The Gideon Affair (4 page)

Tossing the script pages aside, he crossed the room and yanked open the refrigerator. He didn’t want anything, but he felt the need to move around and do something—make it harder for Jo to get physical with him.

A swift side-glance revealed Paige, arms folded across her chest, one red shoe positioned behind the other and wiggling with an excess of emotional fury. Uh-oh. Shit was about to get real.

“Run along, dear,” the actress rudely demanded of his assistant.

The foot stopped wiggling. He wondered if Joann knew how close she was to having the expensive weave yanked out of her hair.

Paige’s expression turned to stone. This was one catfight he never wanted to witness … because if an explosion went down, it wouldn't be pretty.

Staring blankly into the refrigerator wasn’t going to defuse the tension in the room, so he grabbed a bottle of coconut water and twisted the cap off—tossing it expertly into the recycling bin. After taking a hefty swig, he deliberately let rip with one of his signature glass-shattering belches, a trick his mother taught him, that made his co-star frown with displeasure.

Paige? She scowled—but behind the stern expression? Amusement.

“We were in the middle of something important, Jo. Can’t this wait?” Pointing at the tossed aside purple pages, he drawled, “Got changes to go over.”

As the words left his mouth, a cell phone went off.

The sound of the theme from the Potter movies filled the air as Paige reached into the folds of her skirt and produced her phone from a pocket. Checking the number, she looked at him, said, “I have to take this,” and lifted the small device to her ear.

With nothing more than a perfectly executed dismissive glance dressed up in a mocking shrug, Paige Turner got the last word where Joann Jones was concerned. He wanted to high five his feisty assistant while they laughed about the haughty, obnoxious attitude of the aging star.

After watching Paige’s great escape, Gideon exhaled deeply and steeled himself for another ten rounds of grab-ass with the legendary sexpot.

Seriously. This shit was getting old.

He knew exactly what would happen next. Before Paige’s delicious scent cleared the space, the older woman would lead off with a steaming pile of snark.

On my mark … counting back from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven …

“Really, darling, you’re a big star now. Don’t you think it’s time you got a real entourage? Not that …” She waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever that was,” she finished.

Bitch.

No, wait. According to Paige Turner’s Vulgarity Guide for Shmorons, this moment called for a stronger term.

Bitchy cunt.

Yeah. That seemed to fit perfectly. He wondered briefly if the two-faced woman realized how much nearly everyone despised her—except whomever she was servicing at the moment, and he suspected the list was in no way exclusive.

Joann trying to wind him around her little finger was patronizing as fuck. Time to remind her who the hell she was messing with.

Small but significant detail … this was a Gideon Shaw movie. His name would loom large on the marquee. Not hers. Shit. He wasn’t even sure how the hell she managed to land her part in the first place.

Arching an eyebrow at the frozen mask she called a face, Edward, as Gideon, offered up a perfectly blended cocktail that was one part sneer with a dash of condescension, shaken vigorously with three parts of no-way-are-you-sucking-my-dick, and then poured over a glass filled with frozen cubes of contempt.

His voice was calm but with an intentionally menacing undertone. “Joann, don’t disrespect Ms. Turner in my presence ever again.”

In front of the camera, timing was everything, so he knew a little about pausing for effect—giving her just long enough to understand fully what was happening.

Bitch’ll think twice before fucking with me again.

“She is a trusted associate who has earned my respect, and I suggest you treat her accordingly.”

Gideon didn’t miss the labored swallow she took. Good. He hoped that meant she was scared of him because, like a fucking lightning bolt, it had hit him that the malicious cougar had it in her to mess with Paige. And anyone messing with Paige was in for a world of hurt.

Threat delivered, he reminded his co-star what was at stake.

“Let’s keep the ball in view, hmm? You just concentrate on bringing the best part of Joann Jones to this movie. Play your cards right and next year’s award season will be your bitch.”

Her eyes blazed, but those fake lips of hers were set in a straight line. She wasn’t going to play nice without a fight.

He sighed.

“But fuck with me in any way …” He paused again and fixed her with a fierce glare so she understood that by ‘him,’ he also meant Paige. ”And I’ll phone in a performance that will leave yours in the dust. Do I make myself clear?”

“Relax, Mickey. You’re going to stroke out if you keep this up.”

Second to Carolyn by the slimmest of margins in the never-ending mouth-running department was Edward’s stalwart super-agent, the legendary Mickey Klein. The pudgy, silver-haired, gum-chewing dynamo with the gruff exterior was something of a live wire even at his most calm.

They were friends. Kind of had to be since their never-ending efforts took the phenomenon of Gideon Shaw to the greatest heights possible and laid the groundwork for what became one success after another.

Holding the phone to her ear, she marched across the studio back lot where Gideon’s film was in production. Skirting out of the way as four costumed firefighters lumbered by, Paige barely avoided being mowed down by a security cart that whizzed by a bit too close for comfort.

“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath.

Mickey was still on a roll, and she knew trying to get two words in was next to impossible, so she kept walking toward the food service area. Maybe an apple or some yogurt would help take the edge off.

“That-dumb-motherfucking-blogger-with-the-baby-blue-socks-who-has-a-hard-on-for-our-boy-put-one-of-his-minion-toadies-on-digging-the-dirt. Of-course-he-couldn’t-find-anything-so-he-made-that-damnable-tape-the-center-of-his-post. Before-I-even-knew-what-was-happening-the-smarmy-shit-started-leaking-and-swears-he-got-the-lady-in-question-or-the-questionable-lady-depending-on-your-point-of-view-to-pony-up-all-kinds-of-juicy-deets-about-doing-the-nasty-with-one-of-Hollywood’s-sexiest-leading-men. Disgusting-stuff-about-booze-and-pay-per-view-porn-none-of-which-sound-like-anything-Edward-would-be-involved-in. Fuck-I’m-really-starting-to-hate-this-goddamn-town …”

Good grief! Didn’t he ever stop for air? Poor Mickey. He was having all kinds of shit fits trying to stay ahead of this nonsense. Edward insisted from the start that the fella wielding his junk in the thirteen-minute home video wasn’t him, or rather, Gideon.

Since the camera was salaciously angled between the man’s legs as a woman rode a wildly thrusting cock, there was no way to see a face. The damning thing though was for long seconds in the romp, a tribal looking tattoo bearing an amazing similarity to Gideon’s was clearly visible.

What ten or even five years ago might have spelled disaster for a celebrity’s career was an epic WIN-WIN today. Having a sex tape was better than a year’s worth of free publicity. Even better if the tape created an X-rated legend. Apparently, what was displayed in all its glistening, pulsating, thrusting glory was nothing short of Olympic-caliber fucking.

Embarrassing? Yes. Had it been bad for Gideon’s career? Hell to the no. In the simplest of terms, nobody gave a crap that he insisted he wasn’t in the video. The court of public opinion had decided otherwise, so from now through all time, Gideon Shaw would have a footnote referring to his enviable penis.

Mickey was rambling in her ear as Paige moved slowly down the length of the craft services table, zeroing in on a basket of colorful apples and oranges. Reaching for a beautiful piece of fruit the same vibrant red as her shoes, she nearly dropped it when all of a sudden it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

A young wait staff girl stationed behind the long table looked up and paled. What in the world …?

Paige glanced over her shoulder and almost burst out laughing. Framed in the doorway with sunlight streaming in behind her so that she resembled nothing but a hulking blob stood an apparently furious Joann Jones.

Ah ha ha ha ha ha! He he he he he he! Whoo hoo ha ha!

Looked like her boss crapped in JoJo’s latte. It had been maybe four or five minutes since she’d left the man alone with his co-star, but judging by the rage emanating from the miffed actress, he must have pissed her off quickly and thoroughly.

Now, that was the man she knew and loved. Gideon Shaw might play the game but Edward Banning? There was no way he would take Joann’s shit.

The minute the actress saw Paige across the room, she made a beeline toward her.

“Um, Mickey … yeah … I gotta go. Cougar co-star alert.” She heard him chuckle so she quickly added with a sarcastic snort, “If I suddenly go missing, you’ll know who to accuse.”

Not knowing quite what to expect, she steeled herself for a scene. After all, the woman bearing down on her might be a gigantic pain in the ass, but she was also an award-winning actress. Causing a commotion was in her profile.

Sliding the phone into the pocket of her skirt, Paige showed no outward sign of interest in what was about to happen. She went so far as to take a bite out of her apple while impassively eyeballing the approaching actress.

Whatever.

“You might want to get control of your meal ticket, my dear.”

Paige slowly chewed, quite enjoying the yummy fruit while she considered the situation in front of her. She had to give the lady props—she didn’t beat around the bush.

Did it hurt
, she wondered. All that junk they injected and inserted to make her face look so sculpted and perfect? What about when she brushes her teeth. How exactly did that work?

Maybe there was some kind of jack—like the one in the trunk of her car—that slid into the mouth and cranked till her jaw opened and a brush could get in there. A mouth jack for the Botox impaired. The thought was deliciously funny. So funny, that the visual quickly morphed into wondering how in the hell she blew half the high-powered dicks in this town without hurting somebody.

As fantastically droll a thought as that was, she had to remember she was on the receiving end of the woman’s bad temper. Best pay attention in case things got out of hand.

Taking another quick bite, Paige shrugged off Joann’s comment. “Gideon Shaw doesn’t need controlling. I would have thought you’d know that by now.”

“Oh, don’t play word games with me, honey. You know exactly what I’m talking about. This town has a long memory, and …”

She interrupted. Rudely. Couldn’t help it. “You’d know all about that, I suppose.”

Whoa! Voldemort himself couldn’t have produced a more smoldering look. Luckily, Paige came equipped with her own superpower; a guardian spirit named the Goddess Ignora.

Shrouded within the Cape of Disdain, a unique metaphorical gift for all believers in the power of ignoring, she stared down the aging actress without blinking an eye.

“You’re fucking with the wrong bitch,” Joann ground out.

And with that, she whirled around like she was hitting a mark, straightened her shoulders, and marched away stage left while Paige bit her lip and tried not to snicker-groan.

Aaaargh. She needed some Advil and a big Diet Coke. Fuck the apple. Cramps were bombarding her belly and that dull ache in her back? A full-on hot dagger.

Some banner day this was turning out to be. Between the assistant crushing all over their boss, to Mickey and his blogger worries, and now an angry, pissed off actress in her face for no real reason, Paige was not having a very easy time of it.

Happy friggin’ birthday, Edward.

“C
’mon people. How ‘bout you all get fucking real. I said bystanders. Not a teeming crowd of twenty-something looky-loos.”

A loud boom sounded as Markus, their director, kicked over a vacant tripod with his heavily booted foot.

“Reset the whole fucking scene and find Karen for me. I want her to get casting on the phone and blast them a new asshole.”