Wicked Grind (Stark World 1)

The lights of the Hollywood Hills glittered in the distance as nearly naked waitresses glided among the crowd with a rainbow-like array of test tube shots. Or, for the more traditional guests, highball glasses of premium vodka and bourbon.

The liquor flowed, the guests laughed and gossiped, the hottest new band in Los Angeles shook the roof, and entertainment reporters took photographs and videos, all of which they shared on social media.

In other words, the lavish party at Reach, the hip, new rooftop hotspot, was a dead-on perfect publicity event.

The purpose, of course, was to officially announce that Lyle Tarpin, one of Hollywood's fastest rising stars, had joined the cast of M. Sterious, next year's installment in the wildly popular Blue Zenith movie franchise.

The script was great, the action pulse-pounding, the characters well-drawn, the romance poignant--and Lyle still couldn't believe that he'd been cast, much less that he was set to play the eponymous M, an emotionally wounded antihero.

It was a role that could catapult him from the A-list to over-the-moon, transforming him into a Hollywood megastar with his choice of meaty roles and the kind of multimillion dollar paydays that had been only a glimmer of a dream when he was a kid.

In other words, this was an opportunity he didn't intend to fuck up.

Which was why he forced himself not to wince and turn away when Frannie caught his eye and smiled. She tossed her head, making her auburn locks bounce, then started walking toward him, her sequined cocktail dress revealing a mile of toned legs ending in a pair of strappy sandals that showed off a perfect pedicure.

One of Hollywood's most bankable stars, Frannie was set to play Lyle's love interest--the Blue Zenith agent who turns M from his dark ways and recruits him to the side of justice--both saving him and, hopefully, adding another long running hero to the franchise.

"Hello, lover," she said, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his. Frannie had a reputation for being a wild child who made it a point to sleep with almost every one of her male co-stars, and she'd made no secret that she wanted Lyle to join that little fraternity.

Honestly, Lyle didn't know if she was insecure, overly horny, or simply into method acting. All he knew was that he wasn't interested. Which, considering the damage a pissed-off Francesca could do to his career, was ten kinds of inconvenient.

"Kiss me like you mean it," she murmured, then leaned in, preparing to make the demand a reality, but he angled back, then took her chin in his hand, holding her steady as her eyes flashed with irritation.

"Anticipation, Frannie." He bent close so that she shivered from the feel of his breath on her ear. "If we give them what they want now, why would they come to the movie?"

"Fuck the fans," she whispered back, her hand sliding down to grab his crotch. "This is what I want."

And goddamn him all to hell, he felt himself start to grow hard. Not from desire for her, but in response to a familiar, baser need. A dark room. A willing woman. Just once--hard enough and hot enough that it wore him out. Soothed his guilt and his pain. Quieted the ghosts of his past, the memories of his mistakes.

Enough to tide him over until the next time. The next woman.

And to maybe, if he was lucky, chip away at the wall he'd built around his heart.

His thoughts churned wildly, and he imagined the feel of a woman's soft skin under his fingers. A woman who wouldn't look at him with Jennifer's eyes. Who wouldn't remind him of where he'd run from or of what he'd done. A woman who'd give herself to him. Who'd excuse all his flaws as he let himself just go, hard and hot and desperate, into the wild, dark bliss of anonymity.

"Mmm, I don't know, Lyle," Frannie murmured, her hand pressed firmly against his now rock-hard erection. "Here's evidence that suggests our on-screen chemistry is real. Give me a chance and I bet we can really raise that flag."

"I like you fine, Frannie," he said, taking a step back and cursing himself for giving into fantasy. "But I'm not fucking you."

From the glint in her eye, he was certain her famous temper was about to flare, but then an editor he recognized from Variety walked up, and Frannie downshifted to charming.

Lyle hung around long enough to greet the guy and answer a few questions about the role, then made his escape when the conversation shifted to Frannie's new endorsement deal.

He grabbed a bourbon from a passing waiter, then crossed to the edge of the roof. He didn't like heights, which was why he sought them out. Hell, it was why his apartment was on the thirtieth floor of a mid-Wilshire high-rise and the reason he'd spent countless hours getting his pilot's license. When something bothered him, he conquered it; he didn't succumb to it.

And that's part of why this bullshit with Frannie irritated him so much.

"You never struck me as the stupid type."

Lyle recognized the throaty, feminine voice and turned to face his agent, Evelyn Dodge. An attractive woman in her mid-fifties, Evelyn had been in the industry for ages, knew everyone worth knowing, and was as tough as nails. She also never took shit from anybody.

Lyle studied her face, trying to get a read on what she was thinking. No luck. His agent was a blank slate. Good when negotiating deals. Not so good when he was trying to gauge a reaction.

"That girl's got more power than you think," she continued when he stayed silent. "You want the quick and dirty route to Career-in-the-Toilet Town? Because that path runs straight through your pretty co-star. You piss Francesca Muratti off and suddenly Garreth Todd will be playing M and you'll be lucky if you can get a walk-on in a local commercial for a used car lot."

"Thanks for giving it to me straight," he said dryly.

"You think I'm exaggerating? I thought you knew your ass from a hole in the wall. Or have I been misreading you all this time?"