Free Shooting Star (Beautiful Chaos) by Arianne Richmonde Page B

eyes gave it all away.
    “They divorced?” I said.
    “Yeah, when I was eight.”
    “Oh well, what’s new? Most parents get divorced. Sticking together is pretty rare.” I took a swig of Coke, hoping I didn’t sound too cavalier. “What happened?”
    He let out a deep sigh, “In a nutshell? She’s an alcoholic. In all these years she’s never cleaned up her act.”
    “Oh. Well, I can relate to that.”
    “Yeah, I suppose you can.”
    “I’m not talking about myself —I mean my mom.”
    “Your mum’s a drinker?”
    “ Was . She died a long time ago. Well, actually, her drug of choice wasn’t drink exclusively —she was more into pill popping.”
    He frowned. “I’m sorry you lost your mum—must have been tough.”
    “And yours? Where’s she now?”
    “In England. She lives in a small village in the countryside. My dad still supports her—supports her habit, rather.”
    “But she managed to raise you, all the same?—get you to school, make your meals? You turned out okay. Just ,” I added jokily.
    Jake snickered. “God, no. I was sent to boarding school—I was eight—they take boys as young as that in the UK. Tradition. Character building, you know? Then in the holidays—vacation time—I came to Los Angeles to be with my father and whoever happened to be his wife at the time. He went through a string of them.”
    “Nice.” This felt good. Finally we were communicating, getting to know one another.
    “Yup. Well, you know, I got my training to be a director that way. Plenty of drama all around, even off set. There was a ball-buster lawyer from Long Island who spoke through her nose, an Italian who had a Chihuahua she used to carry around in her handbag, a skinny Polish woman who used to pinch us when my dad wasn’t looking, a gold digger from Iowa who wore false eyelashes that used to fall into her soup, and a Jamaican beauty queen called Rebecca. She—Rebecca, I didn’t forget in a hurry.”
    “Because she was beautiful?”
    “Because I lost my virginity to her.”
    My Coca Cola went down the wrong way and I spluttered, “Your dad’s wife ? How old were you and how old was she ?”
    “I was fourteen. Guess she must have been a good ten years older.”
    “And you were okay with that? I mean, sneaking around behind your dad’s back? I’m assuming he didn’t know about it?”
    “He was away on location for the best part of a year and was shagging someone else. Who was I to turn down beautiful Rebecca’s advances?”
    His story was amazingly “normal”—by Hollywood standards, anyway. I’d heard worse case-scenarios.
    “This town is so screwed up,” I murmured. “So then what happened? What became of Rebecca the beauty queen?”
    “She must have gone back home. I remember lots of fighting and arguments. My dad isn’t an easy man to live with.”
    “Powerful men can be difficult. Especially when they’re disobeyed.”
    “And megalomaniacs worse.”
    I locked my eyes with his. “And you? Has it rubbed off on you? Are you a ‘megalomaniac’?”
    He threaded his hand agitatedly through his hair. “I like to be in control.”
    “Don’t we all.”
    “And that’s why this is so hard for me, Star—because I’m losing it with you.” He slipped his hand up along my thigh. Very slowly. My breath hitched at the suddenness of it all. I hadn’t been expecting this. Just five minutes ago he didn’t want anything to do with me.
    “You see, I don’t know how much longer I can hold out,” he said in his cool English voice—so husky, so gravely—still with his hand on my leg. He leaned in closer, his messy hair flopping over his face.
    I closed my eyes and couldn’t help but let my senses go. His fingertips explored the soft flesh of my upper thigh and his thumb brushed past my panties, scraping the fabric of the cotton.
    “You’re wet, baby,” he murmured.
    “I’m not your baby.” It came out as a growl, but soon that growl turned into a purr—what he was doing