Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason (6 page)

M
arcus is
due in my office any minute to discuss his shoe endorsement contract. He signed his first such deal with Puma just days after his final college game in the NCAA tournament, for three million dollars over two years. His agent at the time was a friend of the family, and a moron friend at that. By the time the Puma deal expired, I was his agent and landed him a three-year contract with Adidas for twenty-five million. That deal became a bargain for Adidas when Marcus blew up big-time in his fourth year in the league. Now his contract is expiring, and because he’s a huge star who plays for the Lakers in Hollywood, it’s my job to make someone pay through the nose for his next endorsement deal.

I kill time waiting for Marcus by Googling Claire’s name and checking out the image search results. There seem to be quite a few Claire Jarretts in the world, but I find a handful of pictures of my rival agent. I haven’t seen her in a while and am reminded of just how beautiful she is. One image in particular is quite hot, of her leaving a restaurant with some guy I don’t recognize. Claire looks incredibly sexy in a short summer dress, her blonde hair cascading down over her shoulders and her nipples poking through the thin fabric enough to cast doubt as to the presence of a bra. I stare at the picture, at that lovely face and those full lips, and imagine requiring her to remain naked in my house for an entire week, doing whatever I demand.

When the outer offices start buzzing with energy, I know Marcus has arrived. There’s something about a star athlete that makes even the most jaded Hollywood people lose their shit, especially when the athlete in question is a six-eight ebony Adonis with self-confidence to spare. I watch through the glass as Bella, my assistant, escorts him to my office, with Marcus waving off requests to sign autographs or pose for selfies along the way.

He ducks under the doorway and I greet him with a bro-hug before he plops down into a brown leather chair that suddenly seems way too small. Marcus is dressed for business today, in a deep crimson suit few other men could pull off. He can wear damn near anything and not look stupid, the exception being those orange capri pants he paired with a blue striped seersucker jacket at the ESPYs that I still give him shit about.

“Dude, why do you treat my employees like that? They just want a picture with the famous basketball player they see on all the billboards.” I try to make it sound funny, but I’m a little annoyed.

“Man, you know I’m not about that,” Marcus says. “If I stopped for everyone who asks me, I’d never get anywhere.”

I toss him a Snapple from my office’s mini-fridge. The fucker loves Snapple, so I always keep a few around just for him.

“You need to find a balance, though. Make some concessions to keep people happy. Adidas is concerned about giving you too much money because a lot of people think you’re a dick.”

He gives me an uneven smile, one corner of his mouth rising slightly. “Adidas said that?”

“Not in those words, exactly. They said your Q-rating doesn’t merit the kind of money we’re asking for. Under Armour said the same thing.” The Q-rating measures a celebrity’s likability and appeal, two areas Marcus always undervalues until it’s time for a new contract.

He takes a sip of Snapple. “What did you approach them with?”

“Two-hundred over ten years.” That’s two-hundred million for a ten-year deal, which would be one of the biggest endorsement contracts ever signed.

“Did they counter?” Marcus is a pretty smart guy, but doesn’t like to show it. Despite the demands of his basketball commitments, he did well enough in high school to receive combination athletic/academic scholarship offers from Stanford and Cornell, among many others. He chose Kentucky instead because he knew he’d bolt for the NBA as soon as he’d met their eligibility requirements with a single year in college, and because Kentucky is known as a breeding ground for pro players. He plans to return to school to pursue a Masters in Business Administration once he retires from playing, but I’m going to make him so fucking rich by then he’ll forget all about that.

“They’re offering one-twenty-five over ten years. Or seventy-five over five.”

“Fuck that,” he says. “Mason, you’ve gotta talk to Nike. After I hung thirty-eight on the Celtics the other night, one of their reps caught me in the tunnel as I was leaving and said they were interested.” He fishes a business card out of his pocket and hands it to me.

The card is from someone named Steven Sidowsky who is their Vice-President of Brand Strategy. Never heard of him, but I don’t have many contacts at Nike.

“I’m already talking to someone there,” I say. “I’m not going to forget Nike, for fuck’s sake. They’re just waiting to see what the market dictates you’re worth.”

“You’re my agent, man.
You
need to dictate what I’m worth.”

I can’t argue with that, but Marcus hasn’t made this an easy negotiation. He’s handsome and great on camera, but he’s known around the league, to both players and fans, as a ball-hog with a prickly personality. Even the Lakers – his own team – brought that up during contract negotiations two years ago. “He’s a great player but he doesn’t play team ball, and the fans aren’t exactly unanimous in their adoration of him,” the GM said.

I mean, I love the guy, but he actually is kind of a dick sometimes, and that makes my job as his agent more difficult.

“I’ll get it done, Marcus, but you should seriously consider doing some work to get that Q-rating up.”

He looks unconvinced, so I prod. “I know an expert in image rehabilitation. You should talk to him. I’ll go with you.”

I get that uneven smile again. “Nah, man, I’m good. Just get me my money.”

It’s a moot point for these current negotiations. His Adidas contract expires at the end of the season in May, only four months from now. Even if he were more receptive to the idea, any image-polishing Marcus does between now and then would be minimal and unlikely to affect the next contract.

“Hey, want to see something funny?” I ask. I spin my monitor around so that he can see the picture of Claire I was getting horny over. “See this chick?”

“She’s hot. You hittin’ that?”

“I will be. She’s the owner of Creative Talents, a rival agency. We made a bet recently, one that she can’t possibly win. When she loses, she has to be my sex slave for a week.”

“Damn,” Marcus says, then laughs and adds, “I’m firmly anti-slavery, but I could make an exception in her case. I may need to stay at your crib that week.”

I shake my head. “Ain’t happening, my friend. This little hottie’s going to be all mine.”

Marcus plays devil’s advocate. “What happens if you lose the bet?”

I give him the kind of smug smile that can only come from years of winning almost every negotiation undertaken.

“Just like with your endorsement contract: Mason Stark does
not
lose.”

S
amuel English is
the editor-in-chief of Variety.com, one of the most important film industry websites. Everyone in show business gets the latest news from Variety’s site, just like they did for decades from its former daily print version.

Because Samuel is an old friend of Jackie’s, she simply made a call to get things rolling before dropping him in my lap. He and I talked briefly and he said he’d send a reporter to my office to interview me for the article about equal pay for actresses.

The article is important for many reasons, one of them being that I can’t afford to lose my damn bet with Stark. Now that some time has passed, I’ve begun to question my sanity. Sure, I’m confident I’ll win the bet, but what if for some reason I don’t? What if T.J. Holland decides he doesn’t want to play a superhero and stays put at MAU?

What if I actually have to do Stark’s sexual bidding
for
an entire week
?

If that weren’t hypothetical, but a reality, would I really do it?

I know I would, because I keep my word. It also helps that Stark is an incredibly sexy man. But it would still feel weird and demeaning to give my body up like that to my business rival. Would he lose respect for me? I’d definitely have to have him sign a non-disclosure agreement so word about such a crazy thing wouldn’t leak out afterward. It’s such a bizarre concept that I keep wondering why the hell I agreed to such a bet in the first place.

As I wait for the Variety reporter, I find myself wondering what Stark is like in bed. At Pastiche, I felt a distinct connection with him, a sexual attraction that got more pronounced when we discussed the terms of our bet. He certainly has possibilities as a lover, because he’s an alpha type. I imagine us both naked in his house, Stark bending me over a table and taking me from behind, grabbing my hips as he roughly has his way with me.

Just when I get myself pretty worked up, Brian arrives to interrupt my sexual daydream. Behind him is a man I recognize as Samuel English himself. I’m stunned to see the him and warmly welcome him. After we exchange a few pleasantries, I lead him to the side of the office opposite my desk, where I have a small meeting area with an oval coffee table and a few chairs.

“When we spoke, I was under the impression you were going to send a reporter,” I say.

“Do I not look like a reporter?” he asks with a smile.

Samuel is in his sixties and looks ten years younger. He’s wearing a dark blue wool suit that makes his full head of thick white hair stand out, while his round black horn-rim glasses give him a literary flair.

“I guess I assumed you no longer chased stories around town.”

“I try not to make a habit of it, except when performing a favor for a good friend,” the older man says. “Jackie tells me she needs an article about equal pay for movie actresses. I tried to tell her we’ve done those stories regularly over the years and nothing ever changes.”

“You never know,” I say. “Jackie’s got some pull.”

“Not enough to overturn that particular apple cart. Anyway, she said to get together with you because there are particular things that might make this proposed article something more than just additional beating of the same dead horse. What have you got for me?”

I tell him about Cheyenne’s demand for equal pay.

“What makes someone that young think she’s so special?” he asks. “She’s not exactly an Oscar threat.”

“No, but she’s huge on social media,” I say. “One of the biggest, and her following is still growing. And don’t forget she comes from fashion modeling, where the women are high-paid stars and the men are second-class citizens.”

Samuel agrees those points are valid and will help the article. I describe the meeting at Trident, telling him Stark refused to back down, to even broach the subject of equal pay with Drake Manning.

“He got pretty snotty about it with Jackie, then made an ugly comment about her. She was furious. Jackie wants you to make a point that Stark, the owner of MAU, is helping to perpetuate the pay imbalance by refusing to take the matter seriously, even when discussing it with the female head of a major studio.”

“So Jackie wants revenge for this insult, then?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “What she wants is equal pay for Cheyenne Parris and believes that some leverage against Mason Stark will tilt the negotiations in her favor. Your assigned writer can give Stark’s behavior during that meeting prominent mention in the article, making him look like a throwback with a mindset that’s out of sync with the times. Jackie and I can take it from there.”

“And you? You benefit from making a rival agency look bad?”

I think for a second. “Sure, I might. But that doesn’t mean that Stark’s behavior isn’t deplorable and that actresses don’t deserve equal pay. And I would assume the article would focus on that issue.”

Samuel agrees, knowing that this article, written properly, won’t look like it was planted by either me or Jackie. As he himself said, it’s a subject that comes up in Variety from time to time.

When he leaves, I carefully consider what we’re doing. Jackie and Cheyenne honestly want equal pay for women. I do as well, but if I’m honest with myself, what fires me up about this endeavor is the opportunity to one-up my cocky rival. Stark’s little “Hey, I fucked your client’s manager!” message is going to come back to bite him on the ass.

I want to see his face when he realizes he’s lost this bet.

T
he night
after my meeting with Marcus, I’m sitting in a sports bar with Drake and Link, watching the Lakers play the lowly Kings on the road in Sacramento. This is a game they should be winning, but it’s almost halftime and the purple and gold are down by double digits.

For the majority of the first quarter, Drake signed autographs and posed for selfies at our table, but by now people are giving him his space. Allie’s not with him, but Drake keeps bringing up her name anyway. I’ve known him most of my life and have never seen my friend like this. The guy is a goner, and I have no doubt they’ll be moving in together soon. The Hollywood Bad Boys Club might have its first defector.

The second quarter is winding down when Drake turns to me and says, “Hey, Marcus told me to ask you about your sex slave.”

We both laugh at how quickly Link’s head swivels from the game to us.

I tell them the story about the meeting at Trident and my subsequent bet with Claire. I get a powerful jolt of sexual excitement just by saying that I’ll be able to order her around for a week.

“Is she hot?” Links asks.

Drake and I both glare at him. Does he think I’d make such a bet if she weren’t?

“She’s better than hot. She’s sublime,” I say.

“Let’s see her, then. Got a pic?”

I pull up my phone and do a quick search, then proudly show them the same picture I showed Marcus.

“Holy shit, you gonna invite us over?” Link asks, then shakes his head in mock disdain at Drake and says, “Well, me anyway, now that homeboy’s in prison.”

“Look at the pic again,” I say, holding my phone in their faces. “This woman has way too much class for the likes of you two.”

They prod me for details about Claire, and I tell them what I know about her.

“She sounds pretty cool. What do you have against her?” Drake asks. “Other than her being your competition?”

I start to answer, but can’t. I’m stumped, unable to think of a single thing about Claire Jarrett that I don’t like, apart from us being rivals.

“I knew it,” Link says smugly.

“Knew what?”

“This ain’t just business. You got a thing for this chick.”

I laugh him off. “Yeah, I got a thing for her, all right: handcuffs at my house.”

Drake asks, “Have you seen her since you made the bet?”

“No. The next time I’ll see her is when I have her strip naked and leave her clothes on my doorstep at the beginning of her week as my prize.”

“So you don’t mind if I call her, then?” Link asks. “I definitely wanna hit that.”

When I hesitate, they both crack up – and Link laughing is a rare sight.

“See?” Link says. “Like I said, this ain’t just business.”

I shake my head and we drop the subject. At halftime, I head to the restroom and make the mistake of leaving my phone on the table. Although Drake knows my security swipe pattern, I don’t think anything of it until the messaging app dings a minute after my return. I pick up the phone and see a popup window with a text from Claire, of all people.

That’s strange. Not the taunting, but what “coincidence” is she referring to? Then a second text arrives.

What the hell is she talking about? I open up the text conversation and see a message directly above Claire’s that was sent to her just three minutes ago.

I didn’t send that. But who…? The question is answered when Link and Drake bust out laughing again.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” I ask, my legitimate anger lessened a bit by a buzz at the idea of getting together with Claire.

“We decided you needed a push,” Drake says.

“You’re both dicks,” I say.

I quickly dash off a reply to her text.

Her reply is almost immediate.

That motherfucking smiley face again! Maybe meeting her isn’t such a bad idea after all. She’s cooking up something and I need to know what.