January (Calendar Girl #1) Anthology Anthology (89 page)

“Probably,” he snickered and took a sip of something amber-colored in a cocktail tumbler. I could smell whiskey a mile away, and it didn’t bring fond memories. I cringed and turned back to the vultures.

Wes put a hand on my bare shoulder, eyes narrowed and uncertain. “What’s the matter?”

I took a deep breath and pressed down the frustration I had with my father and his drinking and the gambling habit that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. I shook my head. “Nothing.”

He tipped up my chin and looked into my eyes. “It’s not nothing. I won’t ask again,” he warned.

Nonchalantly I shrugged. “I hate the smell of whiskey; no biggie.”  Curving outward I loosened his hold. He set down the drink and gestured to the bartender.

“Changed my mind. Gin and tonic,” he said and the man nodded.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I started, but he cut me off by lifting a hand to my cheek. He cupped it and swiped just his thumb against my bottom lip tenderly.

He held my lip, and I wanted so badly to press my tongue to the digit and steal a small taste. I didn’t though, fearing what he’d think or do.

“I wanted to. Now, let’s go introduce you to Mother.”

With mammoth effort, I followed him, wanting nothing more than to rush out those double doors, down to the beach until I reached the ocean, where I’d promptly drown myself. What the hell was I doing at a fancy-dancy party, on the arm of a man who wrote movies and had more money than I’d see in my lifetime? I was the daughter of a Vegas gambler, abandoned by my mother at a young age, worked mostly waitressing jobs, and only recently was trying to hack it as a small time actress.

Wes led me through the throngs of people. Snippets of conversations about exotic vacations, the latest new action movie, who was who in Hollywood, and what major corporation was doing what flooded my mind as we passed each small group. The men looked appreciatively at me as we passed, their women—not so much. Pouty lips and anorexia were obviously the latest trends, both of which I didn’t have, and in this dress,
nothing
was left to the imagination.

We made our way through the crowd to the back of the room where a cropping of high back chairs and bookcases were. An older woman, perhaps in her fifties, stood near a man who looked suspiciously like Wes. He also was tall with blond hair, except this distinguished gentleman in a dark grey suit that complimented his wife’s pale pink dress was built like a linebacker, unlike Wes who had the leaner build of a regular swimmer-slash-surfer.

“Mother, Father,” Wes approached the couple. The older woman had pale blond hair, almost white, and startling blue eyes. Her lips were full like her son’s and coated with a mauve lipstick that paired well with her skin tone and coloring. Her hair was pulled into a severe French twist and pearls hung from her neck and ears. Her look was classic elegance.

The elder Channing clapped his son on the back. “Son,” he said with a note of pride. His mother promptly air kissed both cheeks, which normally would seem really pretentious, but then she held his cheeks in both hands and smiled warmly at her son.

“I see you went with my pick,” I heard her whisper and turn towards me. The nerves I had prior to meeting up with Wes were back—with a vengeance.
The mother picked me out?
I mean, I knew that she and Aunt Millie were acquaintances, but that’s kind of strange for a mother to pick out an escort for her son. It kind of gave me the heebie-jeebies.

Wes turned to me and brought a hand to my back. The skin-on-skin contact sent a jolt through me. I’d forgotten the entire back of the dress was open aside from the crisscrossing two-inch beaded straps at my shoulder blades. The rest was completely open to the waist. His hand burned white-hot where his fingertips traced small circles. I shivered and stood closer to him without even being asked.

“Mother, Father, this is Mia Saunders, my date,” he grinned and I held out my hand. “Mia, this is Weston Channing, the Second, and my mother, Claire.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Channing.”

Wes’s mother crossed her arms over her chest and put her hand up to her cheek. She was blushing prettily and smiling so wide I felt as though she was internally laughing at a private joke. His mom leaned into his father’s side. “Isn’t she breathtaking?” She winked at me and shook her head.

“Um, thank you?” I offered and his father laughed.

“It’s good to meet you, Ms. Saunders.”

“Oh, Mia’s fine.” He tipped his head and chin.

Apparently, the conversation was over because he turned away and grabbed Wes’s arm. “Now Son, tell me about this latest project you’ve got going. I hear they want to offer you three percent of the budget. That would net you only three million when they’re bringing in several hundred million on your last
Honor
series. You’ve got to up the ante,” his voice boomed with a heavy timber. 

The
Honor Series
. Weston Channing, the Third wrote the flipping
Honor Series
! Holy fuckballs! His movies have been the biggest hits—
huge
— since the first one,
Jeramiah’s Honor,
released three years ago. There’s been one each year. His inventive way of mixing a soldier pursuing the love of their life with copious amounts of blood, violence, explosions, patriotism, and some wicked hot love scenes have made for epic movies with record-breaking box office numbers.

“...they’re going to give me ten percent of the overall budget and directing opportunities,” Wes’s deep rumbling voice broke through my haze. Right when I cleared the cobwebs after realizing I’d been contracted for the month with movie royalty, a couple of women came up behind Wes.

The two vultures were waiting patiently for him to notice them. One was twirling a lock of her bottle-blonde hair and wearing a god-awful gold, strapless dress with her plastic boobs pushed up to maximum capacity. I scanned her outfit and cringed. She was so skinny, every one of her ribs was visible. The brunette standing next to her wasn’t much better. Fake boobs—one actually looked bigger than the other—because I could see almost every inch of them through the whisper thin fabric of her glued on dress. Her nipples had hardened, and I wanted to let her know that she needed to rub her tips and warm em’ up before she embarrassed herself, but something told me that she wanted them that way.

Show time
. Gotta earn that hundred thousand dollar payout. Even the thought of that much money going to Blaine every month made me want to hurl. Once my father was better, I was totally going to kick his ass for getting into a situation once again!

“Hey honey, I think there are some people over there,” I pointed randomly to the other side of the room, but gestured with my eyes to look behind him. Wes caught my less-than-covert eye movement and looked over his shoulder. Bimbette one and bimbette two promptly pushed out their fake ta-tas in greeting then puckered their fat, collagen-infused lips.

Wes simply hooked an arm around my waist. “Always keeping me in line, thanks.” He nuzzled my cheek, and I grinned.

“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it!” I practically bounced with glee, my tone so fake and put-on.

Wes leaned forward and placed a warm kiss on my neck, then inhaled. “Mmm, thank you,” he whispered just under my ear. He was so close I could feel the warmth from his lips graze my neck before he pulled away.

“Mia and I will see you at the charity ball next week,” he said.

His mother surprisingly got right into our space, as in, barely a foot away. “No, no, no, that just won’t do. I want to spend more time getting to know Mia, dear.” She smiled one of those mom-smiles that actually make you feel like there’s nothing more precious in the world than you standing in front of them. Of course, I never really had that, but if I did, I’m sure it would look just like Claire Channing.

Wes stiffened next to me. “Mother...” he warned.

She smoothed her hand down his lapels and buttoned one of the buttons on his shirt. I giggled under my breath as she fretted over him. “Oh honey, relax. I know Mia’s just a
friend.
So no harm in bringing her over for Sunday brunch, now is there?” she asked using a tone that I knew carried a whopping dose of guilt trip. Momentarily, I wondered if she was Catholic. My grandmother used to have that same tone and it was usually followed up by a phrase taken directly from the Bible. 

Wes sighed and shook his head. “We’ll be there. Same time?” he queried.

“That’s my good boy.” She air kissed both of his cheeks then turned to me and did the same.

We walked toward the bar once more. “I need a drink,” he said leading the way.

I couldn’t help it. I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“You do always do what your mom says!” I laughed. Once we got to the bar, I moved over close. “Mama’s boy!” I shot into his ear.

“Oh shut up. I’m seriously questioning the sanity of agreeing to this. I could have gone with a brainless Barbie doll, you know.” One eyebrow rose sharply, his lips in a mock scowl, but his eyes gave him away. They were filled with humor and were sparkling green.

I moved to take another pot shot at him, but I wobbled on my spikey heels. He caught me against his body. I rested my hand on his shoulders as he placed his arm around my waist.

His eyes went from a normal Crayola green to a bright forest green in an instant. He licked his lips, and I couldn’t help but lick mine in return. The warmth of his hands at my bare back seeped into my skin. It’s as if the entire room melted away when I was in his arms. I could feel his heart beating against my chest.

**Thump thump**, **thump thump**, **thump thump**

“You’re trouble,” he pinched his lips together and leaned closer. We were less than six inches apart, right in the middle of a business cocktail party standing directly in front of the bar where everyone could see us.

“And you’re a mama’s boy!” I went with deflecting the situation and backed up and out of his embrace as quickly as my new shoes would take me and shuffled onto a stool.

“So that’s how you’re going to play it, huh?” he grinned and brought a long-fingered hand up to his chin where he stroked his thumb and forefinger along his jaw. “Game on, Ms. Mia.”        

Chapter 4

When we got back to the house later that evening, I feigned being tired and practically ran to my room, shutting and locking the door. I’d waited by the door, straining to hear through the wood if he was going to follow me. As much as I wanted to be with him, as in between the sheets, I really should keep distance between us. I hadn’t had enough time to talk myself out of becoming emotionally attached to Wes. He was so nice, down to Earth, made a point to include me in business related conversations even if they were pretty casual. It would be wise for me to remember my place. I was nothing more than the hired help.

Then again, why couldn’t I have fun? I was an adult, he was an incredibly hot, willing man. We were young and had the better part of a month to be around one another. If tonight’s sexual chemistry was anything to go by, I’d bet my bike that he was stellar in the bedroom. It would do me well to get a good rogering, loosen me up. It had been a year since I’d had sex and my vibrator wasn’t cutting it anymore. I needed that physical connection. A warm, male body.

I stood in the center of the room looking around at all varying shades of white. The bed looked like a white fluffy cloud. I bet it was comfortable, too. Wes didn’t seem like the type of guy to skimp on the luxury fabrics for his guests. No, he’d make sure everything was just so. Walking around the room I debated my next move. He was out there somewhere. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was very late. One o’clock in the morning. We’d had a great time. I made a game of counting how many times a gold digger approached him, and how many times I’d gotten the stink eye.
Twenty-four.
He had twenty-four admirers in one evening. It made complete sense why he needed to hire a buffer. If he actually spent any length of time talking to those women, he wouldn’t have made contact with any of the producers, directors, or actors he had gone to the event to see.

And Wes was perfectly in his element. He moved around the room like oil swirling through water, slinky, liquid, and never co-mingling longer with one person than another. I was pretty sure there was a method to his madness, but I didn’t ask. I just followed along and played buffer. When a stick with boobs approached, I’d turn, introduce myself and make it a point to touch and lean on Wes enough that the woman would scowl and slither away like the snake she was. They all were. Aside from Wes’s mother, Claire, I did not meet one decent woman. And very few over the age of twenty-five. It seemed as though older men in the business liked to have a piece of eye candy attached to them. The women just stood by their side with vapid eyes staring out the windows as they teetered on spiked heels and sipped absurdly expensive champagne. Probably to the point where they spent the evening completely stoned off the booze but not so much that they were shitty.

I guess if you thought about it, I wasn’t much different. Technically, I was by Wes’s side for the same reason they all were. Money. I needed it, and whether or not they
needed it
or
wanted it,
it
really didn’t make a difference. Having put those thoughts together, I felt a sourness hit my gut, twitching uncomfortably.  That high from the evening left me in a rush of disgust.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was walking through the darkened house. When I reached the living room, I moved to a hallway I hadn’t seen before. There were a single set of double doors at the end. Pressing my ear to the door I could hear the sound of a television. Surprising even myself, I knocked.

“Come in,” I heard Wes say.

On a deep inhale, I opened the door. He sat leaning against the headboard of a massive sleigh bed. The room was dark, cave-like with a lit fireplace on one side of the room and on the other a wall of glass windows with what I suspected was an ocean view, knowing which side of the house that window faced. The curtains were mostly closed. Manly, heavy looking wood furniture dotted the walls. I looked over at the TV, and it was paused on what looked like a soccer game.