Celebrity

  CELEBRITY

  A Bookish & Sexy novel

  Melinda De Ross

  CELEBRITY

  Copyright © 2017 Melinda De Ross

  Cover design by Melinda De Ross

  Edited by Susanne Matthews

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Dear friends,

  As Charlie Chaplin said, “A day without laughter is a wasted day.”

  The world has had enough drama. We only have to watch the news to get depressed, because the ugliness of reality beats any thriller or horror novel. The world needs laughter and escape in cute, lighthearted books that brighten the days.

  This is why I’ve written the Bookish & Sexy Collection, a series of romantic comedies featuring sexy booklovers and the heroes who love them. Forget about formulas and prototypes. Each of these stories is different, but they all provide a nice, relaxing, heartwarming experience, a few steamy moments, and some great laughs.

  The books may be read in any order. I hope you have as much fun reading them as I did writing them!

  Melinda

  “Sometimes things fall apart so that better things

  can fall together.”

  Marilyn Monroe

  Contents

  A note from the author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  THANK YOU!

  About the author

  Unabridged - Excerpt

  Chapter One

  When the phone rang in the middle of the night, I had no idea that call was going to change my life forever.

  I fumbled in the dark keeping my eyes closed, since I knew by the ringtone it was Danny, my agent. The silly tune was a Donald Duck voice that quacked: “Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer! What if it’s somebody?”

  I was tempted to ignore it, but since Danny never called at such an ungodly hour, I thought this might be an emergency.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” I asked, my voice sounding rusty with sleep.

  “Do you have any idea what great news I have?” he countered in his perfectly articulated, slick businessman’s voice.

  My ears pricked. “It better be damn good for me to lose my beauty sleep.”

  “You know you’re beautiful anyway. But this, my dear, is going to make your day. No, actually it will make your career.” He paused for dramatic effect, knowing that habit drove me crazy. Then he said, “Miss Kensington, I just got you a contract for The Diary with MBM Movie World.”

  I sat up straight in bed, shoving waves of tousled hair off my face. “Get out! You didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes I did,” he said smugly. “As we speak, I am in cloudy London and have just finished a late breakfast with Marie Bell, the producer. I’ve no idea what time it is in Chicago right now…”

  “It’s five in the morning,” I supplied.

  “… but I thought this was important enough to bother you at any hour.”

  “God, you bet your ass it is.” I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to control the mad thumping of my heart as the monumental realization struck me. My novel was going to become a movie!

  Danny said, “The deal is this: the movie is going to be produced by MBM’s Los Angeles subsidiary. It’s lucky that I live in L.A, because next week I want to meet with the director, assistant producer, and so on. But first,” he added with emphasis, “you will need to sign the contract and receive your advance.”

  “How much?” I whispered, holding my breath.

  “A million dollars.”

  I think my heart actually stopped for a second or two. My mouth worked like a fish’s for several moments before I could scream, “Holy shit! Holy crap. Are you serious? A million?”

  I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Yep. One million, darling.”

  “Oh, my God!” I let out a long breath to steady myself. I switched on the bedside lamp and stretched my hand in front of me. It was shaking. My whole body was shivering with excitement.

  “Jesus, Danny, I never… I never thought we could pull this off. All those rejections, of all my novels and scripts… I couldn’t even write for the past months. I was so discouraged,” I said, still breathless. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “O, ye of little faith. Didn’t I tell you I was going to sell your script? You’re a good writer, Kendra. I knew that the first time I read your work. And even if you don’t believe it, good stuff always prevails. Well, most of the time,” he amended. “And only if you have me as an agent.”

  Laughter vibrated in my chest, and I found I couldn’t stop the happy giggles. I let myself fall back in bed and did a little happy dance with my legs in the air. I probably looked ridiculous, but I was so delighted I didn’t care.

  “Danny, this is the happiest day of my life,” I said when I could finally speak. “You’ve done something unbelievable for me.”

  “And for me too, darling. My biggest problem right now is how to spend my fat commission.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” I replied, laughing again. “So, what now?”

  “Now you get back to sleep, then you book the first flight to London. I want you here ASAP to sign the contract. I’ve revised it and it’s okay, but we need to discuss some terms. Anyway, I hope you can be here tomorrow.”

  “I will be, even if I have to sprout wings and fly.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you when you get here. Oh, and, Kendra… Congratulations,” he said seriously.

  “To you too, Danny. You made this possible. Thank you.”

  I put the phone on the nightstand, still feeling as though I was in a dream. A marvelous dream that overshadowed all the misery and agony of the past months, when I’d struggled with my self confidence, with the impression that all I wrote was crap, with writer’s block and all the nightmares every artist has to overcome. But now I felt like a new person. It wasn’t just the one million dollar advance—though that would surely improve my lifestyle drastically and get me out of the small apartment I rented on a month-to-month basis in downtown Chicago. It was the euphoria of having my work appreciated, turned into something tangible to reach millions of viewers.

  A movie! I lay back with a heartfelt smile that stretched my face and made my chest expand with joy and fulfillment. I wondered what actors the producer would cast to play Hunter—the broody, sexy cameraman with a troubled past, and Serena—the feisty but ingenuous broadcast journalist. I smiled to myself, remembering the short summary of the script word for word: A captivating modern-day romantic suspense tale set in Transylvania—a love story is born on a background of fierce history, in a ruined castle formerly belonging to The Blood Countess— the most prolific female serial killer in history. The two strangers assigned by a TV network to make a documentary about Countess Báthory embark on a journey of mutual discov
ery, then stumble upon murder and horror.

  It could be a spectacular movie with the right settings and actors. It was all about atmosphere, and chemistry, and tension. I had done a ton of research about Countess Báthory when I’d written the novel, then the script (urged by Danny, who said it was brilliant and very filmable).

  When I wrote, I always imagined my characters in 3D, saw their faces, saw them moving, speaking, heard their voices. I frowned a little. What if the movie didn’t exactly capture my vision of the story and the characters? What if they chose actors I didn’t like, or didn’t find suitable for the roles? Danny would say that for a million bucks I shouldn’t give a damn, but I did. After all, it was my story and no one could bring it to life better than I. I had to make sure I was involved in every aspect of the production process. But the movie was to be produced in L.A… I hoped they could at least find a real castle, not just improvise a studio set. Oh, well. I gave a little mental shrug. I’d always wanted to visit L.A., and now I could afford it.

  I had to tell Richard. Just as I reached for the phone again, I stopped. This wasn’t just some piece of ordinary news to be told on the phone. This had to be told in person and celebrated with mad sex and gallons of champagne! I rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Richard would get an early wakeup call, but I doubted very much it would bother him.

  ****

  Twenty minutes later I was rushing down the two flights of stairs, my hair fluttering behind me, still damp from the hasty shower. I stood on the sidewalk waving at taxis, careful not to get splashed by the puddles of a rainy April. To my relief, a cab rolled to a stop in front of me. I bent to look inside through the open window, and saw a middle aged woman with thick eyeglasses and gray hair pulled back in a bun.

  “Are you free?” I asked her.

  “Sure am, hon. Hop in! Where to?”

  I gave her Richard’s address as I fastened my seatbelt, trying not to bump her considerable bulk with my elbow.

  “We’ll be there in ten minutes, hon,” she assured me, skillfully slaloming the car in the busy traffic. “Is that where you work? You’re so pretty, I reckon you must be a model or something. You kinda look like Morticia Addams, especially in that tight black dress and red lipstick.”

  I laughed lightly. My mother always said she’d given me an exotic name because she knew I would inherit her exotic looks. Mostly I had, but I always thought of myself as a more washed out version of her gypsy-like beauty. My eyes were the color of dark chocolate, while hers seemed black as pitch. My hair was falling straight over my shoulders, unlike the unruly mass of curls I envied my mom for. Our coloring was different too, because while she resembled a caramel statue, I had my father’s pale, translucent skin. It worked for me though. Actually, the cab lady was right. I liked to think of myself as a more telluric version of Morticia Addams—sans the gorgeous, passionate Gomez, and the zillions.

  “Thank you,” I said. “No, I’m not a model, just a writer. And this is where my boyfriend lives.”

  “He’s a very lucky young man.”

  “I hope he feels the same.”

  Richard was no Gomez, but in the twelve months or so since we’d been dating, he was a nice alternative to loneliness. Like me, he was thirty, single and weird. We had a comfortable relationship and, although we didn’t exactly have much in common, we didn’t spend enough time together to let that bother us. We went out three or four times a week, sometimes spent the night together—though each of us valued our privacy and we weren’t pushy or clingy. I guess anyone would find this kind of relationship boring, but it worked for us.

  As a matter of fact, I should start spicing up things between us right this morning, I thought, smoothing my dress over the thigh-high black lace stockings I wore underneath. I had a key from Richard’s apartment, so I intended to just let myself in, and into his bed.

  When we reached his building, I paid the driver—adding a generous tip—and climbed out. Richard’s neighborhood was a scale up from mine, with well-groomed buildings and a lot of polished windows. However, there was always a shortage of parking places. This was the reason I’d opted to take a cab instead of my ’95 POS Volvo—which stood for Piece of Shit, and did not match my glamorous appearance this morning.

  I walked into the building and took the elevator up to the 9th floor. I knew Richard wasn’t supposed to be at work before nine, so we had plenty of time. His job as a criminal lawyer kept him busy and decently paid, especially since he’d opened his own practice.

  When the elevator stopped, I smiled at my reflection in the mirror and stepped out. I took Richard’s key out of my purse and inserted it into the lock as silently as possible. I was sure he was still asleep, but I didn’t think he’d mind being awakened earlier.

  As it turned out, I was wrong in both assumptions. The moment I entered the apartment I realized two things: Richard was not asleep, and he was not alone. Judging by the noises coming from the bedroom, he was either watching a porn flick, or he had company. I stood motionless, struck dumb and still by this discovery. I even stopped breathing, while my heartbeats accelerated madly.

  Then I was jarred out of my shocked stillness by a particularly high-pitched moan. Feeling as though clouds of steam were coming out of my ears, I walked to the bedroom and pushed open the door. For a moment, I just stared stupidly at the way Richard and his blonde, huge-breasted partner were tangled. It crossed my mind that he’d never been this inventive and… energetic with me. Then the adrenaline kicked in, and with it, a wave of fury that made my pulse and breathing go into overdrive.

  “You motherfucking piece of shit!” I screamed, advancing into the room, clutching my purse like a weapon.

  The rocking stopped abruptly. The blonde let out a girlie scream, but my attention was all on Richard. His eyes were as big as saucers, as he was trying to yank a sheet to cover himself.

  “Kendra… It’s not what you think,” he stammered. “I-I can explain…”

  “You whore-fucking, cock-sucking, pencil-dick son of a bitch! Is this why you never had enough energy for me?”

  I grabbed the first handy thing—which happened to be an inoffensive stack of files—and threw them at the bed. Sheets of paper spread everywhere, but without doing any damage.

  “Kendra, listen to me…”

  “Shut up, you lousy, cheating louse! And you,” I turned to the blonde, who was uselessly trying to cover up her tits. “I hope he’s better with you than he ever was with me. I haven’t faked it so much in my life as I did with this lousy bastard!”

  I whirled around and stormed out, slamming the door as hard as I could behind me.

  ****

  I don’t know how long I walked, but at one point I realized I had to stop before I had a heart attack. My breathing and heart rate were much too fast, and the tapping of my heels on the sidewalk was obliterated by the roar in my ears. I took a few more steps toward a patch of trees and grass, then sat on one of the benches sprinkled here and there in the miniature park, which was thankfully deserted. People had other things to do in the morning on a week day. Like cheating their partners, for instance.

  I rested against the backrest, trying to take deep, calming breaths. I let my head lean on the curved wood and closed my eyes. Forcing myself to clear my mind, I tried not to think about anything, just breathe. A few minutes later I began feeling better. My pulse slowed down, my chest and throat didn’t feel tight anymore because of unspilled tears.

  Why should I cry? I didn’t even love Richard. None of us had ever spoken the L word during the time we’d been together. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in love, but I certainly was not in love with this guy.

  Then why the hell did it hurt so much? Why was I feeling as though my heart had been sliced with a dull sword? I opened my eyes and stared at the gray sky, where a shy ray of sun struggled to sneak through the clouds. I understood, deep inside. It was the betrayal that hurt so much. And the blow to my self-esteem. That Richard would choose another wo
man over me was humiliating. I mean, what could a silly blonde offer him that I couldn’t? A pair of bigger tits? Was that all that mattered to him? Did my intelligence, vivacity and sense of humor mean nothing? Besides, my tits were pretty good too, I thought, looking down at my discreet cleavage. Not too big, but definitely noticeable.

  Oh, what does it matter? one of the angels on my shoulders said. I didn’t know if it was the stupid one or the smart one. You don’t love the guy, for crying out loud! And you really had to fake it most of the time, just to stroke his insecure lawyer ego. This parody of a relationship had to end, and this is as good a reason as any. Get over it already! You have a great movie contract and a million bucks to spend. What are you waiting for?

  It was a good question. This was definitely the smart angel. I blew out a long sigh, grabbed my purse and stood. I winced, only now realizing the killer shoes had dug deeply into my feet. I hadn’t felt any pain as I was walking aimlessly like a mad woman, but now I was limping, probably looking ridiculous in my evening dress and slut heels. Not that I cared anyway.

  After stopping a taxi, I gave the pudgy, middle-aged driver directions to my parents’ house. As we were navigating the streets, I called the airport and reserved a flight to London for the next day at seven a.m. When we arrived, I paid the cabby, took off my shoes and walked in my stockings toward the pretty, two-story house my mom and dad had bought a few years back. It was a lovely spot that had a generous yard, which my mom had decorated with colorful flower beds. She was just trimming the hedge when she spotted me. Her beautiful face illuminated, and she moved forward to hug me, careful not to mess me up with her muddy gloves.

  “Playing in the dirt?” I joked, giving her a tight embrace.

  “You know how I love it. How come you’re up at this hour? And what’s the special occasion? You look fabulous! Don’t tell me you spent the night at a party,” she said, slipping her gloves off. Then she gently placed her arm around my shoulders and we headed toward the kitchen door.