Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 1: Drake (2 page)

I
screech
the Ferrari to a halt at Chateau Marmont and toss the keys to the valet. I dislike taking women I just met to my house because they don’t know when it’s time to go home. Here, though, I can simply get a bungalow, have my fun, then leave whenever I want. It’s literally easy come, easy go.

As we enter the hotel’s bar together, heads turn. Tessa is gorgeous: young and blonde, with the kind of hot body that only 20-year-olds ever seem to have. They’re not looking at her, though, they’re looking at the movie star. I’m telling you, this shit never gets old.

We take a table in the corner and order a couple of drinks. When our waitress gives me that look, Tessa recognizes it immediately as the same one she’d given me just a couple of hours earlier, and she counters with a glare. We spend half an hour drinking and making small talk, during which that look of sheer disbelief never leaves her face. Whenever I see that expression on a woman, I know I can score. Yes, it’s really that simple. They might not have looked twice at the guy who moved from Rushville, Indiana, to Hollywood in his early twenties to pursue a career in acting, but that look in a woman’s eyes tells me they’ll do anything to fuck Drake Manning, the movie star.

I’m fine with that. Hey, I’ve earned it. And I plan to keep taking advantage of this never-ending stream of willing pussy until I finally settle down in a decade or two.

“Drake, can we take a selfie with you?”

I look up to see a pair of young women, one with short brown hair and one redhead with long, curly locks. I give them the smile, and that’s when I notice they
both
have that look in their eyes. The redhead, in particular, has it bad – even worse than her friend or Tessa. She’s also got a smoking hot little body, and I immediately decide I want this woman. For most guys, that would present a problem: “How can I ditch my date while simultaneously ditching the friend of the chick I really want to fuck?” For me, though, there is no such issue.

“What are your names?” I ask. They are Kayla (the brunette) and Sam (the redhead I’m suddenly dying to sink my cock into). “Kayla and Sam, rather than a selfie, I have a better idea. Why don’t both of you come with me and Tessa here up to my room and we can all spend the evening drunk and naked?” I wink at Tessa, who seems disappointed at having to share. But hey, if she gets up and leaves, I’ll still have two girls. I strongly suspect she‘ll stay, though, and she does exactly that. Like her note in the restaurant said, she
really
wants to fuck me.

I ask our new friends to sit with us, then signal our waitress for a bottle of Champagne and tell her to call the front desk and have a bungalow key delivered to me at my table there in the bar. An hour later, I sit naked in a big chair and stroke my hard cock as I watch Kayla lying on her back with Tessa’s head between her legs. At the same time, Sam is straddling Kayla’s face, grinding her pussy against her friend’s mouth. None of them are actually bi, but they’re doing this simply because I told them I’d love to see it. The two friends, Kayla and Sam, had a brief whispered discussion before evidently deciding it was worth having sex with each other if Drake Manning was watching.

After they play for a while, I fuck Kayla first, stopping just short of my orgasm. Tessa follows, and I whisper to her that I’ve been imagining that moment since she took my order at noon. While the other two watch, I pull out, rip off my condom, and decorate Tessa’s lovely flat belly with more of the same warm liquid she’d eagerly swallowed earlier in the car. I tell Sam I’m saving her for dessert and order room service. When it’s delivered, I remain under the covers while insisting the three women answer the door together naked. Ramon, the weeknight room service guy, knows me well and takes care of me. In return, he sees quite a few nude beauties.

Ramon is delighted to see these three open the door for him. After he sets down the tray, I tell Sam to give him a tip. She appears confused, then reaches for my pants, apparently to fish out my wallet.

“No,” I say, “give him a blowjob. Ramon, would you like a blowjob from this gorgeous redhead?”

This isn’t the first time Ramon has gotten this particular type of tip for delivering food to my room, although this may be the hottest chick I’ve ever told to it. He smiles and says, “I would love one.”

Sam looks him over, then looks at Kayla, unsure what to do. Ramon’s not a bad looking guy, but he’s no movie star. I’m curious how much Sam wants to fuck me. She probably thinks if she declines to do this for me, the deal’s off. Actually, it’s not off, because I want her badly – but Sam doesn’t know that.

“Take out your cock, Ramon,” I say, and he does so. The fucker already has a boner. He stands there with his dick out, looking expectantly at Sam. Hell, we’re all looking expectantly at Sam.

Sam shrugs and drops to her knees, and Ramon’s hard-on disappears in her mouth. She works on him for a while, then the unexpected happens: Kayla also kneels and joins her friend, looking into my eyes as she sucks Ramon off. Less than a minute later he pops, then he quickly zips up and leaves before his absence is noticed in the kitchen. While we eat, Sam and Kayla keep exchanging looks like they can’t believe any of this is actually happening.

After dinner, I slip on my third condom of the night and sink my once-again hard cock deep into Sam. Because I’ve already come twice today, I last a ridiculously long time, and that’s perfect because Sam is as hot a fuck as I’d imagined her to be. It’s not until she launches into a particularly loud orgasm that I feel my own release coming on. I thrust as hard as I can, violently pounding that tight pussy as I unload while inside her. It’s rare that I have a simultaneous orgasm with someone, but I’m telling you, this fucking redhead was a filthy little firecracker.

I
n the morning
my assistant Jenna walks into the bungalow bedroom without knocking. Since I will sleep through practically anything, the Chateau Marmont’s front desk knows it’s okay to tell her if I’m here. Consequently, if I’m not answering my phone, this is the first place she checks. They have my standing permission to give her a key, but she usually walks in to find me alone and dead to the world. Last night I was too exhausted to go home or ask the girls to leave, so the four of us all slept in one king bed.

When Jenna opens the bungalow’s bedroom door, she sees me in that bed with a blonde on one side and a brunette on the other, both sound asleep. My eyes are wide open, though, and it takes a minute for Jenna to realize there’s a head under the sheet, bobbing up and down over my crotch.

“All right, girls, time to get dressed and go home!” Jenna says, grabbing the sheet and yanking it off, exposing four naked people all at once. Sam lets my cock slip from her mouth as she spins around to see who the intruder is. Jenna sees my shiny hard-on and rolls her eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Drake, cover that thing.” It’s hardly the first time she’s seen my cock, and each occurrence merits the same reaction. I’m pretty sure this is the first time she’s ever seen me with a raging boner, though.

I politely put a pillow over my offending member as the three young women get dressed and say their goodbyes. Jenna calls the front desk to arrange for an Uber for Tessa as they kiss me, one-by-one. Sam is last and she slips me a hint of tongue, then smiles over her shoulder as she heads out the door. I instruct Jenna to follow her and get her phone number.

When Jenna returns, I ask her what’s up, knowing she wouldn’t have shown up in my room unless there was a matter of some urgency.

“You have an interview in an hour,” she says. The look of exasperation on her face is priceless.

“I don’t do interviews anymore.”

“Drake, you agreed to do this one,” she says. “Mason says it’s time, remember?” Mason is my agent and also my best friend. I do indeed remember promising him I’d do an interview. He’s actually been pleading with me to be more accessible to my public. I’ll bet the three who just left my bed found me accessible enough. Still, Mason doesn’t like that for years I’ve kept my past private life as secret as possible. Hell, nobody in Hollywood even knows where I grew up. I don’t know why they really need to know, and I’m not sure I like the idea of opening myself up to scrutiny that way. Mason and I have an agreement, though: I do what he says when it comes to my career. It’s worked for me so far because he’s kind of a genius at knowing how to work this system, how to play the Hollywood game.

I climb out of bed and look around for my underwear, chastely covering my crotch with my hands.

“Who’s it with?” I ask.

Jenna bends over and picks up my underwear, holding them out to me. I take them, exposing myself again in the process. As I slide them on, I glance up to catch her looking at my cock. Busted, she gives me the eye roll and looks away. I smile to myself, thinking it funny that she wanted to sneak a peek. Jenna’s been with me for three years and is the best personal assistant anyone could ever hope for. Without her, half of Hollywood would hate me for never following up on promises. She’s got a great sense of humor, too – but then again, she’d have to, considering. Although she’s quite attractive with her perfectly styled short brown hair and big blue eyes, we’ve never slept together. Not only is she my assistant, but she has a longtime boyfriend and I don’t mess with other guys’ women, as it always seems to lead to trouble.

“The LA Times Magazine’s summer blockbuster issue.
Firehawk
is opening June 15, so it’s perfect.”

“I’m decent now,” I say when I have my underwear on. She calmly turns back toward me. I have to hand it to Jenna, she never gets flustered, though I certainly give her plenty of reason to. “Is the writer male or female?”

“Does it matter?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow at her. “It’s a woman, a Pulitzer Prize winner. So be on your best behavior.”

I give Jenna a smile, then proceed to take off my underwear.

“What the fuck, Drake?”

“I need to take a quick shower,” I say as I walk toward the bathroom.

“You have less than an hour.”

“Run to Fred Segal and get me a change of clothes,” I say. “Casual. Jeans and—well, you pick. You know what looks good on me.”

Jenna returns forty minutes later, a minor miracle considering LA traffic. “Where am I meeting this chick?” I ask, sliding off my robe.

As I reach for the clean underwear she’s brought me, Jenna scolds me. “Drake, this is the fourth time today I’ve had to look at your penis. Could you please put it away for a while?”

“So you’re counting?” I say with a smirk as I slip on the boxer briefs.

Jenna deftly changes the subject. “You were supposed to meet her at Mason’s office, but you don’t have time to get there so I called and asked her to pick you up here. She’ll meet you in the lobby. Her name is Allie Winters and she’s got you for the next three hours, during which you should attempt to be on your best behavior.”

“I’ll give her an hour over lunch, then a few minutes afterward,” I say as I put on my shirt and check my hair. “How do I look?”

Before she can respond, the hotel phone rings. Jenna answers, then tells me, “She’s downstairs now, and you’ll give her all three hours or I’ll tell Mason. And you look arrogant as fuck.”

I grin at her and quickly slip on the shoes she brought me. I’m not looking forward to this and want to get it over with. As I head out the door Jenna calls my name. She’s in the doorway, her ever-present notebook in her hand. “Yes?”

“Try not to show her your cock, okay?”

See? How can you not love a chick like that?

W
hy the hell
am I nervous about this interview? I’m a professional and rarely get anxious about work, especially regarding some alpha-male tool like Drake Manning.

Still, I was up half the night with images of The Body rolling around in my head. I really need to get laid. It’s been nearly eight months, one of the longest droughts of my adult life. When I broke up with Johnny, my most recent boyfriend, I told myself I would wait for a man I felt could be faithful to me.

Johnny Flynn was anything
but
faithful. As the lead singer of HellVoid, he had women constantly vying for his attention. I think he actually tried to remain loyal to me for the first few months, but by the time they toured in support of their
Lives of Loud Desperation
album, he’d fallen back into his old bad habits. I didn’t want to know how many, so I didn’t ask; I merely told him we were done, and he didn’t argue. Then I made a pact with myself never to fall in love with a famous man again.

The way I see it is that men will be men. Nearly all of them have it in them to cheat, but most don’t because their opportunities to do so aren’t that plentiful or enticing. Famous men, though, simply have too many chances for sex come their way. Beautiful (though mostly stupid) women offer themselves up to these men constantly. Though a man might try to resist, at some point that resistance will inevitably wear down and he’ll think, “What the hell, just this once. She’ll never know.” After that, it becomes more frequent.

Anyway, when I broke it off with Johnny Flynn I decided to stay away from men altogether for a while. I just needed some time to regain my faith in the gender. Eight months later, my resolve is being tested. I’m not ready to trust another man yet, and since the few one-night stands I’ve had in my life weren’t great, my options for sex are limited. Since I haven’t had sex in ages, it’s no surprise that Drake Manning’s amazing physique kept me tossing and turning all night. I begin to think that maybe I should find a fuckbuddy, someone to help me release this sexual tension until I’m ready to try a real relationship again.

As for this interview, it dawns on me that I’m fetishizing this celebrity’s body just like millions of other women. Hey, I have hormones like anyone else. That realization calms me. I’ll just focus on the interview and ignore his body. Easy enough, right?

I take forever deciding what to wear. I want this man to take me for the professional journalist I am, so I make a conscious decision to tone down any hint of sexuality. I decide on jeans and a simple loose blouse that de-emphasizes my best physical asset, my breasts.

Before I leave the house, I check the Drakecount website one more time, just out of curiosity. When the site loads, my jaw drops. I’m looking at a large yellow “500” in the middle of the page. What the fuck? I look at the top of the list and see “name unknown – 4/10/2016” in each of the first three lines. Apparently, Drake Manning managed to have sex with three women yesterday. I laugh out loud, now certain the site is fake, or at best inaccurate. I had thought about mentioning the site during the interview, just to see if Manning is aware of it. Now I decide it’s probably best not to bring it up at all.

A thought pops into my mind and I search the Drakecount page for the name Jenna Ashton, Drake Manning’s assistant. Jenna had called me a short time earlier to ask if I could meet Manning at the Chateau Marmont for the interview instead of at his agent’s office. As I scan the page, the third Jenna listed is indeed Jenna Ashton, with a hookup date back in summer of 2012. I’m not sure what to think about that, or about the website itself.

I remind myself that I’m supposed to learn more about Drake Manning in general. His sex life, notorious though it may be, is not the focus of the piece I’m writing and it would be best if I could stay far away from that topic during the interview.

I
’m
cool and collected as I wait in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont.

At least I am until my eyes land on Drake Manning the moment he enters the room. Mine and everyone else’s there, as heads turn all around me. Even in Hollywood, which is filled with celebrities, Manning stands out. I stop breathing as I move toward him, my hand extended.

“Hi, Drake. I’m Allie Winters.”

The smile I receive in return unexpectedly melts me. I had reminded myself so many times not to stare at his body that I never considered that I’d be pulled in this hard by the radiance of that famous smile.

“Hi, Allie, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you hungry? I’m starving, and I thought we could chat over lunch.”

“Sure, that sounds perfect,” I tell him. Thinking I’d be tied up for a while, I’d eaten a huge breakfast just an hour earlier. I also hate doing interviews while eating because it slows everything down, but I feel powerless to say no. I mentally chastise myself for not holding my ground. He already has me at a disadvantage and the interview hasn’t even begun yet. As we exit the lobby together, though, I can’t help but see the look on other women’s faces, wondering who is the lucky girl who’s leaving with Drake Manning.

I tell him we can take my car, but when the valet brings my brown Fiat 500 around, Manning changes his mind. “I can’t be seen in that!” he laughs. “I have a reputation to protect.” Somehow I’m not offended. Minutes later, we roar up Laurel Canyon in his red Ferrari, turning on Mulholland and heading west at double the posted speed limit. I should be scared out of my wits, but the truth is it’s thrilling. The engine is directly behind our heads and sounds like an enraged lion, and I feel its vibrations in the very core of my body. As much as I hate to think it, riding in this car at this speed
with this man
has a distinctly sexual aspect to it. And Manning drives like he knows what he’s doing; I feel safe with him, despite the excessive speed.

“Do you always drive this fast?” I ask.

“Yep. Driving fast is like—“ He stops mid-sentence and looks at me. “Off the record?”

“Sure.”

“Driving fast is like fucking,” he says, not elaborating so that I’ll be forced to ask him what he means.

Despite my having had the very same thought seconds earlier, I refuse to let him get away with that line. If I do, I know the interview will likely be filled with stupid little quips and the readers won’t gain any actual insight into their hero.

“Like fucking, in that you often feel compelled to do it out of habit, even when it might not be in the best interest of you and whoever else is along for the ride?”

He turns to me, hesitates for a second, then laughs. “Touché, Ms. Winters,” he says. “Interviewer – 1, movie star – 0.”

Good. My snarky response could have backfired, which would have made for a long next few hours. Instead, I appear to have earned Manning’s respect.

We pull into a small shopping center near the top of Beverly Glen, just off Mulholland, and are soon seated in a corner table of the world’s most dimly lit sushi restaurant. I start the interview right away, but try to make it conversational. Peppering Drake Manning with question after question is likely to produce pat responses, which will do neither of us any good.

Avoiding easy questions (“What’s it like to work with Jennifer Lawrence?”), I try to draw him out about the pitfalls of too much fame. He doesn’t bite, instead throwing out phrases I recognize from older interviews he’s done. After an hour, we’ve been interrupted several times by autograph seekers or other movie industry people, I haven’t gotten much of anything I can work with, and my belly hurts because it’s stuffed. Manning seems to like me well enough, but he’s not really cooperating. When he asks if I want to continue the interview while driving around, I dig in my heels. I don’t want him comfortable. I need to get this guy on
my
turf.

“Do you like bourbon?” I ask, already knowing the answer, thanks to Google.

After a short drive, we’re at FH Lounge, my favorite Hollywood bar. It’s such a dive that it’s not even cool in a retro-hipster kind of way.
It’s aggressively uncool, which is the very reason I love this place. It was also crime novelist Raymond Chandler’s favorite haunt and, consequently, is very pro-writer and nobody here gives much of a shit about actors. No one will bother us at FH Lounge because they simply don’t care.

We sit at the bar and order shots of bourbon. The bartender is an old fellow named Scotty who’s been there for decades and has seen it all. I demonstrate my expertise to Manning by asking Scotty for two shots of Constantin’s, a delicious small-batch bourbon.

A short time later we’re both a bit tipsy and Manning is starting to loosen up, just a hair. When Scotty brings us another round, Manning makes the mistake of asking him what FH stands for. “Fuck Hollywood!” the gruff old guy says.

We both laugh. “Hey, Scotty, do you know who this is?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious, because if Scotty knows the world’s biggest movie star is in his bar, he’s certainly not showing it.

“Sure, I know,” Scotty says. “He’s the one who fucks all those girls.” He turns and walks away as I burst out laughing and Manning looks sheepish.

I recognize an open door when I see one and ask, “Drake, do you think your outlandish reputation as a player causes people to regard you less highly as an actor? Does the fact that you’re so handsome and sexy work against you at times?”

“Do you think I’m handsome?”

“That’s not the question.”

“That’s
my
question,” he says. I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I play along.

“Sure I do,” I say. “In a ‘thinks highly of himself’ kind of way.”

“And sexy?” There’s that smile again.

“Yes, very,” I say, then feel compelled to add, “though you’re not really my type.”

Drake Manning turns his bar stool toward me, then spins mine so that we’re facing each other. He looks deep into my eyes for the first time and I immediately wish I could take back that last comment. God damn, this man is
insanely
sexy. I feel afraid to gaze into his beautiful green eyes, as if he were some sexual Medusa, so I look at my drink.

“Allie, you know as well as I do that I can’t control what the press says about me. If I protest, I’ll sound like a hypocrite because I do more than my share of sleeping around.”

I notice his hand is resting on my thigh and my breathing becomes slow and deliberate. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect my art.” He pauses for a second, then says, “And I’m everyone’s type.”

I say, in measured tones, “I’m trying to interview you, and that’s not going to be easy while you’re touching my leg.”

He laughs and pulls his hand back. “Sorry, force of habit, I guess.” Just when I think I’m about to pull him out of his player persona, he easily slips right back into it.

“What about that website?” I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but it just slipped out. “Have you seen it? How accurate is it?” Maybe if I can get him to admit how over-the-top the public perception of him as a lover is, he’ll let me dig deeper.

“The Drakecount thing?” Of course he knows about it. “It’s a joke.” I had assumed as much, but he startles me by adding, “They missed quite a few.”

Wait, what? The number on that site is
too low
? “Missed quite a few?” I ask, incredulous.

“What’s the total right now?”

“Five hundred even, when I checked this morning. Counting three from yesterday.”

Manning’s eyebrow shoots up skeptically. I knew it was bullshit.

I pull out my phone and load the site, then turn the screen so he can see it. “Wait a second,” he says, taking the phone from my hand and clicking a link on the screen. A look of anger comes across his face. “Those little shits,” he says.

I take the phone from his hand and look at the screen. On it is a picture of movie star Drake Manning sleeping like a baby, a smiling brunette on one side and a smiling redhead on the other. All three are naked, though the picture chastely crops out everything below their waists.

“Yesterday’s conquests?” I ask.

He nods. “I hate it when they take pics without asking first. It’s an invasion of my privacy.”

“Was this at the Marmont?” I ask. Manning nods again. “They willingly uploaded their topless picture to this website?”

“They probably shared it with friends, who shared it with others, until someone uploaded it to Drakecount.”

“I’m guessing number three took the picture?” I can feel the sudden contempt in my voice, despite my best efforts to disguise it. Why is this bothering me?

He looks me in the eyes again. “So I love sex – I mean, really love everything about it, and I’m in a position that allows me to have a new partner anytime I choose. And of course I have no desire to settle down. Why would I?”

I counter with a question of my own. “Have you had many long-term relationships? Wouldn’t having a girlfriend cramp your style?”

He smiles. “I’ve never had a relationship. Or a girlfriend.”

“
Ever?
” I ask. It’s almost unfathomable that this guy has never had a steady woman in his life.

“Nope. Not one.”

Though I’m sure it wasn’t his intention, I kind of feel sad for the guy.