Havana Adams - Remember My Name

“My name is Avital Silver. And I’m going to make you a superstar.”

CHAPTER 1

TEN YEARS LATER

The shot was worth a million bucks.

Any paparazzo worth his salt would kill to capture the image of movie star Alex Golden, Hollywood’s legendary Modeliser, sprawled almost naked but for a pair of Gucci board shorts that hung low down on his hips, revealing a perfectly smooth chest and tanned, ripped, Hollywood-perfected abs. Next to him lay a woman whose triple threat of lips, breasts and legs had made grown men weep, and more besides. Alex reclined on a sun bed as he stared out on the startling azure-blue sea at the exclusive resort on the Mexican coastline. In the distance came whoops and squeals of a group of people on powerful jet skis as they skimmed across the horizon, shooting plumes of water in the air behind them. Just watching them made Alex feel tired and he pushed his sunglasses down on his face.

“Christ my head is pounding.” He muttered the words with a small groan but was met with silence. He turned with a lazy glance, reaching out to touch the woman next to him. His hand skimmed her flat abdomen, before falling away. They hadn’t stayed long at the film premiere after-party the night before; just long enough for Alex to be photographed next to his ambitious young co-star, model turned actress Tyler Link, and of course long enough for him to be nursing a hangover as a result of too much vintage Perrier-Jouët champagne, which had been free-flowing at the VIP bash For a moment Alex was filled with a beat of nostalgia; you’re getting old , a voice in his head taunted him. Shaking the thought away, Alex rose to his feet, turning to stand over the sun lounger next to his.

“You’re blocking my sunlight.” Isabella finally spoke, pouting sulkily and yet so prettily as the words whispered out of her pink and improbably plump lips. Alex watched her for a moment. Most of her face was obscured by the large brim of a white Dior sunhat but what was visible of her was still incredible. Still recognisable as the face and body of Isabella Murada, one of the world’s highest paid supermodels. She and Alex shared a publicist, who had introduced them at some charity benefit in Los Angeles. Alex had only just ended another headline-grabbing fling with a swimwear model and the timing had been good. That same night he’d taken Isabella back to his suite at Chateau Marmont and they’d been together the last five months which, by his usual standards, was practically an eternity. He continued to stare down at Isabella knowing that she would soon snap. A devoted sun worshipper, Isabella hated the possibility of tanning unevenly. He stared at her lips, which were thrust forward sulkily and his eyes drifted lower to the unselfconscious way that she tanned topless. He leaned down to stroke a finger across her nipple.

“Come into the water,” he asked softly. Her breasts were large, gorgeous and fake, of course, but still with enough softness and movement in them to fool the untutored observer. He, however, was an expert. How could he not be, after ten years of fucking models and starlets?

It had started quite by accident this reputation of his, but slowly it had transformed into an unshakeable part of his reputation. Sure, there was the occasional actress thrown into the mix, the odd solo singer and famously, once, a pair of burlesque performing twins, but for the most part Alex Golden lived up to his reputation as The Modeliser.

He pressed a kiss to Isabella’s breasts and then stretched to his full 6feet 4 inches. “Come into the water,” he asked again.

“No,” Isabella snapped back.

Mostly Alex liked the rough Portuguese twang in her Brazilian-accented English, but some days like today, the harsh sounds grated. “You’re not still angry?” He gritted his teeth. Isabella could carry a grudge and her silent treatments had been known to last for days. With a sigh he banked down his building irritation with her. “Isabella,” he cajoled softly.

“You embarrass me at the premiere, laughing and joking for the cameras with that, that…model.” Her words were hissed out of pursed lips and Alex fought to hide his disinterest, which was laced too with some amusement. The contempt with which she spat the word ‘model’ might lead anyone to think that she wasn’t one herself.

“Tyler is my co-star, I didn’t have much choice.” Alex sighed as Isabella folded her arms beneath her breasts and turned her head away so that all he could see was her jaw and the perfect, unblemished profile that had fronted countless cosmetic campaigns and adorned billboards in Milan, Paris, New York and London. “Fine,” he said and with a shrug he turned and walked towards the pool and dived in with a clean, perfect arc that caused barely a ripple.

After pounding the length of the pool for several long minutes, as much to escape the heat of Isabella’s building temper as to cool down, Alex levered himself out of the pool and again looked towards the sea. She was no longer in her sun lounger. Grabbing his towel, he dried his hair roughly, even as the hot sun rapidly dried his skin, till only a few droplets kissed his muscular shoulders. A little way from the house, he spotted a movement and grimaced, watching as the blistering sun flashed and reflected against something hidden behind the bushes. It was a tell which Alex had grown familiar with these last ten years; the paparazzi had found them.

The ever-present paparazzi who knew his itinerary even before he did, who skulked around for scandal, which more often than not he provided for them and their vast hoards of gossip-hungry readers. Alex continued to dry his hair and with the trademark cool that had made him a star, he dropped his towel, stretching his arms high above his head, uncaring of his near nakedness and the telescopic lenses trained on him, and then slowly he padded barefoot towards the house.

For the first time in the last few weeks, Alex felt the tension drain away from him, his feet warmed by the terracotta of the floors which baked in the sun as he moved into the house. Though Avital, his agent, hid it well, he had sensed her tension, had known that she and the studios were closely watching his latest film. He was no brainless himbo, he too had noted that though they were still hitting number one, his films weren’t doing what they used to at the box office. He knew without anyone telling him that Deadlock had to reach number one and stay there.

As he padded around the villa, there was still no sign of Isabella and he was not inclined to go and find her. Now, with a clearer head, he looked around the opulent open-plan living room. Their stay here had come courtesy of millionaire producer and Hollywood royalty, Milo Levy. The paintings that last night he and Isabella had brushed past without even a glance were in the light of day revealed to be Picasso sketches and vibrant Modigliani nudes that wouldn’t be out of place in some national gallery somewhere. Alex smiled and slumped down onto a white chaise longue in the living room, fumbling around for the TV remote, which he used to flick on the massive plasma screen TV that was mounted on a wall. For a couple of minutes, he channel surfed without interest, finally tossing aside the remote as he spotted his Mulberry overnight bag where he had carelessly dumped it the night before. He reached into it pulling out a platinum Vertu mobile phone. He had several missed calls, most of which he wouldn’t return. The last name on the list was his sister’s and he clicked on it, feeling a twinge of guilt. He’d missed several telephone calls from her in the last few days and with the crazy schedule of promotion in the lead-up to the film’s release, he’d not had a chance to call her back. Leaning back into the sofa, he prepared to return his sister’s call when something on the television caught his attention. It was an image of himself.