Just Fake It Page 11

  When we reach the doors, I say, a little stunned and breathless, “Is that it?”

  Before he can answer, an usher nods at Justin and guides us to our seats at the very front of the theater. Try as I do to keep my eyes to myself, a spot a familiar face . . . Emma Stone? And is that Pierce Brosnan? Every eye in the place is on us. It’s all I can do not to trip down the aisle as I come across June, sitting a few rows behind us. She waves, and I wave back and mouth a “hi!”

  Finally, mercifully, we make it to our seats. Justin nods and waves at a few cast and crew members.

  I let out the breath I was holding and sit down, but Justin remains standing. I realize why when a disembodied voice comes on and starts to introduce him and the rest of the main cast. He nods, smiles, waves to the rest of the audience, who applauds for him.

  Then he sits down, and the theater goes dark just as Justin links his arm through mine and rests his hand on my knee. “Now, all we do is sit back and relax.”

  That’s what he says we’re supposed to do. But he doesn’t. His jaw is set, his fist clenched around my hand. He still seems nervous, and I know it’s because this is the part he hates the most: Watching his own movie.

  I can only hear my heart beating as the Emblem Studios logo comes on the screen. And then, the movie starts. For the first ten minutes, I’m hyperaware of all sound, waiting to hear coughing or people shifting in their seats, which Justin said would indicate they are bored. But I hear none of that. And I don’t think Justin does, either, because fifteen minutes into the movie, he leans over and says, “Scared?”

  I nod.

  “How’s your bladder?”

  I grin at him. “Fine. Perfect. This movie is . . . marvelous.”

  I’m not even buttering him up. It’s so intense that I totally forget I’m in a room of people. I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for what will happen next. When the main character is kidnapped and begins to flash back to her time in Afghanistan, I cringe along with her. All the while, there’s this deep foreboding that something terrible is about to happen, keeping my eyes glued to the screen. Then the film flashes to the refugee child she couldn’t save, and I find my eyes getting wet. Are horror movies supposed to make you cry?

  At the big twist, my jaw drops, along with a thousand other jaws, as the entire theater lets out a collective gasp and even a few people shout, “No!”

  By then, I’m not worried. Not at all. Because . . . he’s done it. And he clearly isn’t worried, either, from the way he’s seductively massaging my knee.

  Maybe that’s part of the act. Whatever it is, I don’t care. It feels amazing.

  Being with him, here? Feels AMAZING. Like I don’t want it to end. And yet I do, because I want him to look at me and talk to me and BE with me, as much as he possibly can.

  And when the end credits roll, that’s when the tears really come to my eyes, because the entire theater breaks out into thundering applause. Someone behind him claps him on the back and says, “Stupendous.”

  I whisper in his ear, “Are they supposed to applaud like that?”

  He seems as surprised as I am. “Let’s put it this way. For The Devouring Part Three, they booed. And threw shit at me. No kidding.”

  Then he stands up and waves again, and the applause grows louder. People attack him, wanting to get a piece of him, wanting to touch him, congratulate him, know his secrets, adore him.

  And fuck me.

  Because I don’t think I hate Justin Avignon anymore. No, not even close.

  I think I might be falling for Hollywood’s Biggest Asshole.

  Chapter 11

  “Well? How was your first movie premiere?”

  Justin’s looking at me in the darkness of the cabin of the limo as I sit there, tired as hell—it’s after one, after all—giddy, a little drunk, and just plain jazzed. He’s holding my hand, still, after all these hours. I can’t remember him ever dropping it for a second.

  I have a lap-full of swag from the movie—posters and pins and bookmarks and little pens—that Justin told me he had a garage-full of, if I wanted. But I couldn’t help myself. By the time we left the after-party I was just grabbing handfuls and handfuls of it, wanting to wallpaper my bedroom with it all.

  I’m officially a The Last Door on the Right groupie.

  I pin one of the tiny pins into my dress and grin at myself. “I love you. I really do. I think I am your biggest fan.”

  He gives me a look. “And I think you’re drunk.”

  Yes. He’s got me so pegged. No, I didn’t get wasted in front of everyone. But after the stars left, the press went with them, and the party dwindled to just a few hangers-on . . . Then I was truly able to relax. Celebrate.

  And yes, I had a few glasses of champagne. Now I just feel good. Beautiful. Sexy.

  “Did I do good?” I ask him, wanting to feel his praise.

  He nods. I’m vaguely aware that he’s just humoring me, looking at me with this amused kind of grin on his face, which makes me think I’m going to regret this tomorrow. The lights of the city slashing over his face in the darkness of the cabin. “You did fabulous, Lee.” His hand is on my shoulder, his thumb lightly stroking over my bare collarbone. “You look gorgeous.”

  “I do?” I smile down at my lap. “Thank you. You do, too.”

  He reaches over and brushes a lock of hair that has fallen out of my updo, off of my shoulder, and his eyes drive into mine, penetrating right into my core. I know I’m drunk. And maybe I’ll even regret this. Steven Long is somewhere in the back of my mind as I say, “Do you want to kiss me, Mr. Avignon?”

  He looks at me for a very long time before nodding. “Very much.”

  “We’re in private, now,” I whisper, running my hand down the front of his shirt. “Stop being the man from the binder.”

  “You told me the other me disgusted you.”

  “That’s not you, either,” I say, pulling playfully on his bow tie, letting it come undone. My updo’s gone south, my make-up is probably gone, I’m probably carrying enough luggage under my eyes for a trip to Japan. But I still feel beautiful. Just by the way he looks at me. And god, he’s never looked so tasty, still buttoned up in that James Bond tux. “Be you.”

  “I told you. I don’t know who that is,” he murmurs.

  “I do.” I grab a bunch of his shirt and pull him close until our lips fuse. He presses the button to close the partition and shifts us until he’s on his back, pulling me over him on the back seat. I straddle him, but since he’s laying down, I fold over and rub myself over him. Kissing him like I’ve never kissed in my whole life. Not in Hollywood, not in college, not in my wildest dreams have I kissed anyone like this.

  I feel invincible and perfect, like it doesn’t matter if I rip this dress that cost more than I could make at Rudy’s in a year. Doesn’t matter that my hair is a tangled mess behind me from his hands. Doesn’t matter that I promised myself up and down I’d behave, or that my lips are swollen and my lipstick smeared all over my face because of our kissing.

  I tell him what I want, and I’m vaguely aware of him complying with my wishes. He shoves my dress up and yanks down my halter until a gust of air hits my skin. My nipples pebble and his thumbs cover them, tweaking them.

  I catch my breath as he eases back. Eyes narrowing as he looks up at me. Partly dressed, swallowing nervously, I scrabble at the tiny buttons on the front of his tux.

  “Do you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Lee? Things are about to get a lot more complicated, sweetheart.”

  “Just kiss me.”

  I pull him up by the face and his mouth crashes against mine, and he tastes sinfully good. My body buzzes as I press closer, my breasts squished against his hard chest as his tongue slips into me, over and over.

  I feel his fingers grip my ass as he sits up and devours me with his hot open mouth. They tease up and down the crevice of my butt, and I moan against his mouth because I can’t get enough. I get his shirt open and reach my hands in to
touch his chest, and he’s so hot and hard and ripped.

  He’s hard in other places, too, right between my legs. I rub myself against his massive erection. Only my panties and his pants separating us.

  He growls into my mouth, still busy caressing my ass, my back, my breasts. I think he wants me to rock against him.

  And so I do.

  He wants me to let my hair down.

  And so I have.

  I gasp and peel away as I look at him. His mouth spreads into a naughty, devil-may-care smile. There’s my Justin. Not the bad-boy asshole. Not Mr. Avignon, the dashing husband. Somewhere in between. The elusive, fallible, gorgeously real Justin Avignon. This is the man that makes me wild with desire. The one who makes me ache and burn, giving me a wolfish grin that dares me to kiss him.

  So I press myself harder against him, grinding against his hardness.

  And I do.

  Chapter 12

  I wake with the most throbbing hangover ever.

  Oh, I’ve been drunk. I’ve even blacked out. In college, and then those first few weeks while I was navigating the city of L.A., living in that swanky condo and trying to fit in with the other starlets, I’d drank more than my share of alcohol.

  But I’ve never felt quite so much like my life is about to come to an end.

  Rolling over, I curse the bright sun slashing through the blinds and groan in pain. With effort, I lift my head, but it feels like I’ve been tethered to the mattress with a cinderblock around my neck. Finally, I manage to swing my legs over the side of the bed and swipe my phone off the bedside.

  I stare at the time. That can’t be right.

  Ten o’clock?

  No. That’s wrong. Brandon would’ve surely been in by now to wake me. He always does. Minnie stayed with Brandon only until last night. Today’s her day off.

  I shake the phone, stupidly. That doesn’t change the time. I feel stupid thinking that might work.

  It’s ten o’clock.

  So where is my son?

  Pain forgotten, I jump to my feet and rush to his bedroom, sensing the worst. I fling open his door to even brighter sunlight—the shades are fully open—and an empty bed. Made, as if he never slept there in the first place.

  Holy shit.

  I rush out the door, trying to assemble the thoughts racing through my splitting head into some logical order. What’s the last thing I remember? Suddenly, I’m back in the cab. Kissing Justin. Straddling Justin. Ripping off my dress.

  Oh, fuck.

  I’d ripped off my dress and rubbed my naked body shamelessly over THE Justin Avignon.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  As I stumble down the stairs, I suddenly catch sight of what I’m wearing. It’s an oversize white shirt, haphazardly buttoned in one place. Not just any white shirt. A tux shirt.

  Oh, my god. Did I sleep with Justin Avignon?

  I skim my hands down my sides and feel for my panties. I’m wearing them, at least. I don’t feel sore, and I get the feeling his monster cock would definitely leave an impression. But . . . shit, shit, shit. I can’t remember. All I can remember is throwing myself at him.

  And with someone as blatantly sexual as Justin, whose favorite thing is sex . . . it couldn’t have ended well.

  I hear nothing when I get to the foyer, except for the sweep of footsteps in the kitchen. I race in there and see June, feeding dirty dishes into the dishwasher. “Late night, huh? Same here.”

  Great. She doesn’t look nearly as much like a train wreck as I do, though.

  “Brandon!” I shout breathlessly. “Have you seen him?”

  She nods and motions toward the patio. Then her eyes drift over to the shirt I’m wearing. She doesn’t say a word, but I can see the recognition in her eyes.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, I fold one arm over the shirt and tamp down my hair, which feels like a tumbleweed sitting on my head, with my free hand. I edge to the sliding door and peer out.

  I see Brandon running around the grassy area beyond the patio, wearing a . . . miner’s helmet?

  Sliding open the door, I step outside, trying to make heads or tails of what he’s doing when I hear Justin’s voice call out, “Yeah, just wander. Down toward the trees over there. Slow or fast. Do what you like, buddy.”

  I whirl to see Justin sitting at the table, wearing just lounge pants again, staring at the image on a laptop through his Top Gun sunglasses. I realize that the helmet Brandon is wearing actually has a camera attached to it, and Justin’s recording everything he’s seeing. For what purpose, I have no clue. But Justin looks so into it. He has a pencil between his teeth, and suddenly, in a fit of inspiration, rips it from his mouth and scribbles notes.

  “Mommy!” Brandon shouts from the grass. “Mommy! Watch this!”

  “Nice, honey!” I say to him as he barrels fast across the lawn, fingers in claws, like a bear. Then I look at Justin. “What are you doing?”

  He looks at me for only a blink before turning back to his computer, but that blink is enough to remind me to be self-conscious. I hadn’t looked in the mirror. My hair is all over. I probably look like death. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. “My next screenplay. It’s from the point of view of a five-year-old. I wanted to get some intel on what a five-year-old looks at.”

  “Brandon’s four,” I murmur, watching him roll across the grass, calling “Mommy, look at this!” I shout back, “Cool!” as he kind of nose-dives into a somersault.

  Justin shrugs. “Same difference.” He clears his throat. “He was up and I thought you wouldn’t mind if I just borrowed him and gave you the extra sleep.”

  I stand there for a moment, trying to watch Brandon play, but my eyes keep shifting toward Justin, watching him work. It gives me that low, buzzing feeling deep inside. Before, I had a hard time picturing the genius Hollywood talked about when it came to Justin Avignon, but right now? I see it.

  And it’s turning me on.

  Which it shouldn’t. Last night . . . whatever happened? Shouldn’t have. I overslept. What if Brandon had been alone?

  “Watch this, Mommy!” Now Brandon is jumping over a flower bed.

  “Awesome! Look how high you are!” I look over at Justin. “So, you’re using my kid, huh?”

  He shrugs, not looking up from his computer. “Basically. He’s really helping me get into the mindset I need to be in.”

  I think about telling him that I always thought he was a grown-up child, but look who’s talking. I’m the one who drank too much last night and overslept. And he? He kept his shit together. Way better than I did. Who’s the kid, now?

  After a minute, he sets down his pencil and looks up at me. And I’m struck with a feeling of disbelief over everything that’s happened in the past few days. How can he constantly take my breath away like that? He definitely looks sexier unshaven, just out of bed. “How’d you sleep?”

  I touch my head and groan. “Ouch.”

  “Hollywood parties too much for you?”

  So it would seem. My track record with them really sucks. I squint as I watch Brandon galloping across the wide expanse of green grass in his backyard, just as pain slices between my eyes again.

  Justin takes off his sunglasses and hands them to me. Eagerly, I push them onto my nose. Better. “Thanks. Why did I drink so much?”

  “It was a party. Things went really well. Better than even I expected.”

  “Yeah, but you still had the sense not to drink like a fish,” I mutter. I mean, how embarrassing. Here I’ve been, telling him he needs to get his act together, and then, what happened? I acted like a wild floozie, ripping off my clothes. Oh, god. I’d ripped off my clothes in the back of the limo and twerked on his cock. “I didn’t embarrass you, did I? I mean, in public?”

  He closes the lid on his laptop. “Not at all. It was an amazing night.”

  Amazing, as in . . . the sex? Did we have sex? Or the movie? Oh, right, there’d been a movie last night. An amazing movie. That’s probably what he’s ta
lking about. “Well, I embarrassed myself. Severely.”

  He shakes his head. “Hey. In my world, if your embarrassment doesn’t have an audience of at least one million viewers, you have no right to feel that way. It’s all good.”

  I stare at him. Reason number one-billion why his world is so warped.

  Suddenly, it hits me. I point to his phone. “Oh! So have you seen any of the early reviews? From the premiere?”

  He shakes his head. “Are you kidding? I don’t look. Joel will call me later and tell me everything I need to know. Until then, head down.”

  I stare at him, incredulous. “You’re not even the least bit curious?”

  “Oh, no. I’m fucking dying, right here. But I’m on a high. That fuels my creativity. If I read even one mildly negative comment, it’ll put me on a downward spiral. I need to filter that out and just work on the next project.” He taps on the laptop. “Finished writing the screenplay and now I’ve got to think about pulling it all together.”

  “It’s about a five-year-old boy? What’s it called?”

  “The Verge. Yeah. It’s psychological suspense more than horror, but I feel like I need to switch things up a little each time. It’s more satirical.”

  “It sounds good,” I say, my eyes trailing to his phone. I lift it up. “You mind? I’m curious.”

  “Knock yourself out.” He gives me a warning look. “Just don’t say a word.”

  I cross my heart as I open his phone to the search engine and type in The Last Door on the Right Review. Search results flood in. I open the first one, which is from Hollywood Reporter.

  I read: Justin Avignon’s The Last Door on the Right is one of the most intriguing and provocative horror movies to come out of Hollywood in recent years.