Breaking Character Read online

  Breaking Character

  A Billionaire Rogue Novella

  Maggie Twain

  Breaking Character

  A Billionaire Rogue Novella

  By Maggie Twain

  Copyright © 2020, Maggie Twain. All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. Consent may be obtained by emailing: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance the characters may have to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Maggie Twain

  Warning: This book contains graphic language and sexual content.

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  Contents

  Breaking Character

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Epilogue One - Six Months Later

  Epilogue Two - Three Years Later

  Also by Maggie Twain

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  Breaking Character

  Lights. Camera. Satisfaction!

  When Mel's small-town diner caters for a movie production, she finds herself thrust into the glamorous world of Hollywood. However, things soon turn sour when, after seeing her friend being assailed by none other than the star, she's forced to take drastic action.

  When Hollywood A-lister, Max Falcon, arranges a scene rehearsal with a local youngster, he wasn't counting on meeting his oblivious friend. But things deteriorate yet further when she throws an entire drum of meatballs over him. The worst thing, however, is that she's the hottest girl he's ever seen, oh, and she's just been fired for assault.

  After such a terrible start, can Max win her affections, given he's a method actor and is playing the part of a bootlegging philanderer?

  If you like seductive billionaire movie star rogues and sweet young women in their primes then you'll be enchanted by Breaking Character, the latest novella by Maggie Twain.

  *Mature young adult / new adult: sexual content and language. For readers 17 and older.*

  For fans of Alexa Riley, Lucy Darling, Mink and Ella Goode.

  One

  Mel

  It’s truly saying something about your town when the mere sight of a stranger standing outside, maybe walking around a bit or this new one, taking photos of the one road that passes through, is enough to prompt everyone to commence gossip in earnest.

  Welcome to Gallup.

  You might say we’re a small place where absolutely nothing ever happens.

  “Who is he?” Aunt Dorothy perches over the counter, spatula in hand, the bacon that’s frying behind her on the precipice of going up in flame.

  I shrug and shake my head at the sight of Jimmy, Doctor Platt and the old twins, Janice and Justine watching the man like there was literally nothing more exciting in this world. This town for sure. Certainly, nothing ever happens here but that’s exactly what this is - Nothing.

  I smell burning and snap my fingers in front of Aunt Dorothy’s face. “Earth to Dot, earth to Dot.”

  “Huh? Oh...” she spins around in a panic, works her usual magic and ten seconds later there’s fried bacon on a heap of waffles and all drizzling in maple syrup. “Sherif’s up.”

  I grab the plate and waltz over to where the sheriff’s sitting in the corner booth. “Bacon, waffles, maple syrup, coffee. Enjoy.” I place the breakfast down but even he’s in a world of his own looking out the window. “Oh, not you too? What’s going on?”

  My words jerk the man out from his trance. “Oh, thanks.” He bites his bottom lip, “whoever he is, he’s walked to the old fire station and back four times.” He squints hard in the direction of the outsider. “What’s he doing now?”

  “Um, let me see,” I lean over his table and narrow my eyes. “Is he counting?” Sure enough, he’s doing that pointy thing in the way people do when they’re counting something in the near distance. “You’d better arrest him, Sherif.”

  He turns away and tries not to laugh. Even Sherif Davis knows how ridiculous this whole thing looks. “Hmm, maybe I ought to go out there and ask him about his business.” He looks ready to move but then remembers there’s one of my aunt’s delicious breakfasts before him. “Well, maybe later.”

  I roll my eyes. It’s a wonder Aunt Dorothy wasn’t paid a visit that one time she drove down Main Street at five miles per hour over the limit. Sometimes I wished for an armed robbery or something, just to bring a little excitement around here. It might also keep the sheriff occupied.

  I stroll across to Jimmy who’s sat at his usual table. He looks at me in the way he always does, like there’s nothing I could ever do to hurt, disappoint or upset him. “The usual?” I ask and for the first time since I started working at Gallup’s only diner, Jimmy seems more interested in what’s not exactly going on outside than in staring at me. I’m not sure whether or not to be offended.

  His mouth’s hanging open and there’s a vacant look behind the eyes, even more so than normal. “You see the car he come in?”

  “What? No.” I glance again outside. From here I can get a better view of the stranger, though he’s still pretty much a blur, but I see the car now, along with the three blondes sitting inside it, and maybe, for the first time, I’m thinking everybody losing their faculties over someone new being in town might even be justified, a little anyway. I’d best not tell the sheriff about the three young women in the car, else that’d be the end of him. Oh, it looks expensive. “What kind of car is that?”

  “It’s an Aston Martin,” Jimmy says, as though I’m stupid. He knows all the cars, always has, even when we were seven and I had to go over to his house for homeschooling, he always knew the name of every car just by looking. People have always been cruel to Jimmy, saying things like he’s really slow, except for when it comes to cars, and that he’d never amount to anything. Well, maybe if there was someone around this town willing to give the boy a chance, maybe he’d prove them all wrong. And so what if Dot once put him on dish cleaning duty and he caused a hundred dollars worth of damage to the crockery, that was just a one-off. Jimmy picks at his ear. “Maybe I’ll ask him for a ride.”

  “I’m sure he’d love to give you a ride, Jim, but before then, I reckon there’s a plate of my aunt’s best pancakes coming your way.”

  Finally, he pulls away from the window to give me a smile and as usual, I can tell he’s trying real hard not to stare at my breasts. “Thanks, Mel.” Despite all his effort, on this occasion he fails and now there’s that same lovestruck grin I see every morning. It must be hard being an eighteen-year-old guy with all those raging hormones and few prospects willing to give you a chance romantically. Even harder when you’re like Jimmy, but I’ve always vowed to look out for him, just like I have since we were kids.

  I return to Dot and am appalled to find her still leering at the window. “Aunt Dorothy!”

  She throws up her hands. “I know, I know, but nothing ever happens around here. Can you blame me?”

  I shake my head and can see her regarding me in the way she always does when she’s about to get on her high horse about how I’m wasting my life here. “Don’t…” I attempt to preempt the woman. I know she only has my best interests at heart but I made my decision and now I have to stand
by it. Bringing it up every few days won’t change anything.

  “Well, what do you expect?” She exhales profoundly and throws the pancake mix into the pan. “You’re eighteen, you should be at college in some big city, not wasting your life here just because of me.”

  I begin steaming the milk for Jimmy’s latte and have to shout over the sound of tearing liquid. “Without fail, every Tuesday and Thursday on the button.” I had meant to be heading east to take up my course in molecular biology, that was until Uncle Jonah died and left Dot all on her own with the diner to take care of. She was there for me when I had nobody, so I was hardly likely to abandon her now, at the time she needed me the most. Sometimes life can be like this, it can either pull you down when you’re just about to fly away or it can lift you up when you’re wading through the mud. The only question is, when will something swoop by to lift me up, considering this is Gallup and absolutely nothing ever happens around here.

  The door just happens to swing open at the precise moment The Dixie Cups, Chapel of Love stops, announcing the end of the playlist. The bell above the door dings and now there’s not a single one of our five regulars eating breakfast, Dot or myself, who’s not gawping as the stranger enters. He comes to a stop two paces inside, just as the rickety old door clatters back into its frame. He’s looking around, left, right, even up, apparently at our charming upholstery straight from the 1930s, and seems not to care that he’s being ogled by a large number of Gallup’s finest residents. I place him in his mid-thirties, he’s wearing a blue suit that he fills out, extremely fine brown leather shoes, sunglasses and very professionally styled blond hair. But if I hadn’t already guessed he was wealthy from the car he’d supposedly arrived in, then now, as he continues striding toward the bar, I’d have guessed it from his confident walk alone because it’s that minor detail that somehow screams, I could buy your whole damned town a thousand times over. Oh, here comes a cocksure one, is all I can think to myself.

  Hot steamed milk spills over the top of the pan and I flinch away before running my hand under the cold water. “Dot!” I growl.

  “Huh?” Her eyes have glazed over so I elbow her in the ribs. “Oh, good morning, how may I help you?”

  Jimmy’s still gazing out at the car, or rather who’s in the car, but everybody else, Sherif Davis included, is watching the stranger who’s standing right in front of my aunt whilst making her look even more like a midget than she is.

  The man rubs at his stubble and I hear the scratchy sound it makes from where I’m standing. “What town is this?” Well, after that build-up, it’s a bit of an anticlimax, but then what was I expecting him to say; that he has the keys to Narnia or a map for Blackbeard’s lost treasure?

  “You not see the sign coming in?” Aunt Dot says and I want to elbow her again. “You’ve spent the last half an hour pottering around outside and you don’t even know where you are?”

  I suck in air. “Please ignore my aunt’s, um, sense of humor.” Truly, we’re not used to fancy visitors around these parts.

  “Is that what it was?” He says drily and then calmly glances back over a shoulder and four pairs of eyes quickly look away. He moves back to center and doesn’t smile. “I took no notice of the sign,” he shrugs and remains completely unruffled after my aunt’s smart-alec remark, not to mention the scrutiny from everybody else, “I didn’t know at the time that this might just be the place I’ve been looking for.” His voice is deep, definitely West Coast, and refined. He’s almost certainly from money. “Last but by no means least, you got no cell signal here.”

  “It’s called Gallup,” I rush to say and hand him a menu, “we’re known for our pancakes here.”

  He picks up the card and his eyes briefly flick over the photos. He looks back up and directs his question to Dot. “Tell me … does this place ever suffer from power outages?”

  “Outages?” Dot gives me a funny look. “Are you talking about the diner specifically or Gallup generally?”

  “The latter,” he says, whilst doing an excellent job of concealing the fact he’s losing his patience.

  “A couple times a year, perhaps,” I say in Dot’s stead, “why?” Now, that was the question. Is this guy from the government or is there a hidden camera around here somewhere?

  He nods, “I’ll try those pancakes and maybe get a coffee as well.”

  I squint at the man. “What did you mean by ‘place you’ve been looking for?’” I ask like it was all my business. I was hardly likely to pass up this one chance for a bit of gossip.

  His facial expression remains constant and I get the impression he’s used to talking to big shots and is hardly impressed by little people like us. “What about all that dust?” He asks instead of answering my question. “A stiff breeze and that entire desert’s gonna blow right on through here, right?”

  Now it’s my turn to give Dot a funny look. “Not once has that ever happened.” Seriously, where’s the camera?

  “What movie have you been watching?” Dot twists back from the stove, evidently still invested in whatever the heck kind of conversation this is.

  Finally, this achieves a crack from the man’s face. He’s beyond attractive, maybe he should smile more. “Name’s Bret Dangerfield. Ring any bells?”

  I shrug and glance over at Dot, who likewise has no idea. Jimmy shouts over from the far end of the restaurant. “He’s a movie producer.” The little eavesdropper, but it’s not like he’s the only one who’s intrigued.

  Bret twists around and lowers his sunglasses to better stare at Jimmy. He turns back and I place the coffee before him. “Rampage in Harlem, you know it?” He spoons three sugars into the cup and gives it a stir. “How about Mobster’s Paradise?” He shakes his head and sips his coffee, he doesn’t exactly care about getting the approval of two women in some small-town diner. “Anyway, if you’ve got the name of the local mayor, that’d be good. I might be needing a few favors. Second of all, if you’re thinking of giving any walls a lick of paint, I’d kindly ask you to refrain for the moment. I want the place still looking authentic when I return, oh, and one more thing…?”

  He has everyone’s attention now. Dot and I shrug together. “Yeah?”

  “Do you think you can handle the catering for three-hundred people on two day’s notice?”

  The air escapes me and I can only stare aghast at little Aunt Dot, recently widowed, wearing her hairnet and holding a spatula. “I think you’d best tell us what it’s for, Mr Dangerfield?”

  Bret’s casually cleaning the lenses of his sunglasses. He slips them back over his eyes. “Because, darling, Gallup’s about to play host to my new blockbuster.” He slaps a business card on the bar along with a thick wad of banknotes. Shit, but they’re hundreds. He turns and strides out the diner. Twenty seconds later he’s screeching down the thoroughfare in his open-topped Aston Martin, the long hair from three blondes trailing with the inertia.

  Dot and I can only share an opened-mouthed look, I’d wanted some excitement and now it appeared that I’d got it, and then Jimmy approaches and points to the stove.

  “Anybody want those pancakes?”

  Two

  Max

  I kick back in the recliner and pop a beer, take a long pull and slam the half-drained bottle to the nearby table. I’m looking at Danny, my longtime agent and best friend. “This beer’s shit, get me something better.”

  He squints at the nearly vanquished bottle and his nose scrunches. “Anything else, your majesty?” His crabbiness is mostly due to the fact I’d made him dress like an inhabitant from the 1930s. He really hates the pants, braces and bowtie, because he thinks he looks stupid, which he does, and the flat cap’s making him itch but it amuses me and that’s all that matters. He looks funny as hell. I once made him go three weeks without washing when I played that outlaw and another time he had to shave his head and wear a jumpsuit for that prison movie. He wouldn’t mind but he’s not even an actor and has never been so much as an extra in one of my m
ovies but I like to immerse myself in my roles, it’s called method acting, and if he wants to continue hanging with his old buddy on set then this is the price he has to pay. He has to join in on the act. Help me to become the guy I’m playing. Make me believe.

  I cross one ankle over the other and place my hands behind my head. “Make sure the crew all know that if I catch anyone using a cell on set, they’re fired.”

  “No cells in the 1930s, right, I’m sure the director will be thrilled to hear this instruction.” Wise guy trying to get a rise.

  I throw the bottle so that it flies just past his head and smashes against the wall of my trailer. “This how you speak to your capo?”

  The part I’m playing is Arthur Templeton, capo or head of the Templeton crime family during those turbulent few years when the Dust Bowl overlapped with Prohibition. I’m running a secret distillery somewhere in the Texan desert and sending my produce to speakeasies all across America. It should come as no surprise that Templeton’s a hard son-of-a-bitch. The town from where I’m running the operation’s called Hawthorn. Unfortunately, modern-day Hawthorn now resembles nothing like it once did, which is why it’s lucky the producer, a jerk who goes by the name Bret Dangerfield, right at the last minute happened to stumble across a placed called Gallup, or something, when he was passing through with his harem. Everything had to be moved almost without warning and at great cost to the production, but it’ll all be for the best if the movie looks authentic.