Love Online Read online

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2018

  By Penelope Ward

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by: Jessica Royer Ocken

  Proofreading and Formatting by: Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC

  Cover Model: Eddy Putter, Touche Models Amsterdam

  Cover Photographer: Nicole Langholz

  Cover Design: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  *

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Penelope Ward

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  *

  RYDER

  Sip. Nod. Smile. Repeat.

  I was a master at pretending to give a shit during conversations with fake people.

  This blonde had been doing a pretty good job at looking like she was interested in me, and then she had to go and stick in a story about her recent audition on the Warner Brothers lot. That’s when I began to tune her out.

  All I could think about was how good it was going to feel to hit the sheets later and pass out alone in my bed—not with said blonde. Not with anyone in this room.

  She batted her lashes. “So anyway, anytime you want to see my demo, I’d love to get your thoughts…”

  There it was. These conversations always ended the same way, with a request for a favor.

  “Sure, yeah. Just send it to my assistant, Alexa.”

  I didn’t have an assistant.

  I used the name Alexa to humor myself because it reminded me of the talking app.

  “Will you excuse me?” I said, brushing past her.

  One surefire way to ensure I never looked at your shit was to straight up ask me to in the middle of a conversation that was supposed to be about something else.

  People were so ballsy.

  On the outside, everyone probably thought I had the perfect life, the world at my fingertips—a good-looking dude with more money than I knew what to do with who threw the best parties in Beverly Hills, women falling at my feet everywhere I went.

  I’m the son of one of Hollywood’s biggest movie producers, so all of the wannabes in this city see me as a direct line to Sterling McNamara.

  It must have seemed like I have it all, given that I live alone in this ten-million-dollar house, with walls of glass revealing a hillside view. But what people don’t realize is how freaking tiring it is to never be seen for who you actually are, only for the things you own or the connections you have. It’s real damn tiring. And honestly, lately, I’ve found myself bored—really bored with life. When everything is handed to you, there’s nothing exciting to strive for, nothing to look forward to.

  It isn’t that I don’t appreciate all I’ve been given. I have a great job working for my father’s studio. I love my dad and respect how hard he’s worked to get to where he is. But sometimes, it feels like a curse, a shadow I can’t step out of. And I often wonder if I would have been better off not taking the opportunities handed to me, if I should’ve moved away and started from scratch. But I couldn’t do that to my dad. He’s always assumed I would take over his role someday. That’s what he’s always worked toward. His business decisions are based around that scenario—to secure a spot for me, to set me up for when he eventually steps down. I’m his only child.

  It was also hard for me to think about giving up that opportunity, so I went along with it all.

  My house reeked of alcohol and cologne. I looked around at the fifty or so people congregating in my living room, mostly half-naked women and the men trying to sleep with them.

  Who are these people?

  I could probably name three people in the entire room. Everyone else was mainly here for the free booze, and by the end of the night, half of them would be drunk off their asses in my pool or passed out in the living room until my housekeeper, Lorena, kicked them out in the morning with—get this—a cowbell.

  There’s nothing funnier than listening from the comfort of my bed to her ringing that thing and yelling in Spanish for stragglers to get the hell out of the house. “¡Larguense de mi casa!”

  Lorena is funny as hell and doesn’t give a flying fuck what people think of her. She’s tiny, but a force to be reckoned with. Her title may be housekeeper, but she’s really keeper of the house. She takes that role very seriously. And I appreciate how protective she is.

  I left the crowded living room, meaning to get myself a Sapporo beer, which I kept stocked in the fridge and not at the bar. But instead, I passed right by the kitchen, venturing into my bedroom.

  When that door shut, I let out a long sigh of relief. The sounds from my party were now muffled, barely audible.

  Peace and quiet.

  This.

  This was what I wanted.

  No way was I going back out there tonight.

  It had gotten to the point that lying in my bed and jerking off alone was more enticing than sex with a real woman. Because my hand wasn’t a user—it expected nothing from me. And then I could just pass out right after. I could have had any woman in the house tonight, and that’s exactly why I had no interest in a single one of them.

  Tonight, all I wanted was to get off so I could fall sleep. Lately, I’d had trouble sleeping. Thoughts of Mallory were seeping into my brain again and keeping me from being able to relax. I couldn’t let myself fall into that cycle of guilt tonight.

  So, I knew I was gonna need a little help.

  Not caring about the party going on outside, I locked the door and grabbed my laptop.

  My back sank into my pillow as I logged in to my trusty porn site and perused the options on the menu. Pop-up ads flashed throughout the screen, with giant flopping dicks everywhere.

  What am I in the mood for tonight?

  MILF.

  Blondes.

  Asian.

  Oral.

  Anal.

  Nothing was appealing to me.

  On the bottom of the screen was a selection of cam girls. I always bypassed that option completely. The idea of competing with other men to interact live with a girl had never interested me. I preferred to not have to deal with my porn talking back to me. There were way more efficient ways to get my rocks off.

  There was really nothing a cam girl was gonn
a do that I couldn’t get in a previously recorded video without having to keep shelling out money to see so much as a fragment of her nipple. Although, I’m sure there are some lonely dudes who are easy targets to get sucked into something like that, because they needed attention even if it was fake.

  No thanks.

  I was about to move past that section as I normally did until one of the cam-girl images caught my eye. The preview featured a still shot of her playing a violin.

  A violin.

  I laughed.

  What the fuck?

  Had I come across the female Yo-Yo Ma of the porn world?

  Montana Lane. That was her name.

  A violin. Just when I thought I’d seen it all. If I wanted to listen to music, I’d go to the symphony—not a porn site. Not to mention, I preferred sex with “no strings.”

  That was bad, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Nevertheless, this whole thing made me curious. So I did what any bored dude avoiding a house full of people would do. I clicked on it.

  Famous last words.

  There she was, live in the flesh in real time. Unlike the preview, there was no violin in sight.

  I laughed to myself. False advertising!

  Instead, she was fully clothed and…singing. Well, fully clothed was a relative term in this case, since her boobs were busting out of her pale pink tank top, her nipples like buckshot pellets through the fabric. But she was covered.

  I closed my eyes and listened to her acoustic performance for a moment.

  Her voice.

  Her voice was sick—breathy and completely in tune. Hypnotic. The song sounded familiar, and when I realized what it was, my body froze.

  She was singing “Blue Skies” by Willie Nelson.

  No effing way.

  My heart thundered against my chest. That’s the song my mother used to sing to me when I was a kid. Mom died a few years ago of a rare cancer. She sang it to me shortly before she died, too. I wasn’t expecting to connect with my mother on a cam-girl site. Nevertheless, it was happening—no way I could turn away from this now.

  Montana was really into it, closing her eyes to concentrate on hitting all the right notes. And it was flawless.

  Several minutes went by as I listened to her smooth, buttery voice. It calmed me in a way very few things could lately. In a weird way, it felt like my mother was with me. (Although, I hoped to God Mom left before I started jerking off.)

  Montana Lane was naturally beautiful in a way most women out here in L.A. were not. She wasn’t wearing a drop of makeup, and yet her skin was flawless on camera. You could tell her breasts weren’t fake, either. They dropped and bounced naturally as she moved. And her hair was a color of brown that wasn’t bottled—a muted color, like sand. It was really long—down to her waist—and wispy, almost reminiscent of a hippie in the ’60s.

  It seemed like she was from another time or something. Her thin arms were toned. She was almost too skinny, apart from her voluptuous breasts. Those eyes, though. Her eyes were the lightest shade of green, and they glowed through the screen. It was as if I could see through them—I was sure as hell trying to. Damn. That violin preview photo definitely did not do her justice. This girl was a knockout.

  When she finally stopped singing, comments lit up the screen, one after the other.

  LordByron114: Amazing!

  SpyGuy86: Your voice is just as beautiful as you.

  FranTheMan10: You are a fucking goddess, Montana.

  Most of them were respectful. Of course, there were some that weren’t.

  Rocky99: Bravo. Now show us your tits.

  Show us your tits?

  I spoke to the screen. “Fuck you, asshole.”

  This girl had just sung her heart out, and this dude was asking her to show her tits? Granted, that’s what many of these guys were here for—maybe even me—but how fucking disrespectful at this point in time.

  Everything on this site was tip-based. Users were paying Montana tokens to request different acts. There was a scrolling menu at the bottom of the screen that summarized the pricing: Fifty tokens and she sang a song. One hundred and she took her top off. Two hundred and she removed her panties. Three hundred and she masturbated on camera.

  Fuck.

  The thought of that made my dick stiffen.

  Five hundred for a one-on-one, private “chat.” Sure. I bet there’d be a lot of chatting going on in that scenario.

  I really wanted to ask her why she’d chosen that old song. It nagged at me.

  While it was free to watch her, if I wanted to interact, I had to register with the site.

  After entering my email to sign up, I chose the username ScreenGod90, an ode to my movie-making roots and my birth year. Then I started typing.

  ScreenGod90: What made you choose “Blue Skies?”

  Montana was answering someone else’s question, offering a guy advice on pleasing his woman. I wasn’t sure if she’d even noticed my question. It was getting buried, lost in a bunch of scrolling sentences from various people.

  I bet she would notice me if I tipped her. Duh. Money talks, Ryder. It took some time to get used to how all of this worked. Anytime someone gave her tokens, it made this cha-ching sound, and a notification lit up the screen.

  I ventured over to the token bank and purchased 100 tokens. What the hell? I didn’t gamble, so this was like my version of it.

  I tipped her twenty to start and asked my question again.

  ScreenGod90: What made you sing “Blue Skies?”

  She glanced over and seemed to be reading the comments before looking directly into the camera—at me. “Hi, ScreenGod.”

  That made my body stir. I swallowed and felt my face heat up. Well, this was fucking weird. Seeing her looking right at me, talking to me through the screen was like taking a hit of a drug. I immediately wanted more, and it was only my first taste. All she’d done was say hello to me. In that moment, based on my reaction, a part of me knew it was very possible I could become addicted to this feeling…addicted to her.

  “That’s a great question. Why did I choose that song?” She closed her eyes as if to really concentrate on the answer, then said, “That song has always given me chills. It gives off an air of eternal optimism. The lyrics…they’re so simple, yet they convey how great life can be when people are in love. Everything turns sunny and bright, even though you’re living in the same world that might have seemed gray before you found the one you were meant to be with. Life is all a matter of perspective. I’ve experienced both the blue skies and the gray ones. But this song gives me hope, I guess, that blue skies will come again.”

  I fucking loved that answer.

  Long after she’d moved on to someone else’s question, I was still staring intently at her lips.

  And from that night on, I was completely hooked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  *

  RYDER

  I’d snagged an outdoor table at The Ivy. As usual, paparazzi were camped out across the street.

  Even though this place was always crowded with people I knew or wanted to avoid, it reminded me of my childhood. My parents used to take me here when I was a kid. They’d preferred the indoor section to the patio. The antiques and colored furniture inside always made me think of my mom in a weird way because she had similar taste. My mother would always order the corn chowder here, so I did the same any time I came to The Ivy. Mom’s spirit seemed to be around a lot lately.

  Today I sat on the outdoor patio, surrounded by the signature white picket fence as I waited for my friend, Benjamin, otherwise known as Benny. He and I grew up together, and our fathers had once been business partners. Benny’s dad was now retired but had also hoped to groom his son for a position at the studio. Benny wanted no part of making movies, though. Instead, he owned a marijuana dispensary in Venice Beach. As Benny liked to put it, he was all about “weeding out the bullshit” and enjoying life. Sometimes I wished I had his balls—to just say “Fuck it.”
/>   Benny finally showed up. He scratched his long beard as he sat down across from me and said, “You look like shit.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping that well.”

  He opened a menu. “Something on your mind?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Dude, you know you can talk to me, right? Just cuz I may repeat it back to you doesn’t mean I’m not listening.”

  Benny had a strange habit—something he’d done since childhood. He sometimes had to silently repeat the last part of whatever the person he was talking to said before he responded. You know how when you’re watching a bad actor, you can see them silently mouthing their co-star’s lines? That always reminds me of Benny.

  I decided to come clean. “I’ve been thinking about Mallory a lot lately.”

  Benny mouthed what I’d just told him—I’ve been thinking about Mallory a lot lately. “I know,” he said. “I heard.”

  Heard? I squinted. “You heard what?”

  “She’s getting married. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”

  It felt like those words cut right through my chest. I was so confused. He did say married, didn’t he?

  “Married?”

  “Yeah. I thought that’s why you were upset. I saw it on her Facebook page. She posted a photo of her hand and the ring and the…” He seemed to realize from my face that this news was a shock to me. “Oh shit. You didn’t know.”

  My appetite suddenly disappeared. “No.” I stared off into space. “No, I didn’t know.”

  My ex, Mallory, and I were together for four years. Even though our breakup had been almost two years ago, I hadn’t really been able to shake her. She’d blocked me some time ago from seeing any of her posts on social media. Blocking me was the last straw in the destruction of our tumultuous but passionate relationship.