would be rewarded for his talent, his taste, his intelligence—all that he possessed, in his own mind, but all that a flawed Hollywood system had failed for the last thirty-five years to recognize.

Jeb placed the decanted wine and the two glasses on the divan and perused the premises. He’d set the scene. He didn’t need hors d’oeuvres because the little lady he wanted for his lead in Boundless Bound was not meant to eat, she was meant to be wooed, and hopefully in the wooing would not only become the star of Jeb’s film, but also tonight’s main course.

Jeb ran his fingers through his ever-thinning thatch of black hair. This was the perfect setting. He’d sent her the script, she’d read it, she’d loved it, she’d given him notes. They’d met and talked and met and talked. Now… now, he need only convince her that he was her man. That he could in fact direct her and her costars, on the shoestring of a budget the producer would provide, to something Golden—either a Globe or a little man named Oscar. Jeb could do it. No doubt existed in his mind. He could and would make himself a star again, repackaged and resold in the writer-director mold.

Fuck Hollywood. Fuck all of them with their has-been words and smirking smiles. Fuck the fact that he’d made each and every one of those assholes that now refused to return his calls a shitload of dough. Fuck them. Once he was on top again——and he would be on top——he’d return their smirks and ignore their calls.

But he needed his star.

Jeb’s phone, which he’d left on the kitchen counter, beeped and he reentered the house. He grabbed for the phone and scrolled down the screen. Gina—his wife. Where was she today? She’d escaped with a gaggle of girlfriends to Milan or Mallorca or whatever fucking place ex-beauty queens went to die. She was wife number four, and while younger, she wasn’t young. Not young enough for Jeb. Her face had the haggard cracks and lines of a woman once beautiful and now simply old. Her agedness depressed Jeb. Her incessant whining about purses, and trips, and shoes, and Botox, and clothes had killed any feelings of near-love that Jeb had once felt for his wife. He scrolled. It was her fault, the bitch, that their marriage was failing.

Hi, honey, made it to Spain. Miss you. See you in two days.

Jeb’s eyes rolled upward. Let the charade continue. He wasn’t about to file for a divorce now. California was a community-property state and half of what they had wasn’t half of much. The inconsequential hindrance called Marriage wouldn’t prevent Jeb from getting what he needed, what he wanted, from this fresh, young, nubile starlet.

Have Fun!!!! Miss you!!!!!! Jeb texted back. He added a multitude of exclamation points in hopes that it would quell Gina’s chasm of need that Jeb be connected to her and her emotions. For fuck’s sake how much could one man give?

He walked to the bar on the other side of the house and poured a double of Jack Daniels, tight and neat. He slugged back the drink in one fine, stiff shot. The heat slid down his throat and into his gut. The tight pounding at the base of his skull ebbed. A man. He was a man. A man who deserved success, and wealth, and pussy—loads and loads of fresh, young, sweet pussy.

The doorbell rang. Jeb ditched the glass and headed for the door. His cock stirred with the thought of Nikki Solange. Sweet, young Nikki Solange. So what if she said she didn’t want to act—acting was in her DNA—it was her destiny. Nikki was going to be Jeb’s star.

Chapter 2

Rock Star Bed Warmer

Cool LA evening air breezed through the open windows of Adam’s apartment. Cars rushed past on Franklin Avenue. The bump of vehicles hitting the pothole too fast at the Whitley intersection was a continuous metal percussion. Chopping rotors of an LAPD helicopter suddenly thundered overhead, and a spotlight bounced across the ground in front of Adam’s Hollywood apartment building.  Light beams bounced around his living room. The light highlighted his guitar, his roommate Trevor’s drum set, three bongs, and the greasy white paper sacks which were the untossed remains of a multitude of takeout meals.

Nikki’s Aunt Cici called this slumming.

The thunder of the low-flying chopper faded into the night and Nikki grabbed her purse from the end of the army-green thrift-store couch and pulled a clean thong from the side pocket. Trevor, the drummer of Sick Puppy, was passed out on the far end of the couch, his head thrown back over the cushion. With each exhale, a watery, gurgling sound exited Trevor’s throat. The fresh air from the open windows couldn’t overcome the dense, musty smell of dirty bong-water, smoke, and used socks.

Nikki took her bag into Adam’s room. His bedroom was a messy continuation of the living area he shared with the band. She stepped over his clothes, his shoes, and his Spin magazines. She’d carried her underthings from her place to his in the side pocket of her purse for close to a month. At Nikki’s suggestion, three days before, that she leave some necessities—a clean bra, a shirt, some underwear in Adam’s top drawer—his fair skin had instantaneously appeared ghostlike, his eyes had widened, and his jaw had popped open. A dull Uhhhh had exited his mouth as his eyes rolled back and forth in their sockets. She’d dropped the idea and instead continued to keep her toothbrush in her bag.

Nikki shut Adam’s bedroom door and turned toward the full-length mirror. She flipped her skirt up over her bare ass, stepped into her panties, and then smoothed the skirt down with her hand. She pulled her fingertips through her coils of amber hair. Mussed. She looked a little mussed. She’d accept mussed. She’d known when she got Adam’s text inviting her over for a f&ff (fast & furious fuck) that this early evening rendezvous was meant to satisfy lust. Nikki glanced in the mirror at the reflection of Adam sacked out on his bed.

He lay on his stomach, his long, lean body ropy with muscle and his bare ass a moon-shaped curve. One arm was tossed above his head and his black hair shot out in odd-angled tufts. Adam’s giant Buddha tattoo covered his entire back and rose and fell with each sleepy inhale and exhale. His arms continued the Asian theme with a scaled Chinese dragon painted a bright blue and green. Kanji and hiragana spelled out words Nikki could no longer remember from her two semesters of Japanese in college.

His body thrilled her. She shut her eyes for an instant and sank into the leftover electric traces of his touch on her skin. The light, barely there fingertips that rushed over her arms and neck and down her back. The firmer, rougher squeezing of his hands on her breasts and thighs. Those lips. That mouth. The same mouth that belted out raucous songs in bars while girls churned and bumped inches from Adam.

Nikki’s eyes popped open and she bit her bottom lip. Her gaze traced its way over the heaps of clothes to the far corner of Adam’s room where he kept his stash of ladies’ underthings. A tight, white-hot burn collected in her chest. He said the lingerie was collected from the stage——all those women throwing all those bras and panties at all his performances. Her gaze flitted from a black lace La Perla bra to Adam. She liked him, the sex was great, buuuut … Nikki returned her gaze to the reflection of her own giant blue eyes, flecked with green. According to Aunt Cici, Nikki needed to do better.

Babe, come back to bed, Adam called, his voice muffled by the pillow under his chin.

I have to go. Nikki dotted her lips with gloss. It’s rude to be late. She pulled a blush brush from her makeup bag and dusted Shimmering Rose over her cheekbones. Her skin was pale like Aunt Cici’s. Too pale for the California sun. Her cheekbones were high and cut a sharp curve to her jaw.

Adam now stood behind her. Tattoos decorated his chest and belly. Babe, you got the best tits.

His long, hard, erect cock begged to be clasped and stroked and sucked. Nikki watched his reflection in the mirror as he wrapped an arm around her. His hand slid up under her shirt and slipped over her skin as his fingertips danced up to her bra where he cupped her breast and gave her nipple a soft pinch.

Heat flooded her belly and pulsed down her spine to the hot spot between her legs. Nikki closed her eyes. Adam’s lips were hot on her shoulder. She rested her head back against his chest.

I have to go, Nikki whispered.

Her body was betraying her. With his kisses up her neck and his hand still cupping her breast, her body arched backward and her ass pressed against him. In the mirror, Adam’s eyes locked onto hers.

Heat fired through the V between her legs. Shimmers of what they’d just finished in Adam’s bed and what they could do now in front of his bedroom mirror caused her breasts to grow heavy with want and her clit to throb for Adam’s touch. Lust shadowed Adam’s eyes. His hand dropped from her breast and traveled down her belly to the edge of her skirt. She pressed her ass into him, unable to stop the rhythmic motion of her body. She wanted him. She wanted him to fuck her again. God, he was a great lay.

You can’t leave yet, he rasped out with his thick, throaty voice, the voice that now had A & R execs lining up at his manager’s office. With one arm he held firm around her upper chest while his other hand slipped up under her skirt and pressed against her fresh cotton thong.

Babe, you don’t need that, he whispered. He slipped his fingers under the fabric and between her swollen lips. She pressed back harder. She wanted him between her legs.

His fingertips danced along her clit with pressure and speed as if she were a fret covered in wire strings. A gasp rushed out over her lips.

You like that, baby? he whispered.  He peered at her reflection in the mirror. A coy, cocksure grin decorated his face.

Uh-huh.

His hard cock pressed against her.  His fingers pressed deeper into her and her body clasped around him. She opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror. Fierce, white-hot heat shot through her. With his gray eyes he watched her. He watched her every move, her every response, her every quiver to his every touch. No wonder he was such a great fuck.

You sure you have to go? he whispered into her hair.

I can be late, Nikki gasped out.

With that one little bit of permission Nikki heard the sound of foil. He shifted behind her one hand pressed her clit while the other unrolled the condom onto his shaft.  Then Adam yanked at her thong. He threw her skirt up over her ass and his cock probed for her wet, sweet spot. He braced his arm over them on the wall and wrapped the other around her waist. His knee parted her legs and his cock slid between them and pushed upward. He shoved Nikki forward, still clutching her around the waist. With a grunt from Adam’s lips, his cock rammed hard into her.

A sharp gasp escaped Nikki with Adam’s cock thrusting deep into her. She licked her lips and pressed back into him. His eyes remained open and he stared into hers, his thrusts pumping faster and harder. The slap of skin against skin broke through the silence as she pushed against him and met his plunges with her own thrusts.

His arm dropped from her waist, and his fingertips found her clit. Nikki’s hands reached out to the hard wall, and she braced herself against his thrusts. He rubbed her swollen nub as he continued to piston in and out of her. Her body fractured, the seams of pleasure cracked wider and wider with the push of him and the grunts, the moans. She spread her feet wider and drove herself back harder against him.

Oh, baby, fuck yes… yeeesssss, he moaned.

His eyes closed and his head dropped forward. His expression wrinkled and contorted. A shiver rushed up through him and his fingers pressed harder on her clit, begging for her to meet him in this space far above the earth, flying high above Hollywood, higher than the choppers and the stars. She closed her eyes and pushed backward, meeting his final thrust with her own.

Fuuuuuuck, he yelled as his cock pulsed one final time.

Her pussy clasped tight and millions of quivers danced across her skin. She took a deep breath and coursed over the edge of pleasure. Rushing forward, faster, faster, faster.

Then the rush was gone.

He slid from inside her. Nikki opened her eyes and glanced in the mirror. Emptiness engulfed her. Adam’s penis, now flaccid and small, hung like a limp, used sack. Her own eyes were shaded with doubt. Adam caught her gaze in the mirror and wiggled his eyebrows.

Now, babe… He gave her still-bare ass a slap and grinned. Now you can leave.

Chapter 3

Lost in La-La Land

Where r u?

An existential question or one grounded in the firm murkiness of Nikki’s new Hollywood reality? She shook her head at the question and waited for the next red light on Sunset before she tapped out a response on her iPhone to her roommate, Christina Darmides.

Just left the rock star, going to Jeb’s.

She made a fast left turn onto Alta Drive and her Toyota squealed in protest.

TWOT.

Total. Waste. Of. Time.

Let Christina think Nikki’s excursion into Beverly Hills to meet with Jeb on a script he’d written and so far failed to set up was a complete waste. Every ounce of Nikki’s trailer-trash Tennessee blood was determined to make Boundless Bound and to make the film without a whit of help from her famous aunt.

Unlike Christina, cannibalizing nepotistic relationships to gain success wasn’t the road Nikki wanted to travel. Upon graduation from Oxford three years before, Christina had fallen into a job as executive VP of development at Albright Productions, run by Christina’s billion-dollar-in-ticket-sales-producer stepmom Lydia Albright. Lydia just happened to be married to Zymar, the world-famous director who was Christina’s dad.

Nikki glanced from her iPhone to the street. She squished her lips together and twitched them from side to side. The handout from family seemed to work for Christina, but a handout from Celeste Cici Solange wouldn’t work for Nikki. More than a flicker of resentment burned an ever-increasing hole in Nikki’s heart. The original tear was a mere rip in the family fabric of Nikki’s childhood. For Nikki and Nikki’s mother, Lacey Solange, there’d been food stamps, days with no electricity, aggrieved landlords, and herds of bad boyfriends milling around Lacey Solange while Nikki grew to womanhood. Meanwhile, Aunt Cici reigned supreme at the box office, pulled down eight figures a film, and luxuriated in Beverly Hills. Whether the years of Cici’s disregard for Lacey and Nikki were willful or neglectful, Nikki wasn’t yet sure. Aunt and niece had stitched an ill-fitting patch over the familial rip at the burial of Nikki’s mother, but threads continued to tatter and fray.

Even with their tenuous family ties, with one phone call and a please Nikki could have a job similar to Christina’s. Hell, Aunt Cici would give her the job without the please. Nikki would be ensconced as VP of Development in Cici’s production company. She would read scripts all day. Fabulous scripts by well-established, fabulous writers, sent by fabulous agents to what would be Nikki’s fabulous office. She would use her swank expense account and ride in her swank convertible to and from the Worldwide Studio lot. Nikki had the actress aunt, the movie-mogul stepuncle, the connections that people in the Industry worked a lifetime to develop, so why… why… Aunt Cici often asked, was Nikki slumming with an unsigned carousing guitar player and driving a twelve-year-old Toyota to meet with a has-been star to discuss an unfinanced film?

Righteousness pulsed in Nikki’s chest. Because Nikki’d gotten all the way to twenty-two, all the way from Tennessee, and all the way through college without help from Aunt Cici. Nikki wouldn’t ask for help now.

Nikki’s mama had never asked for a handout from Aunt Cici. Even when there’d been nothing but a piece of moldy Tillamook cheese and a near-empty bottle of Heinz in the fridge. Lacey had never begged from Aunt Cici and Nikki wouldn’t begin to beg now.

She was determined to make Boundless Bound without Aunt Cici’s help, without Aunt Cici’s connections. She’d push the boulder of an indie film uphill like a tortured Sisyphus with size double-D breasts.

Nikki peered out the open window of her car and searched for 729 Alta.

Hmmm… 722, 726, Nikki murmured under her breath as she crept down the street. And… 727. Wow, 727 is awesome. Nikki slid by a remodeled manse with lighting straight out of Architectural Digest. Wait… 731, 733… what the hell?

Nikki slammed the brake. Where was 729? She’d gone too far. She jammed the stick into Reverse with a loud grind (her clutch was nearly dead) and pressed hard on the accelerator. The backward momentum of the car sounded like she was winding up a toy train.

There it was. Jeb Schmaltzer’s castle. A brown palazzo knockoff with a turret and red roof tiles. The wrought-iron gate, adorned with curlicues and guarding the circle driveway, was already open and Nikki pulled her Toyota onto the flagstone pavers. She parked, turned off her car, and checked herself in the mirror. She was here meeting with Jeb Schmaltzer (whom Aunt Cici called fuckface) because Nikki wanted her own success. A success unburdened by favors from Aunt Cici or from Aunt Cici’s famous, well-connected friends.

Nikki glanced through her dusty windshield. Jeb’s garage door hung at an angle on its hinges. His house was a little too old, a little too unkempt, and a little too… has-been. Pride burst a shatterbox of fragments in her chest like slivers of glass. She recognized an overgrown lawn and a home in need of repair. Nikki pursed her lips together. She would get through the hell of breaking into Hollywood on her own.

Nikki tossed her iPhone in her purse. She was an hour late. She’d texted