Falling Star (Beautiful Chaos #2) by Arianne Richmonde

Author:Arianne Richmonde [Richmonde, Arianne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781500666460
Amazon: 1500666467
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2014-07-27T23:00:00+00:00

I’D SEEN CASSIE bounce into Jake’s trailer earlier like she owned it, and that was all I needed to compound the humiliation I felt, and the fiery anger that had been building up since he and I parted ways. She was his girlfriend, and I was the piece of fluff on the side—luckily I’d put a stop to things before Humiliation, with a capital H, could take hold completely.

Jake Wild was a self-centered, egomaniac who got his thrills by having multiple women in love with him at one time. He needed his ego massaged daily to make himself feel special. Why I had fallen for his charms, I had no idea, when it was obvious he would never change. He was a damaged Hollywood casualty and, of all people, I should have known better than to play with faulty goods.

Leo was driving as I sat in the front seat of the studio car with my bare feet on the dashboard, singing along to the music. Ironically it was that song, “A Sky Full Of Stars” by Coldplay. Skye full of stars. Skye/Star—it was if we were interchangeable. I wanted to think that Jake saw me as a sky full of stars, thinking only of me and his movie—his movie and me—but I knew that wasn’t so and took a deep breath, willing my wishful fantasy away.

“So Jake didn’t even care, huh?” I asked Leo, “didn’t mind that I wasn’t going home with John?”

“He was busy. Irate. Told me to make executive decision. I thought we could have bite to eat, Star. Are you hungry?” He turned to me and flashed his Russian megawatt smile, accompanied by a wink.

“Sure,” I said. I was hungry, as it happened—eating had been the last thing on my mind earlier, when I was focused on shooting such an intense scene.

Leo had one hand on the steering wheel and his elbow casually on the sill of the open window. A cool breeze filled the smooth-sailing, shiny black Lexus, as it hummed along La Cienega Boulevard, and whipped his dark, floppy hair away from his face. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and revealed, on one forearm, a bear, and on the other, a symbol, but the tattoo was badly done—homemade.

“What’s that tat?” I asked.

“Which one? I have so many.”

“The blurry one on your arm with the bluish ink—I can’t make out what it is.”

“Nothing you need to know about,” he said with an enigmatic smile. He’d piqued my curiosity.

“You did it yourself?”

“No.”

“If you decided to get a tattoo, why didn’t you go to a professional?”

He laughed. “I didn’t decide, Star. It wasn’t like that.”

“Tattoos,” I said, “are always a choice—maybe a bad one, but—”

“Oh are they now.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “What food are you in mood for?” he asked, changing the subject. “Oh yes, I remember, no meat, etcetera. There’s a place nearby where they sell Middle Eastern stuff—take-out, but good. You like falafel, pita bread, hummus?”

“Sounds perfect.” I glanced at the tautly strung tendons in his forearm again, where the smudgy tattoo lived.

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