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And from across the room, I can feel the cold burn from Hendrick.
I look over all the glittery people and make sure I catch the dickwad’s eye. Then I smirk as I slide a finger into the actress’s mouth, and she sucks. The cold from him doesn’t change an iota, but I’m sure he’s fuming inside.
The pretty little Elsa, who I did try and fuck just to fuck with him, isn’t there.
Maybe she’s talking to someone.
It’s not that she didn’t want me—I know the look a woman gets when she’s turned on—but Elsa’s the well-brought up type and fucking Hendrick, to her, means no one else.
I hope she got bored and ran off with some boring fuck of a banker.
It’ll rub in the fact I’m with Nora, his type, even more so.
I thrust my finger in and out of Nora’s mouth, and she moans. His hateful gaze remains on us, face giving nothing but that ice cold away. Then something catches his attention, and he looks right past me to someone else and the expression changes. Heats up a little.
It’s a look a man gives a woman he’s interested in.
He’s definitely not looking at Nora.
I want to turn but hold off. Whatever he’s interested in, I’m going to take it from right under his fucking nose.
* * *
Nora’s being pawed by a well-known billionaire lothario. I should go save her, I know, but I don’t. The famous director’s watching her, too.
I introduced them ten minutes ago, and the lothario only just swooped in when Anderson G— Gordon Andrews when he’s not living up the life of the coolitdirector—got distracted by someone else.
I’m sure she’ll blow him, fuck him, star in his next movie and maybe even marry and divorce him. His edgy work is what Nora needs to get out of sweet girl typecasting. And Anderson’s what she needs. She’s what he needs, too.
Fuck, the bullshit of Hollywood is beyond boring. Give me people to blackmail, money to make, traitors to kill and hot, depraved women to fuck and I’m a happy man.
Strike that. Add the demise of Hendrick Agnossio into that mix, and I’ll be happy.
I clench my hand, then pull out my phone and send a text to MG Rossi, demanding a fucking update.
“She doesn’t look happy,” a low, smooth female voice says.
I don’t turn. I know that voice. “MG fucking Rossi. How did you know I’m thinking of murdering you for jerking me around?”
“Says the jerk of all jerks himself?” She sounds amused.
“I’m beginning to think you’re very fucking stupid, insulting me.” I pause. “But I’d like to know how the hell you got here moments after my text?”
The Cat laughs softly. “Sorry to disappoint, but I only have a burner phone on me tonight.”
I straighten up at that, nerve endings tingling. “You’re doing it here?”
“Maybe. Checking it out, anyway.”
“You didn’t think,” I drop my voice to a snarl because I don’t need to be laconic around this woman, not with what I’m fucking paying her, “to tell me?”
“I thought about it and dismissed it.”
“You,” I say, “keep ignoring my calls.”
The music rolls over us, some jazzed up version of a pop song, and I’ll give fucking Hendrick this, the band is a clever touch. Those in the know are wetting panties and battling erections over who they are; an indie, highly-regarded, classy act that takes even the most insultingly benign bubble gum pop song and turns it slinky and cool. Those who aren’t…they just think it’s nice music that suits an event like this.
I’ll give it to him, but it also makes me hate him more. Hendrick is miserable, boring and thinks he’s better than everyone. Fuckwit.
