Read Online Shooting Star (Beautiful Chaos) by Arianne Richmonde - Free Book Online
Authors: Arianne Richmonde
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school. The lonely lost boy who needed love and affection, seeking it the only way he knew how: through sex.
But the bottom line was—for whatever bullshit reason—here I was, needing more.
More, more, more .
It was as if my dick had a brain of its own. Not a very intellectual one (no kidding) but a force that propelled me to do things, even when logically I knew it was crazy. Fucking women in public places, having pretty women I “needed” flown out to me on private jets while I was on location, just to get my fix—the list went on and the bills piled up. Dinners, transport, jewelry, cars. I may have been a “love-em-and-leave-em” bastard but I was a generous one. But it got to the point that it was affecting my career—compromising my work by hiring actresses for their fuckability, not their talent.
Being an addict is expensive. You’re ruled by a more powerful force and you’re out of control. You convince yourself you’re calling the shots but no, it’s your cock. Dick has you as his slave, his minion, dancing to his horny tune that blares in your ears twenty-four seven.
And each time I—the lion—caught his catch, I always found myself plummeting to a low like a come-down after drugs, and the only thing that would set me right again was seeking a new thrill—jumping back on the roller coaster, all over again. Over and over. And now I was fucking burnt out.
I’d pushed myself to my limit and had to stop.
And then I met Star bloody Davis.
And all I could think of since I first set eyes on her—twenty-four hours a day—was when, and how, I’d fuck her.
S TAYING IN JAKE’S HOUSE was less fun than I had imagined. The big wild partygoer licking coke off nubile starlets’ navels, two at a time? Dancing on tables? Not a bit of it. He was quiet and reserved. Brooding even. Most of the time he was talking on the phone or working on his laptop—completely ignoring me. Yet if I strayed toward the front door—his eyes on his work—it was as if he had a sixth sense. “Where-the-fuck-d’you think you’re going?” he’d say without looking at me. It didn’t matter what I did—walk round half naked in a skimpy bikini, not wear a bra, sit with my legs wide apart so he could see right through my panties ( if he’d paid attention)—or even “accidentally” bump into him when I was naked after a shower—he’d brush past me as if I were a slightly irritating little sister or something.
Sure, I had the run of the house and he was treating me well in that way—my own suite, with a huge bedroom and a beautiful view to the pool area, where lemon trees, lush palms and tropical green foliage spilled onto a mossy lawn. It was like a wall of vegetation—very private, no neighbors could see in—which suited me perfectly. So far, I’d out foxed the paparazzi. At least, there wasn’t the usual crowd of them hovering around. But the place was eerily silent except for maybe music or the tweeting of birds, or the mumble of Jake’s voice as he made his pre-production calls to his crew or producers.
I was lonely.
His house was grand; enormous, with polished Spanish tiled floors stretching across huge, echoey hallways. I took to going barefoot so my shoes wouldn’t make clicking sounds. There were elegant arched windows, a sweeping staircase, and oil paintings looming big on every wall. One was of a beautiful 1920s flapper with cropped black hair, holding a cigarette in a silver holder, and looked like an original Tamara Lempicka. In the garage behind the house were not just one, but two, classic cars: an old silver Rolls Royce from the 1950s and a navy blue Bugatti sports car. Jake had opulent but unusual taste.
With nothing to do but learn my lines, I made friends with Jake’s dog, a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback with golden eyes and, like his namesake, he had a permanent ridge of hackles that stuck up along his backbone. His name was Fierce but he was a sweetheart and we quickly became close.
Jake
But the bottom line was—for whatever bullshit reason—here I was, needing more.
More, more, more .
It was as if my dick had a brain of its own. Not a very intellectual one (no kidding) but a force that propelled me to do things, even when logically I knew it was crazy. Fucking women in public places, having pretty women I “needed” flown out to me on private jets while I was on location, just to get my fix—the list went on and the bills piled up. Dinners, transport, jewelry, cars. I may have been a “love-em-and-leave-em” bastard but I was a generous one. But it got to the point that it was affecting my career—compromising my work by hiring actresses for their fuckability, not their talent.
Being an addict is expensive. You’re ruled by a more powerful force and you’re out of control. You convince yourself you’re calling the shots but no, it’s your cock. Dick has you as his slave, his minion, dancing to his horny tune that blares in your ears twenty-four seven.
And each time I—the lion—caught his catch, I always found myself plummeting to a low like a come-down after drugs, and the only thing that would set me right again was seeking a new thrill—jumping back on the roller coaster, all over again. Over and over. And now I was fucking burnt out.
I’d pushed myself to my limit and had to stop.
And then I met Star bloody Davis.
And all I could think of since I first set eyes on her—twenty-four hours a day—was when, and how, I’d fuck her.
S TAYING IN JAKE’S HOUSE was less fun than I had imagined. The big wild partygoer licking coke off nubile starlets’ navels, two at a time? Dancing on tables? Not a bit of it. He was quiet and reserved. Brooding even. Most of the time he was talking on the phone or working on his laptop—completely ignoring me. Yet if I strayed toward the front door—his eyes on his work—it was as if he had a sixth sense. “Where-the-fuck-d’you think you’re going?” he’d say without looking at me. It didn’t matter what I did—walk round half naked in a skimpy bikini, not wear a bra, sit with my legs wide apart so he could see right through my panties ( if he’d paid attention)—or even “accidentally” bump into him when I was naked after a shower—he’d brush past me as if I were a slightly irritating little sister or something.
Sure, I had the run of the house and he was treating me well in that way—my own suite, with a huge bedroom and a beautiful view to the pool area, where lemon trees, lush palms and tropical green foliage spilled onto a mossy lawn. It was like a wall of vegetation—very private, no neighbors could see in—which suited me perfectly. So far, I’d out foxed the paparazzi. At least, there wasn’t the usual crowd of them hovering around. But the place was eerily silent except for maybe music or the tweeting of birds, or the mumble of Jake’s voice as he made his pre-production calls to his crew or producers.
I was lonely.
His house was grand; enormous, with polished Spanish tiled floors stretching across huge, echoey hallways. I took to going barefoot so my shoes wouldn’t make clicking sounds. There were elegant arched windows, a sweeping staircase, and oil paintings looming big on every wall. One was of a beautiful 1920s flapper with cropped black hair, holding a cigarette in a silver holder, and looked like an original Tamara Lempicka. In the garage behind the house were not just one, but two, classic cars: an old silver Rolls Royce from the 1950s and a navy blue Bugatti sports car. Jake had opulent but unusual taste.
With nothing to do but learn my lines, I made friends with Jake’s dog, a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback with golden eyes and, like his namesake, he had a permanent ridge of hackles that stuck up along his backbone. His name was Fierce but he was a sweetheart and we quickly became close.
Jake
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