“You could only imagine just how fucking fantastic it would be, but trust me, you’ve never had the pleasure.”
“Great use of the f-bomb—especially the double entendre.” He cocked his head to the left and folded his arms. “Well, if you’re not here to claim you are carrying my child or provide an explanation for the mystery rash I had a few months ago, what are you selling?”
“I’m an actress.”
“Then you’re really lost.”
“I want to train here.”
“And I want a new Maserati. Guess we’re both out of luck.” He picked up the cardboard box that had held the supplements and broke it down.
“I’ll pay you to train me . . . it’s for a part in a movie.”
His eyes did a quick once over. Without the heels, he’d guess she was five six, five seven . . . she couldn’t weigh any more than a hundred pounds and most of that was in her ass and the obvious doctor-enhanced boobs. Not a trace of muscle definition anywhere—at least not from what he could see. “Cage Masters—two blocks away on West Sunset Road—they can help you.”
“I went there. They said if I want to learn how to fight like a girl, I needed to talk to Tyson Reed.” Her smile could only be classified as pure evil as her lips curled at the edges, revealing a perfectly straight row of white teeth.
Again, not exactly the teeth of someone who got punched in the mouth regularly.
“I believe that’s called ‘trash talk.’ I Googled it,” she said, placing her hands on her hips.
He commanded his eyes not to follow.
“She Googled it,” Dane said, appearing behind him.
He fought a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Apparently. Look, Ms. Parker . . .”
“Hamilton.”
Whatever. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t help you. In fact, you would probably need a group of trainers and dieticians full-time for a year to take this—” he gestured toward her body—“and make it look like someone who’s been training MMA.”
“I’ve got three months and I’m willing to pay a hell of a lot more than these guys, I’m sure.” She gestured toward Dane and then leaned across the desk, giving him the perfect opportunity to stare at her ample chest pouring over the top of her tight white tank top.
He didn’t take it. The once-over on her body had been mistake enough. His dick and his head were often on opposing sides of most of his decisions where women were concerned, and this time he was sticking with the head outside of his gym shorts.
Besides, three months? No way was that possible. And he had his big fight soon. No, letting her train at his gym was a bad idea on too many levels. “Sorry, the answer is no.”
“How much?”
“I’m not interested in your money.”
“You’re going to refuse a paying member?”
“You’re not a paying member. You’re a walking cock-tease and I’ve got real fighters, training for real fights. Besides, I told you. I don’t even know how you got the part. Your body type doesn’t exactly scream cage fighter.” He’d like to pin her in a cage, but that was totally different.
She bit her lip; admittedly, he was shocked he hadn’t gotten slapped for the cock-tease comment. “I don’t have the part yet. The audition is in a week.”
Now she was just insane if she thought he could help her that quickly. “Well, I hate to be the one to shatter your Hollywood dreams, sweetheart, but even if I wanted this liability, I really can’t do much in a week.”
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to try.”
He paused. A thousand dollars? She really was insane or just had more money than she knew what to do with.
“My agent said that for now, I just need to know a few moves—the right stance or a few punches . . .”
Sounded simple. But he knew from experience, nothing with a hot blonde was ever simple. This too would somehow come back to bite him in the ass. But another extremity was begging to get up close and personal “training” this woman—exactly why this was the worst idea ever.
“No.”
“I can even just sit in on a few classes first. You won’t even know I’m here.”
She was persistent. “Oh, sweetheart, everyone would know you’re here.”
She flashed him what he could only assume was her best on-camera smile.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
She pouted.
He looked away. He hated pouting women. That simple little gesture with their lips was like kryptonite to him. He often found himself giving in too easy, too fast at the sight of a tempting bottom lip.
“Please.”
“No. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He had his own fight to prepare for. He had fighters to train and a gym to run. He didn’t have time for this shit.
She sighed, reaching into her purse. A second later, she slid a copy of her photo sheet toward him. “My number’s on here. Think about it. Please. I’ll go as high as two thousand for the week. Call me when you change your mind.”
Obviously, she thought money was a motivator for him. It wasn’t. The gym was doing great and his MFL payouts kept him living his modest lifestyle just fine. He stashed the photo sheet under the desk. He’d toss it out when she was gone . . . or keep it for his own viewing pleasure. “Don’t wait by the phone, Ms. Hamilton.”
Chapter 2
Later that day, Parker’s eyes flew across the script as she retrieved the pages from her printer.
It was good.
The dialogue was fresh and edgy and the character she would be auditioning for, Jessica “The Crusher” Carlisle, was one of the best female leads she’d ever read. Based on a true story, the movie was about a single mother whose marine husband died overseas and her everyday struggle to find the courage and strength to keep fighting inside and out of the cage. It was powerful and exactly what she’d been looking for. The script was funny, touching, and full of Oscar-worthy moments. Even the secondary characters were relatable and appealing. Excitement gathered in her chest as she flipped to the front of the script. She didn’t know the screenwriter or the director and the e-mail from Ian had warned her it was a low-budget indie project, but it didn’t matter. It was brilliant.
Going to her computer, she Google searched the director, but his IMDB credits were two other indie films with budgets less than five hundred thousand and casts no larger than ten actors. Neither had done well at the box office or at the film awards.
She stared at the paper coming out of her printer as the rest of the script collected in the tray.
Was this the right part for her? She was used to working with big-name directors, high budgets, and leading men whose name rivaled hers for the first screen credit. Would this role be viewed as desperation in the eyes of her peers? An admission of defeat?
The last thing she wanted was to accept a role that would only further destroy her career and confirm she was done. She’d worked too hard over the years to make sure her acting career didn’t fizzle out in adulthood, the way most child actors’ careers did. Too many of her former costars were working normal nine-to-five jobs now, struggling to land roles in theater productions or commercials, trying to hold onto their dream. She knew she’d been lucky to have had the extended career she did, and she wasn’t ready to walk away from it all. She still had so much to offer, so much passion for film.
As the printer spit out the last page of the script, she picked up her cell phone. Whenever faced with a career decision, she always called her grandmother, a former Hollywood actress who’d raised Parker from seven years old after her parents died in a house fire. She didn’t remember too much from that life-changing event, but she knew it had been the end of her normal childhood and the start of her path to stardom. The overnight transition from her middle-class home in Phoenix with her parents to the luxurious lifestyle with her grandmother in LA had been just the beginning.