Hollywood Girls Club - Softcover
As any A-lister knows in Hollywood, the climb to the top is a treacherous one and these stilettos better be made for stomping. When four friends form a pact to bust the male-dominated industry and make a blockbuster film, they are in for more than what they bargained for. There's "Cici" Solange, a stunning movie queen clinging to stardom by a manicured fingernail; her agent, Jessica Caulfield, president of CTA (the most "powerful" agency in town) determined to keep her top-notch client list and position; billion-dollar producer Lydia Albright, fighting to a bring a sure-fire hit to the screen before she's fired by a new studio chief; and writer Mary Ann Meyers, plucked from obscurity to write the $1.5-million screenplay that brings all the players together. To their dismay, the fab four discover that the girls' club can be equally as cutthroat as the boy's club and it's most definitely cattier. Having friends with power is crucial, but having friends you can trust is even better. In Hollywood, success lasts seconds and you're only as good as your last hit. When your career is in jeopardy, the only people who will save you are your friends.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Maggie Marr has more than fifteen years in the Hollywood trenches. Parties? Check. Stars? Check. Parties with Stars behaving badly....Check, check, and double checkity-check! Names? (She'll never tell.....)
When you pick up a Maggie Marr book, you'll always get your dose of hot men, strong women (with amazing friends), and steamy sex. Never miss any of Maggie's hot new books, follow her here on Amazon and sign up for her newsletter at maggiemarr.net
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
When you pick up a Maggie Marr book, you'll always get your dose of hot men, strong women (with amazing friends), and steamy sex. Never miss any of Maggie's hot new books, follow her here on Amazon and sign up for her newsletter at maggiemarr.net
1
Celeste Solange and Her
Fifteen-Thousand-Dollar Shoes
CELESTE SOLANGE NEEDED SHOES. NOT JUST ANY KIND OF SHOES, BUT Manolos, Choos, Versaces. Any kind whose price contained a minimum of three zeros. Shoes that made salesclerks salivate and Beverly Hills trophy wives green with envy. Damien would pay. She'd make sure of it. He'd blanch at the sight of his credit-card bill. Celeste glanced into the rearview mirror of her midnight blue Porsche Boxster convertible. Although she wore oversized Gucci sunglasses, she knew that behind the shades her turquoise eyes_were red-rimmed and swollen (the same gold-flecked catlike eyes_for which she was famous). Her signature blond hair, usually expertly coiffed and styled, whipped in the California wind. A cross between Michelle Pfeiffer and Marilyn Monroe, Celeste was the sexpot screen siren of the century (or at least the last five years).
Who did Damien Bruckner think he was? Celeste wondered. She pressed her perfectly pedicured toes onto the accelerator, feeling it sink to the floorboard as she took the tight turn on Mulholland Drive. When Celeste met Damien five years before, he was, perhaps, the most prolific film producer in Hollywood, and Celeste the hottest star. But five years (in an industry where the power brokers changed every ten years) was a lifetime.
Celeste crested a hill and looked at Los Angeles lying at her feet. She could almost see the Pacific if it weren't for the haze. L.A. had been beautiful in the forties. As a child, she'd seen pictures in her grandmother's old movie magazines--orange groves, mountains, beaches and waves all visible from the top of Mulholland and the Hollywood Hills. The very beauty those pictures promised had captivated a young Celeste, drawing her from a trailer court in Tennessee to the land of movie stars. Now, with the exhaust and pollution, the view was tarnished. It was dirty and gray. Just like Damien Bruckner.
Damien believed he'd satisfy Celeste by giving her a five-carat diamond and his last name. But after what Celeste had found, neither the diamond nor the name was enough. None of it was. The fucker.
For five years, Celeste fucked him and blew him. Even fucked a_few of his friends, and why? Why? Good question. Celeste thought she'd known the answer. For the fulfillment of a promise. That once Amanda Bruckner, Damien's first wife, was gone, she--Celeste Solange, superstar--would be Mrs. Damien Bruckner. And finally, in the perfect Malibu wedding just six months ago, Celeste had gotten her wish. Or what she thought was her wish. Fulfilling Celeste's desire to be one half of "the" power couple in the movie business. It had been a grandiose event. Everyone was there. Tom, Kate, Will, Bruce, even the ever-reclusive Robert. The press was phenomenal. Helicopters whirling overhead, paparazzi sneaking through the bushes. (Damien and Celeste had been smart enough to get tents.) The picture of her dress, Celeste heard, had sold for more than a hundred grand.
And then, almost immediately after the wedding, the rumors began. The rumors and the questions. What about Celeste's career? Was it over? She hadn't worked in close to two years--was she leaving film to become a domestic diva? Perhaps a little Bruckner was soon to follow the Malibu wedding ceremony. Or perhaps, as the most popular tabloid rumors implied, Celeste was already pregnant with what was sure to be the perfect Hollywood child. None of it was true. Celeste's sabbatical from film was at Damien's behest, causing, he believed, the public's hunger for her next picture to swell. Because Celeste's first film in two years was scheduled to be the next film Damien produced, an action adventure entitled Borderland Blue.
Celeste pulled hard on the steering wheel of her Porsche. Amanda Bruckner was brilliant. Barely forty-five and set for life. She sat in a stunning $15 million home in Nice overlooking the ocean, and Damien threw gazillions of dollars at her just to keep her quiet and to stay the fuck away from Los Angeles. Amanda kept his name and a huge chunk of his money (in addition to the $50,000 a month in alimony Damien paid). Amanda would have laughed at this scenario. Thrown back her head and cackled with glee. How could she not? The irony was absolute.
Black lace panties. It seemed Damien liked them on all his women. Because the black lace panties that Mathilde (Celeste and Damien's housekeeper) had found in Damien's suitcase this morning weren't all that different from all the pairs of little black lace panties Celeste wore when Damien was sleeping with Celeste and still married to Amanda.
"Senora, es tu?" Mathilde had asked, holding up the crotchless undies as she unpacked the suitcase Damien had brought home from New Zealand late last night.
Emerging from the bathroom sauna, Celeste froze at the sight of Mathilde waving the panties over the couple's king-size bed._Her heart pounded. Those are not mine. Even from a distance she could tell. The offensive black polyester lingerie that Mathilde held was cheap and shoddily made. It had been a decade since Celeste had felt anything but Agent Provocateur against her skin.
Celeste put on her Hollywood game face (she was a Golden Globe-winning actress, after all) and smiled at Mathilde. "Si. Un presente for Senor Bruckner. To remember me by, while he was away on set."
No need to have the help talking, Celeste thought. If Mathilde found out that Damien was having an affair, everyone in town would know. All the hired help rode the same bus--how do you think everyone in Hollywood found out that Steven Brockman was gay?
Celeste flinched at the memory, swerving around her rapper neighbor's Escalade attempting to turn onto Mulholland in front of her. It wasn't the fucking around that pissed her off. (She could be jealous, but why? She'd had special friends on the side.) They were a liberal sort of Hollywood couple. Celeste had been aware of Damien's fling with this little cocktease of an actress Brianna Ellison for months. But the trip to New Zealand, to a film Damien wasn't even producing (executive producing only; he might as well be a grip), combined with this little tramp getting the lead in Borderland Blue, that was enough to make Celeste burn.
Damien didn't even have the integrity to tell Celeste that she'd been bumped from the lead role (and the sneaky bastard hadn't left the trades lying around this morning--he'd taken Variety and Hollywood Reporter). But Damien wasn't clever enough. Much like finding crotchless panties in the hands of their housekeeper, Celeste learned of her public disgrace via another employee--this time her publicist, Kiki Dee. There in the fax machine, just like every morning, lay copies of all the articles (Us, People, Star, the Enquirer, Variety . . .) that mentioned Celeste. But this morning there'd been a hissing cobra on the second page of Kiki's twenty-page fax. BRUCKNER BLUE FOR BRIANNA screamed the headline in Variety.
The humiliation was horrifying. Celeste had spent the last two years prancing around town talking about nothing but her next big part in Damien's next big film. For two years, through script rewrites, changes in director, and changes in locale, Celeste had held off doing any other film, waiting for Damien and Borderland Blue. She'd been offered other roles. Roles for which other actresses were nominated and even won awards, fulfilling what was Celeste's dream--to have an Oscar to sit next to her Golden Globe. But no, Celeste waited. She waited for Damien's film, because he'd promised.
And now Brie Ellison was getting the lead. Brie was an eighteen-year-old wannabe who hadn't even starred in a film. Sure, her breasts were perky and she had great hair, but so did Celeste. Celeste had paid twenty-five grand just three months ago to have her breasts re-perked (a little maintenance in preparation for the bikini scenes). It wasn't pleasant having stitches around your nipples.
How had this happened? Where the fuck was Jessica and why hadn't she told Celeste? It was Jessica's job, as Celeste's agent, to protect her business interests and to never let Celeste get blindsided in the trades like this. She obviously couldn't trust her husband to look out for her best interests (at least whenever his cock was involved). But her agent, one of her closest friends? What was going on? Jessica had to have known about this deal; she was the president of CTA, the most powerful agency in town. Agents knew everything, every bit of business, gossip, and intrigue that went down, usually before all the players. And Jessica was the best.
Celeste flipped open her cell phone.
"Jessica Caulfield's office," answered Kim, Jessica's number one assistant.
"It's me," Celeste said, trying to contain the bitchiness in her voice.
"One moment, Celeste. I'll get her."
They'd better recognize her voice. She'd paid enough in commission to CTA over the last seven years to buy a Third World country. Ten percent of her $20 million quote combined with ten percent of first-dollar gross was big bucks.
"Cici--"
"What the fuck is going on, Jessica?" Celeste screamed, the bitchiness roaring over the phone line. Fuck it. She knew she sounded shrill and high maintenance, but she didn't care. This was her life, her career!
"Cici, the deal closed late last night, one A.M. I didn't find out until two."
"You could have called."
"Someone leaked it to the trades; it wasn't supposed to run today. I'm sorry, Cici. I swear we just didn't get in front of it fast enough."
"It looks like I was bumped for someone younger and by my own fucking husband!"
"Cici, there are at least a dozen producers who want you in their films. I have three full-quote offers right now--pick one. We'll run it tomorrow; it'll look like it was your decision, not Damien's. That you stepped off of Borderland Blue for a better film."
"I don't like them...
Celeste Solange and Her
Fifteen-Thousand-Dollar Shoes
CELESTE SOLANGE NEEDED SHOES. NOT JUST ANY KIND OF SHOES, BUT Manolos, Choos, Versaces. Any kind whose price contained a minimum of three zeros. Shoes that made salesclerks salivate and Beverly Hills trophy wives green with envy. Damien would pay. She'd make sure of it. He'd blanch at the sight of his credit-card bill. Celeste glanced into the rearview mirror of her midnight blue Porsche Boxster convertible. Although she wore oversized Gucci sunglasses, she knew that behind the shades her turquoise eyes_were red-rimmed and swollen (the same gold-flecked catlike eyes_for which she was famous). Her signature blond hair, usually expertly coiffed and styled, whipped in the California wind. A cross between Michelle Pfeiffer and Marilyn Monroe, Celeste was the sexpot screen siren of the century (or at least the last five years).
Who did Damien Bruckner think he was? Celeste wondered. She pressed her perfectly pedicured toes onto the accelerator, feeling it sink to the floorboard as she took the tight turn on Mulholland Drive. When Celeste met Damien five years before, he was, perhaps, the most prolific film producer in Hollywood, and Celeste the hottest star. But five years (in an industry where the power brokers changed every ten years) was a lifetime.
Celeste crested a hill and looked at Los Angeles lying at her feet. She could almost see the Pacific if it weren't for the haze. L.A. had been beautiful in the forties. As a child, she'd seen pictures in her grandmother's old movie magazines--orange groves, mountains, beaches and waves all visible from the top of Mulholland and the Hollywood Hills. The very beauty those pictures promised had captivated a young Celeste, drawing her from a trailer court in Tennessee to the land of movie stars. Now, with the exhaust and pollution, the view was tarnished. It was dirty and gray. Just like Damien Bruckner.
Damien believed he'd satisfy Celeste by giving her a five-carat diamond and his last name. But after what Celeste had found, neither the diamond nor the name was enough. None of it was. The fucker.
For five years, Celeste fucked him and blew him. Even fucked a_few of his friends, and why? Why? Good question. Celeste thought she'd known the answer. For the fulfillment of a promise. That once Amanda Bruckner, Damien's first wife, was gone, she--Celeste Solange, superstar--would be Mrs. Damien Bruckner. And finally, in the perfect Malibu wedding just six months ago, Celeste had gotten her wish. Or what she thought was her wish. Fulfilling Celeste's desire to be one half of "the" power couple in the movie business. It had been a grandiose event. Everyone was there. Tom, Kate, Will, Bruce, even the ever-reclusive Robert. The press was phenomenal. Helicopters whirling overhead, paparazzi sneaking through the bushes. (Damien and Celeste had been smart enough to get tents.) The picture of her dress, Celeste heard, had sold for more than a hundred grand.
And then, almost immediately after the wedding, the rumors began. The rumors and the questions. What about Celeste's career? Was it over? She hadn't worked in close to two years--was she leaving film to become a domestic diva? Perhaps a little Bruckner was soon to follow the Malibu wedding ceremony. Or perhaps, as the most popular tabloid rumors implied, Celeste was already pregnant with what was sure to be the perfect Hollywood child. None of it was true. Celeste's sabbatical from film was at Damien's behest, causing, he believed, the public's hunger for her next picture to swell. Because Celeste's first film in two years was scheduled to be the next film Damien produced, an action adventure entitled Borderland Blue.
Celeste pulled hard on the steering wheel of her Porsche. Amanda Bruckner was brilliant. Barely forty-five and set for life. She sat in a stunning $15 million home in Nice overlooking the ocean, and Damien threw gazillions of dollars at her just to keep her quiet and to stay the fuck away from Los Angeles. Amanda kept his name and a huge chunk of his money (in addition to the $50,000 a month in alimony Damien paid). Amanda would have laughed at this scenario. Thrown back her head and cackled with glee. How could she not? The irony was absolute.
Black lace panties. It seemed Damien liked them on all his women. Because the black lace panties that Mathilde (Celeste and Damien's housekeeper) had found in Damien's suitcase this morning weren't all that different from all the pairs of little black lace panties Celeste wore when Damien was sleeping with Celeste and still married to Amanda.
"Senora, es tu?" Mathilde had asked, holding up the crotchless undies as she unpacked the suitcase Damien had brought home from New Zealand late last night.
Emerging from the bathroom sauna, Celeste froze at the sight of Mathilde waving the panties over the couple's king-size bed._Her heart pounded. Those are not mine. Even from a distance she could tell. The offensive black polyester lingerie that Mathilde held was cheap and shoddily made. It had been a decade since Celeste had felt anything but Agent Provocateur against her skin.
Celeste put on her Hollywood game face (she was a Golden Globe-winning actress, after all) and smiled at Mathilde. "Si. Un presente for Senor Bruckner. To remember me by, while he was away on set."
No need to have the help talking, Celeste thought. If Mathilde found out that Damien was having an affair, everyone in town would know. All the hired help rode the same bus--how do you think everyone in Hollywood found out that Steven Brockman was gay?
Celeste flinched at the memory, swerving around her rapper neighbor's Escalade attempting to turn onto Mulholland in front of her. It wasn't the fucking around that pissed her off. (She could be jealous, but why? She'd had special friends on the side.) They were a liberal sort of Hollywood couple. Celeste had been aware of Damien's fling with this little cocktease of an actress Brianna Ellison for months. But the trip to New Zealand, to a film Damien wasn't even producing (executive producing only; he might as well be a grip), combined with this little tramp getting the lead in Borderland Blue, that was enough to make Celeste burn.
Damien didn't even have the integrity to tell Celeste that she'd been bumped from the lead role (and the sneaky bastard hadn't left the trades lying around this morning--he'd taken Variety and Hollywood Reporter). But Damien wasn't clever enough. Much like finding crotchless panties in the hands of their housekeeper, Celeste learned of her public disgrace via another employee--this time her publicist, Kiki Dee. There in the fax machine, just like every morning, lay copies of all the articles (Us, People, Star, the Enquirer, Variety . . .) that mentioned Celeste. But this morning there'd been a hissing cobra on the second page of Kiki's twenty-page fax. BRUCKNER BLUE FOR BRIANNA screamed the headline in Variety.
The humiliation was horrifying. Celeste had spent the last two years prancing around town talking about nothing but her next big part in Damien's next big film. For two years, through script rewrites, changes in director, and changes in locale, Celeste had held off doing any other film, waiting for Damien and Borderland Blue. She'd been offered other roles. Roles for which other actresses were nominated and even won awards, fulfilling what was Celeste's dream--to have an Oscar to sit next to her Golden Globe. But no, Celeste waited. She waited for Damien's film, because he'd promised.
And now Brie Ellison was getting the lead. Brie was an eighteen-year-old wannabe who hadn't even starred in a film. Sure, her breasts were perky and she had great hair, but so did Celeste. Celeste had paid twenty-five grand just three months ago to have her breasts re-perked (a little maintenance in preparation for the bikini scenes). It wasn't pleasant having stitches around your nipples.
How had this happened? Where the fuck was Jessica and why hadn't she told Celeste? It was Jessica's job, as Celeste's agent, to protect her business interests and to never let Celeste get blindsided in the trades like this. She obviously couldn't trust her husband to look out for her best interests (at least whenever his cock was involved). But her agent, one of her closest friends? What was going on? Jessica had to have known about this deal; she was the president of CTA, the most powerful agency in town. Agents knew everything, every bit of business, gossip, and intrigue that went down, usually before all the players. And Jessica was the best.
Celeste flipped open her cell phone.
"Jessica Caulfield's office," answered Kim, Jessica's number one assistant.
"It's me," Celeste said, trying to contain the bitchiness in her voice.
"One moment, Celeste. I'll get her."
They'd better recognize her voice. She'd paid enough in commission to CTA over the last seven years to buy a Third World country. Ten percent of her $20 million quote combined with ten percent of first-dollar gross was big bucks.
"Cici--"
"What the fuck is going on, Jessica?" Celeste screamed, the bitchiness roaring over the phone line. Fuck it. She knew she sounded shrill and high maintenance, but she didn't care. This was her life, her career!
"Cici, the deal closed late last night, one A.M. I didn't find out until two."
"You could have called."
"Someone leaked it to the trades; it wasn't supposed to run today. I'm sorry, Cici. I swear we just didn't get in front of it fast enough."
"It looks like I was bumped for someone younger and by my own fucking husband!"
"Cici, there are at least a dozen producers who want you in their films. I have three full-quote offers right now--pick one. We'll run it tomorrow; it'll look like it was your decision, not Damien's. That you stepped off of Borderland Blue for a better film."
"I don't like them...
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- PublisherNLA Digital, LLC
- Publication date2013
- ISBN 10 1620510766
- ISBN 13 9781620510766
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages304
- Rating
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Hollywood Girls Club (Volume 1)
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