Hot SEAL in Hollywood Read online

  HOT SEAL IN HOLLYWOOD

  Hot SEALs Series

  New York Times & USA Today Bestseller

  CAT JOHNSON

  Hot SEAL Rick Mann is out of his element and going out of his mind navigating some treacherous and unfamiliar terrain . . . Hollywood.

  Give him a clear enemy he can capture or kill and he’s good. But in La La Land nothing is simple or what it seems.

  LA is driving a wedge between Rick and the one woman he loves, actress Sierra Cox. Or maybe it’s less LA and more Sierra’s co-star, pretty boy Jamey Garret, between them.

  When Rick finally loses his cool and uses his fist to make Jamey a little less pretty, the shit really hits the fan and Rick has to call in his old SEAL teammates for help saving the movie and his relationship.

  CHAPTER 1

  “That’s it. Good. Gaze deeply into each other’s eyes. Hold that. Hold it. And . . . now . . . kiss the girl!”

  Scowling, Rick Mann watched the scene unfold in front of him.

  The dark haired man, who could have stepped into the leading man’s role in any film made between the nineteen-fifties and today thanks to his chiseled classic good looks, leaned in.

  The director nodded with approval as his star did as told and kissed the girl. The only problem was, she was Rick’s girl.

  The one he’d been dating . . .

  The one he’d been unofficially living with . . .

  The one he’d been in love with . . . for over two damn years.

  As her head of security, Rick had watched Academy Award winning actress Sierra Cox kiss many men, over and over again, through dozens of takes and hours worth of filming.

  As her boyfriend, he’d hated every second of it. It was enough to give any man an ulcer.

  It had proven enough to make Rick Mann beat the shit out of the punching bag at the local gym nightly—when he could find one.

  When he couldn’t find a nearby gym with a punching bag, he’d run. Run until his lungs and his legs gave out and his brain had enough endorphins pumping to it that Rick was no longer tempted to beat the crap out of Sierra’s co-star instead of a punching bag.

  The director said something else Rick missed as the red haze of rage clouded his senses. In response, the couple tumbled onto the mattress.

  It didn’t matter that the bed was a prop set up in a studio and surrounded by a dozen members of the crew. It was still a bed and they were still naked together in it.

  Drawing in a deep breath through his nose, Rick watched, arms crossed, fists tight, blood pressure rising.

  “Jamey, I can see the sock,” the director said.

  The sock. Or more specifically, the cock sock. The only mother-fucking piece of clothing—if you could even call it that—separating this naked man’s junk from the part of Sierra’s body that belonged exclusively to Rick.

  Jamey Garret, Hollywood’s newest hot leading man, adjusted his naked ass on top of Sierra’s equally nude body as Rick’s heart pounded.

  “Christ.” Jaw set, Rick blew out a curse beneath his breath.

  The assistant director standing next to him shot him a glare.

  Rick knew to be silent once the director shouted action. He wasn’t stupid. But he was livid.

  The gym wasn’t going to do it tonight. He needed to search online for a shooting range. Maybe blowing a few hundred holes in some paper targets would help.

  Maybe he could get his hands on one of Jamey’s headshots for inspiration.

  Shit. What the hell had happened to the cool, calm Navy SEAL he’d been just a few years ago?

  Based on his current thoughts, he sounded more like one of the terrorists he’d dedicated half of his adult years to fighting rather than a highly trained operator.

  Actually, his inner dialogue sounded like that of a maniacal murderer because it wasn’t democracy or masses of innocent civilians he wanted to destroy like the radical jihadists. Oh, no. Rick’s crosshairs sat squarely on just one target. A single pretty boy movie star.

  Particularly right now because, dammit, this guy was cupping Sierra’s naked breasts.

  And fuck, now his mouth was on her, sucking the same nipple Rick had just hours ago.

  He’d woken before dawn and, knowing which scene they’d be shooting today, had given Sierra something to remember him by before they left for the lot.

  It took some doing, but he’d restrained himself from sucking on her until he bruised her porcelain skin, marking her as his territory like some wild animal.

  Even with as wild as he felt watching this shit happening in front of him, the logical part of his brain knew she’d be pissed and embarrassed if the make-up people had to cover her hickeys because her boyfriend couldn’t handle seeing her make out with her hunky co-star.

  Meanwhile, the bastard had graduated from just kissing Rick’s girl, to making love to her.

  Okay, so it was simulated movie sex, but it felt all too real as Rick watched.

  It looked pretty frigging real too as Jamey thrust his hips against Sierra, who reacted by scratching her nails down his back.

  Fuck. Rick had experienced how that felt first hand. If this man wasn’t hard enough to drive nails by now, he must be gay.

  Gay. That would be perfect. Rick could definitely handle that. Feeling hopeful for the first time since this production began, Rick grasped on to the possibility.

  Hell, he and Jamey might even become good friends. Rick could use a guy friend out here. He’d spent so much time in California lately he’d been sorely missing his buddies back on the east coast.

  His assumption on Jamey’s sexuality firmly in place, Rick watched the scene with a new calm, finally able to appreciate some of the Hollywood magic. How glaring lights and hundreds of hours of raw footage could be edited down, cut together and set to music to become two hours of seamless entertainment the public willingly shelled out millions of dollars collectively to enjoy.

  It really was quite a production. As complicated as any mission he’d been on in the teams, though far less deadly.

  In Hollywood, death meant not killing it in box office returns opening weekend.

  He’d spent a decade in the SEALs dealing with a more definitive kind of killing and death.

  “And cut! All right. Let’s take five. Good job, everybody.” The director’s words caught Rick’s attention.

  He dragged himself out of the haze he’d been in and focused on the action in front of him.

  People scrambled everywhere, including the young woman who ran toward Sierra carrying a white robe.

  Thank God for that. If Rick had to watch his woman be naked in front of Mr. Box Office for one more minute, he was going to lose his shit.

  Christ. He’d already lost it. He should be sweeping the perimeter, making sure no one was being allowed on set who shouldn’t be here. He should be watching every person on the set, making sure he knew them all and their purpose for being here.

  Hell, he should just demand they have a closed set, especially for scenes like this.

  Although maybe not . . . Then Sierra rolling around naked in bed with Mr. Sex on Sheets would seem even more intimate.

  At least now, surrounded by the circus that was movie making, Rick—and more importantly, Jamey—would be reminded this wasn’t real.

  But shit, it sure felt real.

  And fuck, as Jamey turned sideways to pull on his own robe, his full-tilt bobbing erection horizontally straining the confines of the cock sock was clearly visible . . . and Rick was back to feeling like he had to puke.

  Not gay.

  Rick reached into his pocket for his roll of antacids. He’d started to buy large economy packs of this shit since one roll barely lasted him until lunch.

  He’d survive
d a decade in the teams, in hell holes and war zones world wide, but this movie might just kill him.

  Meanwhile, Sierra was happy as a clam in this environment. Show business was in her blood and she was completely in her element here.

  She loved LA as much as Rick hated it. Her striding toward him now with a huge smile on her face was proof of that.

  Shit. It was looking more and more as if she was going to want to move out here. He missed Virginia. Missed his teammates. Even missed his annoying sister.

  At least Sierra’s house in Miami was on the east coast, close enough he could travel home to Virginia as often as he wanted. But California . . . right now it felt like the other side of the world.

  “Hey. What’s wrong?” Sierra asked, her perfectly shaped brows low.

  “Hmm?” Rick dragged his attention away from the poor me thoughts running on a continuous loop in his head.

  He redirected his focus to the cause of it—his beautiful girlfriend, who might not be his girl for much longer if she decided she liked her pretty boy co-star better.

  Carey Jones had been Rick’s whole universe for over two years—but the rest of the world only knew her as actress Sierra Cox and him as her bodyguard.

  It had felt safer that way—smarter back when they’d started dating—to keep him anonymous and in the shadows where he was most comfortable anyway.

  Now it just felt like he was her sidepiece. A dirty little secret. The unknown and unimportant bodyguard who had no claim on her and no recourse except to silently watch as men thought she was available.

  Jaw set, he drew in a breath. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  Sierra frowned, evaluating him. “I asked if something was wrong. You look all . . . scary.”

  He laughed at that. Scary? Shit. She knew he would never hurt her.

  Her co-star on the other hand . . .

  “Did something happen?” She glanced around them. “Did you see someone who shouldn’t be here?”

  At least now, for once, she was taking his warnings about her crazy fans and potential stalkers seriously. When they’d first met, she hadn’t listened to his advice on her safety until someone had actually taken a shot at them.

  This was progress. Two years late, but progress none-the-less. But no, he hadn’t seen anything or anyone because he’d been too fucking worried about where her co-star’s dick was lodged as he rolled on top of her.

  Rick drew in a breath. “I’m just . . . distracted.”

  Speaking of distractions—Jamey walked up to them, smiling like he’d just been skin-to-skin with one of the hottest women in Hollywood.

  Oh, wait. That’s exactly where he’d been. Rick felt his fists clench.

  “Hey.” Jamey directed a quick glance at Rick before focusing on Sierra. “How do you think this scene is going?” he asked her.

  “Fine. Don’t you think so?” she asked, looking way more concerned about poor Jamey’s feelings than she had about Rick’s mood before.

  Jamey lifted one shoulder beneath the white robe. “I don’t know. I’m not sure it feels . . . real. You know?”

  A snort he couldn’t control escaped Rick, earning him a questioning look from both Sierra and Jamey.

  Hell, at least they’d remembered he was there.

  “Sorry.” He ran his hand across his mouth and pretended he didn’t want to throttle the guy. How good would it feel to knock him and his monogrammed bathrobe right on his terrycloth-covered ass?

  Sierra looked back to the pretty boy. “You have to realize, it’s not going to feel real during the shooting with all this around us . . .” She waved a hand to indicate the chaos surrounding them.

  “Feels fucking real enough to me,” Rick mumbled.

  As she shot him another glare, he pressed his lips together in an attempt to keep silent.

  “I’m not talking about the sex. I meant more the emotions. The words. I don’t know.” Jamey shook his head. “I’m just not buying it. Staring into each other’s eyes for like five minutes after an hour’s worth of build-up on screen . . . that’s not how it would go. In real life, he’d be all over her.”

  It had looked like Jamey had been all over her, just like Rick had been the first time he and Sierra had fallen into bed together. But the kid was right. There’d been no eye gazing involved for the two of them back then. Even so, there was no way Rick was going to side with this dickhead on the issue.

  Sierra lifted a shoulder. “It’s cinema. Things are drawn out for dramatic effect.”

  “I guess.” He sighed.

  “Would it help if we ran the scene a few different ways, maybe off camera without the director?” Sierra suggested.

  Oh sure. Rick was certain pretty boy would just love that. Another huff of air escaped him.

  Sierra narrowed her eyes at Rick. She opened her mouth when the shout came for them to get back to their places.

  She shot Rick one more glare and turned to Jamey. “Come on. We’ll talk about this later.”

  Jamey nodded and laid one hand on her lower back as she led the way back to the big bed.

  With his focus zeroed in on that hand touching her, Rick mouthed a string of silent cusses as his pulse pounded in his ears.

  He heard a laugh next to him and looked over to see one of the lighting crew. “Dude, you should just go. Do something else. It’s only going to get worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re just getting started. This scene could take all day.” He shook his head. “You probably don’t want to be here to see it.”

  Maybe their relationship wasn’t all that discreet after all. Good. At least one person on set knew Sierra belonged to Rick and could appreciate what he was going through.

  “I can’t leave,” Rick said.

  “Why not? What’s gonna happen? She’s on camera and the doors are locked once they yell action. She’s safe. Jamey, on the other hand.” The guy cocked up a brow. “You look about ready to murder him.”

  Rick closed his eyes for a second, centering himself. “It’s that obvious?” he asked, bringing his gaze to the guy next to him.

  “Oh yeah.”

  He drew in a breath. Leaving—at least for a little while—might save his sanity. “How long you think this shit’s going to go for?” he asked.

  “That depends on a lot of things. Some nights we’re here until one in the morning.”

  Great. Rick should be good and insane by then. But there was no way he was going back to the hotel and waiting there until the middle of the night for Sierra to come home. He could, however, take his surveillance outdoors for a bit.

  A little fresh air and sunshine could help his disposition. He might as well take advantage of the perfect California weather. He hated everything else about this place but he had to admit the weather was a check in the pro column. The only check.

  “All right. I’m gonna be outside—”

  “And action!”

  That call had Rick mouthing another curse as the guy next to him laughed silently.

  The doors were locked. He wasn’t getting outside anytime soon. At least not until they called cut.

  His gaze hit upon the scene on the bed one more time.

  He reached for another antacid.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sierra had to catch the suite’s door to keep it from swinging shut on her as Rick stalked inside ahead of her.

  It was the end of a really long day that had begun at five a.m. in the makeup chair and hadn’t ended until well after sunset and thirty takes of a sex scene that should have been a piece of cake but for some reason, wasn’t proving so.

  That didn’t stop Rick from having plenty of energy to stride across the living area and directly into the bedroom like a man on a mission.

  Standing in the bedroom doorway, she watched as he moved toward the dresser while stripping.

  He dropped his clothes in a pile on the floor. After pulling out a pair of shorts from the drawer, he sat on the edge of the bed and tug
ged them up his thick thighs.

  She knew what that meant. He was going to the hotel gym or for a run. Somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was away from her, or so it seemed.

  It had become his habit since filming had begun.

  When he grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of socks and turned toward the doorway, she stood her ground, blocking his way out of the bedroom.

  “What was wrong with you today?” Sierra planted her hands on her hips and faced the man head on.

  He might be taller, wider, heavier, but she was angrier.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” He had the decency to drop his gaze to the carpet and look contrite.

  “You know what my job entails. Why were you stomping around like a Neanderthal in front of Jamey today? I half expected you to grab me by the hair and drag me out of there and back to your cave—”

  He held up one hand, palm facing her. “All right. Enough with the caveman analogy. I get it. I behaved badly.”

  Still pissed off by his rude behavior on set, Sierra said, “Ooo, analogy. That’s a big word. Didn’t know you knew any four-syllable words.”

  The expression on his face—shock mixed with hurt—had her immediately regretting her words.

  His nostrils flared as he physically moved her out of the way and took a step into the living room.

  “Rick. Wait.” She jumped to follow him, reached out and grabbed his arm. He stopped walking, but didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just frustrated.”

  She watched his broad back seem to expand and contract as he drew in a big breath and let it out. Finally, he turned to look at her. “There’s truth behind every joke. You know that.”

  He’d said that to her before. She didn’t believe it then. She didn’t want to believe it now. She shook her head. “No—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted her. “You think I’m stupid. I didn’t go to college. I’m not famous. I’m not rich. You think I’m not good enough for you.”

  “No, I don’t.” She took a step forward and laid her hands on the bare skin of his broad hard chest. She felt the dusting of course hair growing there tickle her palms.