Hollywood Girls Club by Maggie Marr Read Free Book Online Page A

she’d gorged herself with twenty pairs of Louboutins, five varieties of Choo stilettos, and a limited-edition pair of Prada mules encrusted with diamonds a pair that easily cost thirty thousand. Celeste’s eyes sparkled—she would pay nothing; but Damien? She couldn’t wait until he opened that Black Card bill.
    Celeste’s personality (she could barely admit to herself) was just as multifaceted as her holdings. You didn’t get to the top in Hollywood without stepping on some fingers and toes … perhaps throwing a few elbows to the ribs. But the softer side of Celeste, the gentler interior, was there, too. The little girl who grew up without a mother (no one ever mentioned her father) still existed; Celeste had just hidden her away for safekeeping.
    Very few souls witnessed that vulnerable girl; she could think of two total: Jessica and Lydia.
    Celeste glanced at her unopened menu. There was no need to read it; she was having greens with lemon and a side of tuna for protein. The studios paid her not to eat. She’d never subscribed to the idea that the waiflike, heroin-addicted look was sexy. In fact, some of her counterparts might even call her full-figured (if you thought five-foot-seven, one hundred eighteen pounds with a thirty-six-inch bust was fat). No, Celeste had curves; great, full, rounded, luscious curves. No fat, not an ounce, but definite curves. Still, she stuck to the tuna before films to keep the curves in proportion.
    Celeste sipped her tea (super sweet—some things from the South you never gave up) and looked around the patio. Two tables to her left sat one of her (many) former lovers, an actor, with Brad Grey, the former manager and owner of Brillstein-Grey and now the head of Paramount. That actor had a penchant for asses, Celeste remembered, and not just cupping them. She’d wondered if it didn’t suggest a latent desire, as he’d never seemed particularly interested in her breasts, either. But who in Los Angeles didn’t swing the other way, at least on occasion? Her dead grandmama in Tennessee must have rolled over in her grave at least a thousand times since Celeste had moved to Los Angeles. The things she’d seen? And done?
    Celeste heard the slapping sound of the screen door between the patio and the restaurant slamming closed, and she looked up to see Jessica scanning the patio and tucking her BlackBerry into her Chanel purse. Celeste was always impressed by just how powerful and put together Jessica appeared (even if her personal life was messier than Celeste’s). Wavy auburn hair with loose curls framed Jessica’s face, and she wore an Armani suit, Dior high heels, and Dior sunglasses that covered her emerald green eyes. A modern-day Katharine Hepburn , Celeste thought, but with a better nose.
    Celeste knew that Jessica was one of her true friends (a rarity in life; all but extinct in L.A.). Jessica had seen the best (infectious laugh, wicked sense of humor, and talent) and the worst (bitchiness, rage bordering on mania, and insecurity) that Celeste had to offer and still Jessica loved her.
    The first time they’d met, years before, Celeste remembered being unimpressed. She wasn’t sure she liked the look of this hungry young agent. It was Ezekiel Cohen, Celeste’s first agent and former owner of CTA, who introduced them, just after Jessica landed at CTA. Ezekiel was a brave man, lunching with two alpha females. Ezekiel, Celeste learned, wanted to add Jessica to Celeste’s “team” of agents at CTA, a proposition that had it been made by anyone but Ezekiel, Celeste would have flatly refused. The lunch had been less than smooth; Jessica talked too much and seemed too brash. But Celeste trusted Ezekiel’s business judgment. He’d found Celeste, worked with her, and at that lunch seven years later, Celeste’s career was just starting to take off when he requested that Celeste at least return one of Jessica’s fifteen calls.
    Thank God for Ezekiel Cohen.
     Celeste leaned