WARNING: This story contains strong language, sexual content, and depictions of sexual acts with dubious consent by one or multiple parties, substance abuse, mental health crises, and misogyny that may be upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 1: Boulevard of Broken Dreams

GREER

“What’s this about a job?” I hide in my bedroom with the phone up to my ear, huddled on the double bed which takes up most of the room, because my ex is currently watching football on the TV. Loudly.

“This actor needs a live-in PA. He talked about it with his agent while I did his makeup today. I texted you the details.” My best friend, really my only friend in LA, Bristol Walker, sighs. “You can’t stay at that apartment, Greer. Not with the asshole who cheated on you. If Will wasn’t already living on my couch, I’d have you here in a heartbeat.”

My ex yells loudly at the TV as if it offended him. Honestly, I don’t know what I saw in him. I would leave, but we’re both on the lease, and neither of us could take it over on our own. Well, I definitely couldn’t.

“I’ve got a job already.” I pick at a loose thread in the sheets. Waitressing at a small diner doesn’t exactly bring in the big money, plus they’ve cut my hours recently.

“One that’s a dead end and will never pay you enough. Look, call for an interview. The worst thing that happens is they suck and you say no.” Bristol covers the phone, and her voice mumbles to someone in the background. She comes back to me. “One interview. It’s room and board, plus salary.”

“I don’t know how to be a personal assistant.” Something hits the door, startling me. I can’t stay here.

Chad keeps trying to convince me we should get back together. He’s not sorry; he’s just hit a dry spell. Even though I sleep on the couch, last night he tried to carry me back to the bed. Like I would forget what he did. I don’t need a guy who cheats on me. Fortunately, I woke up when he tried to lift me and told him off. Given his grunts last night and his limp this morning, a few of my kicks must have landed hard enough to sting.

Hopefully that will stop him from trying that shit again.

I don’t even like him anymore, and it’s not like I’m missing our lackluster sex life either.

“Fine. I’ll call the number.” It’s not like I have family to call for help. I’ve been on my own since the day I turned eighteen. Before that, really.

“You won’t regret it.” Bristol sounds confident, but I can’t be sure. My life isn’t exactly coming up roses these days. I’ll be lucky to get an interview.

We end the call and I pull up the text she sent.

Needed personal assistant available immediately

Must be clean and submit to random drug testing

Must be able to work day and night

It isn’t much information. I pluck at my lower lip while I stare at it. The door swings open and Chad saunters in. Disgust wells within me. He’s a good-looking guy in his board shorts with his button-up shirt open to show his fit physique. He looks like he stepped out of the nineties. His bleached blond hair only adds to the image.

When he flops onto the bed beside me, he gives me this look with his brown eyes that used to do it for me. Until it was also doing it for Sandy and Melanie and who knows who else. Now I just roll my eyes.

“What do you want, Chad?” I wrap my arms around my legs, drawing them out of his reach so he can’t touch me.

“I’m thinking you need to pay more for rent, since I’m not getting any now.” He reaches out and tugs on the leg of my jeans. I almost hiss at him, but I bite my tongue. I still need to live somewhere. This is marginally better than the streets, and I pay for it, so I have a right to be here.

“I can’t afford more,” I say through gritted teeth. We agreed when we moved in that he would pay more than half because at the time I couldn’t afford it, and he really wanted this place over the one I could afford. Now, I really can’t pay half.

He smiles his cocky, arrogant, knowing smile. “You could put out, then. I’ll let you stay here rent-free.”

“Fuck you, Chad.” Fuck this. I scramble off the bed and slide my feet into a pair of flip-flops.

“Come on, Greer. It’s just fucking.” He collapses back on the bed like the whiny bitch he is.

I grab my backpack and throw my laptop into it before grabbing some random clothes out of my drawer. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’m not coming back here tonight. Even the floor at Bristol’s would be better than this.

He rises on his elbows and makes a kissy face. “You always liked it when I went down on you.”

I roll my eyes. It’s not like he did that often. Only when he thought I’d reciprocate. Usually, I’d just pretend to come to get him to stop. I go into the closet and grab a few other things, just in case I get the interview.

When I come out, any words of indignation die on my tongue when I see he’s stroking his cock with a pair of my panties. I wish I’d stayed in the closet. How did I ever fall for this asshole’s bullshit? “You’re such a waste of space.”

“Where are you going, Greer? You’ve got nowhere to go. No friends. I’ll be your friend…if you suck me off.” He grins as he strokes his cock.

I sneer at him before charging out of the apartment. Clicking on the number for the ad, I haul ass to the elevator, listening to the ringtone. Almost a year of my life wasted on that asshole. Even though we always used condoms, I got checked because the last thing I wanted from him was an STI.

“What a fucking asshole,” I mutter as I step in and press the first-floor button.

“Bad day?” a groggy deep voice asks on the line.

Fuck, shit. No need to make it worse. “Yes, but I’m hoping to apply for the job as the personal assistant.”

“Fake it till you make it” is what my foster mother always said. She was talking about smiling and being happy, but it applies to a lot of things in life.

“You do drugs?” His voice is gruff, like he just woke from sleep. It skitters pleasantly down my spine.

“No, but would you believe me on just my word?” I lean against the wall of the elevator as the car moves to the first floor.

“I have a drug test here with your name on it.” The rough voice helps calm me down even as it keys me up. It’s been a while since Chad and I—a disgusted shudder runs through me. Mistake number one: thinking sex equals love. From now on, sex is just sex.

“You don’t even know my name.” I glance at the one light bulb still working in the elevator. This whole place is a shithole. I just want to find somewhere nice to live. Maybe I’ll find an apartment to share on the internet.

“Maybe I’ll just call you poppet.” He chuckles. “I’ll text you the address and you can come by to pee in a cup. We’ll talk about things.”

The way he says things makes my pulse throb. “How will you know it’s me, though?”

“What’s your name, poppet?”

“Greer Morrow.” The elevator stops on the first floor, and I walk into the lobby.

“Sounds very old-school Hollywood. I like it, Greer Morrow.” My name rolling off his tongue is like melting wax dripping on my skin. Hot, dangerous, tantalizing.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I’m sure it’s Chad. That helps cool any fantasies about the voice on the phone. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Roarke Flynn.”

My insides burst with nerves. Had I just been low-key flirting with the Roarke Flynn? Sexiest Man Alive two years running? Whose sex scene in Lost in Vegas gave me the best self-administered orgasm of my life?

My throat closes a little and my mouth gapes like I can’t find air.

“C’mon, poppet, it’s not that shocking, is it? It’s not like you’re seeing my cock for the first time.” There’s humor in his tone, but oof, yeah, not seeing that. In person. Only on the big screen.

I clear my throat. “Would I be working for you?”

“Somewhat,” he hedges, his voice still gritty and low. “But we can discuss that when you get here. I’ll send you a text. You on your way now like a good girl?”

Fuck. Sparks bolt through my whole body at those words. “Yes, I’m coming—”

His deep, rich chuckle cuts me off. “Not so fast, poppet. We should at least get to know each other a little first.”

Heat floods my face. This is dangerous, but I have nothing to lose. “I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

***

I don’t bother changing but fling my bag into the trunk of my heap on wheels, Old Betsy. Better clothes might help a little, but showing up in the old Volkswagen Jetta that’s seen much better days is going to clue them in to how desperate I am for a job. Besides, this is who I am. Take it or leave it.

Most people leave it, but at least I’m not putting on pretenses about being someone I’m not.

The GPS leads me to a set of gates. Beyond the gates, trees line the road that disappears into the sky. I press the call button on the box and wait. The ocean is just beyond the house. I can hear the waves, and it helps ease some of my nerves.

One of my best memories was at the beach. I don’t have many good memories to draw on.

As I wait, a white car drives slowly behind me. Could it be paparazzi? When I start to turn, they drive off. Weird.

“Yes?” The static-crackled male voice doesn’t sound like Roarke.

“Greer Morrow to see Roarke Flynn.” Time to play professional.

“For fuck’s sake, Roarke, did you order a prostitute?” It sounds like he’s yelling into the house. A second passes while he waits for a reply, and I die a little inside. Not that kind of professional.

“Oh shit. Did you hear that?” he says after a moment.

Heat claws its way up to my hairline. What the hell am I walking into? “Um, yes.”

“Fuck, sorry.” The gate buzzes and opens slowly. “Come to the main door and I’ll let you in.”

I consider backing up and just driving away. Surely, I can find another job and a place to live. Maybe I could just drive down the coast until I run out of gas or Old Betsy dies. Suddenly, I’m regretting not changing out of my oversized T-shirt and jeans with flip-flops. I could have done something with my long hair instead of leaving it in a messy bun.

When the gates fully open, I pull forward. Might as well make a complete fool of myself. At least they won’t mistake me for a prostitute. As I crest the hill, the house fills my vision. White multiple stories with enormous windows. Gorgeous. It’s massive, and as I pull up the driveway, there are two four-car garages on either side of me.

Neither Old Betsy nor I fit in here, but at least I’ll meet my Hollywood crush in the flesh. I can tell my grandkids someday that I met the Roarke Flynn, and they’ll say who? Because who knows actors from when their grandparents were younger?

I grab a tube of cherry ChapStick out of my purse and swipe it over my lips. And that’s all the makeup I have with me, so it will have to do. I’m a mess. My insides churn with nerves. Why am I even here?

Pressing my head against the steering wheel, I take a deep breath. This is insane. Bristol works in the Hollywood machine. She wouldn’t lead me astray. If she thinks I can do this, then hopefully I can do it.

Fake it till you make it.

When I step out of my car, I smell the ocean on the wind. I can’t see it from here, but I can hear the crashing waves and feel the salty air on my skin. What would it be like to live here?

Our apartment in the city is as far away from nature as possible. But here, fruit trees and greenery surround the house. The lawn is lush green grass, making me itch to slip my flip-flops off and dig my toes into it.

Drawing in a breath, I climb the stairs leading to the door. As I approach, I see the shadow of a very tall man walking toward the glass door. He comes closer. His light brown hair is an unruly mess, almost covering his hazel eyes. He’s only wearing a pair of gray sweats. His bare chest is defined, and a black tattoo crawls over his shoulder against his tan skin.

He opens the door and gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry about that. You never know with Roarke.”

His voice rolls over me like warm molasses, and a shiver of awareness rushes along my spine. He holds his hand out.

“Wyatt.”

I take his hand to shake it and feel a pulse of attraction flow through me. His eyes roam over me. I’m short, so it doesn’t take him long to look me over, but his eyes are interested when they meet mine.

Shaking off the awareness, I smile. “Greer Morrow.”

His hand slides from mine. I resist the urge to rub my hand to rid it of the tingles he left behind.

“Follow me.” He backs into the house. As I follow him across the warm wood floors, I take in the white rugs and furniture with dark green throw pillows. The fireplace is black. The open room flows into a dining room with walls of accordion glass doors open to a shimmering blue pool. A wine room peeks out from behind the dining room table.

I’m used to the normal-height ceilings of my apartment, but these ceilings are at least two of me, standing on top of each other. It’s beautiful and a little cold at the same time.

At least it distracts me from checking out Wyatt’s ass. I send a silent thank you to whatever woman invented gray sweats. Wyatt’s back is just as defined as his front, and that ink trails over his shoulder to spill down his back.

“We don’t get a lot of visitors up here.” Wyatt leads me around the wine room into what I think is supposed to be casual rooms. There’s a kitchen and another dining table and more accordion doors to the outside and another two sets of living room furniture.

“Poppet, you made it.” His dark voice is even more dangerous in real life.

I swear my panties melt, and I almost don’t want to turn to see this man. But I also can’t resist. Turning, my heartbeat ratchets up. Roarke Flynn stands before me. Golden hair, stubble on his square jaw, blue eyes shining like he has a spotlight on him, and a grin that is contagious.

I almost don’t even realize I’m smiling back. When he closes in on me, he smells as good as he looks, sandalwood and spices.

“Sorry about the whore talk. I don’t normally pay for company.” That voice. My God. He takes my hand and a live wire jolts through me. He doesn’t seem to notice as he draws me to the couch. “Sit. We have much to talk about.”

“We do?” I collapse on the couch as my knees finally give up. My blood thunders so loud through my veins, I’m not sure I can even hear him. I shouldn’t be here. This type of life isn’t for me, I’ve already proved that once before.

“Of course. This is an interview, poppet.” He sits across from me. And then he winks. At me. A giddiness rushes through me like I’ve had too much to drink. Or at least what I think too much to drink would feel like.

I always wondered if I’d be the type of girl to get starstruck. My foster mom Mary had her share of famous friends, but not one of them made me feel like Roarke does. His focus on me is intense.

“Wyatt, bring Aiden and Mason. We should do this as a group. After all, if poppet gets the job, she’ll be living with all of us and making sure our every desire is met.”

I swallow so hard, I cough. He gets up and sits next to me, rubbing my back.

“Don’t die now, poppet. The garden is new. I’d hate to dig you a spot in it.” The heat of his body is like a drug I can’t help but crave.

Lifting my gaze, I sigh at how close and how perfect he is. Seriously, it’s no wonder he reigns at the box office. He’s gorgeous and overwhelming in real life.

He tips my chin and studies my eyes. “You seem like a brandy girl.”

“I don’t drink,” I murmur on autopilot because he’s touching me and all my thought process has devolved to that single touch.

He tilts his head like he can’t believe what he heard.

“For fuck’s sake, Roarke, release the poor girl before she has a heart attack.”

My gaze jerks to the familiar voice. Aiden Clyborne, tall, slender, but built, with a voice that women would beg to read grocery lists. He’s been in some of my favorite movies. His slightly curled, tousled brown hair looks windswept. His light blue eyes don’t miss a thing as he moves in to take my hand.

I barely process the jolt from his touch. I’m awestruck.

“Aiden, but from the look on your face, you know who I am.” Releasing my hand, he gives me a wary smile, like he’s afraid I’m going to fangirl all over him.

He’s not wrong. It’s on the tip of my tongue. How much I adore him in every film. But I keep my tongue from wagging.

Roarke laughs and moves across from me again. “She likes me best, Aiden. Mason Randall and Wyatt McBride.” He nods to the other two men. “This is my poppet, Greer Morrow.”

My face heats at him claiming me as I look to the last man to enter: Mason Randall. Mary used to talk about him. This up-and-coming director who her paramour was mentoring. Unlike the others who give off some warm vibes, Mason is all dark, from his black hair to his piercing blue eyes. He looks at me as if he already knows who I am and what I’m about.

And he definitely doesn’t like it.

I straighten my back and sit as tall as my five-foot frame allows.

“You answered the ad?” Mason takes a seat and sits back as if this is his meeting and he’ll be the one in control of it. Power radiates off him, and that energy makes me want to misbehave. Not that I’m going to, but I don’t do well with authority figures.

I need this job.

“My friend sent it to me,” I admit. “She thought it would be a good opportunity.”

Mason’s eyes flow over me, taking my measure. I don’t cower, but fuck, do I want to. He’ll be the decision-maker in all this. I’m not good enough for whatever this job entails or even to sit on this beautiful cream couch in my outfit that probably cost me twenty bucks. Not compared to these gorgeous men in their expensive casual clothes.

I’m going to do my best to make them overlook my shortcomings because I want this.

All of it. This house. This life. These men. To play pretend like my life isn’t one long train wreck. Just for a little while live a dream until I have to wake up.