Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) (12 page)

"I'm sorry you feel that way Miss Everett. From what I saw in your auditions, you have talent."

I don't know whether he's saying that to comfort me, or if he truly means it. I guess it doesn't matter to me now. Why would it, considering he's written his name on my stomach and fucked me from behind?

"Thank you" is all I can say, before burying my face back into the hot, humid vapors of my coffee.

"I hate this life" he suddenly says, sitting up tightly, and tearing his glowing eyes away from me. I'm startled; I didn't expect him to say something so stark, let alone something so personal.

"What?" I bark, still managing to straddle the line between surprise, and nervousness. "Why?"

"You'd be surprised how imprisoned you feel with a ten digit bank balance." I instantly feel conflicted; a mix of sympathy for the man I've grown so close to, and disbelief that being so rich can be such a bad thing. "I've expectations put upon me. Deadlines, targets, collateral. I'm depended upon, by too many people."

I hear his voice waver, for the first time since I've known him. In one single minute he turns from the all-controlling, all-knowing and ruthlessly self-aware businessman I've always known, to something a lot more fragile.

"Sometimes all I want to do is leave. Take a month out. Two months, who knows. But I can't."

I can see that. I'm sure he has an entire company built around him. We endure a few moments of silence, as I realize I've gripping my coffee mug way too hard in tension.

"Why can't you quit? Resign from the production studio?"

"Because I can't imagine any other life.
Even if this life wasn't for me
."

And with that, he goes back to being silent again. There's something about how he says those words; almost in a different voice, somehow. Far from his confident, overly practiced and perfected monotone. Like there's another person inside him, struggling to get out. I reach across the table, putting the palm of my hand into the centre, the stinging red ring around my wrist clearly visible. In turn, he drops his hand from his chin, seizing my palm within his, holding my hand tenderly. I guess we're not so different, perhaps.

"Maybe I like the control" he finally says, casting that magnifying gaze back within himself.

"Maybe you do."

I look down, putting my face back to the purifying vapors of my coffee, and see something; the flimsy white cotton top that adorns my petite figure, stained with red paint beneath. A faint outline, but definitely visible:
DANJEL
. A reminder of who I've become.

We make small-talk for half an hour longer, before he looks at his watch and finds a sense of urgency from somewhere, telling me that he'll have a private driver pick me up. Within ten minutes, a black car is parked outside, and we're parted. But something's changed; that empty feeling within me is gone, and forgotten. Like I've learned enough about Daniel Grant to satisfy me at last. I climb into the car, and watch the tall, sunny buildings of central Los Angeles go by.

***

I try to close the kitchen door behind me as quietly as I can, jolting it shut suddenly. I don't know if she's in, but of course, I don't want her to see me like this. I put my ear to the humid, stale air, and listen out for any signs of life. Television. Laptop fan whirring away incessantly. She's in, I'm sure of it. I stand here for a few more moments, propped up against the door, replaying the crazy day's events in my head: the contract I didn't bother to read, the clamps, the whipping, the ginger, and the unexpected depths of Daniel's personality.

"Chlo?"

I jump, startled out of my skin, scraping the small of my back against the door handle behind me.
Fuck
.

"Carissa."

She's standing in the doorway, a complete mirror of myself, except for the clothes on her back, and the childish smile on her face. Predictably, she raises a finger, pointing and laughing at me, and the bizarre way I look.

"What the fuck are you wearing?"

I don't answer, instead pacing around the kitchen, looking for the nearest clean mug to maintain my caffeine high.

"And what's that on your top? Is that paint?"

"It's been a funny day," I say, telling her the absolute truth, before adding a complete and shameless lie. "An audition. One of those improvisational things."

I can't find shit in here; everything's dirty, or half full of putrid, cold tea. I turn back to her, and pace towards the doorway, trying to find a way past her. My twin sister, however, has other ideas.

"Hey, wait a minute -"

She wraps her fingers around my wrist for the briefest of seconds, before I pull away, screeching between my teeth in pain.
Fuck that hurt
! She looks at me in horror, eyes wide and mouth suspended open.

"What is that? Are you hurt?"

"It's a burn I got today, it's nothing."

I lie again, feeling my heart racing inside my chest as each lie digs me into a deeper and deeper hole, filling me with shame.

"All over your wrist?"

"
Yes
."

She still won't let me pass, seizing my arm in a vice-like grip, and peeling back the sleeve of my new white shirt, forensically examining me like the prosecutor that she is.

"
This
is a burn?"

"
Yes
!"

Finally I charge past her, pacing to the living room, and through the hallway on the way to my room. Jesus, I do hate to snap at her like that, as aggravating as she is. I slam my bedroom door behind me, and plant my body up against it, knowing that soon I'm going to feel terrible; guilt, shame, embarrassment. I hear her footsteps outside, coming close to the door, and I almost make out the faint sounds of her breath, before she walks again, the sound of her steps growing ever fainter. And I'm all alone.

I'm tied up again, my wrist panging with pain, and my body aching. But this time I don't enjoy it. I sink to the floor, and set my mind to work thinking of an excuse for all of this, soon distracted by the regret and sorrow I feel for being such a lying, shameful bitch.

It's her fault,
a voice within me says, she
shouldn't have gotten in your way like that
.
You're just over-thinking it again
, another voice announces,
she'll forget about it tomorrow
. But I still don't like lying to her, no matter how much I dress it up. I've embarked on a seedy new life; a debauched, sordid, and subjugated new employment, and feel the urgent need to hide it from those I love the most.

Chapter Eleven

"Hello?"

"Miss Everett."

"Daniel, Hi."

It's him again; seven AM sharp, and this time I had the foresight to set my alarm for half an hour earlier, so he wouldn't catch me in dreamland. He breathes hard and fast down the phone, punctuating the silences with a steady percussion of breaths. I like it.

"Why don't you come down to the studio today? I've got a few things to show you. A few things someone like you might enjoy."

The studio? Like an actual
Hollywood studio
? How ironic that the closest I get to a production studio this month is a guided tour, rather than any actual acting work. I think that says it all about my so-called acting career.

"Sure, is there anything you'd like me to wear, perhaps something like a -"

"Grant Tantamount Productions studio on the outskirts of town, nine PM" he adds, cutting me off completely. Given the fate of my last set of clothing, the thought briefly flashes through my mind that I should pick something less sentimental. "I'll send you the address via text."

"Great." We've reached a natural end to the phone call, and I pause, trying to think of where to go now. In an unlikely, almighty surge of foolhardy confidence, I screw my eyes shut and bellow one last thing down the phone; "looking forward to seeing you again today, Daniel."

"You too."

And those two words are enough to melt my heart; I drive the phone into my naked chest, and collapse backwards onto the bed, daring to cast my mind back to the licentious and lusty activities of yesterday, and what might still await me today. The red cord-burns around my wrists throb with each impetuous heartbeat, and my nipples are still overwhelmingly sore, but I can't turn him down now. I really,
really
can't
.

A black dress, with equally black leggings will suffice; something I'm not too bothered about losing to the rapturous lusts of my billionaire boss, yet something that's sufficiently modest to hide my activities and intentions from the world at large. I creep out of my room, checking the coast is clear, before grabbing a slice of toast and jumping into the street. In another world, at another time, I'd have told my sister where I was going, what I was doing, how I was feeling. But right now I can't help but feel a different set of priorities.

I catch the early bus to his stated destination, and close my eyes, wondering whether the relentless pulse throughout my body is nerves, or sheer excitement.

***

This place is unbelievable; seated below a perpetual blue California sky, and contained neatly behind a set of whitewashed walls and tall, ornate, silvery gates are the many buildings that make up Daniel Grant's hallowed studios, arranged neatly like aircraft hangers. A procession of crewmen line up behind each; extras, handymen, technicians, everyone who's been lucky enough to work in such close proximity with the stars. This is my first time at this particular studio. I've been to others, mainly for unspeaking extra work, but this is
huge
.

I stroll my way to the gates, finding a dour-faced security guard in a sky-blue uniform. He crosses my name off the list, and with one deft flick of a switch, allows me entry to the heaven I've always wanted; the silvery gates burst into action with a mechanized buzz, and slowly begin to part. With a sense of pride, and a firm footing, I pace inside, and head for exactly where the text message told me to go:
Studio twenty-three
.

To my right I find a row of hastily built houses - white picket fences and all - presumably serving as the street from last year's legion of terrible suburban comedy shows. To my left, a stack of animatronic dinosaurs, barely covered by a plastic tarpaulin, left out in the Sun to collect an unhealthy tan. Throughout it all, I can't stop thinking to myself;
Daniel owns all of this
?

You could explore around, poking your nose inside every one of these buildings - big and small, tall and short - and still not see them all before the Sun sets. Luckily for my aching knees, Studio Twenty-Three is just around the corner.

Two majestic double-doors, emblazoned with an eye-catching '23', just waiting to be pushed apart. I put my hand on the horizontal steel handle, and with a deep breath - trying to blot the images and fantasies of the sadistic fates which may await me out of my mind - I push down.

Darkness; not a window in sight, not a light bulb, or a single ray of the gorgeous morning sun pervades these walls. I'm startled by the double doors slamming shut behind me, and I'm soon lost in the same darkness, illuminated only by a ghostly blue glow from far away. All of a sudden I'm starring in my own horror film, it seems; I stumble, putting one foot slowly in front of the other, reaching for walls, levers, partitions to grab onto, but finding nothing. I
click
and
clack
my way along the smooth tiled floor, coming closer and closer to that strange, enigmatic blue light, until I'm covered in it, washing over my skin and reflecting from my body like moonlight.

"Miss Everett," says that familiar monotone, with those familiar words, in a familiarly coy hiding place. I turn to my right to see it; a perfect moonlight, and a perfect black forest. A wooden-log cabin, nestled uncomfortably amidst Hollywood's own brand of plastic trees, shrubs and flora, utterly convincing to the camera and the untrained eye. I see a figure, perched darkly within the open door of the cabin, illuminated in blue moonlight, waiting for me. He set this entire scene up
for me
?

"What is this?" I cry out to him, trying to sound as appreciative as possible, but realizing that in this light he can't see the beaming smile on my face. Above is a green screen, tinted blue in the dark light, no doubt intended to portray the starry, moon-drenched night. I walk slowly, treading upon plastic grasses and fiberglass stones, until I'm barely six feet from the cabin, and my dark figure disappears inside.

"Do you like it?" he finally asks, as I peer through the doorway, to find him lighting a candle held inside a saucer-shaped holder. We're both suddenly dampened by a deep orange glow, emanating from the candle magnificently, reaching all four corners of the set. This thing feels
real
, almost. As I brush my hand across the wooden exterior, designed and painted to deceive even the most pointed audience, I feel the splintered shards of wood cutting against my fingertips. The floor below us is an unyielding, golden array of floorboards, housing a wooden table in the centre. Being a soundstage, there is of course no ceiling to this shack; just the harsh, unremitting glow of burning-hot lights above us.

And there stands my beautiful billionaire boss; the candle held aloft in his left hand, and his right folded neatly to his side. A dark suit, a white shirt, and no tie. And of course, a wry smile curving into his cheek, that can mean only that he's pleased to see me. I instantly feel quite weak at the knees.

"It's cool," I bellow, stumbling for words, caught between a sense of giddy thrill at finally being centre-stage on a Hollywood soundstage, and the hollow realization that I got here by sleeping with the producer. "Another office I take it?"

I think I see him laugh to himself silently, before extending a hand outwards, and wagging his finger towards me, beckoning me closer. I comply, allowing the golden glow of the lantern to wash over me totally, and letting him size me up once again.