Page 49 of Breaking Hollywood

“I’ll come with you. I could do with some air.” I grab my smokes and put them in my pocket, and then using my crutches, I get up.

“Sure. Great. I’ll just be a sec.”

She disappears into the kitchen and reappears a few minutes later with a pink diamanté harness and lead in her hand along with what looks to be a pink leopard-print dog coat.

For fuck’s sake. That poor goat.

“Are you putting that on the goat?”

“Of course I am.” She crouches down and starts putting the collar onto Gucci. “It’s a new area for her; she’s not familiar with it. And I don’t feel comfortable letting her roam free.”

“I was talking about the hideous dog coat.”

Speedy frowns up at me. “It’s a goat coat. I bought it especially for her, and she loves it.”

“She tell you that?”

She gives me a look. “She did as a matter of fact.”

“Okay, Dr. Dolittle. But you do realize that we live in LA where it’s pretty much hot as fuck all the time.”

“It’s actually a little chilly out today. I don’t want her to catch a cold.” She gets to her feet.

“Speedy, the only thing that goat is going to catch is a ribbing from its goat friends.”

“God, you’re annoying.” She shakes her head, irritated, and then spins on her heel.

“Hey, that’s my line!” I call to her.

She puts her hand behind her back and flips me off.

I laugh.

I fucking love winding her up. It’s become my new favorite pastime.

Smiling to myself, I follow them to the elevator, get inside, and press the button for the ground floor.

Ava

I’m feeling a little nervous, cooking for Gabe. I know I’ve cooked for him already, but that was just a straightforward soup and some pancakes.

I want to make this nice because I want to thank him for what he’s doing for me and Gucci—hiring me to take care of him and letting us stay here.

He doesn’t have to do that.

Not that I really do that much, apart from getting him drinks when he wants them and feeding him. Oh, and helping him out of the bath, which I had to do again before I started dinner.

And, dear God, it’s hard to stop myself from taking a peek at his cock to see how big it actually is.

I can’t exactly give him shit for staring at my boobs and then go and look at his cock without his permission.

And is it bad of me that I actually kind of like it when he stares at the girls?

I know it’s not very feminist of me, but I like the fact that he thinks I have great breasts. Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

It’s just, he’s Gabriel Evans, hottest guy in the world, lusted after by millions, who’s probably seen lots of girls’ boobs—famous models’ and actresses’ boobs—and he thinks that I, and I quote, “have the best rack” he’s ever seen in his life.

Hell yeah!