Last time on L.A. Connections…

The women of M.B.A. pulled off a power move, setting the stage for a deal with streaming giant FlickFix to keep Siobahn as a client. At Rydell, Brett hit on Iris after her disappointing screen test, prompting Sadie to complain to the board. To smooth things over, Brett promised to get Miranda to represent Iris. Meanwhile, broke and with a bruised ego, Riley joined the Noir Companions escort app after Willow Grant told him his looks were all he had. Iris asked Blake out, but it was Sheldon who ended up in his bed. And The Beast fantasized about killing Miranda.

* * *

Stormy’s office at Sunset Studios sat high above MacArthur Park Lake, offering a tranquil view of the water and palm trees beyond the city buzz. The space was very masculine, with dark walnut walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a glass-and-bronze desk that caught the afternoon light.

Stacks of scripts, call sheets, and the occasional Starbucks cup cluttered the surface, and shelves behind him held film awards and a black-and-white photo of Jonas Lamont—the founder of the studio—shaking hands with Nathan Blackthorne.

“Still nothing from Eddie on the Dominion Protocol leak?” his father asked him from across the room.  

Stormy turned away from the window, the stress evident on his face. His beard was rougher than usual, untrimmed and uneven, and his bloodshot eyes were telltale signs of sleepless nights. His shirt was wrinkled, sleeves shoved up hastily to expose the tattoos that covered both arms. 

“Nothing,” he answered. “He even did background checks on every single employee in I.T.  Not just the kind we do for pre-employment, but deep dives into their personal lives. No red flags.” 

“I.T. only scratches the surface,” James said with a shake of his head. “What about interns, receptionists, contractors—”

“We’re questioning everyone, Dad,” Stormy interrupted. “I’ve got it under control. But if we come on too strong, people are going to take it personally, and then we’ve got a morale problem on top of a security breach.”

“I couldn’t give a shit about morale,” James said sternly. “Do you know how much money we’ve lost on this picture already? Why would people go see it in the theater if they can find a copy online?” 

“We served every website that picked it up with cease and desists.” 

“But how many more are out there that we don’t know about?” James said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I get that you don’t want to ruffle feathers, but this is serious. And if I’m being honest, the only real hesitation I had in handing you the reins was wondering whether you’d be tough enough when it counted. I hope I didn’t get that wrong.”

Stormy didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the floor, his jaw clenched. Finally, he said, “I’m doing the best I can, Dad. It’s not just the studio. Jane and I…” He trailed off, then looked up. “We’ve been trying to get pregnant again. And it’s not going as easily as we thought.”

The room went silent for a moment. Stormy felt the weight of everything that was a stake, the responsibility, the eyes that were on him. This wasn’t like the old days, back when he was running a small-time record label in his twenties, wrecking relationships and blowing through marriages. Back when he cheated on Heather without a second thought, chasing the next thrill, or the next woman who batted her lashes. Or dodging responsibility just to keep up his endless pissing match with Brett. But this was different. This was the big leagues now.

“Some days I feel like I’m letting everyone down. The board, the crew, Jane. You.” 

James walked steadfastly toward him. “Son, you’re not letting anyone down, least of all me. And Jane—no, this is the only relationship you’ve ever had that you actually took seriously. I’m proud of you. You’re a good father to R.J. and you will be to the new baby whenever that happens.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stormy said, exhaling slowly, trying to shake off the weight of his problems.

“But the fact remains that the board is going to want answers on how we’re going to regain control of this situation,” James told him. “And I imagine sooner rather than later since time is of the essence. Do you know what you’re going to tell them?”

Stormy’s gaze locked onto his. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “But I will figure it out. And I’m going to do it on my own.”

* * *

Brett texted Miranda to confirm if she was going to be at her office, and when she did, he showed up ten minutes later.

“Where’d you call from, the parking lot?” she asked sarcastically as he walked into her office, dressed in a slim fitting charcoal gray suit and a crisp white dress shirt with the top three buttons undone.

“Sorry if I’m being a little pushy,” he said, taking a seat in the chair across from her desk. “I’m desperate.”

Miranda arched a brow, her tone dry. “That’s a new one. What is it this time? Don’t tell me you need an alibi.”

He flashed her a wry look before leaning forward. “I need you to take on a new client and not ask a lot of questions.” 

She studied him carefully. “Oh, this should be good.”

“I took a meeting with an actress who I thought had potential, but during her reading, I decided otherwise,” he explained, but was quick to add: “Not that there’s anything wrong with her. I just don’t have anything for her right now.  Anyway, one thing led to another and—” 

“You slept with her,” Miranda finished for him. 

“No! I didn’t sleep with her. I just kissed her and maybe fondled her a little.” 

“What?” Miranda exclaimed loudly. “That’s worse!” 

“How is that worse?” Brett asked. 

Miranda stood up, chuckling to herself. “At least if you had slept with her, it would have showed mutual interest,” she said. “But you putting the moves on this poor unsuspecting girl is just…pervy.”

He exhaled deeply and placed his hands over his face. “I can’t help it. I see a pretty young woman and I just can’t help myself. But then her sister lodged a complaint and Jordan threatened to oust me unless I fixed it, so I said I’d get you to represent her.”

“Typical, Brett,” Miranda said, folding her arms. “Once again, your oversexed stamina turns into a mess that somehow ends up in my lap.”

“I’ll do anything,” he said.

She hesitated, then sighed and nodded. “Fine, I’ll see her. But only because the idea of you being her one shot at making it in this business is just…tragic. I won’t let some poor girl go through that. Send me her info and I’ll set something up.”

“Thanks, Miranda. I owe you.”  He rose to his feet. “Oh, and there’s one other thing. Her sister is her manager and she’s a piece of work. Just FYI.”  

Narrowing her eyes on him, she wondered how he’d ever gotten her and Heather to marry him. He was the one who was a piece of work. 

* * *

Vaughan Novak sat at a corner booth at the Polo Lounge, dressed sharply in a dark suit, checking his phone until his son arrived.

Sheldon slid into the seat across from him, wearing a vintage tee shirt under a blazer as if he hadn’t decided whether to care or not.

“You dress like Ezra Miller’s closet threw up on you,” Vaughan said, pouring sparkling water into a glass. “And the hostess still asked for your autograph.”

Sheldon smirked. “Blame the cheekbones.”

The waiter dropped off their starters as they both absently tapped at their phones. 

“How was New York?” Vaughan asked. “The play was very well received from what I heard.”  

“Oh, so you did hear about it,” Sheldon said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “I wasn’t sure since you never made it to any of the shows.” 

Vaughan sighed. “God forbid we skip foreplay.”  He finally set his phone down.  “Look, I’ve been busy and I am sorry that I couldn’t make it out there. With pilot season coming up—”

“Pilot season isn’t for another two months,” Sheldon interrupted, looking up at his father.  “The show ran for a year. Do you know how much of me went into writing it? The blood, sweat and tears that it took to get all those feelings out on paper?”  

“Yes, your tragic coming out story,” Vaughan said and gulped from his water glass. “Which, mind you, depicted me a homophobic asshole. And you wonder why I didn’t fly out to see our lives play out in an off Broadway theater?” 

“If you’d actually watched it,” Sheldon began, shaking his head, “you’d know it was about a journey—one that ended with you finally accepting me, differences and all.”

Vaughan stuffed a forkful of smoked salmon into his mouth while gesturing and shaking his head.  “Look, I don’t want to get into it, Son. I’m sorry that I didn’t see your play. That doesn’t mean I’m not proud of you for what you’ve accomplished. You’re a gifted writer.”  

“I’ve been writing again,” Sheldon said. “This one’s good. Not a vanity piece. You’d like it.”

“I’m looking forward to reading it.”  He swiftly changed subjects to something he thought would be safer.  “How is Blake?”

Sheldon eyed him suspiciously.  “Why are you asking me about Blake?”

“I just assumed you’ve seen him since you got back,” Vaughan explained. “The two of you were on the verge of working things out again before you left for New York.”

“I ran into him at Miranda Blackthornes’ birthday party the other night,” Sheldon told him, but thought better of following it up with details of the explosive sex they had at Blake’s house the following day. 

Vaughan’s ears perked up. “What’s he working on at the moment? Any big doings at FlickFix?”

Sheldon picked at their appetizer. “Actually, he’s got a big meeting with Miranda and Siobahn Saxton tomorrow. Some sort of exclusivity deal for a limited series.” 

“Is that so,” Vaughan said, a grin forming across his face. “Tell me more.” 

“That’s really all I know,” Sheldon revealed. “Supposed to be some kind of a big power grab.  You know I don’t follow a lot of that business stuff. Another difference between you and I.”

“Yes, you’re the artist,” Vaughan remarked. “Like your mother was.” 

Resisting the temptation to grab his phone and put feelers out to confirm Miranda’s intentions, Vaughan instead bided his time.  “Tell me more about this new project you’re working on.”  

* * *

Miranda’s next visitor at M.B.A was a much more welcome one.  When her husband sauntered in with her favorite salad from Joan’s on Third, she happily threw her arms around him and drew him into a kiss.  

“How did you know I was starving?” she asked, eagerly digging into the bag of takeout food.  

“You said you didn’t have any lunch meetings today, which is a first, so I thought I’d be a hero and make sure you ate something,” Eddie told her. “Besides, slow day at the office.”

“You are my hero,” Miranda said with a grin. “Still nothing on the leak at Sunset Studios?”

He dropped into the chair across from her desk. “I know it sounds nuts, but this feels professional. I’m starting to think it might not be an inside job after all.”

Miranda drizzled a scant spoonful of dressing over her Chinese chicken salad. “You don’t think Brett would have—”

Eddie picked up on her thought process and quickly dismissed it with a shake of his head.  “No, Stormy is sure that’s not the case. Seems like it would be a futile effort anyway.”

Miranda swirled her salad with her fork, not putting anything past Brett, but thinking Eddie was probably right. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find something. Meanwhile, I’ve got to start brainstorming for the meeting at FlickFix tomorrow. I need to close this deal before Vaughan tries anything.”

“I’m sure you’ll knock it out of the park, babe,” Eddie said with confidence.  “How many times has Vaughan Novak tried to go up against you and failed?”

She set the salad down and began pacing. “I know, but this time feels different. I can’t explain it, I just… I’ve got a bad feeling. Like I might actually lose this one.” She stopped, shaking her head as if to ward off the thought, but it hung stubbornly over her head.

She motioned to the room around her. “I can’t lose this. I fought too hard to build it.”

Eddie stepped toward her, gently taking her arm.  “You’re forgetting one thing.”  His thumb traced over the Cartier panther bracelet—his gift that was a reminder of her strength.  “You’re Miranda Blackthorne. Success and determination are in your DNA. Vaughan Novak doesn’t stand a chance.”

Her lips curled into a smile as she pulled him into an embrace.  “What would I do without you?” she said. He always had a way of putting her mind at ease.

“Luckily you won’t have to find out,” Eddie replied, then looked at his watch. “Shoot, I gotta get going.”

“Thanks for lunch,” Miranda said and walked him to the door. 

“Love you,” Eddie said and kissed her.  “Don’t forget we have dinner tonight at Stormy and Jane’s.”  

“Love you too,” Miranda said.

After he left, she returned to her desk and speared a piece of lettuce with her fork. Her eyes drifted to the bracelet on her wrist. She stared at it for a second, then gave a small, firm nod.

“You’ve got this,” she murmured. 

* * *

In the hazy afternoon sun, Blake and Iris strolled side by side along the Santa Monica Pier, coffees in hand from Dogtown while Betsy trotted along beside them. The wood planks creaked beneath their feet, the air thick with salty sea spray.

“Remind me again why we’re drinking hot coffee in the sun?” she asked, glancing up at him.

He smirked. “Because iced coffee is a crime against humanity.”

Iris laughed. A few kids ran past them toward the arcade while a saxophone played in the distance.

“I’m glad you called,” she said, unable to look away from him. Those dark, brooding eyes. The thin mustache tracing his upper lip. And that perfect hint of a five o’clock shadow.  “I thought maybe you weren’t interested, or that you thought I was just some dumb—”

“Iris, I need to tell you something,” Blake said, gently cutting her off. “I didn’t say anything earlier because…well, I didn’t want to assume I knew how you were feeling. But…I’m gay.”

The words lingered in the air, suspended between the crashing waves and the sounds of the pier behind them.  Iris blinked, the sting of surprise spreading quickly. There was embarrassment, sure, but underneath it, a pang of disappointment.

She gave a tight smile and stifled her feelings. “Yeah, I knew that,” she said with a chortle.  “I mean, duh.”  

Skeptical, Blake grinned. “Did you?”  

She dropped her pretense and stopped her leisure stroll.  “No, I didn’t know.  Ugh, you must think I’m a total idiot.” 

He turned toward her as she stared out over the ocean, fingers clutching the railing.  “I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he said gently. “You’re sweet. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner, but… I wasn’t sure if you just wanted to be friends, or if you were hoping for something else.”

She let out a dry laugh. “It’s not your fault. Excuse me while I go throw myself off the pier.”

“Iris, stop,” Blake said, leaning beside her. “We can still be friends, though. Right?”

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Yeah. Of course. You’re a cool guy. I like talking to you.”

He smiled. “You’re pretty cool yourself.”

They started walking again, slower this time. The sun reflected off the waves and the wind pulled at her hair as she clung a little tighter to her coffee.

“So,” she said after a beat, her voice casual but curious, “are you seeing anyone?”

Blake inhaled and scoffed at the loaded question. “Sort of,” he admitted. “It’s not official. Just… complicated. There’s this on-again, off-again thing that’s been dragging on for a long time. But the truth is, if Pedro Pascal showed up asking me to marry him, I’d probably say yes. So take that for what it’s worth.” 

Iris laughed, more comfortable now.  “Have you ever been in love?” 

His gaze darkening, Blake nodded. “Yeah, I have.”

“Sounds like he was a lucky guy.”   

Blake smiled faintly. “Well, I never told him. He was my best friend and… I was always just afraid to, I guess.”  

Iris detected a sadness in him.  “Well, you know what they say—it’s never too late.”  

Blake exhaled deeply. “He died.”

Strike two. Iris just couldn’t keep her foot out of her mouth.  “Oh, god, Blake, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he assured her.  “It was a long time ago.”

They strolled for a minute in silence.  Betsy barked at a seagull that swooped down and landed on the railing.   

“Did you always know you were gay?” Iris asked. Another loaded question. She apparently couldn’t help herself. 

“Not really. I mean, technically I don’t label myself. I’ve dated women before. None in recent years, but some time ago.”

“Labels are the worst, aren’t they?” Iris said, forcing a laugh in hopes of lightening the mood.

“I’m glad you said it,” Blake replied, letting out a real laugh. “God. Okay, shifting gears—any auditions coming up?”

Iris tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “No auditions, but I do have a meeting with a talent agency the day after tomorrow.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No way. Who?”

“The Miranda Blackthorne Agency.”

Blake stopped in his tracks. “You’re kidding. Miranda Blackthorne is my sister-in-law.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Seriously? That’s insane. I mean, what are the odds?”

He grinned. “I know, right? Like we were meant to cross paths or something.”

Iris held his gaze, momentarily caught up in his smile, the way his eyes seemed to draw her in despite everything.  It felt like the perfect meet-cute—the chance encounter, the charm, the chemistry. But fate, apparently, had a different storyline in mind.

She gave a half smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

* * *

At the M.B.A. offices, Kelly was perched on the edge of the conference table, her laptop open but forgotten as she absently twisted the cap of her water bottle. Miranda leaned against the glass wall, scrolling through her phone, while Jane sat nearby, reviewing headshots for an upcoming casting pitch.

A quiet knock interrupted their brainstorming session as Heather stepped inside. “Kelly, there’s someone here to see you. Says he’s your father’s attorney.”

Kelly straightened. “Oh?”

Moments later, a tall, silver-haired man in a navy suit stepped into the room, briefcase in hand. His face was vaguely familiar to Kelly. 

“Miss Kahoano,” he said gently. “I’m not sure if you remember me. We met once shortly after your father passed. Richard Allister. I managed Matthew’s estate.”

Kelly blinked, then nodded as she suddenly recognized him. “Yes… of course. It’s been a while. How are you?” She stood, extending her hand.

“Fine, thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” she added, “but I thought everything with the estate was resolved. It’s been almost a year.”

“It was,” he said, setting his briefcase on the conference table. “But something recently came to light.”  He opened the briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope.

Kelly took it slowly and tentatively. “What is this?”

“The deed to a parcel of coastal land near Refugio State Beach. Roughly sixty-eight acres. Unimproved, but pristine.”

Kelly blinked. “I… I didn’t know he owned any land.”

“We didn’t either until a tax bill was forwarded to our office as the last known financial contact your father had,” the man explained.  “But as his sole heir, the land is yours now.”

Heather let out a low whistle. Jane sat back, stunned. Miranda stepped forward, peering over Kelly’s shoulder at the deed.

“Do you have any idea what this is worth?” Miranda asked.

Richard nodded. “The last appraisal came in at just over twenty million. It’s likely worth more now.”

Kelly’s mouth opened but no sound came out. She stared down at the papers in her hands in disbelief.  “This can’t be real,” she said softly.

Richard smiled. “Trust me, it is.”

Jane stepped forward. “Do you know how Matthew wound up with that land? He was in the military. He didn’t have any money.” Her eyes went to Kelly for confirmation. “Did he?”

All Kelly could do was shake her head. 

“All we know is that the land was gifted to Matthew,” Richard told them. 

“By who?” Miranda asked. 

“Someone he served with in the Gulf War. But unfortunately, that’s all we know.”

Miranda stepped closer and laid a hand gently on Kelly’s back. “Looks like Matthew left you more than memories.”

Kelly swallowed hard and nodded, still dazed. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Looks like he did.”

* * *

On his way back to his office at Rydell Productions, the studio’s financial controller called Brett requesting an urgent meeting, which was never a good thing.  When the elevator doors opened, his secretary, Sam, was immediately at his side.

“Jim Morton’s been asking for you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth with urgency. “He’s—”

“I know,” Brett muttered as he stepped into his office where Jim sat stiffly in one of the guest chairs. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What’s going on? You sounded panicked on the phone.”  

“Well, I don’t mean to alarm you, Brett,” the nervous looking man said as he pushed a pair of wire rimmed glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “But I thought you should know I just finished the September P&L, and the numbers aren’t good.”  

Brett took the document and dropped into his chair. After a quick scan, his brow furrowed.
“How the hell is this possible?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the page.  “Where are all these expenses coming from?” 

Jim reached across the desk and gestured with a slender finger. “Well, if you’ll notice, I took the liberty of outlining those on the second page. Most come from the last two pictures we released. Costs were way over budget.” 

“But we were expecting that,” Brett told him. “The A-list cast, location shoots, rewrites—I thought we built those into the budget.”

“We planned for overages, yes, but the delays, the reshoots, postproduction costs… it all spiraled way past what we were forecasting.”  

With a heavy sigh, Brett leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Just when he’d gotten control of one situation, another one reared its ugly head.

“Okay, give it to me straight, Jim,” he said. “What are we looking at?”

The man handed him another piece of paper which Brett snatched hastily from him.  “I think we can avoid payroll being affected, but we’re already in production on four other films. If we shelf The Procedural, we can avoid—”

“We’re not shelving The Procedural,” Brett interrupted, his tone adamant. 

“But if you’ll just—”

“This film has so much awards season buzz, if we shelved it now, it would be like cutting off our nose despite our face.”

Jim took the document back. “We could always delay production on one of the other films…”

“I don’t want to delay anything,” Brett snapped. “There’s got to be another way.”

“We bring in a short-term investor,” Jim offered. “That would cover the gap until revenue starts flowing again.”

Brett nodded, quick and emphatic. “Yes. Do it. The more we can make it look like business as usual, the better. I swear, Jordan and the board have been circling me like vultures lately.”

Jim rose to his feet.  “I’ll start making some calls.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Brett said, though his mind was already ten steps ahead, running through the worst-case scenarios of the latest crisis. 

* * *

At seven o’clock, Riley’s shift at the Wilshire Country Club was nearing its end, and his tip count was embarrassingly low. You’d think the parade of Bentleys and Jaguars pulling up would mean wide-open wallets, but most of the time it was just the opposite.

“Sorry, no cash,” they’d say with a wince, followed by a rushed, “I’ll get you on the way out.”

 They never did.

 It wouldn’t sting so much if the valet manager would allow them to point to the discreet sign about Venmo tips, but no. “Too gauche,” he’d said. “Would look too much like we’re begging.”

Tell that to my dwindling bank account, Riley thought to himself with an uneasy sigh.

He slid into the luxurious leather seat of a silver Aston Martin, the door clicking shut with a sound so smooth he could barely believe it. The engine purred to life when he pressed the ignition. He guided it around the valet loop and pulled into the designated spot, adjusted the wheel with care, and sat for a minute longer than necessary.

One day.

One day he wouldn’t be clocking into a minimum wage job wearing a cheap blazer with a valet tag on his chest. One day someone else would be parking his car. One day he’d be walking into that country club through the front entrance, not hustling across the lot for someone else’s ego trip.

He took a breath, cut the engine, and climbed out slowly. The door shut behind him with that same satisfying click. He glanced at the chrome details, the flawless shine, the plate that probably cost more than his last three paychecks.

He took his time walking back to the porte cochere, tapping at his phone and pulling up the Noir Companions app.  His thumb hovered over the Create Profile button. After a slight pause, he clicked it.

Name.  He hesitated. “Riley” felt too intimate, too traceable. He typed: Nick.

Age. He lied and shaved off two years. 24.

Profession.  Aspiring actor. Former college athlete. 

Then came the photos. He selected three: a shirtless gym selfie, a cropped headshot he’d once used for casting sites, and a suit photo from his friend’s cousin’s wedding that made him look like someone with at least a chance at a future.

He dragged them into the upload window, then paused at the final question:

What are you looking for?

He was pretty sure the women on the app already knew exactly what they wanted—and that the men advertising themselves knew how to give it to them—so the question felt pointless. Like a movie where everyone already knew the ending.

Riley tapped the keys lightly before settling on:  Something casual. No drama. Let’s have a good time…whatever that means for you.  

He read everything over again twice. At least it didn’t scream desperation. His finger hovered over the Submit button. He clenched his jaw. Then, without letting himself think any harder, he pressed it. 

“Who’s Nick?” Steve asked, leaning over Riley’s shoulder from behind.

Riley nearly launched his phone across the valet stand. “Jesus, Steve, don’t sneak up on people.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all as he snatched the phone out of Riley’s hand before he could react. His eyes skimmed the screen, and a grin spread across his face. “Noir Companions?  Wait, I’ve heard of this…”

“Hey, give it back.” Riley lunged for it, but Steve pivoted away, holding it just out of reach.

“Five eleven, one eighty, muscular build… eight cut,” Steve read aloud, then arched a brow and laughed. “Riiiight. In your dreams, buddy.”

“Cut it out, man.”

Steve grinned. “What is this? Trying to monetize the abs before the dad bod sets in?”

Riley snatched the phone back, face flushed. “Mind your own business.”

But Steve was already laughing, shaking his head. “Damn. You really are trying to make it in Hollywood.  Does Natalie know about your second job?”

“No, and if you say anything to her, I’ll kill you. Besides, I haven’t met anyone yet. I just downloaded the app.”

“And filled out your profile, and attached a pic taken with an impressive chest day pump,” Steve continued in a joking manner. “I’m kidding. I won’t say anything. But seriously, what’s up?”

Riley dropped the phone into his interior chest pocket. “Just wanted to build up a little cushion, you know.  Money’s tight and I have a wife to support. I’m not saying I’ll go through with it.”  

“Bullshit,” Steve said with a grin.

When three vibrations came from Riley’s pocket, he pulled the phone out and narrowed his eyes on the screen. Already three messages. He couldn’t believe it.

“See what they say,” Steve said, a little more excited than he needed to be.

Riley opened the app and scrolled through the notifications. EliseM88 wrote: ‘You’re gorgeous. Available tonight? West Hollywood. Discreet’. VIPVenus said: ‘Dinner date. Beverly Hills. Must be able to hold a conversation and wear a suit. Interested?’. MilaReal started the conversation with: ‘That smirk in your third pic? Dangerous. When can we meet?’.

“Oof, look at MilaReal,” Steve said, gawking at the screen. “Why’s she need to pay for it? She’s fire, man. Shit, I’d fuck her for free anyday.” 

Riley gave him a crusty side eye. “You have a girlfriend.” 

“So, you have a wife!  Do it, man.” 

Riley shook his head. “No, I can’t.” He clicked off the phone and slipped it back into the pocket of his blazer.  “I’d feel too….”

“Studly?” Steve finished for him.  “Man, don’t get too much in your head about this. Look, it’s dead tonight. You’re not gonna make any more money in the next two hours. I’ll say you got sick and went home.”

Conflicted, Riley began to wonder how he would feel afterwards when he had to look Natalie in the eyes. He’d never so much as kissed another woman since they got together. He looked, sure, but never with any serious intentions.  

Once again, he pulled the phone out and looked at the pictures MilaReal had sent. She was a gorgeous Latina woman with radiant, tan skin and enormous breasts. His weakness.  

“If you don’t do it, I’m going over there and telling her I’m Nick,” Steve said. 

MilaReal sent a pin with her address and one final message that read: ‘Cumming?’.  

“Fuck it,” Riley said, tapping out a brief reply: ‘Be there in half an hour’. 

“There ya go,” Steve said, patting him on the shoulder. “I wanna hear all the details tomorrow.”

His stomach doing flips, Riley dashed inside to change and get his things from his locker, the whole while assuring himself he was doing this for the money. For him and Natalie. 

* * *

Stormy and Jane’s house in Beverly Hills was pure old Hollywood glamour. Once owned by the late television and movie legend Elana Hendricks, the estate sat behind tall hedges and wrought-iron gates, its white stucco façade surrounded by climbing roses and olive trees. Inside were arched doorways, Art Deco light fixtures, and a sunken living room where Elana once hosted martini-soaked parties. 

Jane stepped down into the living room with a tray of drinks—an old fashioned for Miranda and a Gimlet for Eddie. While Miranda reached for hers, R.J. slyly made a grab for Eddie’s drink. Jane quickly slapped his hand away.  

“Nice try,” she said with a wry smile.   

“Busted,” the young man mused.  

Ryan James Blackthorne Jr., or R.J. as he’d been called since he was born, was fifteen and at that awkward age between boyhood and adolescence. He was lanky with a shock of dark hair and a voice that cracked when he spoke. He had a restless energy that bordered on impulsiveness. No doubt the result of his Blackthorne’s genes, Jane had often jokingly remarked.

 “Why don’t you take your cousin into the den and play PlayStation while we wait for dinner,” Stormy said to his son as he entered the room.  

Across the room, Tiger was slouched in a chair. She let out a dramatic sigh and rose to her feet, throwing Miranda a look.

“Oh, is that allowed now? Or am I supposed to sit quietly and watch?”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Sit, stand, roll your eyes—I don’t care, as long as you remember who’s writing the check when you come asking for a car in a couple years.”

“Oh, so now you’re blackmailing me—” Tiger began. 

“Ugh, go!” Miranda said and pointed off in the direction R.J. was headed.

Once they were out of earshot, Stormy stifled a laugh.  “Sorry, I didn’t know World War III was still going on. I take it grounding is not going well.”  

Sighing, Miranda took a big drink of her old fashioned. “One more day. That is, if she can keep from punching any more of her classmates.  How is it you two don’t have these problems with R.J.? I mean, how did you guys luck out in the kid department?”

“I didn’t have a hand in that,” Jane said and held her hands up in protest. “That’s all Stormy and Kelly’s doing.”

“Yeah, but you’ve helped raise him,” Miranda reminded her. 

“Tiger just takes after her mothers rebellious nature,” Eddie chimed in.

“That’s your husband’s way of saying you were a pain in the ass, too,” Stormy said, flinching when Jane punched him playfully in the arm. “Kidding!”  

Miranda rolled her eyes at her brother and then reached for her phone. “Which reminds me, I got a text from Brooke.” She pulled up a recent photo and turned it so the others could see.  “Michael dropped in on them in Maui. I guess fall semester doesn’t start for another week.”

“Nice,” Stormy said, looking at the photo of Brooke—their father’s ex-wife—posing for a selfie with her husband, Ethan, who was he and Miranda’s cousin. Rounding out the photo was their nineteen-year-old son, Michael.

“Yeah, they look happy,” Eddie remarked.  

Suddenly, Miranda remembered she hadn’t given her brother shit for holding out on her.  “Hey, by the way, my own brother doesn’t bother telling me that he’s trying to become a father again?” she asked.  “What’s that all about?’ 

Eddie winced.  “Miranda, I don’t think he wants to talk about it.” 

“Why?” she asked incredulously. “I think it’s great news. Unless of course you wind up with a demon spawn like I did.” 

“Miranda, would you just drop it,” Stormy said, his eyes flickering toward Jane who stood awkwardly silent.  

“What?” she asked, confused as her gaze bounced from Stormy to Jane to Eddie.

“Stormy asked us not to bring it up,” Eddie said through the corner of his mouth.  “I forgot to tell you.”

“Guys, it’s okay,” Jane insisted. “We can talk about it. It’s not a big deal.  Stormy, you told them not to talk about it?” 

“I just didn’t want you to feel like you were under a microscope,” he confessed.  

“The only thing making me feel like that is you drawing attention to it,” Jane said, obviously trying not to get upset.  “Look, there’s no secret. I already told Miranda we’re trying to get pregnant. It might happen and it might not. Whatever the outcome, I’ll deal with it.”  

“Absolutely,” Stormy said, throwing an arm around her and kissing her cheek.

“Hear, hear,” Eddie chimed in, lifting his glass.

As everyone took a sip, Miranda smacked Eddie on the back of the head. He choked, vodka spraying from his mouth.

“Thanks a lot,” she turned and whispered. “Why didn’t you warn me not to bring it up?”

“I forgot,” Eddie muttered, dabbing his chin with a napkin.

Across the room, Stormy steered the conversation. “So, tomorrow’s the big day, huh? The FlickFix pitch.”

“Yeah, cross your fingers,” Jane said. “There’s a lot riding on this deal.”

“But no pressure,” Miranda added with a dry smile. “Just my entire career.”

“You’ll kill it,” Jane assured her. “Vaughan Novak doesn’t stand a chance against the M.B.A.”

Stormy’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, then frowned.

Miranda detected the shift in his expression. “What is it?”

He looked up. “Guess I’ll be fighting for mine too. Dad says the board wants to see me first thing. They expect a plan to fix the fallout from the leak.”

The room went quiet, the weight of what was ahead settling over them.

* * *

Inside Vaughan’s office that night, city lights flickered through the window, casting a bluish glow across his desk. He leaned back in his chair, his sleeves rolled up, as his assistant, Travis, entered the room hesitantly.  

“You were right,” Travis said. “Miranda’s pitching Siobahn to FlickFix. Some kind of exclusive deal. It’s set for tomorrow.” 

Vaughan smiled slowly.  “Of course she is. Miss Blackthorne thinks she’s ahead of the curve. Cute.”  He leaned forward. “Pull up Zoanne Voss’s contact info. She’s still in charge of acquisitions at FlickFix, right?” 

“Yeah. Want me to set up a call?” 

Hesitating, Vaughan finally shook his head. “Come to think of it, no. Just give Zoanne a heads up. Make sure it’s anonymous. Something about erratic behavior on Siobahn’s last shoot in London. Mention that little dust-up with the director, then let them connect the dots.”  

“Got it,” Travis said and left the room.  

Vaughan watched the door close behind him, then walked to the window. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, smoothed the crease in his slacks, and smiled to himself.

“Let Miranda pitch her heart out,” he murmured. “By the time she walks into that meeting, the offer will already be dead.”

* * *

Mila’s apartment was perched high above West Hollywood. In the lobby downstairs, Riley must have changed his mind about fifteen times. Finally, he pushed the call button of her unit number. Moments later, the elevator doors opened. Now there he was, standing outside her door willing himself to knock. He finally did with three quick raps against the door.

The door opened almost immediately. Mila stood in a silk kimono; her hair tied up carelessly like she’d just gotten out of a bath. She was older than him by at least ten years—maybe more— but her photos were thankfully true to life.

“You must be Nick,” she said, a hint of an accent evident, smiling like she already knew every inch of him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed lightly. “Don’t call me that. Come in.”

Tentatively, he stepped inside. The apartment was spacious and clean—jazz playing from speakers somewhere. The city lights shimmered through the windows like a blanket of stars. 

“You’re prettier in person,” Mila said, closing the door behind him. Her voice was warm and surprisingly calming. “You nervous?”

“A little,” he admitted.

She walked to a bar cart and poured two flutes of champagne. The real stuff. Not the crap they served at his friend’s cousin’s wedding in Van Nuys.

“That’s okay. First times always are,” she said, handing him a glass. “Sit.”

He obeyed, perching on the edge of a velvet couch that probably cost more than the 2017 Mustang he’d gotten for graduation. He tried not to look too rigid.

Mila sat beside him, tucking one leg underneath her and letting the silk robe fall just enough to reveal soft, supple skin. 

“So,” she said, clinking her glass against his. “What made you sign up?”

He hesitated. “Honestly? I need the money.”

She smiled. “Fair enough. I signed up because I have an insatiable sexual appetite and I love young, gorgeous men. What I don’t love is dating in L.A. It’s literally the worst. I’d rather someone like you come over, service me appropriately, and then leave.” As she spoke, she tapped at her phone. His made the sound of a cash register opening. “I just sent you your fee.” 

Riley relaxed a bit more. Should he look? They hadn’t even talked money yet. No, he decided. That would ruin the mood. He could finally actually see himself going through with this.

“Well, Nick,” she murmured, voice low and knowing. “Should we get started?” 

He nodded silently.

One by one, Mila undid the buttons on his shirt. She slid it off his shoulders and down his arms, then let it fall to the floor.

“Your body is…amazing,” she said, almost to herself.  Her fingers trailed lightly along his bicep, then lower. 

He swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Mila circled him slowly, her fingertips teasing him at the waistband of his chinos. Then she came to a stop in front of him again, reaching for the buckle on his belt.

Riley’s breath got caught in his throat.

The belt slid loose. Mila took her time with the button and zipper.  

He stepped out of his pants, standing now in only his briefs. She looked him over, slowly, then lifted her eyes to meet his. She stepped back toward the velvet sofa and sat down at the edge, her robe falling further open and her breasts tumbling out. Then, with a slow gesture, she patted the space beside her.

“Come here.”

When he did, she lowered his briefs and wrapped her lips around his dick, which had already grown to its full mast. He threw his head back in ecstasy. It had been so long since he felt the touch of another woman. He flushed and felt warm standing naked in the room.  

“Do you like these?” she asked, looking up with brown eyes as she lifted her enormous tits into her hands.

Riley nodded, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his brow. When she wrapped her breasts around his dick and began moving them up and down the shaft, he nearly lost it. It was a move he’d seen in every porno he’d ever watched, but had never experienced it. It was the most exhilarated he’d ever felt being with a woman. 

After a few minutes, she lay back against the velvet couch and pulled him down on top of her. Riley eagerly went down on her. She bucked her hips up and down with such force that he had to restrain her. She came at least once—maybe twice. 

By the time they actually fucked, Riley was in top form. He performed the moves that had always gotten him accolades from other girls. Mila came again, her hands on his hips as she drew him deeper inside.

When he came, she made him pull out and aim for her breasts, which he didn’t mind. Watching her rub the sticky substance into her skin made him yearn to do it again, but she said she was satisfied. 

She let him shower before dressing and heading out. As he reached the door, towel-dried and a little dazed, she gave his ass a firm pat and winked.

“Good job, Nick.”

The line was appropriate punctuation for the evening—neat and final. It sealed the whole experience as what it was: a transaction. Services rendered. And to his surprise, he didn’t even feel guilty. Maybe it was because there was no kissing. That somehow kept it clean.

Out on the sidewalk, he pulled out his phone and checked the app. A number blinked back at him.

“A thousand dollars?” he whispered, stunned.

No chance in hell he would’ve made that during a shift at the club.

When he got home, Natalie was still at the restaurant. He showered again, changed into clean underwear, a pair of lounge shorts, and his worn Miley Cyrus t-shirt. He sat down on the edge of the couch and turned on the TV to something he didn’t really pay attention to.

He’d done it, and he was a thousand dollars richer. For what? Doing something he enjoyed anyway?  What was the harm, really?

* * *

The next morning, Stormy stepped into the boardroom at Sunset Studios, nodding once as a dozen heads turned his way, most of them wearing impatient expressions. They wanted answers, after all. His father sat near the center of the table, offering a faint, steady smile that lightened the tension a bit. Stormy straightened his shoulders and began.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I know this isn’t where any of us wanted to be today. A leaked film and bad press none of us can control is not exactly the highlight of Sunset Studios’ reign over this town.” 

He paused, scanning the room. James gave a slight nod, the only encouraging face in the crowd other than Renee Merteuil, but she wasn’t the only one he had to convince.

“But the reality is we can’t undo the leak. What we can do is change the perception. Right now, everyone’s scrambling, but what if we stop treating it like a leak and start treating it like a launch?”

Quiet murmurs made their way around the table. Stormy pressed on.

“I propose we release exclusive behind-the-scenes content, cast interviews, production stills, commentary reels. We flood social media and fan platforms. We turn the leak into a teaser, a fan-first experience, not a security failure.”

He glanced around, locking eyes with a skeptical finance chair.

“Then we take control. We drop the premium version of the film on FlickFix or another streaming platform. 4K quality, full runtime, bonus content, the works. At the same time, we’re launching limited theatrical runs in major cities and turning them into events like live cast Q&As. I’m saying we don’t fight the attention, but instead we try to turn it into something that works for us.”

Stormy let the room settle for a few tense moments, which turned into a full minute of awkward silence. He couldn’t tell what anyone was thinking. Suddenly, he saw smiles crawl over the faces of his father and of Renee.  

“I like it,” James said, glancing around at the rest of the board members presumably to gauge their reactions. 

Donna Moreno, a wealthy philanthropist nodded in agreement. “A very well conceived solution,” she agreed.  

“I think it’s a wonderful plan,” Renee said. 

Stormy smiled with relief.  Even the skeptical finance chair seemed to nod along with approval. 

James rose to his feet. “Then unless the board has any other business at this time, I suggest we adjourn.”  

Excited muttering erupted as the board members got up and began filing out of the room.  A few paused to give Stormy a congratulatory pat on the back.

“Well done,” James said, steering him to the side of the room. 

“I’m satisfied,” Renee agreed with a shrug.   

Stormy let out a deep breath. “Thanks.”     

James looked his son in the eyes with admiration. He turned slightly toward Renee and offered a polite, “I’ll see you later,” before returning his focus to Stormy, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. 

“Looks like I pulled it off,” Stormy announced shakily.

“You did,” James began, his tone more serious now. “And what I said in your office yesterday about hoping I wasn’t wrong handing over the reins to you—well, you’ve proven yourself today just as you always do. There’s not a doubt in my mind that you are the man to take this studio into the future. I’m proud of you.” 

Stormy smiled.  While he no longer felt the need to have his father’s approval in everything he did, it was nice in this situation to know he had it. 

* * *

Standing tall in Studio City in close proximity to CBS, the glass and steel executive offices of FlickFix oozed new Hollywood. Miranda and Siobahn stepped off the elevator as if it were a runway, dressed to kill in head-to-toe designer couture, each emanating loads of confidence.

Blake stood near the conference table, coffee in hand, wearing a fitted button-down hugging the curves of his biceps. 

“Welcome,” he said to Miranda, then turned to Siobahn. “And to the woman who sent me down a two-hour IMDB rabbit hole.”

Siobahn grinned. “Hopefully in a good way.”

Blake chuckled. “Without a doubt.”

Zoanne Voss, who was the VP of Talent, rose from her seat and extended a hand to both of them. She was a straight shooter in the entertainment industry, firm and direct and often lacking subtlety. 

She pushed her large glasses up on the bridge of her nose while swirling the remnants of her lukewarm latte in its cup.  “Miranda. Siobahn. Glad you could make it.”

They all took their seats, small talk tapering off as the tone in the room shifted.

Zoanne cleared her throat delicately. “Before we get into specifics, I want to be transparent. There’s been… chatter. Concerns about some on-set behavior during the London shoot with Sunset Studios. Our PR team flagged a few things, and we just want to make sure we’re not walking into a high-risk situation.”

Siobahn’s smile faded and her posture stiffened. “Wait, what? That was—whatever happened on that set was exaggerated. I had every right—”

Miranda placed a calming hand on Siobahn’s arm but kept her eyes locked on Zoanne.

“Chatter,” she repeated slowly. “And where exactly is this chatter coming from?”

“Industry noise. You know how these things spread.”

Blake looked away, suddenly very interested in his coffee cup.

Miranda’s expression didn’t shift, but the ease of her expression changed sharply. She gave a vague smile that could almost be taken as a warning.  “Right. Noise.”

Siobahn leaned in to Miranda, her expression incredulous. “They think I’m a liability? You’ve got to be kidding me with this.” 

Miranda turned to her, voice low and steady. “You’re not a liability. You’re a threat. That’s what happens when a woman knows her worth.”

She looked back toward Zoanne, all business. “If you’ve got actual concerns, we’re happy to address them. But let’s not pretend FlickFix hasn’t dealt with more controversial figures than Siobahn when it suited your metrics. We came to you because you need a face with edge, talent, and international appeal. That’s her. So let’s stop talking chatter, and talk numbers.”

There was a moment of silence.

Zoanne glanced at Blake, who gave a faint nod of his head. She turned back to Miranda, lips pressed into a smile.

“Well then,” Zoanne said. “Let’s get into it.”

As the discussion shifted to contractual issues and project outlines, Miranda couldn’t help but let her attention drift momentarily. She nodded at all the right moments, answered questions when needed, but in her mind, she was somewhere else.

She knew exactly what this conveniently planted PR concern was and where it came from.

Vaughan Novak. It had his fingerprints all over it.

This wasn’t business. It was an act of sabotage meant to rattle Siobahn, slow momentum, and make Miranda look unstable.

Miranda’s gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where a framed FlickFix original poster hung like a trophy. She gave a faint, cold smile.

Let him play dirty. 

She’d play smarter.