Ship wrecked a novel, p.1
Ship Wrecked: a Novel, page 1
Dedication
To everyone searching for a true family. If you weren’t given one from birth, may you find it out in the world, and may you know down to your bones that you’re understood and loved. Always. Even when you’re lost. Even when you don’t feel lovable. No matter what.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
Gods of the Gates Cast Chat: Sunday Night
5
Texts with Peter: Friday Night
6
Fan Thirst
7
8
9
Con of the Gates Panel Transcript
10
Gods of the Gates Cast Chat: Three Years Ago
11
Peter’s E-Mail
12
13
Interstitial
14
Texts with Maria: Two Years Ago
15
Interstitial
16
17
18
Texts with Maria: One Year Ago
19
20
YouTube Comments for “More Interviews Going Off the Rails: Maria Ivarsson & Peter Reedton, Part 2”
21
22
Gods of the Gates Cast Chat: Tuesday Evening
23
24
Interstitial
25
26
Texts with Maria: Thursday Afternoon
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Announcement
About the Author
Praise for the Work of Olivia Dade
Also by Olivia Dade
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
When Maria’s hazy brown eyes blinked back open after her orgasm, Peter held her gaze for another dozen thrusts. Then, braced on his forearms, fingers tangled in her hair, he pushed deep one last time and groaned into her mouth.
Rolling them to their sides, he held her tightly as they both recovered.
Despite the steady hum of the hotel room’s AC unit, her forehead was damp, her disheveled blond hair darkened with sweat at the roots. Which was only fair, since their energetic fucking had his own skin slick and his chest heaving. After a minute, he mustered the energy to dispose of the condom, but that was all he could manage before crawling back to her and tangling their legs together once more.
His thoughts took even longer to gather, probably because she’d blown his damn mind. Then again, that had been true from the second he’d entered a Hollywood sauna earlier that evening, accompanied by some of his former castmates, and seen her lounging full-length along a cedar bench, her ample breasts and lush hips barely contained by her damp red bikini.
Crimson. A power color for a powerful woman.
Once his companions had left, she’d crooked her finger, and he’d come to her. No questions asked. No hesitation. He hadn’t balked at renting a new hotel room instead of going to hers either. If a woman like her wanted him, he didn’t intend to quibble with his good fortune. And as long as she was willing to stay in his arms, he’d keep her there.
Soft as velvet beneath his fingertips, the salty skin at the crook of her neck throbbed with her pulse and smelled herbal and musky. Like rosemary. Like sex. Like sex with him. He couldn’t get enough.
Unfortunately, once her breathing slowed, she nudged him aside with a gentle push, and he reluctantly let her go. Raising her arms and pointing her toes, she stretched her lengthy limbs on top of the rumpled white sheets, entirely naked and entirely unembarrassed by that nakedness.
Like him, she was fat, with a rounded belly and a soft chin. Like him, she was strong too, those endless legs of hers curvy and muscled, her biceps evident when she’d opened the heavy sauna door for him on their way out. He already knew she packed a figurative punch, and he suspected she’d pack a literal one too.
With all that softness and strength, all that confidence, Maria Unknown-Last-Name was the sexiest woman he’d ever met. Bar none.
And now that they’d fucked—stupendously—it was past time he learned more about her than her first name. Even though he was possibly the worst conversationalist in LA.
So when she sauntered back from the white-tiled bathroom and knelt on the edge of the mattress, her stare bold as it swept his sprawled body, he sat up, propped himself against the headboard, and finally put together enough functional brain cells for intelligible speech.
“You’re . . . European, right?” The smile felt odd on his face. Unfamiliar. But he was trying, and hopefully she wouldn’t notice his awkwardness. “I’m not great with accents, despite the best efforts of various dialect coaches.”
Her tousled waves glowed like a nimbus in the golden light of the bedside lamp, and he had to catch his breath all over again.
“Swedish.” It was a brisk response. Unadorned by extraneous . . . anything.
He’d like to believe her brevity stemmed from a laconic nature, or Scandinavian custom, or discomfort with English. But he knew better.
It was him. It was always him.
“Okay,” he said, then stalled out, his synapses refusing to fire. “Uh . . .”
Dammit. After fifteen years in Hollywood, he should be better at this. He wasn’t a naive twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college anymore, and he’d grasped long ago how the industry worked. Talent alone wouldn’t get him the roles he wanted, the roles he deserved.
Good luck played a part. So did good timing. But connections with power players and influencers, the ability to schmooze—those would almost definitely score him better, higher-profile jobs. Which was why his inability to generate genial small talk, even when it would goose his career prospects, was unfortunate.
Playing the lovelorn or bumbling best friend, the comic relief, the unnamed murder victim, the character whose entire arc revolved around his weight, had grown old more than a decade ago, and he needed more. A role that would challenge him and stretch his acting skills. Professional recognition. A steady income. The sort of success even his father couldn’t deny.
Tomorrow, maybe he’d earn that role, that recognition, that income, that success.
Tonight, he wanted to earn more time with Maria, so he was going to have to find the right words and soon. Because she’d already glanced once toward the door, and he wouldn’t forgive himself if he let her leave so quickly, with no way to keep in contact.
Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Is that why you were at the sauna? Because you’re Scandinavian?”
Weren’t Swedes into saunas? Or was that Finns? Shit, he didn’t remember.
“Yes, exactly.” Her wide mouth curved in a smile, and an immediate surge of triumph swelled in his chest. “I was curious what a faux-Swedish sauna in Hollywood would look like.”
“It is kind of an odd business to plant in the middle of sunny, palm-studded LA.” His shoulders loosened as he let out a slow, relieved breath. Finally, finally he was gaining some conversational traction. “Were you impressed? Disappointed?”
She considered the question for a moment. “Both, I’d say? The sauna itself was lovely, although we don’t use cedar much in Sweden. More aspen or alder or spruce. And, of course, we’re usually naked, at least in private saunas.”
Just as she was naked now, her breasts round and heavy and gorgeous, those plush thighs slightly parted. Not wide enough so he could see between them, sadly.
“Is that right?” Now he was smiling too. At the sight of her. At the sudden ease of their exchange. “I’m sorry they didn’t faithfully follow Swedish custom, then.”
To be fair, her bikini hadn’t hidden much anyway. Not how stiff her nipples got after he’d toyed with them. Not the seam of her pussy when she’d stood before him and he’d traced that tempting line with a light fingertip, the brief, teasing touch a promise. A promise he’d made good on as soon as they locked the hotel room door and he slid his hand between her legs.
When she came that first time, his fingers deep inside her, his thumb on her clit, her hair wrapped around his left fist, she’d moaned so loudly he’d expected a call from the front desk.
Holy shit. At thirty-six years old, how was he getting hard again this quickly?
“At the very least, I should have been able to go topless.” When he concentrated on maintaining eye contact and thus failed to respond, she elaborated. “Everyone has nipples, Peter. Why only some people get to display them without police citations, I have no idea.”
This was entrapment. She was kneeling on the bed naked and talking about nipples, for fuck’s sake. No jury of his peers would convict him for his wandering gaze.
He cleared his throat. “Uh—”
“No, that’s a lie. I know why.”
He blinked at her.
“Patriarchy,” she declared.
Well, he couldn’t really argue with that. “Ah.”
That explained a few things. Including why, unlike every other woman he’d bedded, she evidently didn’t shave or wax. Not that he cared. That blond hair between her dimpled thighs, under her arms, on her legs—it hadn’t turned him off. It was yet another sign of the confidence that so aroused him, and it had made the whole encounter feel . . .
Primal, maybe. Honest. Intimate, in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
Disregarding the modern conveniences of the hotel room, she could have been a woman from almost any point in time. Painting an ant elope on a cave wall. Marching to battle alongside Joan of Arc. Boarding a Viking war vessel, a shield-maiden armed and pitiless in the face of danger.
It was all way too dramatic for a simple hookup. Foolishly overromantic, especially for the taciturn, plainspoken sort of man he was. But to him, in that moment of sexual connection—tangled together, heat against heat, his body inside hers—they’d felt like lovers out of time.
The feeling had shaken him. Left him floundering and uncertain in a way he’d never experienced after sex. He needed to know if it would happen again. He needed to know whether that tectonic shift was a fluke, or . . . not.
But Maria was still talking, and he also needed to listen. Because at some point it would be good to know, just for example, her fucking last name.
“Plus, I’ve heard Americans have more hang-ups about nudity and sex than Swedes,” she said breezily. “Which seems to be correct, from what I’ve seen so far.”
The cultural differences between Sweden and the U.S. interested him. They really did. But right now, he intended to steer the conversation toward more basic information.
“So, I was wondering.” His beard had left the delicate skin between her breasts pink, and he could barely drag his eyes away from that telltale, viscerally satisfying flush. “Do you live in LA, or are you just visiting for fun, or . . . ?”
Her kiss-swollen lips compressed for a moment. “I’m here for a job opportunity.”
Which meant she might live in Sweden still. But where? And what job was she applying for? Did she think she’d get the position?
Shit, he was terrible at this. With anyone else, literally anyone, she’d say more, elaborate on her answers, give them the context he—
Suddenly, he was on his back again, her palm firm on his chest, her hair tickling his face as she planted a hard kiss on his mouth. Before he could catch his breath, she was moving down his body, then down again, dragging her open mouth over his neck, his chest, his belly.
Oh, fuck. Fuck.
Her strong hands spread his legs, and she crawled between them.
Then she proceeded to blow his damn mind—again—with that wide, talented mouth of hers before riding them both to another orgasm.
After that, he had no words left. None. She’d taken them all, just as she’d taken him.
And by God, he wasn’t complaining. Not even a little.
The chiming alarm on his cell woke him, and he stretched with a quiet groan, enjoying the brush of cool hotel sheets against his skin and the lingering ache in his well-used muscles after a long, hot night.
Shit, he hadn’t felt this relaxed in years. Maybe ever.
Maria had wrung him dry. And after he’d made her come the fourth time, she’d seemed pretty damn exhausted too, her long, generous thighs quivering, those gorgeous brown eyes heavy-lidded. But they’d both slept, and he still had an hour or two before he needed to get ready for his audition, so he’d be more than delighted for her to wring him out again.
Already grinning in anticipation, he rolled onto his back and looked to the other side of the bed, where he found—
Nothing. No one.
He sat up abruptly, the easy laxness of his body gone in a split second.
The door to the bathroom stood open, and the space was dark and empty.
Her purse was gone from the nightstand.
Her clothing, once strewn across the thick carpet, had disappeared too.
If it weren’t for the two used condoms in the bedside trash can and the smell of sex in the sheets, he’d have wondered whether he’d dreamed the past twelve hours.
Throwing off the bedcovers, he lurched to his feet and prowled around the room, hunting for the inevitable pad of hotel stationery inside the top desk drawer.
It was blank.
Another minute of searching, and he knew. There was no number scrawled on a sticky note. Not even a quick goodbye on the back of a receipt.
She’d left without a word, and fuck knew he remembered what that felt like. Four years might have passed since Anne had left him exactly the same way, but some memories didn’t fade over time.
The irony was bitter as lemon pith. He could barely remember the sound of his mother’s voice most days, but he could re-create the exact moment he’d realized his fiancée was gone for good, down to the unlaced sneaker on his right foot and the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as his world collapsed around him.
He should have known Maria would leave too. Goddammit, he should have known.
In the sauna, they’d been too busy making out to swap personal information, and that was partially on him. But in the hotel lobby, when he’d handed over his driver’s license so she could text a friend with his full name for safety’s sake, she hadn’t bothered to share her own surname. And when he’d attempted to talk with her after the first time they fucked, she’d kept her answers frustratingly brief and vague.
He’d blamed that on his own lack of social skills. In retrospect, though, she’d deliberately withheld any identifying information. And after their second bout of sex, he hadn’t been able to gather his thoughts sufficiently for further conversation. Which—again, in retrospect—she’d clearly counted on.
He’d wanted to fuck her again this morning. Wanted to learn more about her, because even after such limited contact, he could tell she wasn’t just spectacularly confident and sexy as hell, but also sharp-witted and funny. He’d hoped to find out over a room-service breakfast together how long she planned to stay in LA and whether she might move to the area.
Instinctively, he’d liked her. Connected with her to a foolish degree, even knowing next to nothing about her.
So, yeah. Maybe it was stupid to feel used after a blazing-hot night of no-strings sex with an irresistible stranger, but he did. Used, discarded, and angry.
It didn’t matter. They’d had a good time together, and she was gone. He’d never see her again. Now he needed to calm the hell down and channel all that turbulent emotion into his performance later that morning.
In his entire acting career, he’d never had an audition this important for a project this high-profile. The role of Cyprian on Gods of the Gates—a show that was already a worldwide hit, even though the first season hadn’t finished airing yet—could transform him from a character actor into something else. Something more.
A leading man.
Best of all, the role was meaty. Cyprian’s story encompassed survival and grief, anger and fear and lust, as well as a reluctant, burgeoning romantic connection with Cassia, a shield-maiden and the sole other Viking who’d survived being shipwrecked by Neptune.
Why the showrunners had decided to move the story from ancient Rome to medieval Europe but kept all the Roman gods and goddesses, he couldn’t say, and he didn’t care. Muddled mythology be damned: As Cyprian, he could—for once—be a love interest and a goddamn hero.
But only if he performed to the satisfaction of the casting director and showrunners, as well as the other execs and creatives who’d be evaluating him today, and only if he had good chemistry with the actors they were considering for the role of Cassia.
He was one of maybe two or three men still in contention to play Cyprian. In this final audition, he’d have to prove himself and outshine his competition.
And he would. Because, in the end, Maria and her decision to leave him behind without a second glance didn’t matter. Not as much as his career.
If he ever saw her again—and he wouldn’t—he’d thank her for reminding him of that.
Apparently the casting director had a certain physical type in mind for Cyprian. Peter and the other two men were all white, all tall, all burly dudes with some extra heft to them, and they were all sitting in the same chilly, impersonal waiting area outside a conference room full of decision-makers.
One woman had already arrived for her audition too, and she was almost as tall as the men. Like the potential Cyprians, she was white and built along generous lines, and her long, light brown hair, glowing skin, and a crooked, charming smile made her undeniably pretty. No doubt he’d be performing with her shortly to determine whether they had sufficient chemistry, along with any other women in the final running for the character of Cassia.
As they waited to be called into the conference room, all four of them checked their phones and tried not to fidget. And once his cell indicated two minutes before the hour and no one else had arrived, Peter figured the showrunners had already decided on the pretty brunette for Cassia.
