Page 19 of Men or Paws
ChapterFour
Rocco
After my shower, I slipped into a black T-shirt, black shorts, and black flip-flops, then glanced at myself in the mirror before Beth’s voice popped into my head.
Just because you wear black all the time does not make you bad. That just makes you unimaginative in your color choices.
She didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Unimaginative? Me?” I mumbled, taking one more glance at myself in the mirror.
Sure, I had a lot of black clothes.
There was nothing wrong with that.
Fashion trends will come and go, but black will always be in style.
Besides, I had a bad boy persona to maintain and everyone knows bad boys wear black, even at home. It wasn’t Beth’s place to critique my clothes, though I was surprised how freely and honestly she spoke her mind with a stranger. It was refreshing, yet slightly annoying.
I certainly did have to give her kudos for taking the job after making an absolute fool of herself on the phone. I wasn’t so sure I’d have had the gumption to show up if I were in her shoes.
Most of the people I have met in Hollywood were anything but genuine—they were only looking out for themselves and jockeying for what they could get from other people. They kissed my butt everywhere I went, hoping to work with me or to get me to produce something they were sure was going to be bigger than Star Wars. They wanted my money, parts in my movies, my endorsements, and use of my Hollywood connections.
Beth had some nerve showing up with a freaking addendum. She was the first person to ever have the balls to do so.
Speaking of that . . . it was time to get to work.
I snapped my fingers. “Let’s go.”
Houdini jumped off the bed and followed me to the family room where I had left Beth with a cup of coffee and plenty of time to contemplate other things she didn’t like about me.
I pointed to her empty coffee cup. “Would you like another before we start?”
Beth shook her head. “I’m good. Thanks.” She swiveled her butt on the leather couch, checking me out from head to toe.
“What was that look for?” I couldn’t help asking.
Beth shrugged. “Nothing.”
I gestured to my clothes. “There’s nothing wrong with black, you know.”
“True, but everything in moderation, right?” She glanced at my clothes again.
I smirked. “Moderation is the castration of elation.”
Beth stared at me pensively. “Interesting quote. Who said that?”
“Rocco Romano.” I grinned, proud that I came up with that on the fly. “Maybe I have a newfound calling as a philosopher.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” Beth said nonchalantly as she stared at my contract, shaking her head. “Marcello said people sign this thing as-is.”
I took a seat next to her. “All the time. It’s my standard employee contract.”
“So . . . you’re telling me it’s standard procedure to have people agree to not have sex with you?”
“Yes,” I said. “Is that a problem?”
Beth ignored my question. “Can’t you simply tell them you don’t want to sleep with them?”
