For Us (The Girl I Loved Duet 2)

I’m walking to my car when my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I smile, expecting a teasing message from Peter about the fact that I’m going to be in his bed soon. But it’s not from Peter, it’s from Clay.

Amber,

I’ve spoken to the producers on the show, and they have some concerns about the direction of the storyline for the second half of the season. Can you come over to my place so we can talk about it?

That’s…strange. There have been a couple of times that the wires have been crossed about who’s still in charge since Clay backed out so suddenly and his name is still on a lot of stuff, but it’s frustrating when this happens. The producers know that I’m here, and they’re still going to Clay for decisions about things like storyline?

I know where Clay lives, I’ve been there before. I text him quickly to tell him that I’ll be right over, and I text Peter to tell him that I’ll be a little late.

Clay Markham’s house is really spectacular. It’s one of those houses that could be in the movies, but as far as I know he hasn’t let it. Instead he throws fabulous parties there.

The gate opens when I pull up and I drive in. This is a little further from Peter’s house than I wanted to drive, but this has to be dealt with, if only because I need to tell Clay that if he really wants me to direct the show, then he actually needs to let me direct the show and back the fuck off.

Even though I like Clay, I really do, and I owe a lot to him, enough is enough.

When Clay answers the door, I’m shocked. He’s wearing an open button-down shirt so I can see his chest. His hair is tousled like he’s been sleeping, but the smile on his face is breezy and open and he greets me with a big gesture. “Amber! Welcome!”

The glimpse I get of his chest before he wraps me in an embrace is surprising; he’s got a good body. I’ve never thought of Clay that way. He’s got ten years on me at least, and has never been my type. When I was working for him he had a string of both women and men that he was sleeping with. “Hi, Clay.”

“Come in, come in. Glad you got my message.”

“Yeah,” I say, following him into his living room and sitting on the couch across from him. “I’m a little frustrated that the producers are still going to you about things like this.”

He picks up a glass of wine from the coffee table and waves hand. “Oh, they didn’t.”

“They didn’t?”

“No, of course not. That’s your deal. I just said that to get you over here.”

I freeze. “I’m sorry?”

Clay knocks back the glass of wine and pours himself a new one from the decanter on the table. “I needed you to come over here because I want you.”

Dread swirls in my stomach, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m much closer to him than I am to the door. But this is Clay, my mentor, the jokester and gossip of Hollywood. This is some kind of joke. It has to be. It has to be. “Clay, I don’t understand.”

He smiles, and it’s not a nice smile. “You know I always thought you were beautiful. And I thought that you were good. That’s why I never went after you. I didn’t want to be the one that introduced you to the way things work here in the City of Angels, but now I know that’s not true.”

“I—”

“No,” he says, cutting off any response, “now I know you’re just like every other woman in this town trying to get ahead. You’ll fuck anything that moves for a better gig, and since you’re not as good as I thought you were, and I handed you the biggest job in your life, you owe me.”

“Clay, you can’t be serious.”

He laughs and drinks half the glass of wine. “Of course I’m serious. I followed you into the bathroom in Fantasia, and it doesn’t take a brilliant detective to see a woman’s knees on the floor or hear the sounds of a blowjob. And guessing from how your dress looked when you came out, more than that happened in that stall. If you’re willing to fuck a rising star to get somewhere, then you’re definitely going to fuck me. Because I made you, and if you don’t, I’ll make you the second round of the June Cavallaro scandal, and you’ll never work in Hollywood again.”

I can’t breathe. The room is spinning and I feel like I might pass out, but I can’t do that because if I pass out then I won’t be able to get out of here. I stand up. “I don’t know if you’re drunk, Clay. Or stupid. Or if you actually believe what you’re saying, but I’m not having sex with you.”