She deflates with a sharp breath, glancing up at me again. “Why did you stop?”
I swallow, averting my eyes. “We should probably keep this PG.”
I’m not going to cross any lines under false pretenses. Or ever, for that matter.
Grabbing her tit would be crossing a line.
Nodding gently, Stevie lowers her head to my chest, her coconut-scented hair tickling my jawline. We stay like that for a while. I’m not sure how long, but long enough for me to realize I’m dozing off. The warmth of her plush skin is a makeshift blanket, and the sunlight seems softer, more subdued, than it felt ten minutes ago.
Both of my arms tighten around her as a peaceful feeling washes over me. The same feeling I had lying in her bed, listening to her play piano chords, her voice a husky lullaby.
I feel better.
Lighter.
Like my demons took a hiatus, allowing me a slight reprieve.
But the reprieve is over when Rudy lumbers toward the chair and shakes his sopping-wet hair all over us like an impromptu rain shower on our dry land.
“What the fuck?” I shoot upward, my thighs clamping around Stevie, my hand making a flat palm against her stomach as I press her against me.
“Get your asses in the pool,” he says, flicking a towel over his shoulder. “Siesta’s over.”
Stevie’s ass rubs against my half-hard cock as she tries to straighten, and it takes great effort to ignore the growing erection.
She plants a hand on my knee as she lifts up. But before she can respond to Rudy, something catches her attention near the patio door. “Wait. Is that Julian West?”
Instantly, my dick deflates.
The peace is gone.
Incinerated.
I whip my head right, and sure enough, Julian fucking West is standing in the corner with a flock of bright-eyed actresses circling him like drooling vultures.
Rudy perks up. “Yeah, you know him?”
“Of course I know him,” she says, voice laced with stardust. “I’ve been following his work for years.Fault Lineis one of my all-time favorite TV shows.”
“Right on. I’ll introduce you.” Rudy helps her off the chair, and we untangle.
“Stevie, wait.”
She blows me a kiss. “Be right back.”
Goddammit.
Julian West is known for many things—most notably, being one of the most sought-after film directors in the business—but to me, he’s only known for being the scum of the earth, right along with my ex-agent, Bianca Kendricks.
I’ve never worked with him personally, but a past costar had—a sixteen-year-old girl named Ami Briggs. We filmed a short together the year I moved back to LA, and she told me plenty of unsavory stories. He used her. Manipulated her. Pressured her into doing things no teenager should be doing with a fifty-year-old man.
My stomach sinks as I watch Stevie waltz over to him in her little bikini, head held high. I should be proud of her for taking action, for making connections, but all I want to do is shrivel up and die inside. I know exactly who he is: a man who preys on the innocent, the naive, the desperate. Those willing to do literally anything to make it out here.
I wasn’t his victim, but I wasavictim, and I’ll be damned if I let Stevie get snared in his crosshairs.
Blood boiling, I pop off the patio chair and beeline over to the five-person huddle. Stevie has already caught his attention because how could she not? She might be a little over his preferred age limit, but she’s still young, gorgeous, and thirsty for success.
A prime target.
