Star Davis and Jake Wild: they’ve met their match.
19-year-old, Oscar winning Star Davis is an A-list movie star. Hell-raisingly beautiful, she tosses men aside like used Kleenex. She commands 20 million per movie—or at least did until drugs, alcohol, wild partying, and a police arrest sent her kicking and screaming into rehab.
Now she’s out, squeaky clean, and determined to win the role she was born to play: the lead in Skye’s The Limit—ready to re-conquer Hollywood.
26-year-old British director Jake Wild lives up to his name: he’s the wildest player in town. He’s also Hollywood royalty. From a family dynasty of powerful directors and producers, Jake’s home is a movie set. With reams of hot starlets at his beck and call, Jake can get any woman he wants. But with his new movie, Skye’s The Limit in pre-production, he’s decided it’s time to get serious and change his philandering ways.
Star is “liability on legs” and Jake doesn’t want her near his precious movie. But Star has wily ways of getting what she wants. And apart from the role of Skye, what she wants is Jake right where he belongs:
Under her thumb.
Lights, camera, action . . .
But the action is not what Jake expected.
New Adult Contemporary romance 17+
“You know all your lines or just the first few scenes?” he asked out of the blue.
“I always like to learn the whole script so I know it backwards.”
“I’m not a girl, I’m a woman, if you hadn’t noticed.” But when he said “good girl” my heart skipped a beat. He had just come out of the pool, trailing water as he walked into the living room, and his dirty blond hair was slicked back wet—a white towel carelessly slung about his hips, accentuating that manly V, his body bronzed—and for the first time I got to see how beautiful the contours of his muscles were: his arms taught and strong, his chest wide, narrowing beautifully down to a segmented stomach—not bulky or thick—but lean like a tennis or soccer player—somebody muscular because of sport, not because of weights. It was the first time he’d had a swim since I’d been here—usually he was in the main living room, his head buried in a huge great art book, gleaning inspiration for a scene or watching old movies with the blinds drawn, freeze-framing and snapping a shot with his iPhone or sketching new idea for his storyboards. Then he’d be on the phone forever, talking to producers or location managers, or with Leo about the shooting schedule, changing things up at the last minute. Pre-production details. Cool, calm, on top of things.
In this instant I had him to myself, as I drank in his body, admiring him the way you might a Greek marble statue at the Met or some Italian fountain in Rome.
“I like to be flexible,” he told me, his eyes flickering for just a millisecond to my breasts before he settled back on my eyes. Water was dripping from his body like raindrop crystals. Everything seemed in slow motion—freeze-framed for me as I blinked like a camera lens to take in the shot—to save the image for later. I swear I could feel the electricity charging between us but then he looked away (upward to the right, funnily enough) squinting his gray eyes in thought, and I understood it was my imagination that had had him wanting me, desiring me. Because never had a guy ignored my come-ons so much as Jake. Never. My nipples were poking through a see-though top—I too had been swimming earlier, my hair still damp—and the air conditioning in the room had chilled them into little peaks. All for nothing! I could have been a chair or a table as far as he was concerned—so little did I matter to him, except as a tool for his movie.
“I thought we could do a few acting exercises,” he said. “Not the scenes themselves but a bit of improvisation.”
I loved improv. Some indie directors did whole films by way of improvisation; practically ignoring the script or making it up it as they went along—letting their actors come up with ideas to shape the scenes.
Jake wasn’t looking at me when he asked, “You’re into the Method, I hear?”
I nodded. “It’s the only way I know how to work—to get into character. Except I can’t exactly go round killing people so I guess for Skye’s The Limit I’ll have to actually act and forget the Method.” I thought he’d laugh but he didn’t.
“There’s the sex scene,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “and I don’t know how we should go about shooting it. I’ve been worrying about it for days. Have you got any ideas, Star? Of Skye’s motivation in this scene?”
“It’s all about control,” I answered. Skye and I were so similar in many ways—I really identified with this part. “She wants to get her way so she’s using sex as a weapon.”
“You see, I don’t see it as black and white as that. I think she’s yearning for attention—to be loved. A need for love is driving this scene, not control. She’s using sex as a way to get close to men, as it’s the only way she knows. I think this scene is pivotal; its when the audience needs to realize how alone she is. It’s imperative that the audience fall in love with her at this point.” He looked up and his penetrating eyes locked with mine. I felt myself tingle all over. But I also wondered if there was some message—a personal one for me—buried in his words.