Hollywood Sinners

19

Los Angeles



‘I’ve got to f*ck you. Now.’

Stark naked, Parker Troy lay back, already hard to bursting. He feasted his eyes on Lana’s magnificent figure. Those perfect breasts; that nipped-in waist and beautiful ass, her creamy skin that always smelled clean, like lemons. She was a hundred per cent real.

‘Shh,’ said Lana, taking his hands and straddling him, ‘don’t speak.’ Deftly she slid on protection. There was no time for foreplay, never had been. And this wasn’t about tenderness–it wasn’t about the other person at all. For both Lana and Parker it was a selfish act of make-believe: a high-risk, utterly irresistible ride right into the heart of the storm.

They raced to the climax quickly, urgency running thick in their blood. For Lana, who was starved of sex and craved it like air, it was a necessity. For Parker, as it was every time, the experience was one of ecstasy and just a pinch of disbelief, as he looked up at the woman he and his frat buddies had jerked off over at college.

‘That was incredible,’ he gasped, a rash of pink spreading across his chest. ‘I’m addicted to you.’

Lana dressed quickly. ‘Don’t say that. We’re not going there.’

They were at Parker’s Malibu penthouse overlooking the ocean. Lana had requested she run through a pivotal scene with Parker before shooting the following week–Cole’s driver had dropped her twenty minutes ago and was currently waiting outside. She’d greeted Parker cordially at the door for appearances’ sake, but once inside they hadn’t spoken. This was anything but a professional engagement.

Parker sat up. ‘Do you have to go?’ Behind him the beach stretched out, a spread of golden sand running down to sparkling water. He sat back on the pillows and gazed at it dreamily, like something out of a romance novel. ‘We could take a walk.’

Lana fastened her bra. ‘Not in this lifetime.’

‘In that case,’ he reached for her, ‘come back to bed.’

She resisted. ‘Forget it, Parker. Cole’s waiting.’

The colour drained from Parker’s boyish face at the mention of Lana’s husband. Cole’s name was taboo.

‘You freakin’ brought him here?’ he squealed.

Lana gave him a look. ‘Of course not. One of his goons.’

He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Christ! Don’t do that to me again.’

‘I’m careful, Parker, we both are.’ She grabbed the script, tucked it under her arm. ‘Long as it stays that way, we’ve got nothing to worry about.’

A noise interrupted them. The sound of the door going.

They looked at each other.

‘Get the hell out!’ Parker hissed, throwing himself off the bed. The sheets got tangled in his legs and he tripped on to the floor. ‘Shit!’

Lana hauled open the window, clambering out on to the balcony. ‘Who is it?’

He shook his head, bundling her purse out after her. ‘It’s Ashlee, she’s home early. Holy freakin’ shit!’

‘I thought you’d broken up!’

‘We’re on and off.’ A clumsy kiss on the lips. ‘Make like we sat on the terrace, I don’t know. If Cole finds out, I’m a dead man.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ she said wryly. He slammed the window shut.

Staying low, Lana skirted round the side of the building. A murmur of voices could be heard from inside the apartment–she hoped Parker could handle himself: the last thing they needed was his girlfriend running to the papers.

Before she emerged she dusted off any dishevelment and pulled her cap down hard over her ears. The whole encounter had taken less than half an hour.

Cole’s car was waiting on the opposite side of the road. Its driver had his head buried in a paper.

This is getting dangerous, she told herself. You’re pushing it too hard.

But she couldn’t help it. These days it was the only thing that made her feel alive.

‘Poor baby, let me get you something to drink.’

Parker Troy made a pathetic face and lay back, half closing his eyes. He watched through the cracks as his girlfriend fussed around–he’d had to feign illness when she’d found him semi-naked amid a knot of bed sheets.

With Ashlee gone, he checked his cell. He could only assume Lana had got out OK. Parker was playing with fire and he knew it–this was Cole Steel’s freakin’ wife. Every man in Hollywood knew it was as good as putting a loaded gun to your balls, but that only made it more of a drug.

How in the hell he’d managed to bed Lana Falcon he simply did not know. Parker himself was a part-time celebrity, had been in several poorly produced teen films that had raised his status to that of the kind of minor heart-throb girls poster up on their walls but don’t exactly know the name of. His part in Eastern Sky as Lana’s brief fling–how life imitated art-was a major break. When she’d made her intentions clear in the first week of shooting, he couldn’t believe his luck. It was a risk, but Parker was a man who thrived on adrenalin. Life was for living in the moment–he’d think about the consequences later.

Ashlee came back in with a glass of water and some drugs. She sat down next to him, put a hand to his forehead.

‘You’re working too hard,’ she told him, kissing his fevered lips. ‘It’s exhaustion, that’s all.’ She held out the pills.

Obediently Parker swallowed them, the chalky powder sticking in his throat.