My Actress Girlfriend - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading My Actress Girlfriend, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of My Actress Girlfriend.
Before I could sprint over and catch them in the act, Sophia and that guy jumped into a car idling outside the hotel and peeled away.
I tailed them in my own ride, my grip tightening on the wheel as the streets grew more familiar. They were heading straight for our neighborhood.
Cutting through side streets, I beat them home. No time for a shower—I swapped clothes and buried the evidence under a mountain of laundry just as the front door creaked open.
The mattress dipped as Sophia flopped onto me, her expensive perfume invading my space. "You reek of cigarettes and whiskey," she murmured, her breath hot against my neck. "And you're really going to pretend you're asleep?"
My heart did this stupid stutter-stop before hammering against my ribs.
She nuzzled into my chest, her ear pressed where she could track every traitorous heartbeat. Her fingers drew lazy patterns across my skin. "Confess now, and I'll be nice," she purred. "Make me work for it... well, you won't like how that ends. So tell me—where were you really last night?"
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was sweating like I'd been the one stepping out, not her.
Was this a fishing expedition or did she actually have intel? I took the bait. "Had drinks with Vincent Roscente."
Not even a flicker of panic at Vincent's name. Just a casual "Oh? What did he want?" like we were discussing the weather.
God, cheaters should win Oscars. I bet she could get caught mid-affair and still talk her way out of it.
"His new project's gearing up. Wants me as on-set writer." I studied her face for any tells, but she might as well have been reading a grocery list for all the reaction I got.
"It's studio-backed. Big budget. Thought you might want to audition."
Sophia arched an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk playing on her lips. "Since when do A-list directors cast D-list actresses? Unless..." She tapped my chest. "Is the famous screenwriter offering to put in a good word?"
The dig landed exactly where she'd aimed it.
She slithered off the bed, shedding clothes on her way to the bathroom. "Relax, I'm messing with you. If I want something, I don't need anyone's help."
The door clicked shut, leaving me with the acid taste of her implication. Was this her version of "help"—trading favors in some producer's bed?
Under the scalding shower spray, the irony curdled into something darker. She's the cheater, so why do I feel like the one under surveillance?
Then—bang—the door flew open.
Sophia stood there naked and furious, holding my discarded dress shirt between two fingers. Right on the collar: a lipstick smear in fire-engine red.
Definitely not her shade.
I tailed them in my own ride, my grip tightening on the wheel as the streets grew more familiar. They were heading straight for our neighborhood.
Cutting through side streets, I beat them home. No time for a shower—I swapped clothes and buried the evidence under a mountain of laundry just as the front door creaked open.
The mattress dipped as Sophia flopped onto me, her expensive perfume invading my space. "You reek of cigarettes and whiskey," she murmured, her breath hot against my neck. "And you're really going to pretend you're asleep?"
My heart did this stupid stutter-stop before hammering against my ribs.
She nuzzled into my chest, her ear pressed where she could track every traitorous heartbeat. Her fingers drew lazy patterns across my skin. "Confess now, and I'll be nice," she purred. "Make me work for it... well, you won't like how that ends. So tell me—where were you really last night?"
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was sweating like I'd been the one stepping out, not her.
Was this a fishing expedition or did she actually have intel? I took the bait. "Had drinks with Vincent Roscente."
Not even a flicker of panic at Vincent's name. Just a casual "Oh? What did he want?" like we were discussing the weather.
God, cheaters should win Oscars. I bet she could get caught mid-affair and still talk her way out of it.
"His new project's gearing up. Wants me as on-set writer." I studied her face for any tells, but she might as well have been reading a grocery list for all the reaction I got.
"It's studio-backed. Big budget. Thought you might want to audition."
Sophia arched an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk playing on her lips. "Since when do A-list directors cast D-list actresses? Unless..." She tapped my chest. "Is the famous screenwriter offering to put in a good word?"
The dig landed exactly where she'd aimed it.
She slithered off the bed, shedding clothes on her way to the bathroom. "Relax, I'm messing with you. If I want something, I don't need anyone's help."
The door clicked shut, leaving me with the acid taste of her implication. Was this her version of "help"—trading favors in some producer's bed?
Under the scalding shower spray, the irony curdled into something darker. She's the cheater, so why do I feel like the one under surveillance?
Then—bang—the door flew open.
Sophia stood there naked and furious, holding my discarded dress shirt between two fingers. Right on the collar: a lipstick smear in fire-engine red.
Definitely not her shade.
End of My Actress Girlfriend Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to My Actress Girlfriend book page.