Dirty

Dirty

Published by Lucia Jordan

at Smashwords

Copyright © 2015 Lucia Jordan

This book is a work of fiction. The names,
characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s
imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be
constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All characters depicted are 18 years or older.

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or
distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission
from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in
critical articles and reviews.

Table of Contents

Dirty Book
1

Dirty Book
2

Dirty Book
3

Dirty Book
4

Dirty Book
1

"Identification and set badge, please," the
security guard said. He smiled when Marielle Fairchild held out
both before he finished speaking. "You must be the new P.A."

"Yes, sir. Has the director arrived?"

"Oh, yeah. Ms. Newell is usually the first
one through the gate." He handed back her credentials. "Park
anywhere in the green-flagged section. Craft services is in the
north end if you want to grab breakfast."

Marielle thanked him and drove into the
roped-off area reserved for the filming crew. Trailers, trucks and
tents encircled the makeshift lot, as did small clusters of camera
and lighting equipment. On the promontory above the lot sprawled a
massive manor house, which had been rented from its jet-setting
owner to serve as the principal set for Fascination.

Marielle grabbed her set kit from the
passenger seat, looped the lanyard with her production badge around
her neck, and flipped down the visor mirror to check her
appearance. Wearing minimal make-up and putting her blonde hair in
a ponytail made her seem ten years younger. Sometimes looking like
an ingénue worked in her favor. Women on set tended to ignore her
and men inevitably grew protective of her.

As she locked up her car her mobile rang.
"Marielle Fairchild."

"Are you there yet?" her best friend Jilly
demanded.

"Uh-huh." She headed toward the catering
tent. When she wasn't working on a shoot Marielle often got
together with Jilly and some other production assistants to share
leads and talk shop over coffee. "Did you and the girls miss me at
the diner this morning?"

"No. We did take a vote, however, and it's
unanimous: we all hate you."

Marielle dodged around a big guy in a black
hoodie walking ahead of her. "Why does everyone hate me for getting
a job?"
"You didn't get a job. You got the job on what is gonna be the
biggest erotic movie of all time," Jilly said. "You get to work
with the man just voted the sexiest guy alive. Plus you'll get to
see him naked like every day. I think even your mother hates
you."

"Mom is too busy bragging about it to
everyone. Listen, I've got to go. Give my love to all my haters."
She pocketed her phone as she walked up to the woman working the
beverage table. "Morning. How does Ms. Newell take her coffee?"

"Black, two sugars," the other woman said.
"But she prefers it like her personality." She held out a cup of
ice.

Marielle chuckled as she prepared the iced
coffee. One of the secrets of being a good production assistant was
to anticipate the needs of the director. Nearly everyone working on
a major movie shoot put in twelve to fourteen hour days for six or
seven days a week. Exhaustion was a common problem. The director
usually logged even more hours after leaving the set. Her new boss
wouldn't refuse the caffeine.

The guy in the black hoodie joined her at the
table and reached for the sugar container at the same time she
did.

"Sorry." She handed it to him, noting his
heavy black beard and sunglasses. He was probably with the camera
crew. He smelled unexpectedly light and crisp, like the mist from a
waterfall. "Here you go."

"Thanks." He added a scant amount to his cup
before passing it back to her. "First day on the set?" he asked in
a distinct Aussie accent.

"Yes. I'm not eating or drinking." She
glanced down at the crisp white blouse she'd paired with her gray
twill trousers. "I'm always a spill magnet on the first day. How
about you?"

A smile appeared in his thick dark beard. "I
come with a dribble catcher."

"I guess you do." She chuckled. Her hands
were full and she liked him, so she gave his shoulder a friendly
bump with hers. "Have a good day."

She walked up the wide aluminium stairwell
and up the hill to set. She recognized a large area of viewing
monitors and other equipment to the right of the house as video
village -- the place where the director and other production staff
would be spending most of their time working -- and picked out
Vanessa Newell by her lacquered helmet of salt-and-pepper
curls.

Marielle approached Vanessa but waited until
the director was finished speaking with a cameraman before she
greeted her. "Good morning, Ms. Newell. I'm Marielle Fairchild,
your new P.A."

Vanessa inspected her with a single glance.
"John Thompson told me you practically read his mind working for
him on his last film. Is that true?"

"I do my research. I picked up the script
revisions and time sheets from the studio before I drove up and I
have those SAG forms you needed. Oh." She held out the coffee as if
it were an afterthought. "Iced black, two sugars."

"Nicely done." Vanessa took the cup and gave
her a handheld radio. "Your walkie. Always copy any call so we know
you've got it. There will likely be a lot of chatter today. Raven
flew in last night. Should be strolling on set any minute."

Marielle squelched a shiver of excitement.
"Should I check his trailer and make sure everything is ready?"

"Yes, there's a list taped to the door. Tell
the runners to steer clear of Raven when he shows." The director
sighed. "Last thing I need is some day player pissing off the most
talented actor on the planet."

It was the same on every movie Marielle had
worked on. Everyone working on the set was replaceable except the
lead actors. "Will do."

Marielle had no problem finding the trailer
the studio had set up for James Raven. It was the largest and most
remote from the set. She took out her notepad and jotted down a
reminder to arrange a golf cart for the actor's use -- most stars
didn't care to hike back and forth to the set -- and took down the
inventory list taped to the door before she opened it. Unlike many
high-profile stars Raven hadn't made demands for his comfort. He'd
request a fridge with bottled mineral water, cotton linens,
unscented toiletries, a specific brand of scissors and a
laptop.

"You should love this, Mr. Raven," Marielle
murmured as she checked through the trailer, and found everything
but the scissors. "But what do you need to cut?"

The door to the trailer opened and the man
with the black hoodie stepped inside. He carried two large
suitcases in his hands and a garment bag over his arm.

"Hello," Marielle said, waving to him. "Could
you bring those back here to the bedroom, please?"

He joined her and set down the cases on the
floor. "Hello again. You stalking me?"

"Not unless you have the scissors our star
wants," she said as she took the garment bag from him and hung it
in the closet. "I might have to follow you until I can pick your
pockets."

"Scissors, huh?" His teeth flashed white
against his beard as he reached into his pocket and produced a
gleaming new pair of the shears. "Like these?"

"Oh, my god, I love you." She snatched the
scissors from him and took them into the small bathroom. "I'm
Marielle, by the way," she said as she emerged and passed him to
move the cases over to one corner. "So who am I throwing my heart
at?"

"Drew." He leaned against the wall. "Are you
going to unpack for the guy?"

"If he wants me to, but stars generally don't
want anyone messing with their stuff." She checked the bedside lamp
and inspected the bed before spotting a wrinkle in the coverlet and
moving to the other side. "This your first day on the set?"

"Yeah."

"Mine, too. I'm trying not get the jitters
but James Raven is one of my favorite actors." She bent over the
bed to smooth out the coverlet and in the process bumped Drew's
thigh with her bottom. "Oops. Sorry."

"No worries." He smiled down at her. "Not a
lot of room with me in here."

"That's what you get for being a giant." She
found herself wondering what else he had that was giant-size, and
felt her cheeks burn. "Would you do me a favor? Pass the word
around to the crew to give Mr. Raven some space when he arrives on
set."

He nodded. "Think he's a snob?"

"I think he's the reason we're all employed,"
she said. "He's the star. We're here to help him make a great film.
Whatever the man needs or wants, we give it to him."

"Anything." He cocked his head. "No matter
what it is?"

"Well, if it's illegal or involves hookers,
ask the director first." Marielle glanced one more time around the
room and smiled at her new friend. "Now I have to get back to Ms.
Newell and make her happy. See you around?"

He inclined his head. "Absolutely."

* * *

James Raven watched the blonde P.A. hurry out
of the trailer before he closed his eyes and breathed in. The
faintest trace of her scent, sweet as wild honeysuckle, lingered on
the air. He took off his sunglasses and black hoodie and took out
his mobile to call his agent. "Harry, the director has a new P.A.
on set. Blonde girl, petite, looks about sixteen. What's her
name?"

"That sounds like Marielle Fairchild," the
agent said. "She's not a teenager, you know. She just looks like
one."

He thought of the merriment in her big green
eyes and how easily her lush mouth had curved into a smile. "Is she
a rookie?"

"No, she's worked on a couple dozen feature
films. Thompson refuses to have anyone else P.A. for him." Harry's
tone grew curious. "You having a problem with her, James?"

"It's something else." He glanced down at the
bulge his ferocious erection was making in his jeans. "What else
can you tell me about her?"

"Late twenties, single, doesn't date anyone
in the biz," Harry said. "I never see her at any industry events,
either. She's not a party girl. Everyone says she's a hard worker
and a good kid. Maybe she really is."

Raven had never met a woman who didn't have
something to hide. "Take Thompson out to lunch. Find out if he has
any dirt on her or if he's sleeping with her. Then call me back.
Thanks, Harry."

In the bathroom Raven picked up the new pair
of trimming scissors he'd brought with him and went to work on his
facial hair, snipping away at six months' worth of growth until he
could easily shave off the stubble. He'd miss the anonymity the
beard gave him but his contract demanded he remain clean-shaven for
the duration of the shoot.

He expected he'd be spending a great deal of
time being groomed in order to portray the film's main character, a
reclusive world-class cellist who seduces a beautiful young street
musician. While many of his colleagues had shied away from the
project due to the dominant-submissive relationship between the
characters, James knew it was tailored-made for him. He'd been
dominating women in bed since he discovered how much controlling a
lover turned him on.

Once he had finished shaving he inspected in
the mirror the face that had made him millions. The combination of
his Hawaiian mother and French-Canadian father's genes had blessed
him with exotically handsome features that made him stand out from
other men. Another quirk of nature had blessed him with
copper-brown eyes that reflected light in golden flashes.
Entertainment reporters never tired of saying the camera loved him.
He was faster and more agile than his big muscular frame suggested,
which surprised his stuntmen, sparring partners and lovers.

Whatever the man needs or wants, we give it
to him.

What Raven wanted was Marielle Fairchild. She
snared his attention from the moment she'd sauntered past him in
the parking lot. Following her to the catering tent and then to his
own trailer had been reckless but the innocence she radiated had
been a powerful lure. Watching her fuss over his gear while she
chatted him up should have amused him. When she'd bent over the bed
and bumped him with her tight little ass it had brought on a rush
of desire so ferocious he'd almost pounced on her. The only thing
that had held him back was not knowing anything about her.

As if it were reading his mind his mobile
rang. When he answered it his agent said, "I can't do lunch with
Thompson -- he's in Hawaii location scouting. But he gave me the
inside scoop on Fairchild."