Hollywood Lies
Authors: N.K. Smith
Hollywood Lies
By
N.K. Smith
First Published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2013
Copyright
© N.K. Smith, 2013
The right of N.K. Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia)
PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126
(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
Paperback ISBN - 978-1-61213-181-8
E-book ISBN - 978-1-61213-182-5
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image licensed by:
©
Depositphotos/Otto Kalman,
© Depositphotos/Classen Rafael, © Depositphotos/Alex Stokes
Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/nksmith
Chapter 1
Devon
I toss the script I was reading onto the couch. It leaves a lot to be desired. The part I’m up for only has four lines, but it features a nice bloody death scene. I haven’t done a death scene before, so it could be worth my while. Unfortunately, there isn’t anything new to this horror—the thrills have been recycled over and over.
I grab the book my mom sent me a few days ago. She knows how much I like to read, and she also knows how broke I am, so she sends me the bargain novels she finds at the local used book shop. It’s an awesome thing for her to do, but some of the books aren’t my typical good reads. I mean, I’ll read about anything if it’s good, but some of these bargain books are anything but. This one has a bunch of sprites and fairies in it.
I toss the book to the side as well and grab a couple beers from the refrigerator. Before I know it, I’m out. Drunk and lonely, I dial every ex-girlfriend whose number I still have saved in my outdated cell and profess my pathetic, undying love and need to feel their bodies next to mine again. I’ve been without a girlfriend for too long. I miss talking to a beautiful, like-minded person, but since I’m intoxicated, I don’t focus on that. Instead, I focus on my bodily needs. Namely how much I want to have a little physical affection and a carnal, animalistic release of sexual tension.
One of my exes—Alicia—agrees to my drunken booty call and comes over in the middle of the night, dressed in a fuck-me outfit. She won’t let me kiss her, but it’s not like I mind. As soon as Alicia comes in the door, I have her out of that sexy scrap of clothing and against the wall.
My dick has been hard since before she agreed to come over, so I can’t wait to plunge into her. Her legs wrap around my waist as she buries her hands in my hair, and I lick her neck and slam our bodies together.
Alicia’s tits are great. I always loved the feel of them pressed against any part of my body, so I make sure some part of me is always touching them. She moans so loudly, it takes me out of the moment. I remember Mrs. Flannagan across the hall all of the sudden, and how she gives me a verbal beat down about my loud music all the time. For an old lady, she sure can hear everything.
Not withdrawing from my ex-girlfriend, I pull Alicia away from the wall and stumble through my apartment until I find the bedroom. My hips still pumping, I take her missionary style on the bed, but only for a minute, until I recall how much she likes it from behind.
I flip her over and position her on the edge of the mattress, grab her hips, and drive into her again. Her gasp of pleasure and the way her fingers curl into the sheets heighten the excitement of being buried deep.
One thing I’d forgotten about Alicia, though, is how long it takes her to come. Being drunk, I want a quick release, but long after I am ready to be done and asleep, Alicia presses back into me, keeping me going.
Finally, after the intensity has worn off for the both of us, I just can’t keep it up, so I pull out quickly and pump my cum onto her ass. Her little disappointed sigh isn’t lost on me, so thinking I’d be a good sport and finish her off, I put my hand between her legs. With my thumb inside of her, I graze my index finger on her clit.
She lets me do this for about thirty seconds before pushing me away and standing up. Her cool eyes look me up and down. Then she just gives me a
whatever
expression and leaves the room. I follow her and watch as she picks up her clothing, gets dressed, and leaves the apartment without a word.
I feel like a failure as I lock the door behind her. When Alicia gets home, she’ll have to peel those pants off her ass—they’ll be stuck to her with the remnants of my dried orgasm—thinking about how I’d gotten off and she hadn’t.
She needs a guy who’ll do everything for her, fuck her from behind
and
reach around to rub her clitoris the whole time instead of having to help the orgasm along by doing it herself. I remember now why she and I never worked out. We dated for a while. Alicia is smart and fun. I was never bored with her, but the sex thing got between us most of the time. Honestly, I don’t know why she agreed to come over tonight, given our track record. Maybe she was drunk and lonely, too. Either way, she came, we had sex, and that was it. One day, I’ll find a woman I can have a great relationship with; a relationship filled with good conversation, shared interest,
and
fantastic sex.
Four days later, I get the best call of my life, and I feel like the luckiest guy in the world. I dress in my very best—a loose pair of jeans and a new Gap T-shirt. Well, okay, they weren’t
my
very best since I didn’t have the five bucks it takes to wash and dry my clothes. After my agent, Natalie, called late last night, she ran over some new clothes when I told her what I planned to wear.
Right now though, my lack of fashionable clothes and money for laundry don’t matter because I am at the security booth outside the office of Hollywood’s most influential actress/director/writer, Collette Stroud. Another exciting thing is that Liliana Addison, a popular young actress who has been getting a lot of buzz for some of her quirky roles and has already been given the female lead role for this movie, will be here to read with me.
My stomach flutters and my whole body feels tightly coiled and edgy, but it’s to be expected considering what today is and what it could mean for me. All I have to do is kill this audition and land the role. Then, my
real
life—the one where I’m famous, rich, and live like a king—will actually start.
There are only two other cars in the lot as I bring mine to a stop. I see no other young men between eighteen and twenty-five milling around, and the realization this is a private audition makes my heart start thumping harder. With my script in hand, I glance down at the headshot I brought.
I’ve got a lot of things going for me in the looks department. My nose is straight. Almost a Greek nose if it didn’t turn up just a little at the end. I’ve got nice lips, I think, although maybe they’re a little too plush. I wish they were thinner, more aristocratic, but I’m a mixed ethnicity New Yorker, and what I’ve got is what I’ve got. I’m pretty sure my eyes are my best facial feature. At least, people say they are. They aren’t deep set enough to make me look brooding, but they don’t bulge out either. They are good eyes. Plain brown with lashes all the girls
ooooh
and
ahhhh
over, but my cheekbones could be stronger. When I look at my competition in the movie industry, they have much stronger cheekbones than I do and blunt, flat chins that could take a punch. Mine’s a bit pointed, but I do have a decent jaw. A casting director even told me so last year. I didn’t get the part, but I still use the compliment to boost my ego every now and then.
I set the photo and script down on the passenger seat again, then study myself in the mirror. I can’t change how I look. I’m stuck with what I’ve got. Hopefully I’m attractive enough to get this part because even though the character is deformed or disfigured, I’m not naive enough to think the producers aren’t interested in a handsome leading man.
I could stare at myself and pick out my flaws all day, but I’ve got an audition to nail, so I gulp and get out of the car. Even though I’m in a polluted city, the air around this building smells like jasmine and lilac, my mom’s favorite flowers. It calms me a little to remember her in this moment. She’s in New York, but just the thought of her stealing the anxiety from me by rubbing my back like she used to do when I was a child loosens me up. The muscles in my legs and torso relax just enough, and with another deep breath, my heart slows.
I take a second to fiddle with my short, light brown hair. The reflective glass of the door provides me a quick snapshot of myself. I look decent in these clothes, and my hair is still carefully sculpted in the fauxhawk that’s grown to be my signature hairstyle. It works for me since I can’t stand spending hours on my hair. I’d shave it all off if I could get away with it. I press the button on the intercom box, and the door opens. I wander around for a moment, but then sit down in an uncomfortable chair a few feet from the door. I’m not sure what I should do. From the parking lot, this building seems empty, and I’m not sure it’s polite to waltz around the place like I own it. Maybe a sign up ahead will tell me where to go, but before I stand up again, I’m greeted by the smiling face of a beautiful young woman with dark hair swept up into a sloppy twist. She must be Collette Stroud’s assistant.
