The Gideon Affair Page 3

  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.”

  Edward looked up as soon as the ruckus started. Huddled in a chair at the edge of the soundstage, he’d been studying lines, creating a personal visual storyboard as he worked out the next scene.

  Annoyed by the disruption, he cut off an angry grunt, watched the commotion unfold, and mentally shook his head. Markus was having a hissy fit, something that was neither good … nor helpful.

  Just fucking great.

  An experienced director losing his shit on set didn’t happen every day—for obvious reasons. You didn’t get to the top tier in this business without having gained the coping skills to deal with talent meltdowns, technical fuck-ups, and crew flubs. Being a diva was one thing. After all, everyone was a diva in one way or another. But yelling, swearing, and manhandling equipment? Yeah … that shit signaled bigger problems.

  Well, fuck. This shoot was heading for the crapper at an astonishingly swift rate.

  Edward tilted his head to watch the director’s angry retreat. His wildly flailing arms let him know the storm hadn’t passed yet. Everyone else in the vicinity scattered, looking like mice running in circles. It was all pretty amusing until he remembered where they were.

  Dismissing all of it with a jerky headshake, he slid from his chair and headed away from the drama on set and in the direction of his personal sanctuary. Thank god for the star treatment.

  Still in costume, he stomped along courtesy of the heavy work boots his character favored. They were serious shit kickers that reminded him of the mountain boots from his time in Iraq, which were currently shoved in a box and kept in a storage unit.

  Several people gave him a cursory nod as they passed, but he kept his head down and plowed on. Try as he did to keep focused and stay above the never-ending industry bullshit surrounding him, what was happening right now made for restless, sleepless nights. The movie was falling apart, and though he was pretty sure this crap storm could be taken care of post-production, it pissed him off that it was happening at all.

  Edward did not like drama, and he didn’t mean scripted drama—that shit was his bread and butter. No, what got his teeth grinding was people’s propensity toward being a scene, making a scene, having a scene, instigating a scene—creating any kind of scene that attracted the paparazzi.

  To him, the bracelet janglers, high-pitched gigglers, nipple-slipping cele-brats and all-around circus performers clogging the entertainment culture were an unimaginative sideshow. None of that crap was original, and he was not interested in replaying the same tired shit over and over. Spend a couple of years spitting out the dust from an inhospitable land hosting an endless war and you’d understand why. Unfortunately, he worked in a business where avoiding that kind of nonsense was virtually impossible.

  The movie and atmosphere on set were falling apart for a dozen reasons. Too many egos had made for a difficult shoot, which, thank Christ, was wrapping up.

  One of the producers was an obnoxious asshole and, despite a fabulous screenplay, the author of the original work was constantly in Markus’s face.

  Then, the two leading ladies had ended up hating each other. Nothing like an established, mature female lead in the second position, playing the parent of whatever fresh-faced up-and-coming starlet was burning up the screens. Jesus. Talk about drama. Joann had tried nicey-nice at first with her on-screen daughter … the lovely and surprisingly talented Phaedra Bellamy. But Phae turned out to be the opposite of a vacuous ingénue, and Jo rather quickly realized the young girl could act circles around all of them. Poor Phae. From that moment on, Jo had been a complete cunt. And though her attitude seemed way more personal than reasonable, he’d managed to stay out of it.

  Climbing the stairs into his massive trailer, he pulled the door shut and breathed a deep sigh of relief. No matter where he was or what shithole he was in, the space he officially occupied became a Zen retreat where he went to find himself.

  Home was important to him, and since he didn’t have a permanent residence other than the requisite Malibu beach house, he tended to bring that homey thing with him. He was a Cancer after all … didn’t the crab carry his home upon his back? Yeah. That was him.

  It helped that the studio was licking his ass every step of the way—the price of keeping someone from the A plus plus list happy. Looking around at the insanely expensive motorhome that had more square footage than a multi-room apartment was a reminder that he was very much in the driver’s seat where his career was concerned. And Paige Turner had as much responsibility for that as he did.

  He’d be skimming pools and fending off the advances of the Beverly Hills stay-at-homes if not for her. From the moment she came into his life, the quirky brunette had quite simply changed everything.

  That was why Joann being a cunt to Phae mattered. While she dished it out, Paige had stepped into the woman’s bull’s-eye and no fuck
ing way was that okay with him.

  Dropping like a stone onto a plush sofa, he stretched out. He crossed his ankles in the cumbersome boots and eased his head back onto the couch, closing his eyes.

  He liked silence. Not all the time but for him, when the peripheral noise got too loud, he retreated to that place where calm lived inside him. Most didn’t realize it because of the firm grip he kept on his composure, but the real him, Edward—not the Hollywood invention—was actually an emotional guy. One who’d had his fill of aggression and conflict.

  The sounds of people moving around outside with yelled directions and hollered answers cut through the soothing atmosphere.

  Opening one eye, he rolled his head to one side and swept the surrounding area with his gaze.

  The control pad. Where in the hell was the trailer’s systems controller?

  Reaching for the hi-tech device, Edward closed the electronic window coverings, adjusted the lighting, and turned on the sound system. He liked his rock to be loud when it rolled—preferably with a thundering beat—and had more classic, metal, grunge, and hair band shit in his music library than he’d ever have time to listen to.

  As a catchy melody filled the open space, some of the tension from the set started to dissipate. He just wanted this shoot to end. And soon. Staying focused and being a professional was the best way he knew to get this fucker wrapped up.

  Edward shook his head. No use in pretending he didn’t have ulterior motives for getting this shit done so he could move on to the next thing. Not anymore. That ship sailed about two years ago when he’d been thunderstruck by the realization that he had more than a passing case of the hots for his assistant.

  Spending time around Paige was the best fucking part of being Gideon. And even better was when they traveled together for a location shoot. That was his favorite. Being out of town, keeping each other company, and screwing around as he and his brother used to when they were kids.