Page 11 of Such a Good Girl

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to,” I insisted. “You signed an NDA.”

“And we both know there are ways to get around them.”

“It’s not entirely up to me, goddammit! I haven’t even gotten the project green-lit. I certainly won’t be making the final decisions about casting, you know that.” I was only half-lying, because when I met with the studio, one of the first things I’d stipulated was that I would be the one to narrow down the pool of actresses.

“If you want me to respect your privacy, and if you want to keep Profane a secret, then I trust you’ll find a way to make it happen. Don’t test me, West.”

“Fuck off, Danika,” I said, stepping around her and stomping away, rage coursing through my veins.

Her laughter echoed in my ears and it took all my strength not to turn back to her and wrap my fingers around her skinny little neck. In reality, I would never hurt a woman, but I’d be lying if the fantasy hadn’t popped up in my mind during the divorce. Danika had been a spoiled child about everything. I never should have married her in the first place.

I left her standing in the dark corner and headed to one of the only places that seemed to relieve my stress these days — Profane.

We’d built a magical place.

It was thrilling.

Discreet.

Tantalizing.

And like no other place on earth.

Theo and Rian had joined me in creating the answer to what so many others had fantasized about for years.

Hush Hush Club was only a cover for the real gem, Profane.

And Profane was a cover for a shadowy realm we hadn’t even named.

Only the select few were invited into the secret space where the real magic happened. And that magic was so exclusive it had become almost mythical, only whispered of in certain Hollywood circles.

Was it a real place or just another fabrication in this city of professional liars?

We were all acting, on screen and off. It was our collective mission, in this city, to make things out to be bigger and better than they actually were.

But as for Profane, it was understandable there was controversy regarding the existence of the most exclusive sex club on the entire West Coast. While nobody was supposed to talk about anything that went on there — NDAs were signed at the door before even one pair of panties dropped — rumors still leaked out.

The truth of it all was that my friends and I had created the perfect place to live out our darkest fantasies.

We’d created a safe space to anonymously indulge in a town that was not known for discretion. Or anonymity, for that matter.

We catered to one distinct fact — even famous people have desires. They have fantasies. They have dreams and sexual needs they want fulfilled, just like everyone else. And sometimes, those needs were very unique and risky.

Why not create a safe place for them? Free from the prying eyes of the public, absent from the vulturous hunger of the media, unshackled from the judgement of their peers and the control of their handlers?

I was fucking proud of what we’d built.

The services we provided at Profane couldn’t be found anywhere else. Only the three of us knew the true identities of our exclusive members, and we steadfastly kept the names of the faces behind the masks they wore to ourselves. We understood that profound need for discretion. We understood because we shared that need.

Nobody wanted to know that America’s Sweetheart liked getting choked out while taking a ten-inch dick up her ass from a stranger, all while being greedily gazed upon by a dozen other naked people every Saturday night.

No, they wanted to see her perfect veneered smile looking wholesome as fuck in the latest romantic comedy, and imagine she didn’t even know she could take a dick in her ass like that.

Compartmentalization was key to keeping society from crumbling.

Because if America’s Sweetheart didn’t have a place to let loose every now and then, she wouldn’t be smiling so prettily on that silver screen, would she?

It was the perfect illusion.

---