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Just Fake It
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“Sure, I’ll pretend to be your wife.”
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“I just came in here . . . to tell you that . . . The Devouring Part 6 is at the top of the box office rankings, again,” aspiring actress Mindi says to me, voice muffled and strained.
She has her skirt up, and is sprawled onto my desk at Emblem studios as I pound into her from behind. Just another day at the office.
I pull on her hair, trying to get better traction as she slides up the slick wooden surface. It doesn’t work.
“Yeah?” I grind out, scooping my arms underneath her lithe body and pulling her to me.
My assistant didn’t just come in to tell me that. It’s the twelfth week in a row that it’s at the top of the box office list, making The Devouring films the most successful horror movie franchise of all time. She came in for one thing, and one thing only.
Mindi is the worst assistant in the world, but she gives good head. She’s always willing and ready to go, whenever I want her. She lets me bend her and shape her and use her at will, and she never asks for anything in return. But damned if she isn’t dumb as a stump.
Good thing I’m not the kind of boss who expects much.
When I come, shooting my load, the corners of the room bend and sway. I’ve decorated this place with movie posters of my favorite horror flicks, but that’s not what makes it a cool office. The rug is a giant Twister game. There are no chairs that aren’t made of some kind of beanbag material. My desk usually has nothing on it but my collection of puzzles.
Most people would barely call me an executive at all, but that’s what it says on the door outside. Justin Avignon – Executive Producer.
What the office is missing, though?
The bright and shiny. The awards. All the other bigwigs at Emblem have them. Sure, I’m the youngest of them by several decades, but I’ve been in this business for a few years. And I don’t do anything slow. If I want something, I set out to get it.
Mindi scoots up onto the desk, pushes down her skirt, and demurely crosses her legs as I pull the condom off and ditch it in the trash. “I saw a review in—“
“I don’t care,” I snap, holding up a hand. It’s the last thing I want to hear. I’m in the entertainment business, but for long as I’ve been in this business, it’s been anything but entertaining to me. I never read critic reviews because it fucks with my head, and I usually squeeze my eyes shut during my premieres because I can’t stand to watch. In fact, I can’t watch other movies anymore without tearing them apart and thinking what can be done better, what I can do better, to give my movies a little more oomph.
I wonder if Spielberg has this problem?
She pouts. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Justin?”
Joel would say I’m supposed to be telling her to call me Mr. Avignon, which is what I’ve been told is the only way to command respect. But fuck it.
I shake my head as I zip up my jeans, then reach into my side fridge and pull out a Red Bull. “No. Just get your cute ass out there and be happy, sweetheart.” I hand her the pair of panties I’d balled up in my fist, give her a peck on the cheek, and she skitters away.
I smile as sit down at my desk. I do have it made, with a job that hardly seems like work, and gorgeous women like Mindi at my beck and call, all of them aspiring actresses who stupidly think that fucking me will get them closer to a role in my next movie. There is no shortage of hot and desperate pussy in this town; it’s almost boring, how easily I can get my needs fulfilled.
If only all things came so easily.
A second later, I hear Mindi’s voice on the intercom. “Justin? Your father’s on the line.”
My father has been dead for over twenty-five years. The person Mindi thinks is my father is actually my oldest friend in the business, Joel Kiefer, but that bit of info seems to be lost on her, despite me telling her no fewer than twenty times. He’s a billionaire movie mogul and head of Emblem Studios, my number one investor, and the guy who took me under his wing when I first got started. I say, “Okay Mindi,” then pick up the line. “Hey, Joel.”
“Tell me you were not just fucking her.”
I growl. The guy has a sixth sense for whenever I’m playing around. “How did you know that?”
“Because you always are. You need to keep your dick in your pants or it’s going to get chopped off, one of these days.”