Hate the Player (Hollywood #3)

by Max Monroe

“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s dick, because no other women ever do.”

“Wow,” I remark. “So, we’re at that stage of February, huh? Poems about penises at lunch?”

“You know what I bet doesn’t taste good?” Rocky interjects before pausing briefly. I raise my eyebrows, and she doesn’t hesitate to finish. “Andrew Watson’s dick.” “Jesus!” Billie nearly shouts. “Do we have to do this while we’re eating?”

She laughs at me and lifts her hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just trying to look out for you. His dick is like a soldier. It’s seen things ladies like us should never see. Done things it’s not even sure it’s proud of. It is a maker of sexual carnage, I’m telling you.”

“Is it just me or does this lunch have way more use of the word ‘dick’ than normal?” Billie remarks. But Rocky is undeterred. “Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson may look charming, but he is a savage. Slaying hearts all over the fucking world.”

“You made it easy to summarize. Faced with the possibility of landing this role, I have one important rule outside of the actual job. Don’t fuck Andrew Watson.” She laughs again, and I shake my head. “Easy enough.”

🤣🤣🤣

What if I’m so bad in this movie that I have a total mental breakdown and end up reenacting Britney Spears’s 2007? I can’t shave my head! I don’t have the right bone structure for that!

I wonder if the driver will think it’s weird if I put my head between my knees and pass out for a little bit. Just, like, a couple minutes, tops.

Grass Roots—the movie that brought me here and has been building buzz within Hollywood since the studio gave the project the green light—is about Arizona Lee, a twentysomething girl whose talented voice is discovered by a famous country music singer by the name of Cal Loggins. They fall in love, and a tumultuous romance ensues.

So, a country version of ‘A Star Is Born’.

I can practically hear her smiling through the damn phone. No-good, sense-talking, Hollywood-bad-boy-boning harlot.

I sigh. “Can I take that sigh as a sign that you are, right now, doing some exercises to tighten your vagina?” Damn her for being right. “I’m still mad at you,” I mutter.

Luca: Be nice to my future sister-in-law, or I’ll murder you.

With his attention occupied, I survey him more closely as I move to take a seat across from him. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and his jawline would make steel beams look weak. Seriously. Confronted with an earthquake, I would seek shelter right under the eave of his jaw. I’d love to get another peek at his eyes just to study the color, but fearing the eye contact that would require, I’m careful not to make any overt noises that might draw his attention again. When he smirks, a devilish proposition-like smile at the screen of his phone, I don’t have to wonder anymore.

On a deep breath, I force the uncertainty and unease out of my shoulders and settle my ass into the sofa across from him. He shifts again, crossing one ankle over the other and casually adjusting the denim at his crotch. My eyes are immediately drawn to his bulge, and thanks to Rocky’s colorful descriptions of his favorite appendage, a little penis-shaped soldier is burned in my brain. After a few seconds of imagining the shape of his helmet and intensity of his salute, I jerk my gaze away in a panic. Jesus. As if this audition wasn’t screwing with my head enough! Now I have Saving Ryan’s Privates, a military-themed porno my head just made up starring Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson, complicating things even more!

Holy shit, I’m too anxious to be around other humans right now! Also, I’m going to kill Rocky for putting this crap in my head about this guy’s penis.

He asks me once more, but I nod, and once the embarrassing coughing fit passes, I meet his piercingly gray-blue eyes—seeing their color is strikingly unavoidable now—and I offer a halfhearted smile.

His responding smile gleams so bright, I have to wonder if he has an endorsement deal with Crest toothpaste. His mouth would make a dental hygienist get on their hands and knees and thank the Lord above. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s no need to be nervous around me,” he responds, punctuating his words with a wink.

Attractive or not, this guy is one of the biggest asses I’ve ever been around. “I’m Birdie Harris. I’m auditioning for the role of Arizona Lee.” And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna land this acting gig just to spite this prick.

Fantastic legs make me a weak man—and they always but always get me in trouble. Fuck me. Birdie Harris and her gorgeous legs are definitely going to get me in trouble.

Her little dress with ruffles and lace—showing the most delectable view of long, svelte legs—and perfectly worn cowgirl boots are designed to provoke the opposite behavior from me. Women like to call me a god during sex, but I’m only a man. I only have so much control.

Her scowl doesn’t soften, and my dick takes notice. Goddamn, but he loves a challenge.

“‘Dear Fool,’” she answers, her lush, pink lips still cast in a firm line. I’m absolutely enthralled by how full they manage to look even though they’re set. I bet they’d be a sight to see wrapped around something else.

My cock twitches beneath my zipper, and excitement catches in my throat. Me too, little firecracker. Me fucking too.

Rocky was right; this guy needs a big-ass pair of boots—right to the face. We’ve spent all of five minutes together, and already, I don’t like him. Scratch that. I’m pretty sure I hate him.

Belligerent sexual tension. I love it.

And now, I have to go in there and show everyone in the room that Mr. Fucking Ego and I have the kind of on-screen chemistry that leads to a baby boom nine months after release day. Holy freaking harmonicas and a violin.

Thoughts of swiftly introducing his nut sac to my favorite cowgirl boots flood my synapses, revving up their engines and clearing the obstruction in my throat. I smile to myself. God, what a glorious moment that would be.

Everyone in the room is dressed like they belong here—a modern mishmash of high-end designer suits and ties and heels—and they all look like their schedule is so detailed they have to make appointments for bathroom breaks. Everyone but Mr. Ego and me, that is. He strolls in behind me like he has all the time in the world after waiting in the hall for me to pass. Like everyone in the room is on his schedule.

Andrew Watson smiles so big his mouth could be used as an actual light source in this office, and the results are undeniable. Ugh. It’s annoying how freaking good-looking he is. Seriously, it has to be a sin to be that big of a prick and that insanely attractive at the same time.

Moses himself should’ve chiseled it down as the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not egregiously exploit good genes. Or at the very least, ole George Washington and the rest of the Founding Fathers should’ve considered making it an amendment. The right of the people to be happy and devoid of rage shall not be violated by dealing with the egotistical and narcissistic presence of a man who is deemed far too good-looking in one’s eyes. A man like that is hereby regarded as unconstitutional—aka fucking illegal—in the eyes of the law.

“The first shift we had to make was because of your schedule,” Howie remarks on a laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you having to switch around a session with your personal trainer today doesn’t count.” “Oh, but I’m sure you’d be pissed if I stopped those training sessions and let this gorgeous body of mine go to shit.” “I think we all know you’re too vain for that, buddy.” “It’s not vanity, How. It’s consideration. I’m just giving the people what they want.” Andrew grins, shrugs, and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Wow. This guy. He’s something else.

Make a pile of the worst qualities of all of my ex-boyfriends, set them on fire, and “Transformer” that shit, and I’m pretty sure you’d have Andrew Watson.

I’m not sure why, but it seems like Andrew knows exactly what I’m thinking—and he likes it. A shiver runs the entire line of my spine and down my arms, igniting a tingle in the fingers of my hand against his. He bites his lip, and uninvited, my nipples peak under the lace of my bra.

Soft vanilla and hints of something I can’t quite pinpoint, he smells as good as he looks. An ache so substantial takes hold of my inner thighs, I’m convinced I have a charley horse. Why, God? Why would you let this awful man have all the good stuff?

Everyone waits patiently while Birdie reads through the script. And I do mean everyone—even me. If I weren’t so entertained by her long, sexy legs and full, pouty lips, I might be annoyed. Somehow, though, with her, right now, it just seems endearing.

I don’t miss the way her breasts rise and fall with each deep intake of air. And I certainly don’t miss the way her nipples harden beneath the thin material of her frilly dress. God, if I could just have a taste.

Without thought, her warm breath heavily mingling with my own, I pull her tight to my chest with an arm around her back and bring my lips to hers. Before I make contact—before I can even anticipate the blow—Birdie reaches out with her right hand and slaps me clear across the face. The sound of her palm hitting my skin echoes inside William Capo’s office, and I swear I hear someone in the room gasp. My cheek stings like a son of a bitch. That was definitely not in the script. My gut reaction is simple—what the fuck is wrong with her? But my dick? He’s a total masochist. Sweet Jesus, I should not be so turned on right now.

Fuck. Her lips are even softer than I imagined. I take over the kiss, tangling our mouths with the kind of intensity that could move worlds. She slides her hands into my hair, and a moan rolls from her throat to my tongue. I don’t know whether I’m Cal or me right now. I just know that kissing Birdie Harris feels really damn good. Double fuck.

I should probably be pissed about that slap, but…I’m not. In fact, my dick’s halfway done setting up a campsite in my fucking pants.

Sweet baby kittens in a wicker basket, I think I’ve gone crazy.

God, that stupid kiss. Stupid kiss? Pretty sure your wits are still scattered up there on William Capo’s marble floor… Instantly, my fingertips move to my lips, tracing over the still thrumming spots where Andrew’s mouth was pressed against mine. Ugh. I hate how good that kiss felt. His lips are like God actually made them just for kissing.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. I got the part.

The only kind of wake-up calls I schedule involve a naked woman and my hard cock. Other than that, I prefer to wake up on my own time, when my body feels like it.

“A little after ten,” Blake answers, but then he screeches and covers his eyes with his hand. “Jesus, are you naked?” “I always sleep naked.” I laugh. “You’re just not normally here. Quite frankly, you weren’t even fucking invited this time.” He scoffs behind his hand. Still, I make no move to get out of bed or cover the goods. It’s not my problem he decided to barge into my bedroom. And let’s be honest, there are a lot worse-looking cocks he could be face-to-face with than mine. I don’t want to put words in people’s mouths, but I think the women I’ve been with would agree, it wouldn’t be an overreach to refer to it as spectacular.

God, he sleeps naked. I’m weak...

I slide out of bed, toss on some sweatpants and a hoodie, take a piss and brush my teeth, and head downstairs to face whatever bullshit business is waiting for me this week.

So is he going commando too?!? Dear Lord in heaven... 😏😏🤤

I sneak off to Vegas one fucking time, six months ago, go for a swim in the fountain at the Bellagio, and wake up covered in neon paint, and still, he won’t stop busting my balls about it. Geez. It’s not like I fucked a llama or something.

“Wouldn’t be the first time Andrew has gotten involved with a costar,” she responds without hesitation. Me getting involved with Birdie Harris? Fuck, I wouldn’t have any complaints about that.

Just the thought of her tight little body and hot-as-hell attitude wrapped around me while we fuck is enough to make me feel like risking Luca’s wrath wouldn’t be so bad. All he said was to be nice. And it goes without saying that my cock is the utmost gentleman—always putting a woman’s pleasure before his own.

She’s pregnant! With my little niece or nephew! And she’s engaged to one of our biggest childhood crushes. When we were little girls, giggling about guys and life and babies one day, I don’t think either one of us had this in mind.

Even at nearly six months along into her pregnancy, my sister only has an adorable little belly to prove she’s carrying a baby inside her. She’s so svelte, in fact, my spidey sense tells me that every woman she comes into contact with is plotting her murder.

Thrown into sudden silence, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be the woman on the other side of the curtain—if I’ll ever have a man who buys me flowers for no reason, sneaks cute pictures of me just to store them in his phone, or brings me coffee in the morning without being asked.