Page 573 of Billionaire Beast

“So if I were to tell you that I wanted an eight ball of coke, two hookers of questionable character and gender, a fifth of Jack, along with a quarter of whatever they were giving Snoop Dogg back in the early 2000s, and, just to round it out, at least a dozen people old enough to die in a war but not old enough to drink legally with whom I can enjoy all of the above with me, you’d do it?” I ask.

“Obviously,” he says, “I couldn’t knowingly participate in an illegal action. That said, I haven’t really checked the laws that recently, so I may miss a few things.”

“Excellent,” I tell him.

“So, did you actually want any of that or were you just looking to prove a point?” he asks. “My hooker guy likes to have as much notice as possible—otherwise he has a lot more trouble finding just the right one.”

“You’re not joking, are you?” I ask.

“I guess we’ll never know,” he says. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, I’m good,” I tell him.

“All right,” he says. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be around.”

He leaves the trailer and I take a moment to really appreciate the fact that I have, at my beck and call, someone who has a “hooker guy.”

That’s power.

There’s a knock on my trailer door and I call for whoever’s there to come in.

“Hey, I just wanted to see how you were settling in,” a very familiar voice says.

I look up, and there, ducking his head as he enters my trailer, is Damian Jones.

“Shit,” I say and try to stand up, managing to bend everything except my knees in the process. If it looks half as awkward as it feels, I’m in serious trouble.

; “You don’t have to get up,” he says, a partial smile on his full lips.

Damian Jones is one of those people you can just tell was born to be in the movies. He’s one of those guys you just know came out of the womb with perfectly straight, white teeth and the kind of smile that would provide untold masses of women the motivation to try masturbation for the first time.

It helps that his dirty blond hair always looks like it’s five minutes out of the stylist, and that he’s frequently beefing up for this or that role.

He’s ducking his head a little as he makes his way over to my makeshift couch. He doesn’t find a spot and ends up sitting on my coffee table.

I’m a little messy.

“Just as well,” I tell him. “My legs seem to have forgotten how to work. I’m Emma Roxy.”

No matter what I do at this point, his first impression of me is going to involve the word clumsy. All I have left is the remote possibility that I can add the word charmingly to the front end of the title.

“I’ve seen some of your work,” he says. “You’re good. To tell you the truth, I always thought you weren’t getting the kind of roles that you deserved.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, wondering if I should have put a question mark at the end of the statement. “I’m obviously a great admirer of yours as well.”

“Obviously,” he says.

He’s a little smug.

“So, I hear you got your first scene in and done. How’d that go?” he asks.

My phone starts ringing on the coffee table next to Damian, and for whatever reason, I decide that I don’t want Damian Jones to see who’s calling me. No, it doesn’t make any sense, but I’m still pretty new to this.

I snatch the phone off the table and mute it with my thumb.

Damian is looking up at me, but he’s not saying anything.