Say It Sexy
SAY IT SEXY
Say You Love Me Book 1
by
Virna DePaul
This life I'm relishing—the women, booze, and parties—won't last forever. But while it does, I'll take it all in with no regrets. Pleasure stands paramount. When I party, I forget all the trash that's happened in the past. It's the same when I'm acting, when I become someone else, someone not afraid to feel or make others feel. It's what I live for: The next party. The next role. The next girl.
That's my life. That's the way I want it to be.
Except now I've met Gwen...
Garrick Maze, young Hollywood's hottest bad boy, just landed the male lead in a new network television series. Known for indulging in wild parties, casual hook-ups, and fast cars, he spends his days on set and his nights on the town. Love's the last thing on his mind, especially when it comes to his ice queen female lead.
Gwendolyn Vickers intends to be America's next celebrity sweetheart and that means keeping her public image pristine. The last thing she needs is to be linked to trouble-making heartthrob Garrick Maze. But he's shamelessly flirty and sexy as sin. Her body craves him. Soon, so does her heart.
When secrets from the past clash with the bright lights of fame, Gwen realizes there's more to Garrick than washboard abs and sex appeal. He'll prove that when it comes to mixing mind-blowing pleasure with true love, he's not about to let her down.
Thank you to my wonderful first readers for helping me make the leap into new adult territory.
Marie Louise A., Casey B., Victoria C., Danielle G., Miranda G., Susan H., Wendy H., Tina L., and Misty Davis S.
Vixens, you rock!!
For Susan Hatler, a great friend, writer, and critique partner. Wishing you much joy and happiness as you embark on your new adventure. So glad for your friendship. Love you lots, V
Garrick
Hitting the top of Hollywood’s It List has its perks.
Money. Fame. Girls.
Lots and lots of girls.
I’ve definitely earned my reputation as a player.
But one thing I’m not is a cheater.
I don’t like cheaters. I don’t date them. I don’t stick my dick in them. I don’t do things to justify jealous boyfriends or husbands punching me in the face.
Tonight, I’d done all three.
Granted, I hadn’t known Missy Ives had a boyfriend at the time, but that didn’t mean shit when I could still picture the guy, looking confused, then hurt, then dangerously pissed right before he came after me two hours ago. I’d been bare ass naked, dealing with my own confusion, and suffering flashbacks to two years ago when I’d caught my girlfriend in bed with my brother. All that had slowed down my reflexes when Missy’s boyfriend swung at me, which is why I now sported the beginnings of a black eye.
Truth is, I’d probably have let the guy punch me anyway, that’s how bad I’d felt.
Unfortunately, in a few days I was starting my role as the male lead in a new network television series. I prayed the black eye faded before we began filming.
Pulling my car into the crowded circular drive of rocker Wesley Shaw’s Beverly Hills’ mansion, I killed the engine, and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, gingerly touching my eye. The entire lid was purple and swollen. It also hurt like hell. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me from turning my Saturday night around. The bitter memory of Rachel’s betrayal, which I’d mostly put behind me, was suddenly a raw open wound that wouldn’t go away. I needed a drink. Several drinks. And I needed a girl. Maybe several girls. Anything to make me forget what a fool I’d once been to believe in love.
And
to have enjoyed Missy’s company for a mind-boggling three dates (including one on New Year’s Eve two weeks ago) while starting to think maybe we could actually be more than a casual hook up.
What an idiot.
Getting out of my car, I took in the scene of my buddy Liam Collier’s 22
nd
birthday party. Liam was the lead singer of Point Break, the same band for which Wes played the guitar, and Wes had used Liam’s big day as an excuse to throw his first party since moving in to the seven-bedroom villa. I’d only heard about the place until now, and damn it was sweet, with floating levels, glass walls held in place by a striking black frame, and even a circular tower adjoining the entrance. Wes had especially raved about the outdoor terraces that had amazing views of the Los Angeles city skyline.
Valets scurried to keep up with the procession of cars as guests arrived. Heavy bass and electronic beats pounded my ears and shook my car windows. A multitude of girls in low-cut blouses and four-inch heels wandered in and out of the house. I didn’t recognize most of them, but that didn’t surprise me. Anyone who was anyone in this town knew about Wesley’s new place, but only anyone who was
someone
would get inside.
Unless she had a great rack to go along with her anonymity.
Seeing one of the valets approaching me, I tossed him the keys to my black Bentley Continental GT. “Thanks, man,” I said as I started jogging up the white stone steps of the house. Two hulking men in dark suits worked security. I’d almost reached them when the front door burst wide open, letting out the muffled chatter and bursts of laughter of the hundred people inside. From my peripheral vision, a shirtless figure stepped—or stumbled, more accurately—into my view. It was Point Break’s drummer, Tucker Benning, all lean lines, scruff, and inked flesh.
“You made it.” Tucker toted a half empty bottle of Patron Silver, cigarette drooping at the crook of his lips. Long, disheveled brown hair hung in front of his bright green eyes, some sections slicked with sweat. He pushed them back clumsily.
A smudged lipstick mark stained his cheek. Swaying precariously, he threw open his arms, tequila sloshing out of the bottle. “We were wondering where the fuck you—Whoa. Man, what happened to your eye?”
“I fell into a wall.” I sighed, knowing I’d probably be saying it a lot tonight.
Tuck blinked at me as if trying to process my answer.
“But I’d never miss Liam’s birthday, Tuck.”
Liam Collier and I were friends from high school when we were both drama geeks. Liam had bounced from band to band back then, meeting Tuck our junior year. I hadn’t met his newest bandmates, Wes and Corbin Ross, who ripped the bass guitar, until last year, just before they’d gone platinum. Now they played to sold out crowds and were preparing for their first world tour.
Tucker slung his arm around my shoulders, using me as support. “Don’t tell him or Wes I said this,” he mock-whispered, his breath reeking of alcohol. “But
I’d
miss Liam’s birthday for a chance to hook up with Missy Ives. Jesus, that SI swimsuit spread she did…”
“Dude, come on.” Instead of Missy’s swimsuit shots, I pictured the whole tawdry scene with her and her boyfriend again. A sudden clenching in my chest had me rubbing the spot and wincing as we crossed the tile floor, splashed with confetti, streamers, popped balloons, and loose glitter raining down from flashy cocktail dresses.
“Hey, you were the one who said she seemed
different
than most girls. I’m not letting you clam up now.”
That was before I knew she wasn’t single.
Of course, I didn’t say that. Wanting to change the subject, I eyed him oddly. “Tuck, where the hell is your shirt?”
He looked down at his naked chest. “I don’t know, man. Earlier, I was shotgunning some beers in the bathtub. And all of a sudden, it was gone.”
“Wow.” I leveled him with a condescending smirk, glad I’d gotten him away from the Missy talk. “That’s an impressive memory you’ve got there.”
Tucker slowly shoved a finger into my arm. “Dude, I don’t need your judgery. And quit changing the subject. Dish, man. Did you actually hit that? How was it?”
“You’re relentless,” I murmured, reaching across his body to snatch the Patron bottle by the neck. I knew if I didn’t say something, Tuck would just keep asking. “We were interrupted.”
“Bam!” Tucker boomed theatrically, squeezing me all rough, his eyes growing comically wide. “Cock-blocked by a jealous ex?”
“Something like that,” I muttered, taking a swig of the tequila, happy Tuck was obviously too inebriated to connect the cock-blocking with my black eye. “Anyway, too much trouble for me. That’s over.”
“Still, three dates is a record, man.”
True, which was why I was done talking about it.
Tucker and I continued across the foyer and into the kitchen, done in dark granite and stainless steel. Recognizing a few Hollywood types, I tossed them nods of acknowledgement and fended off the flurry of queries about my black eye by reminding people I still did my own stunts. There was a set of twins I liked, for the most part, a brother and sister often cast in the same films together. Their eyes flashed with respect when they saw me.
“Hey, Garrick,” the girl twin called. “Congrats on the new series. You’re going to kill it.” She lifted a shot glass in my honor.
“Thanks. Should be interesting.”
I was an action star, not a romantic lead, but I was hoping my stint as Payton Baber would result in more dramatic roles. As Baber, I’d be playing a college student at the University of New Mexico and frontman for a garage band who becomes romantically involved with a good girl book nerd named Lacey. Point Break would be contributing to the show’s soundtrack, and Liam would be dubbing my musical parts, since I couldn’t sing worth a shit. It was pretty awesome when I recommended him. The network had been set on hiring another band for cost reasons, but when I’d hinted I was reconsidering taking the job, the network had caved and ponied up an insane amount of cash to hire Point Break. Really showed my newfound pull in the industry.
Liam was the perfect dude for the gig anyway, with his rich, tenor voice that soared into falsetto at just the right moment. Man, it’d always irked me the way he could do the one thing I couldn’t so well.
Not that I hadn’t tried. Believe me, I had. But, as it turned out, even the best voice coaches in the world couldn’t make a frog sound like a canary.
I used to sing a lot, even being as bad as I was. Of course, I’d limited it to when I was alone in the shower. No way did I ever sing in public. I’d even refused to sing along to the car radio with Rachel, something that had—
Fuck! I hadn’t thought about Rachel in months. Now thanks to Missy, I’d thought of her multiple times this evening. I scanned the room for something—
anything
—that would drive her from my mind.
