Falling Star (Beautiful Chaos #2)

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1: Star

  Chapter 2: Jake

  Chapter 3: Star

  Chapter 4: Jake

  Chapter 5: Star

  Chapter 6: Jake

  Chapter 7: Star

  Chapter 8: Jake

  Chapter 9: Star

  Chapter 10: Jake

  Chapter 11: Star

  Chapter 12: Jake

  Chapter 13: Star

  Chapter 14: Jake

  Chapter 15: Star

  Chapter 16: Jake

  Chapter 17: Star

  Chapter 18: Jake

  Chapter 19: Star

  From the Author

  About the Author

  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.

  Acknowledgements

  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

  UH-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.”

  Little did Jake know I didn’t need any liquor to get high. Because I was high in another way, and it was worse than any drug. Constantly craving more . . .

  Of him.

  “Star, would you like another soda? A coffee? A snack?” It was Biff, Jake’s assistant, asking me for the umpteenth time if I needed anything. She had become my right hand man. Yes “man”, with her deep voice and bull-dyke tendencies. At first I was horrified, told Jake I didn’t want her anywhere near me (after what happened to me when I was a girl), but Biff turned out to be the sweetest, gentlest character, so I let her spoil me. The irony was; it wasn’t Jake Wild who had fallen for me, it was Biff.

  “I’m fine thanks, Biff.” We were on set, me in make-up and jail costume, waiting for my scene. There was a hair in the gate and the cameraman wanted to go again. A shame because the take had been pure perfection.

  “And . . . action!” Jake barked. The set suddenly became bathed in an eerie silence as Meryl stared into space, then rolled her eyes just a touch to the side. To anyone normal it looked like she was doing nothing, but we in the business knew better. This was another Oscar-worthy performance, fused with subtlety and genius. I never tired of observing her and didn’t care about waiting forever to do my scene. The movie set had been my drama school all these years and never more than now. Some of the other actors were in their trailers, doing crosswords or surfing on their laptops. But I stayed rooted to the set because I wanted to watch Jake and Meryl work.

  I watched him get close to her and mutter in her ear. Even though she was a consummate star and Jake so young, he didn’t feel intimidated by her. I saw her nod and then laugh as if what he’d said was a fantastic idea. Leo was running around, checking things were in order, and Make-up and Hair swooped in on Meryl with combs and face powder. Letting her nose and forehead be dusted to get rid of any shine, she tucked her knees under her, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Preparing for the next take: the one where you really see how nuts her character is.

  Biff drew up a director’s chair and sidled next to me. “What do you think of Meryl?” she whispered.

  “I think she’s the best actor I’ve ever seen,” I said. “She’s Bobby de Niro’s all-time favorite actress, did you know that?”

  “That’s praise coming from him.”

  “Sure is.”

  “I’d like to stay but I have to go and collect Jake’s girlfriend from the airport.”

  I felt my stomach fall a thousand feet. I looked up from my mug of coffee at Biff. Surely she’d made a mistake? “Girlfriend?” I hissed, “Jake doesn’t have ‘girlfriends.’ ”

  “I know, right? But he keeps referring to this one as his ‘girlfriend’, News to me, but hey, I’m his assistant, I can’t ask too many personal questions—it’s none of my business.”

  I felt waves of florescent green wash through me. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion I was used to. “Well it is your business actually, Biff,” I said, in a crazed effort to make sense of all this. “You have to be ahead of him in every way. Understand his needs, his whims, his weaknesses. That is, if you want to be the perfect assistant,” I added manipulatively. I knew I’d be able to wheedle info out of Biff at a moment’s notice, and this ‘girlfriend’ topic would be high on my list of priorities.

  Biff’s eyes were puppy dog eyes. Eager to please, innocent. “I do want to be a great assistant, I do. I love my job so much—I want him to be pleased with my work.”

  “An assistant has to be like a second brain, a second heart. You have to know everything about Jake to be his right arm.”

  Biff gazed at me lovingly. “I wish you were his girlfriend,” she said. “Then we’d still see each other even after the movie is over.”

  “Me? I wouldn’t date Jake Wild if he were the last man alive.” The words tumbled out of my mouth—I couldn’t stop them. I laughed—too falsely. Too loud—Meryl looked up at me from across the set. She smiled distractedly and slipped back to her thoughts. I felt tears well in my eyes and my throat tighten.

  Biff touched my hand. “Are you okay, Star? Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m just preparing my next scene,” I lied. “So who is this ‘girlfriend?’ ”

  “Her name’s Cassie . . . Cassandra.”

  “She’ll bring him bad luck,” I quipped.

  “Why?”

  I toyed with my prison-knotty hair—they’d backcombed it for my next scene as I was meant to look rough. “Don’t you know about the Greek legend? Cassandra had the gift of prophecy but was never believed. She could see into the future but everyone thought she was crazy.”

  “I’ve Skyped with her,” Biff said. “She’s not his usual type.”

  “Oh yeah? What does she look like?” and then more urgently, “where did he meet her?”

  “Quiet on set please, we’re going for another take!” shouted Leo. There was the loud snap of the clapperboard. “Take six. And lights! Camera? Silence please, camera’s rolling!”

  “And action!” Jake said.

  I couldn’t concentrate. My pulse was pounding so loudly I thought it would mess up the take—that the sound engineers would be able to hear the ‘boom boom’ of my heart hammering through my chest with their sensitive headphones that picked up the tiniest of noises. Meryl was prodding her arm with a sharp object, her mouth twisted with disgust at herself.

  “And . . . cut! Perfect, Meryl. Have we got that in the can?”

  “Just checking the gate,” Leo said.

  I grabbed Biff by the wrist. “Where did he meet her, Biff?”

  “She’s an ex. Well, kind of.”

  “An ex? Is she pretty?”

  “Okay, I guess. Nothing special. Nothing like you, Star.”

  “So how did they hook up again?” I tried to sound vague, like I was making casual conversation. Not.

  “I’m not sure . . . it’s like something from a long time ago. You know, a teenage thing rekindled.”

  “Rekindled?” I stared at Jake who was smiling with happiness and punching the air with his fist. “Can’t wait to see the dailies—that was perfect,” he was saying to Leo. Jake turned to me, catching my eye, his crooked smile piercing me—our sweet short-lived moment an ever-present memory, haunting me by the second. But my gaze in return was spiked with shards of glass. I forced a grin back. He was wearing fatigues, loose on his hips, his hard stomach peeking through. His dark blond hair disheveled, a dusting of five o’clock shadow on his jaw which made him look sexily tired—a man who’d worked a little too hard but his passion giving him an air of personal triumph. Passion? The thought of that word felt thick in my brain . . . passion for what? For Cassandra? Ugh! Yet what right did I have over him? He wasn’t my boyfriend and he’d made me no promises. The opposite—he’d warned me against himself, telling me he was “bad” and that I should keep away from him.

  He sauntered toward me, still grinning. I felt an unbidden tear tumble down my cheek. He scrunched his brow. “Star, what’s wrong?” A fatherly ‘what’s wrong.’

  You’ve got a girlfriend, that’s what’s goddamn wrong! “Nothing. You know, just feel emotional after Meryl’s scene.”

  “Yeah, she’s the best. Looking forward to yours, next.” He snuck a glance at his watch. “You ready? We should be alright to roll in ten minutes or so.”

  I looked up at him. “I thought I’d play it down, you know? Low-key. So you can come in close.”

  “Well I had planned to start with a two-shot.”

  “If you could do the close-up first you’d be doing me a favor. If Meryl doesn’t mind? I’m feeling the scene right now, you know? If we could go soon, that would be great.”

  “Sure, Star.” He stood tall and yelled, “I want the next shot ready in five! Leo, get this close-u
p going—yeah, close-up, not a two-shot—tell Paul, like, now! Make-up? Hair? Are we ready?”

  My make-up artist, Miriam, came flying over, and so began the fussing. She had maroon-colored powder on the tip of a brush. I was meant to look baggy-eyed and hollow which was a good thing, because I suddenly—after the humdinger girlfriend news—felt like death warmed over.

  Ten minutes later, after Jake called “action” I motionlessly started the scene. I let the tears build slowly, well up, and overflow in streams down my face without wiping them away. I stared at Meryl, imagining her to be the ex, Cassandra, the one taking my light away. I imagined my brother and the damage he’d done. I looked up and stared at the ceiling. I could hear the cameras rolling and silence dance around my ears. I glanced at Meryl. Her lips twisted in spiteful anguish—her character taking her over on command as she let a flicker of a mean smile play on her lips. But the camera was on me, not her; a close-up—just my face and neck, so any expression I made would be giant on screen. Meryl was just being generous—as always—helping my character, Skye, feel pain. In an instant, I let rip. A roar escaped me, like a wild animal caught in a trap. I had meant my performance to be nuanced and small but my instinct took over. I felt immersed in loneliness. A single star in the sky. Alone. I gripped my hair, using my hands like talons and started pulling so my scalp felt raw. Was I overacting? Maybe, but I felt it inside—I really did. I finally said my lines, gritted between my teeth. “You . . . you are . . . an evil. . . . bitch.” Silence rolled on for twenty seconds. I held my gaze, pinning my eyes on Meryl’s. She continued to smirk—her character a cruel force of bastardized nature.

  “Cut!” Jake said quietly. But the camera kept rolling. This is sometimes what happens when a crew becomes invested in a scene. I carried on acting, despite Jake having said ‘cut’ . . . I could hear that wonderful, calming whirr of the camera . . . a sound that was like my second breath . . . my life . . . my existence . . .