"A sexy Hollywood tale!"


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From pages 282-284:

 “You’re an attractive man, Trent,” Mrs. H said as she ran those fingernails across my knee. “I assure you, I love my husband, I truly do; but occasionally a girl needs a little something to get her through the doldrums.”
You could practically see the light bulb go off over my head. Yes, I had been very na├»ve—I assure you, I just didn’t see it coming—but it was now plainly obvious to me what the evening had been about. And I didn’t quite know how to respond to what she was saying—or doing—to me. So I said nothing and I did nothing. I merely allowed her to stroke my knee and drink me in with those sea-blue eyes of hers.
She continued. “I saw how you were with Leonard; the passion you had for your work, for your writing.” Now she was raking her nails along my inner thigh. “I admire that kind of passion, that kind of dedication to your art. It’s what makes you”—this is when she offered the sultriest of sultry smiles—“so very special.”
Before I could say, Mrs. Robinson, I think you’re trying to seduce me, her hand was upon mine, squeezing it gently. “I’d like you to stay with me tonight, Trent.” Before I could respond—and really, I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond—she unleashed herself upon me, pressing her lips to mine; her hand moved from my thigh to my crotch, massaging with abandon. At first I was into it—and I made sure I got a good handful of those tits—but then I remembered: Damn, this woman is the same age as my mother!
I nearly felt sick to my stomach as I ripped myself away. “Mrs. Hammerstein… you’re married! Married to a man I have great respect for!” (That last part about “great respect” was a load of bullshit, but I thought it sounded pretty good.)
I got on my feet and went to retrieve my coat. Then I said, in a somewhat calmer tone, “Thank you for a nice evening, Mrs. Hammerstein. The food was delicious and it was great seeing you again.”
Mrs. H could only look up at me, a determined look in her eyes. “Is it money you want? Because if that’s what it takes…”
I was somewhat offended by the offer; then again, another part of me was, well… not so offended. I mean, c’mon, not once did I ever think I could make a buck by sleeping with a woman!
Mrs. H rose from the couch and stepped over to me, cradling my face in her hands. That sultry little smile was back. “Now don’t tell me you couldn’t use a little walking-around money.”
She had piqued my interest and she knew it. Her smile widened considerably.
“Three hundred dollars, cash,” she said, her tone now all business. “Just sex. No strings, naturally.”
I was definitely interested now. But there was still the matter of our age difference—and that rather prominent diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand.
I broke away from Mrs. H and ambled about the spacious living room and across the hardwood floors, my eyes roaming over the artwork and the photos of that forty-seven-foot sailboat, and I gave it all some thorough consideration.
Three hundred bucks is BULLSHIT. For a chick like Mrs. H, that’s fucking lunch money!
I had a sudden flashback to that asshole Jeff Rowland, remembering his lowball offer and the lack of respect he showed me. And, of course, there was the embarrassingly insignificant three hundred bucks Georgia Stanley paid me for that script. I turned quickly to Mrs. H, looked her right in the eye. “Make it a grand.”
There was that smile again. She moved to me, draped an arm over my shoulder—and now she was looking me right in the eye. She said softly: “Are you even worth it?”
That’s all I needed. I gave her a playful push backward and she collapsed onto the couch, giggling like a school girl. I climbed on top of her and gave her exactly what she wanted.

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"A great summer read!"



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From pages 92-93...

Rowland sat back in his chair. “Now, I’m assuming you know full well how this business works, so I probably don’t need to tell you that this next project could be a long way off. Maybe eighteen months to two years…”
He leaned forward, hands resting on the desk, his fingers interlaced. “What I’d like to do—and please, feel free to tell me if you think I’m at all out of line…”
Please, motherfucker, PLEASE, just get to the fucking point…
“I’d like to take out an option on your script.”
YES! Okay, great, now we’re finally getting somewhere!
“I feel a three year option is appropriate.”
Huh? Three years? Was he fucking kidding me? I really really hoped I had heard him wrong.
“Sorry, Jeff, did you say three years?”
He nodded confidently. “We feel this is the absolute outside timeframe for us to maneuver into position for our second production.”
I chewed on it. Well, three years isn’t exactly forever, especially in the film business. I mean, if he offers a healthy option fee for those three years…
“For three years I can offer you one-thousand dollars.”
My face was blank and I didn’t make a move. But on the inside, my guts churned like the roiling waters of Niagara Falls. A grand? For three years? This had to be a joke. It had to be!
We sat there, looking at each other like a couple of idiots. Finally I spoke up. “Jeff, you said I should tell you if I thought you were out of line…”
Rowland nodded. “Yes, that’s right, I did. So please, by all means…” He sat back in his chair yet again, preparing himself for whatever it was I had to say.
“Well,” I said, “I happen to think that one thousand is pretty low for three years. Nine months, a year maybe…but three years?”
Rowland nodded. “Sure, sure, Trent, I understand completely, I do. Of course, keep in mind, at the end of the option period, there would be a very fair purchase price.”
“If it gets that far,” I mentioned.
There was that smile of his again. “Yes, you are correct. If it gets that far. But I’m confident—in fact, very confident—that we will get that far.” 
Rowland sat there, looking so damned sure of himself. I didn’t want to tell him how you could fill the fucking Grand Canyon with all the misplaced confidence that oozes from Hollywood each and every day of the year. 



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Writer's block?


There are rare times when I just don't feel like writing. 
But then I sit down, put my fingers on the keyboard...
...and the words come. 
Then I can't stop writing. 
Sometimes, just getting started is the hard part. 






My debut novel, Luigi's Chinese Delicatessen, is about a 
young screenwriter trying to make it in Hollywood. 
I think you'll like it. 
Available from Amazon in paperback and Kindle eBook. 
Check it out here.