Read Falling Star (Beautiful Chaos #2) Online
Authors: Arianne Richmonde
Falling Star (Beautiful Chaos #2)
Arianne Richmonde is the
USA TODAY
bestselling author of suspense novel,
Stolen Grace
and the Pearl Series contemporary romance –
Shades of Pearl, Shadows of Pearl, Shimmers of Pearl, Pearl,
and
Belle Pearl.
Arianne is an American author who was raised in both the US and Europe and now lives in France with her husband and coterie of animals. She used to be an actress, and the
Beautiful Chaos Series
is inspired by her past career—she is a huge fan of TV, film, and theatre and loves nothing better than a great performance.
Thank you, my Pearlettes and my wonderful team—you know who you are.
(A Beautiful Chaos book)
by
ARIANNE RICHMONDE
This is the second book in the Beautiful Chaos Trilogy:
All rights reserved. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed, translated or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible maybe liable in law accordingly. Arianne Richmonde 2014
Copyright © Arianne Richmonde, 2014.
Kindle Edition
The right of Arianne Richmonde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) 2000
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, not factually. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © Don Designs
Formatting by: BB eBooks
In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.
Carl Jung
U
H-OH, I WAS IN SERIOUS TROUBLE. I hadn’t meant it to go that far, but I couldn’t stop myself. Jake was hotter—way hotter—than any guy I’d fooled around with. The orgasm he gave me ripped my world apart. My first, ever, with a guy. Left me shattered, confused, wanting more. It was the biggest—most unexpected—surprise of my life. No man had even come close to doing that to me—ever. I mean, they’d tried but failed miserably. Before, I’d always been able to lie back and “count sheep.” It was a power thing, I guess. Knowing I had control—never really letting go, mainly because I just didn’t feel that there was anything special going on.
But my experience with Jake felt surreal. It was almost as if I, Star Davis, was not even there, but some inner force that had taken over. The temptation to give myself to him was overpowering, but I knew what would happen: he’d fuck me and then never want to have anything to do with me again. Conquest over. At the last second,
almost
before it was too late, I snapped out of
The Twilight Zone
and into the real world.
“Party’s over, Jake,” I told him, pushing him away. My voice was shaky. The words came out of my mouth, although my alter ego was horrified that I was spoiling all the fun. But I said emphatically, so there was no misinterpretation: “I’m serious—this is as far as I go.”
Lying on his sofa like that; open to him and vulnerable, had made me lose my sense of self. I’d let emotion overcome me and knew that if I wanted to keep control and stay professional I needed to get a grip. This role of Skye in
Skye’s The Limit
was my second chance—maybe my last chance—and I couldn’t screw things up. I needed to come clean with the truth. The Virgin truth. And when I told him I watched his face as it smashed—figuratively speaking—to the floor. He was so shocked, I almost felt sorry for him. But then I quickly remembered that he was a
man
.
Men. Ninety-nine percent of them? Assholes. Unless, of course, you have them under control. Begging. Salivating for more.
Then they can be pussycats.
Go ahead, call me unjust. Or a bitch. But this handy information was drummed into me by my mom ever since I could talk. Or at least, listen. My father? He’s not my biological father. He’s the man who came and picked my mom up off the ground when she was pregnant with me. HE—the bastard who impregnated her—the one with whom she had fallen head over heels in love—simply took off “to chase another piece of skirt” as Mom so often told me when she was in one of her “talkative” moods. So, as much as my dad pissed me off, I owed him one. He tried. He’d raised me as best he could and it wasn’t his fault that Mom was never seriously in love with him.
Anyway, although I felt powerful for a second with Jake, and triumphant, it wasn’t long before he crushed me with his nonchalant “Who-gives-a-shit-little-girl-I-won’t-waste-my-time-on-you-anyway” kind of attitude. I lay there, yearning for him to hug me, to profess his undying something-or-other for me. But he just laughed cockily like I was nothing to him. An inconvenience.
I guess I was. Nothing, I mean. He could get anyone. And he had. The list was long, longer than the long-limbed movie stars and models he’d “dated” one after another.
“Get dressed, Star. We’re going out,” Jake announced, as I still lay on the sofa, naked.
“Oh, okay, cool.” I felt renewed hope. He was going to take me to some romantic, candlelit dinner and woo me in other ways. Slowly. Take his time.
I got up from the couch and made my way to the bedroom, wondering what I should wear. Something elegant. Sexy. Something more mature, that showed I was a lady not just a teenager. I had some diamond drop earrings I could wear and a sexy Stella McCartney black jersey dress that hugged my curves. But as I was making my way up the stairs my romantic musings were instantly crushed. Jake was on the phone:
“Great, Leo, see you there—yeah, bring the whole crowd if you like. The more the merrier.”
And that was how things carried on after our “episode” on the sofa. Jake made darn sure that we were never alone. Friends, producers, friends of friends. And actresses. Everywhere. Eyeing him up, grinning at him inanely like whole rooms full of Cheshire Cats, straight out of
Alice In Wonderland.
We were constantly surrounded, but at the same time, he never took his eyes off me—not because he was crazy about me, I realized—but to make sure I wouldn’t escape and go off and swig vodka or something.
And then, in the week that followed, I thought he’d go back to ignoring me but it was worse.
Far worse.
He was sweet and tender. Like an older brother. Putting his arm around me but in a very non-sexual way. Listening to my every word with attention. Once we started filming he’d do a re-take if I wasn’t happy with the shot. All over me, but in a “Thoughtful Director” kind of way. It was sickening. It made me hate him. Obsess about him. It wasn’t
him
salivating, it was me. Inside. And when I say “inside” that’s what I mean. South of my waist, I was a hot mess. Every time he touched me, I wanted to scream with frustration. Remembering the gift he gave me of discovering my sexuality, yet treating it as if it were nothing. I was in turmoil. I was just another girl to him—someone he could do happily without. Yet his kindness was killing me. “Killing me softly.”