I rub my forehead, trying not to watch the crease between her thigh and ass. "I could be worse."
It dawns on me that most people would probably be happy with my weekend. I just won five million dollars. But one of the strange things about being rich as shit is five million's just not that exciting.
What most people don't know is that I haven't gotten my pocket of gold coins from great-granddaddy West. Not yet. Not until I'm thirty-five. When I turned eighteen my father gave me one of his stock portfolios to manage. He's fond of trial by fire, and I think he wanted to see if I would sink or swim. Before I graduated college I’d been able to triple what he gave me. Since then, I haven't stopped.
March’s suite is behind a large mahogany door at the end of the hall, but we can’t see it because there’s a film crew camped outside. A few of them must recognize me because they tip their hats or nod as we squeeze through. I nod back, and Bella knocks briskly when we reach the door.
The camera mounted on the wall makes its creepy-ass mouse squeak, and I hear Marchant's voice over the intercom. "Good to see ya, West. Bella, thanks."
I press a Benjamin into her palm, because that's what any other guest would do, and the door swings open as she walks away.
Marchant is grinning. I can see relief and jubilation shining on his face as he pulls me into a bro hug. As always, I try not to wince.
"Thanks for coming, West."
I roll my eyes, checking out his black silk robe and spiky auburn hair. "Thanks for inviting me to the slumber party."
From behind March's wide shoulders, I hear a familiar, feminine laugh, and my skin begins to crawl.
"Hunter West!” I see a slim, tanned arm reaching around Marchant's robe, and then she moves around him, so I can see her body and her face. Priscilla Heat. Tonight she's decked out in a zebra striped teddy with red lace garters, black thigh highs, and six-inch heels. Her br**sts are perkier than melons, and I'm looking at them before I realize that I'm breaking my rule. I look into a person's eyes first. Priscilla's are pale blue. Her smile is lasered, her teeth veneered. As she clasps my hand, I smell a whiff of sex.
"Hello, Hunter." She smiles coyly. "I’m so glad to finally meet you. I'm a big, big fan."
I try to smile. I swear to God, I really do, but my mouth muscles aren't working. I'm pretty sure I wince instead. This is confirmed by the small notch between her thin, dark, drawn-on brows.
"I've seen some of your films,” I said. “You run a tight ship.”
She bursts out laughing, then grabs my arm and jerks me to the giant, claw-footed dining room table. Tonight, it's piled with hors d'oeuvres and liquor. I'm eying a meatball, thinking how hungry I am, when she grabs my ass and squeezes. "Christ, you're tight."
"Hands off," I growl.
Her left hand comes up and grabs me by the jaw, and as she lowers her mouth to my ear, I know that she'll be trouble. "I do what I want."
She grabs my cock—or tries to. “I don’t know much about your business,” I say as I catch her wrist, “but in my line of work we shake hands.”
"Funny!" Her red smile curves, stretching her face. Applause erupts from all directions, and it's nothing like the polite applause from an audience watching a round of Texas Hold 'Em.
"How would you like to be in an adult film," she croons, "opposite me?"
“I'm busy tonight." I strut over to Marchant, ignoring my giant hard-on, and grab his shoulder. "Sarabelle, my room, now."
I keep my head down as I stride into the hall, shouldering past a smug-looking guy with sunken cheekbones and slick black hair; a short, bespectacled girl holding an enormous camera; and a couple of others I don't see because my eyes are on the carpet. In seconds, I'm at the suite that Marchant built for me, back when we were young and I was snorting blow and drinking and f**king like a demon.
I know Sarabelle is free, because Tuesdays are her nights off. Even if she was working, she would have cleared her schedule. I strip, stashing my clothes in the chifferobe, and slide into a cold, silk robe. By the time Sarabelle arrives, wearing nothing but a blue teddy and wicked grin, I'm sprawled out on the bed, stroking my dick.
"Mr. West," she grins. "How can I help you?"
I eat her pu**y, then f**k her. When we’re both satisfied I buy her for the rest of the night, as per our old arrangement. I'm ready to split when Donnie, one of the male escorts, knocks on the door. He’s got a bottle of West bourbon and two glasses already poured over ice.
Under the bottle is a note, scrawled on a receipt: For being such a good sport. ~P
I toss back one of the glasses, then shove the note into the pocket of my robe.
I tip Donnie with the bottle and the other glass, and by the time he closes the door, the room is spinning.
I hear a woman's voice as I sink to my knees, but I'm not sure which woman. Sarabelle is asleep. At least I thought she was. The voice is high-pitched, kind of like my stepmother's when she's angry at me. I blink at the swirling ceiling. Maybe it's my mother's—but I can't remember that far back. I can't remember...anything.
The next morning, I can't even remember if Sarabelle was ever in my room. All I know for sure is that she's not here now.
Chapter One
~ELIZABETH~
This is what happens when you don't leave your house for weeks on end, trying to prep for grad school finals. For the first time in my life, I'm looking at a man, imagining him naked.
Then again, he’s not any old man. He is my host for the evening, Hunter West. It's objectively true: With tweed pants hugging muscular legs and jacket carelessly unbuttoned so I can see his undershirt and black vest, he screams sex. The kind of sex that's all slick skin and pheromones, bulging biceps and a six pack that ripples as he leans closer to plant kisses all over my face, and I arch up to bite him on the jaw.
The little fantasy makes me blush, but I don't look away from Hunter. We're in the same room for the first time in at least six months, and I'm entranced. I pretend to tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ear as I steal another glance his way. He's standing by a massive stone fireplace, surrounded by California's most eligible bachelorettes. I recognize a few of them from Hargrove Day School: Honey Neighton, a former cheerleader who missed senior year due to some kind of Ambien addiction; Brina Lulle, a pretty, petite figure skater who once qualified for the Olympic team but broke her ankle and didn't go; and Mary Baldwin Greese, the über shy daughter of one of L.A.'s best talent agents. There are more of them, decked out in designer gowns every color of the fall and winter fabric palette.