“On the Red Carpet Tonight with Mr. Hollywood, Z McCartney!”
~Glitz Magazine~
Chapter One
Z McCartney – Ten Years Later
I couldn’t believe how far I’d fallen—so far in fact, if someone held up a mirror, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize myself anymore.
“Z!” Hearing the name most of the world knew me by shouted into my ear brought me back to the present and I forced a fake smile.
“Are you close, sweetheart?” I taunted, watching as she tossed her head back against the prime leather seats of the limo. Driving against her harder, I felt my own release building . . . finally. I was beginning to think I’d never find it.
“Ahhhhh!” she screamed, tumbling over the edge, and watching her sent me spiraling right after her.
Groaning heavily, I spilled into the condom, my muscles shaking. Holding my breath, I waited—hoping for satisfaction, completion, or something—anything. Yet, all I felt was the same hollowness inside me. I was broken, it seemed, unable to fill the void, despite my release. It had been this way for a long, long time. Ever since—no! I was not going there. What was the point?
“Z, we’re almost to the Red Carpet.” My personal assistant, Penelope’s, voice crackled over the intercom from where she was seated behind the privacy window in the front of the vehicle, and I was thankful for something new to think about.
“Showtime!” I said, attempting to sound cheerful even though there was nothing remotely exciting to me about this event. Winking at the stunning brunette, I pulled out a box of wet wipes from the console. I always insisted these be kept in my cars. I had lots of sexual encounters in vehicles and needed a way to clean up afterward. Cleanliness was next to godliness after all—at least that’s what my Sunday School teacher had taught me as a kid. She probably would frown on this though, no matter how clean I was. The thought made me grin.
As soon as I was finished straightening my clothes, I slid back into my seat. “Does my hair look okay?” I asked my companion, knowing she had been running her fingers through it.
She studied me momentarily. “It looks like you just got fucked in the back of a car,” she replied and I laughed, in spite of my semi-sour mood.
“Then it’s perfect.” My eyes fell on her lips. She really was gorgeous. Not that that was really anything special in Hollywood. I’d had a steady parade of beautiful women in my bed almost since I’d arrived here ten years ago. While I liked sex, and never turned down an opportunity for it, everything was beginning to feel old and stale for me. The only thing that ever changed in my life was the face of the women in my bed. Everything else pretty much blended together into one giant blur, except for a few really bad moments I wished could be permanently removed from my head. Why was it we could always remember the things we didn’t want to? It sucked.
“Something for the road?” she asked, lifting a mirror with several lines of white powder on it from the sidebar.
“Sure. We got a little distracted, didn’t we?” I said, taking it from her and quickly snorting a line. After all, this whole little private party we’d been having was for the drugs. I loved the drugs, and was always game to try something new when my dealer recommended it. Alcohol was a big one for me too, for that matter. True, drinking and doing drugs had gotten me into this mess in the first place, but that didn’t stop me from continuing to use them. They were the only things I could take that stopped the pain inside me, even if it was only for a short while. Any escape was a blessed relief.
“Yes, but it was worth it,” she said, drawing my wandering attention back to her, and her hand slid up my leg toward my crotch, clearly showing she was hoping for more. Suddenly, I felt inclined to give it to her again.
The car slowed, progressing forward inches at a time as we waited for our turn.
“Too bad we don’t have more time. I could go again, right now,” I said, enjoying her roaming hand that was steadily making its way higher. I loved girls who liked to fuck a lot, and this one fit that bill perfectly. I’d already ridden her twice today before we even made it to the car.
She giggled, rubbing her hand over me, finding my cock hard already. “What did you do? Take a whole bottle of Viagra? I’m going to be bow legged by the time this day is over.”
I snorted. “Baby, I don’t need that shit. I got all the natural drive a girl can handle. I’ll keep you up all night long.” The car stopped, signaling my cue to depart. “What was your name again?” I quickly asked, hating that I’d forgotten. If she was hurt, she didn’t show it.
“Stephanie,” she replied without even blinking an eye. I wondered if it was her real name or an alias. Z wasn’t my real name. It was simply what my agent had decided to shorten my name to, in an effort to make it sound trendy. But even though it wasn’t my real name, Z was who I was. Zane McCartney had been dead and buried for years and I did my best to never think about him or the things he wanted in life. It was easier to simply pretend I was this “Z” person who didn’t give a fuck about anything except for where the next party was and who was my next lay.
Leaning over, I quickly kissed my current hottie—at least for this minute—on the cheek. I didn’t do relationships. Not anymore. Relationships fucked a person up. “Thanks for the ride, Stephanie. I’ll see you soon. Real soon.”
Smiling, she twirled her fingers at me. “Have fun, Superstar!”
The door suddenly flung open, and I stepped out into the lights, the sounds of screaming fans filling the air. Steeling myself, I adjusted my tie and slapped a casual grin to my face as I strolled forward. Penelope appeared by my side, almost like magic, as four hired bodyguards moved around us. This wasn’t new to me. It happened everywhere we went. I didn’t know what all went into coordinating of these things, and I didn’t question it. It was simply the way it was.
Except for tonight. Tonight was going to be different, but no one needed to know that right now.
“You’ll be speaking with Margo Tamson from Glitz,” Penelope spoke loudly as we strolled, filling me in on the details like she always did. I didn’t need to know anything; it was all fed to me. I waved at the cheering crowds leaning over the barricades, begging for pictures and autographs, smiling as if I didn’t have a care in the world. It was a total lie. I was seriously fucked in the head.
While I loved acting and felt fortunate with the success I’d had, fans had no idea of the shithole side of this career. They had no idea how it could break you up into little tiny pieces, sucking out your soul bit by bit until there was nothing left of you. All they saw was the glamor of it—or whatever the media wanted them to see, not even realizing that Hollywood was just one carefully crafted line of bullshit. Hell, I was one carefully crafted line of bullshit.
Pointing to the Glitz platform, I shrugged and mouthed “sorry” to those begging for me to come to the barricades so they could get an autograph. Waving one more time, I hurried my way up the steps to do my bit with one of Hollywood’s most popular television magazines at the moment.
“Look, everyone! It’s the star we’ve all been waiting to see tonight, Mr. Z McCartney!” A microphone was shoved into my hand.
The screams escalated as I turned and waved to everyone before turning back to the TV anchor, a gorgeous woman who could’ve easily been a star on the carpet herself. Too bad she was blonde. Not that there was anything wrong with blondes, I just preferred stunning brunettes in my bed.
“Thanks for having me, Margo,” I said smoothly, giving no clue of the thoughts running through my head. “How are you tonight?”
Smiling, she stared at me as she spoke, and my eyes were riveted on her plump lips. Suddenly I was reconsidering my previous thought. Anyone with lips like that should be a candidate to give me a blow job at least. “I’m great. Just happy to be here visiting with people like you.” Expertly, she turned the conversation back to me. “We’ve all been hearing so many wonderful things about this new movie of yours, Unveiled. Can you tell us what it was like to get into this character, which, from what I understand, is basically at rock bottom due to addiction? Did you have a process?”
Smooth sailing so far. “Oh yeah, I definitely had a process. For me it’s about mentally getting into that place, dwelling where that character lives and just immersing myself in it.”
Actually, for me, acting was easy as shit. Hell, I was doing it right now. I could be whatever was needed of me. I could play it exactly like the director envisioned it, because it wasn’t about my vision or me. It was about what they wanted. That’s what paid my bills. That’s what made me the highest paid and most sought after actor in Hollywood. I was good at fooling people. Gifted, even.
“I bet you feel like you can empathize with people going through treatment like this, can’t you?”
“Totally! Totally!” I bullshitted. “It’s a crisis point in someone’s life, but I’ve just got to say, if you’re in treatment, be proud! You’ve taken a big step—a step up. And that’s what life is really all about, isn’t it? Moving up?” That was true, at least. Now if I could just figure out how to apply it to myself, I’d have it made. At least I would if I cared.
Placing a hand on my arm, Margo smiled. Score! She touched me. That blowjob was so going to happen. “Always a pleasure to speak with you, Z.”
Not as much pleasure as I plan to give you later, I thought. My eyes never left her, and I sent her a heated stare. “The pleasure is all mine,” I replied, imagining her mouth doing crazy things to me. She gave me a knowing look in return. Yeah, she was down for it.
Turning toward the crowd she presented me again. “Z McCartney, ladies and gentlemen. A first class act, right here!” It was all I could do to not snort, that comment was so far off base. There wasn’t a damn classy thing about me.
Waving again, I listened as Penelope reappeared at my side. “You have a minute to run over and do autographs and pictures with the fans.”
Some unseen person snatched the microphone from my hand, and I smiled and jogged down the steps as I’d been told, merely a dancing puppet on a string.
The crowd rippled and surged in my direction, bodies pressing forward in every which way, holding out pens and paper, or photos and memorabilia to be signed. Others were furiously snapping images or video with their cameras, the light causing my eyes to blur.
“Hey, everyone!” I shouted so they could hear me. “Thanks for coming tonight!” A marker magically appeared in my hand, and I reached for someone’s paper, scrawling my signature as quickly as possible. Hands grabbed at me, some clutching my jacket and pulling me closer. I could barely hear over the people shouting my name, trying to get my attention. Laughing, I shook my head as the bodyguards pressed in, telling people to calm down and move back. Thankfully, they obeyed, saving any further drama, and I hastily signed several more things—including one very nice breast—before posing for a couple of pictures. “Sorry! I’ve got to go!” I yelled with a wave, returning to Penelope’s side so she could continue to usher me along.
After a couple more interview stops and repeat interactions with fans, we finally reached the end of the carpet and were escorted the rest of the way into the theater itself. Glancing around the room, I saw several people that I knew, but right now I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Right now I wanted to make my escape.
“Penelope, I’m gonna use the restroom real quick,” I said, easily slipping back into my old comfortable lazy speech patterns. I didn’t do it often, and when I did, it really was only one or two words, but it still annoyed her. She called it my “country farm boy” accent. I hadn’t been on a farm in so long, I wasn’t sure if I remembered what one looked like. If I were being honest though, I was glad someone could still see anything in me that resembled that farm boy. Wistfully—for at least the millionth time—I wished I could be back in that life again, even if just for a day. But that was never going to happen. I’d fucked too much shit up.
Ducking around the corner, I made my way through the building. Spotting a little used side door, I hurried toward it.
“Z!” someone called out. I didn’t want to turn around when I was so close to getting away. Turning, I glanced behind me, not surprised to find Margo Tamson hurrying in my direction.
Smiling, I stopped and faced her. I knew exactly what she was after and I didn’t mind giving it to her.
“Hey,” I said casually as she got closer, my eyes traveling over the way her gown molded to her figure. “What’s up?” A guy had to play it casual and make it seem like he could just as easily walk away as staying to talk. I knew all the tricks.
“I wanted to speak to you in private,” she said, and I glanced around. There was an unmarked door down the opposite wall a few feet away. Moving next to it. I tested a knob, surprised when it opened. Peering inside, I saw it was a small supply closet, big enough to hold a vacuum, a couple of brooms and some cleaning supplies.
Turning, I smiled and gestured to her. “Step into my private office then.”
Happily, she entered without question. Yep, I’d pegged it just right. I knew exactly what she wanted from me. Too bad she wasn’t going to get it, but I was going to get what I wanted from her.
Ten minutes later, I stepped out of the closet, zipping my pants up over my penis, which was now smeared with red lipstick, and carrying a card with her private number on it so we could hook up again later. Margo wouldn’t need any of those lip plumping injections she was famous for any time soon. I’d fucked the shit out of those lips. They were going to be nice and swollen, at least for the rest of the evening.
Glancing around to make sure Penelope was nowhere in sight, I slipped out the back exit. The waiting limousine was sitting right where I told the driver to park, in the lot behind Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. Flinging the door open, I slipped inside and found a grinning Stephanie. Smiling, I felt proud I remembered her name, especially since I’d been with someone else in the thirty minutes since I’d seen her.
“Ready to pick up where we left off?” she asked, holding the mirror out toward me.
With more coke? Hell, yes. The answer was always yes to coke, but I like to space it out at decent intervals. Cocaine could turn a person into a sexual beast with a drive that was insane, but too much could kill it just as quickly.
“You have no idea how ready,” I replied, thumping my fist against the roof and the car pulled away from the curb. Taking the mirror, I accepted the rolled up bill she handed me and began snorting away, hoping to feel some blessed relief from the demons working overtime in my head.
Wincing slightly, I mustered enough energy to crack open one eye before immediately shutting it again, the filtered sunlight almost too much to bear. It took several moments before I ventured an attempt again, this time glancing around as my vision adjusted.
Where the hell was I?
Nothing in the room looked familiar, and a quick inspection of the bed revealed not one, but two very naked girls. One of them I recognized from last night—Stephanie. She’d been the party girl sent with the drugs I’d ordered. Had we ordered more? I seriously couldn’t remember hardly anything about last night. It was all a blur—but I liked it that way. It got me out of my own head.
Groaning slightly, I reached under the sheet and palmed my dick. It seemed pretty tender, suggesting a lot of hard fucking had happened. Glancing back at the slumbering women, I hoped they’d enjoyed it. For that matter, I hope that I had enjoyed it, too.
Thankfully, I wasn’t stuck in the middle of the two. Moving carefully, I stood and began gathering pieces of clothing, putting them on as I recovered them. My phone was still in my pocket, but I couldn’t even call for a cab. I had no idea where I was.
Quietly, I slipped out the door, into a hallway with a bunch of other doors like this one. Clearly I was in an apartment building. I made my way downstairs and out onto the street.
Residential.
I was unfamiliar with this part of town, despite living here for ten years. It wasn’t the first time I’d waken and not known where I was. In fact, it was happening a lot more frequently. Guilt pricked at my conscience. Apparently I wasn’t one of those people who learned from my past mistakes. I brushed that thought away before I could dwell on it any further.
Walking down to the corner, I read the street signs, quickly taking out my phone and calling a cab, before settling down on the sidewalk to wait. Patting my coat, which was way too hot to be wearing this morning, I located my sunglasses I always carried, just in case there was a need to hide my identity a little. I slipped them on, even though sitting on a corner in a crumpled suit was probably going to make me stick out like a sore thumb anyway.
If only my diehard fans could see me now. They’d think of me a whole lot differently. Everyone idolized me. People constantly told me how lucky I was, and how they wished they could trade places with me.
Bullshit. It was all bullshit. I wasn’t even close to the person I’d been portrayed as. Nope, I was just a chicken shit—a washed up sell out with no happiness in his life.
Sure, I had it all—the glass penthouse in the sky, bought with my massive fat paychecks. I had cars, and fancy clothes, along with every tech gadget in the world. Women were always after me. Most men wanted to be me. But at what cost? What did it really matter?
My life meant nothing to me. It was just a blur of different faces, most of who were only interested in what I could give them. Of course, I guess I was using all of them in some form or another, too.
Staring at my phone, which was somehow still clinging to life, I wondered if I had enough battery to check my texts and messages.
“Oh my gosh, Z. Where the hell are you? Everyone is asking for you.” Penelope’s frantic voice filled my ear and I felt my second twinge of guilt. She was a good assistant. It was wrong of me to ditch her like I had and leave her holding the bag.
More messages of the same ilk left me feeling pretty sucky, but the last one took the cake. It had been sent this morning. Glancing at the time, I realized it was almost ten AM.
Shit! I had press junkets I was supposed to do today.
“Z, so help me if you don’t call me the minute you get this, I will hunt you down and shoot you myself. The studio is on my back this morning, as well as the media, thanks to your little drunken display last night. I need to speak with you immediately. Your future depends on it! Call me now!”
Drunken display? What the hell was she talking about?
Hurriedly, I typed my name into the search bar and several article headlines immediately came up.
“Z McCartney Disappears from the Kodak Theater at Premiere!”
“Z McCartney Viral Video Tells What He’s Really Been Doing!”
“Hollywood’s Finest at His Not So Finest!”
Clicking one of the links, I watched in horror as someone captured me coming out of a club, stumbling, as I attempted to walk with my arms around two girls . . . the two I’d found in bed with me this morning. Well, that was good, wasn’t it? I’d stuck to the original two. There’d been nights I’d woken up in a room full of people after a party, and I had no idea who I’d slept with, only knowing that I’d slept with someone—or lots of “someones,” depending on the party.
This wasn’t so bad.
The video kept rolling though, giving me a sinking feeling. Jaw clenched, I watched as I pushed one of the girls against the wall, the one who wasn’t Stephanie—kissing her heavily as my hand drifted lower, hiking up her short skirt.
“Oh. Em. Gee! I swear he’s going to do her right against the wall!” an overly excited female voice said from behind the camera.
“Get a room!” Someone else shouted and more people started crowding around, jostling whoever was holding the camera.
Another voice started belting out, “Bow chicka wow wow!”
Nerves tightening, I forced myself to continue watching as I ravished this woman, grateful when the tape finally clicked off. Skimming the rest of the article, I read that the video in its entirety was not available due to its extremely graphic nature.
“Well, fuck!” There was no doubt about it. I’d made a really big mess of things this time and I was definitely in a whole lot of hot water.
Pocketing my phone, I still didn’t call Penelope. If things were already this bad, there was nothing I could do about it, so as far as I was concerned, my top priority was a shower, a nap, and maybe a couple more lines of coke before I addressed the shit hitting the fan.