The Girl Who Can't Say No: Bound To The Billionaire (Part One) (A BDSM Erotic Romance Novelette) Read online

  I guess this is the point where I leave the room. Yet, strangely, I'm still here. My right leg trembles nervously beneath me; my lungs quickly dispersing of breath. I feel my face radiating to a lustrous crimson, and my fingers subconsciously furl themselves into my knuckles, tightening assertively. As much as I'm caught between a disheartening desire to run out of the building, and a childlike need to fly back to my calm place, I'm still standing here.

  "Chloe," he repeats, finally noticing I'm still blighting their vision, "you can leave now."

  "Look," I immediately bark back, in a voice so forceful I didn't even know I had it. "I can give a lot to this part. I'm ready, I can do it. You just need to give me a chance."

  "We'll be in touch" he repeats, in a tone more annoyed than gracious.

  "One chance!" I shout, losing all semblance of self-control, casting my nervous inhibitions to the fires of seething, raging disappointment. "Just one chance, please!"

  Finally, I manage to tease something other than stern-faced anonymity out of that black-haired, silver-jacketed guy on the left; he smiles wryly, contorting the side of his mouth into a smug, sadistic grin. No-one says anything. No-one has to, I think I've made a big enough fool out of myself; any more agitation on their part would just be cruel.

  I don't even remember pushing the doors aside, or the receptionist calling my name in a vain effort to calm me down. I fight back the tears that begin to well-up in my eyes, straining my vision and dulling the majestic brightness of the sun through the blinds, and pace straight out of the building. Even when I get outside I don't stop racing, relenting only when I throw myself into my car, slamming the door behind me. My hands shake, my mouth is dry; my head throbs from within like someone stabbed a freezing cold dagger into the back of my neck, and my heart beats loudly and unyieldingly, providing the percussive drum chorus to my seething break-down.

  "Fuck, don't even fucking think about it Chloe, don't even fucking do it!"

  Wrapping my knuckles around the steering wheel, and grasping it so tightly my knuckles turn white, I'm in almost the same place as last night, working myself into a frothy stupor over the bathroom sink. I strain my eyes, narrowing them gingerly, trying to avoid bawling my eyes out at all costs.

  "Don't be fucking weak now!"

  I listen to myself in disgust, bellowing orders to my nervous subconscious from the comfort of my own car. Then the thought occurs to me that I'm only the latest in a long, long list of aspiring actors to do the same, and the feeling of flooding, rushing tears in the corner of my eyes subsides. I let go of the steering wheel, and feel my knuckles cramp up; the skin of my palms burning slightly. My worst fucking audition: at least in the past I've had the presence of mind not to beg for clemency and then storm out.

  I start the car, and begin the long drive back home, with a sullen, throbbing head ache.

  ***

  "So," she asks tactlessly, with what sounds like a mouthful of popcorn. "How did it go?"

  I should have known she was on the phone; I haven't earned my way out of an obligatory shout-down for last night's mirrored theatrics yet. I close the back door behind me with a pointed slam, doing my best to alert her to my presence, before dourly stumbling through the kitchen - complete with dirty pans and dishes piled as high as I stand - and make my way to the living room. Jesus, this place isn't any fucking better; packets of potato chips littering the carpet, plates and dishes scattered asunder, and a giant, admittedly enticing tub of ice-cream, the undeniable centerpiece within the room. I guess she did well in her finals then.

  "Great! Excellent! I'm so glad!" she shouts at the top of her lungs, looking at me with unknowing eyes. I look back at her for a moment, lying leisurely upon the couch; a mirror image of myself, my identical twin sister. Her black hair is swept behind her shoulders in unkempt, matted clumps, and her pale skin reflects the golden sunlight radiantly. And then I find I can't stop looking at her. She's a picture of everything I should be this afternoon: thrilled with life, care free, without another worry in the world. I should be the one surrounded by ice-cream and popcorn, celebrating my new fucking film role. We should be celebrating together.

  "Hey, ya know, I gotta go, my sister's back. I'll catch you later, yeah."

  And with that, she hangs up, dropping the cell phone to the floor, lost amongst the garbage. Focusing two judgmental eyes on me, I can already tell what's coming.

  "You know its no thanks to you that I did so well today. Despite trying your best to keep me up last night, I fucking did it. I passed."

  "Congratulations," I reply, using every last bit of my acting talents to appear sincere, whilst keeping the swelling, burgeoning shame of failing my own personal test hidden within me. "You must be thrilled."

  Carissa turns her head from me, looking up to the ceiling, balancing some invisible object on the end of her nose triumphantly. She shuffles across the couch, sitting herself down at the other end, allowing me the space to sit with her if only I can navigate my way past the various articles of trash that litter the path. I do so, and she finally looks back at me.

  "In one year's time," she says with pompous relish, "I'll have passed my bar, and I'll be a fully fledged entertainment attorney!"

  I'm happy for her. I truly am, even though I don't feel it. She's worked hard. Almost as hard as I have. And duly, she's going to be rewarded. And of course, my reward for diverging from the well-worn family path of law school is to watch her succeed where I fail. Can't you tell I've had enough?

  "How about you," she finally adds, after a few more moments of incessant legal rambling, the likes of which I've heard a thousand times before from her. "How did it go for you today? The big audition?"

  "I'm quitting acting," I sternly reply, more to myself than my sister, and without a second thought about the subject. "I've had enough. I quit."

  "That bad huh?"

  She has a way of making light of every situation, a strange talent for a lawyer. It's a fun attribute, and yet one I don't wish to suffer right now. She picks up the carton of popcorn with one deft movement, placing it into my hand, before looking back into me and narrowing her eyes, cunningly.

  "You'll feel different in the morning."

  How could we share the exact same genes, and yet be so different? Up until high school, we were never apart. She'd wear red, and I'd wear blue, and that's the only way we could be told apart. Today, it's much easier; she's the one wearing the carefree, giddy grin, and I'm the one looking far more morose. An easy identification if ever there was one.

  "Look, Carissa," I bark at her, averting my eyes from hers, and holding the palm of my hand toward her, ready to defend myself from an avalanche of well-wishes and patronizing taunts. "I won't feel different. I haven't felt any different for six months. I'm sick of living like this, constantly worrying my way from audition to audition, wondering where the next paycheck is coming from. I'm done."

  She's unrelenting, staring into me with the same, formidable blue eyes I have, fluttering her long black eyelashes at me in a show of unrelenting petulance.

  "I'm telling you Chloe, you'll feel different in the morning."

  I feel it once more; the rising, pointedly shameful fury that rushes through my muscles, aided of course by the mental image of that anonymous face - jet black hair and silver jacket - grinning slyly at the public spectacle I've become.

  "Carissa! I'm done! Congratulations for you and everything, but we can't all be as relaxed about these things as you are."

  "Hey, wait, listen to me!" she yells back at me as I spring to my feet, and try my hardest to dramatically storm off. But of course, I really am terrible at feigning anger. I can't go through with it, instead turning back around to meet her waiting, judging eyes, and listen to what she has to say. "What I'm trying to tell you is that someone called. Someone from the audition."

  My heart sinks once again. I stand before her with my jaw open wide, and my eyes peering into her, hopefully and expectantly, awaiting the news she has to g
ive me.

  "Apparently he liked what he saw today. He wants you to go back in tomorrow morning for another audition." She closes her eyes, and gently taps her palm against her head, trying desperately to stoke the fires of her memory. "Red dress, that's it."

  "They called the house phone?" is all I can think to ask, slightly shocked and bewildered by the news. I'm wanted? I'm actually fucking wanted?

  "Don't shoot the fucking messenger next time, huh."

  I pounce on her, wrapping her in my arms, squeezing every last breath out of her, grinning wildly. You're the best messenger I could hope for, Carissa. As she bats me off her slender body with playful closed fists, however, one more thing pops into my mind.

  "Wait, what do you mean, he liked what he saw today? I auditioned for three people."

  She blows her hair out of her face, and breathes heavy, struggling to regain the breath I hugged out of her. After several suspenseful moments, she answers.

  "That's the message. He wants you to go in tomorrow. I wrote the address down on a notepad somewhere."

  "The address?" I scratch my head, before planting my foot down on a half-eaten bag of potato chips upon the floor, arousing a loud crunch. Sort of reminds me of where I was an hour ago. "I have the address, I drove there earlier today, obviously."

  "A different address" she says, assertively, before turning back to her tub of ice-cream on the glass coffee table. Fine, a red dress, at a different address, for a man whose name I didn't even have the presence of mind to capture. Under normal circumstances I'd have questioned it, but I'm so thrilled to have resurrected my dying acting career in just five minutes, I instead hop merrily upstairs, and begin rifling through my wardrobes to find something suitable. A red dress.

  Chapter Three

  Something's different. Standing before the bathroom mirror yet again, wearing my long black hair neatly, falling to just below my shoulders, and a sheen of red lipstick on my shuddering lips, I'm almost content with my appearance. The red dress - that I had to beg and plead to borrow from Carissa - fits my slender body perfectly, really accentuating my hips and ass, if I do say so myself, coming to just below my knees. I look almost as though I'm going out on a date. Maybe that's the key to a confident, calm audition; dressing up for the part.

  I recite a few tongue-twisters to myself, watching myself intently in the mirror as I do so, before turning and bounding back down the stairs, finding Carissa lying prostrate upon the couch, a night of hard partying and harder drinking apparently having gotten the better of her. She groans upon hearing me, and groans a little more enthusiastically upon seeing how well I fit her dress.

  "You'll do fine, kidder," is all she can say, before burying her head into the fabric of the couch, and tuning back into whatever reality trash passes for entertainment on TV these days. Thanks for the vote of confidence, sister.

  I'm not nervous. At least, if I truly am, I can't feel it. Carissa's words just keep going over in my mind; he liked what he saw? He wants me for another audition? Auditions before a panel usually involve a group decision. That I've been called in by one man is quite enough to pique my curiosity. And besides, just which moment in my two minute meltdown did he supposedly enjoy? The only thing I didn't do was fall to my knees in there. Maybe if I'd had the time...

  I try to banish all demons of doubt from my mind, put myself in front of the wheel, and start the car, noisily silencing the niggling curiosities I feel about all of this. Carissa wrote the address down on the back of a napkin; a studio in a hotel. Unusual, but I've auditioned in hotels before. I set off, enjoying the beaming radiance of the morning California Sun.

  ***

  "Yes?" snaps the woman behind the hotel reception desk, her attention obviously captured elsewhere. I consider speaking, but instead just pass her the napkin, hotel room crudely inked upon it and all. She shoots me one of those glances you seem to get quite a lot in Hollywood as an unrecognized actor; the simultaneously envious and resentful look, narrowing her green eyes at me and tearing her face away from mine as though physically repulsed. I guess she's a failing actress too. Everyone in this part of town is.

  She nods in the direction of the elevator, unwilling to give me another single word. Fine. I make it to the elevator and jab the button for the 7th floor with my finger, batting at it a few more times impatiently before the doors close before me, and I'm back to being alone, if only for a few more moments. My heart pounds in my ears, my fingers tremble slightly, and my stomach is filled with butterflies, but right now I don't feel bad. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say I'm excited.

  I'm shaken from my day-dreaming, introspective slumber by the loud and piercing ping of the elevator, and the doors open to bathe me in a harsh, golden light. We're on the 7th floor, whose corridors apparently consist of nothing other than windows. With stinging eyes and warm, burning flesh, I stumble out of the elevator, scanning each door for the correct number. 7A, 7B, 7C, 7D, this is the one. I clumsily rifle through my handbag, finding my phone and checking the time. 10AM on the dot. And with a deep breath, holding it inside for several seconds, before exhaling deeply, I knock on the door.

  "Come in" is all I hear from behind the thick, wooden door. I do as the sole voice says, feeling the welcome cool steel of the handle, and opening it. I strain my eyes as soon as I make the first few steps inside; nothing but white walls, white ceiling, and a white floor, punctuated only by a line of mirrors covering the wall to my right, and a brutal, unrelenting set of florescent white lights above me, showering me in a sterile, purifying white light. No windows, no decoration. I narrow my eyes, unprepared for the stunning brightness of this place, and barely see the man sat alone in a black chair in the corner of the room, its only other inhabitant. Shielding my eyes with the back of my palm, I can only just begin to make out his appearance.

  "Miss Everett," calls the voice, deep and monotone. I arch my neck outwards, peering fruitlessly to try to get a better look, but it’s no use. I'm beaten by the sheer brightness of this absurdist room. "It's a pleasure to meet you again. Please close the door behind you."

  Oh, the door, of course! I push it shut, echoing throughout the four walls, before turning back around to face my inquisitor. Sitting in the corner of the large, expansive room, maybe twenty feet from where I stand, I sort of expected the baseball-capped guy from yesterday. Instead, wearing a black suit jacket, a dapper white shirt beneath, and a pair of creaseless suit pants, someone very different awaits me.

  "Thank you for the opportunity," I announce, narrowing my eyes against the all-illuminating bright light. I can't shake the feeling of being forensically examined somehow. I turn my head to the right, and catch a glimpse of myself in the wall of mirrors, looking just like the proverbial deer in the headlights; my red dress clinging tightly to my slender figure, rather ill at ease.

  "Don't mention it," he says, leaning back in his chair, and grinning that same wry smirk I saw so much of yesterday. I should have guessed; jet black hair, cheekbones positioned high in his face, looking so sharp they could cut diamonds. I've finally coaxed him into speaking.

  "Will the other two not be joining us today?" I manage to build up the confidence to ask, after several moments of undue silence. I'm still straining - my eyes having not yet adjusted to this heavenly glow - but I see him shake his head, staring through me with the force and intensity of one of the remorseless florescent lights above.

  "This is just us."

  "Okay," I reply, trying my best to sound sincere and enthusiastic. I tap my feet upon the floor several times, finding a more comfortable footing. Why can't I have a chair?

  "Chloe Everett," he says loudly, his voice booming and echoing against each of the four walls. "Twenty two years young, no drama school, no college qualifications - oh - but quite a lot of experience as an extra. I knew I'd seen your face somewhere before."

  I giggle out loud, before banishing my inner easily-pleased schoolgirl, and put on my business face.

  "So, what's the nat
ure of this audition, Mr. -"

  He hesitates a little, shaking his head from side to side dismissively, before looking back at me and speaking once more. It's hard to tell, but I think that one sentence wiped some of the giddy grin from his face.

  "Mr. Grant. Mr. Daniel Grant."

  He speaks with a booming and deep tone, echoing around the room once more. His words carry a certain authority, almost as if he's used to people recognizing and reveling in his name, and upon seeing my blank expression thereafter, he raises an eyebrow incredulously. Well, I'm sorry if I don't know every casting agent in town, sir.

  "Nice to meet you," is all I offer. I'd shake his hand, but I'm quite comfortable enough where I am. Several more seconds of silence ensue, and I feel compelled to break them, even as my mounting nerves beg otherwise. "So, do I read from a script today?"

  "No. No script." There's something strange about the way he speaks. I can't quite put my finger on it; it's as if he sounds his best to sound disinterested, yet every raised eyebrow and every excited vowel can't hide a torrent of exhilaration from within him. "Improvisation. Today is all about improvisation, Miss Everett. Going with the flow!"

  The way he eagerly barks his words at me give me the impression of a person much more excitable than their restrained demeanor would like to admit. I like his energy, even if the prospect of on the spot improvisation strikes another dissonant chord of fear into my stomach, making my toes fidget nervously inside my high heels.