My Life in Hollywood C52 Rich Kid's Party (Patreon)

The sleepover ended with unexpected romance. Marcus woke up in his bed, sunlight filtering through the window and warming his skin. That gentle heat reminded him of last night.

Arya's curves. Straddling him. Kissing him so deeply he could barely breathe.

No matter how many times he replayed it in his head, he still couldn't get enough.

If he were being honest? He'd fuck her right here, right now, if he could. But they weren't there yet. Their relationship hadn't reached that point.

'It's really good to be young...' Marcus thought. He'd enjoyed his previous life as a playboy failure of a developer, sure. But in high school? He'd been a freaking nerd who didn't get any action. Only in his adult years had he finally gotten a taste of pleasure.

And now Arya was living under the same roof. It reminded him of Little Red Riding Hood—except he wasn't sure who the wolf was anymore. The way she'd initiated last night? She might be the predator here.

"Snore..."

He turned his head. Ryan was sprawled on the floor beside his bed, sleeping on a thin mattress they'd dragged out. This guy—despite there being a perfectly good empty room down the hall—had insisted on crashing here.

Said it was "for the vibe," like he was some anime character having a sleepover at a friend's house.

"Seriously. This guy really has a quirk," Marcus muttered, shaking his head. He stood, made his bed quickly, then left the room yawning and scratching his belly.

They'd stayed up till midnight, and he was still running on fumes. But he needed to wake up early. He headed for the bathroom.

But just as he opened the door, Arya stepped out.

Wearing nothing but a towel.

Obviously fresh from the shower. Water still clung to her skin, droplets trailing down her neck, between her collarbones, disappearing into the valley between her breasts where the towel was tucked tight. Her wet hair hung loose over one shoulder, darkened to a deeper brown, dripping slowly onto her bare skin.

She smelled like soap and shampoo—clean, fresh, with that faint floral scent she always had.

"Marcus." Arya said his name casually, like she wasn't standing there half-naked.

"Oh, you just finished your shower?" Marcus asked the obvious, but his eyes were wandering. The smooth white skin of her shoulders. The curve of her waist where the towel hugged her hips. The long expanse of her legs, still glistening with moisture.

Arya noticed where his eyes went. She didn't seem bothered. "Yeah. Are you gonna use the shower?"

"No, it's still too early. I'll just brush my teeth and make breakfast—"

Arya waved her hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll make us pancakes."

"Really?" Marcus was genuinely surprised.

"Of course. We're roommates now. It's the least I can do for letting me stay here." Arya smiled.

"You have my thanks." He reached out unconsciously and patted her shoulder—her still-naked, still-damp shoulder. He quickly pulled his hand back. "Oops, sorry about that."

Arya just smiled wider. "It's fine." Her eyes showed she was actually happy about it.

"Alright, I won't hold you up anymore. I'll brush my teeth." Marcus slipped past her into the bathroom.

Arya watched him go, grinning, cheeks flushing pink.

Inside, Marcus stared at himself in the mirror. 'Did I make a mistake letting her move in? That girl is simply irresistible. I might not be able to hold myself back.' He shook his head, splashed cold water on his face, and got to work brushing his teeth.

After finishing, he headed downstairs. Arya was already in the kitchen, hair still damp but tied back now, wearing proper clothes—shorts and a tank top. She'd just started cooking.

Half an hour later, she had a full stack of pancakes ready. Perfect timing too, because Ryan came stumbling down the stairs, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.

"Oh, I like the smell of this. I'm starving!"

Arya rolled her eyes. "With all the pizza and cake you stuffed in your mouth last night, and you're hungry?"

"I'm a growing person, Arya. I need nutrition." Ryan said it with a completely straight face.

Marcus chuckled. "Growing? Dude, the only thing growing on you is that gut from all the junk food."

Arya giggled at that.

Ryan sat down at the table, unimpressed. "Very funny. I don't find the joke funny. But it seems the girl in love finds it really funny." He fired back with a tease.

"Shut up, Ryan!" Arya shot back, face going red. "At least I can actually cook. What can you do? Order takeout?"

"Hey, ordering takeout is a skill. You gotta know the good spots, negotiate delivery times—"

"That's not a skill, that's being lazy."

Watching his two friends argue, Marcus shook his head with a smile. No, he hadn't made a bad choice inviting Arya to live here. And if Ryan managed to prove himself before summer—get those grades up like he'd promised his mother—he'd be moving in right when vacation started.

This place would get even more lively then.

---ʕ⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴥ⁠ꈍ⁠ʔ---

Around 8 AM, Marcus stepped outside and found Jefferson waiting in front of his place, leaning against his car like he was posing for a magazine cover.

The car gleamed under the morning sun—a 2011 Dodge Challenger SRT8 in pitch black, chrome accents catching the light. The thing looked aggressive even standing still.

Marcus walked over, circling it with genuine interest. "Nice ride."

Jefferson leaned back against the driver's door, arms crossed, sunglasses on despite the early hour. He grinned. "Just picked it up last week. Forty-two grand."

"Damn. You're really living it up, huh?"

"With your money, you could buy one too." Jefferson's voice was tempting, like a devil on his shoulder.

Marcus shook his head. "Nah. Too early for that. Every cent matters to Netflicks right now."

Jefferson rolled his eyes behind the shades. "Alright, Mr. Businessman. Making me feel like shit over here." He added, "Like you're saying 'You're wasteful as fuck.'"

Marcus raised a hand. "I didn't say that. You did. Don't be so fucking insecure."

The cursing didn't faze Jefferson—they'd gotten comfortable enough with each other that it just rolled off.

"Why the hell are you dressed like that?" Jefferson frowned, looking Marcus up and down. "Didn't I tell you we're going to a fucking party?"

"Oh, right. I didn't shower yet."

"Jesus Christ, hurry up." Jefferson shook his head.

Marcus headed back inside. Arya looked up from the couch, surprised. "Aren't you leaving?"

"Yeah, but I forgot it's a party. Need to actually look presentable."

"Wait, a party?" Arya's eyes lit up. She stood immediately. "Can I come?"

Marcus paused. "Let me ask Jefferson." He stepped back outside and called over. "She wants to come. That cool?"

Jefferson glanced past Marcus to where Arya stood in the doorway. "It's fine. Bring your girlfriend."

At the word "girlfriend," Arya's face went pink.

Marcus didn't bother correcting him.

Since they had the green light, Arya moved fast. Marcus hit the shower in the first bathroom while Arya—already clean from earlier—rushed to her room to find something to wear.

Jefferson waited in the living room, tapping his foot impatiently.

Marcus finished up quickly, throwing on dark jeans and a fitted button-up—casual but not sloppy. The kind of outfit you wore when you were going somewhere that mattered but didn't want to look like you were trying too hard.

Arya took longer. But at 8:37 AM, she finally came down the stairs.

She'd put on a black mini dress that hugged every curve—the fabric clinging to her waist and hips before cutting off mid-thigh, showing off those long, smooth legs.

The neckline dipped just low enough to show the swell of her breasts without being obscene, and the way the dress fit made it clear she wasn't wearing a bra. Her hair was styled in loose waves, light makeup highlighting her eyes and lips. Simple gold earrings. She looked fucking stunning.

Marcus nodded approvingly. Even Jefferson let out a low whistle. "Not bad. Your girlfriend cleans up nice."

Arya ducked her head, smiling despite the blush creeping up her neck.

They piled into the Challenger—Arya in the back, Marcus riding shotgun—and Jefferson pulled out onto the street.

The party was in Beverly Hills. Some rich kid named Alexander throwing his birthday bash at his family's mansion.

The drive took about twenty-five minutes, traffic surprisingly light for a Saturday morning.

When they pulled up to the address, there was a guard posted at the gate like it was some exclusive club. The guy looked like he bench-pressed small cars for fun—thick neck, arms the size of tree trunks, sunglasses hiding whatever judgment was brewing behind them.

He stepped up to the driver's side window. "Any business here?"

"I'm Alex's friend. Jefferson." Jefferson kept his tone easy, unbothered.

"Alex has a lot of friends." The guard's voice was flat, unimpressed.

Jefferson talked him through it—mentioned a mutual acquaintance, dropped a name or two—and after a phone call to confirm, the gate finally swung open.

The driveway alone was longer than most streets. The mansion sat at the end of it—white stone, massive columns, sprawling wings stretching out on either side. The kind of place that screamed "my dad owns half of Los Angeles."

And it was barely 10 AM, but the place was already bumping. Music pounded from inside, bass rattling the windows. Cars lined the circular driveway—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a fucking Bentley.

They parked and headed toward the entrance.

The second they stepped inside, eyes turned.

"Hey, we got new company."

"Heh. Look at what they're wearing. So cheap."

"Is this the cleaning crew? Did someone hire them already?"

The comments came from a cluster of guys near the bar—designer everything, watches that cost more than most people's rent, hair styled with products Marcus couldn't even pronounce.

Arrogant. Unconcealed. Looking down on them like they were dirt.

Marcus and Arya stood out like sore thumbs. Even Jefferson, in his tailored suit, fit in better than they did.

Arya's face flushed, but she kept her chin up.

Marcus just smiled. These rich pricks had no idea who they were talking to.

"Don't mind them." Jefferson patted his shoulder, then leaned in and whispered, "Most of these assholes are still living off their parents' money and acting like their dad's success is their own accomplishment. They love rubbing it in everyone's faces."

Marcus chuckled, intentionally raising his voice. "So what you're saying is—they're basically parasites living off someone else's work?"

"Shh!!!" Jefferson's eyes went wide. "They'll fucking hear you!"

But the damage was done. Eyes turned toward them. Marcus could feel the stares.

Jefferson quickly spun around, laughing nervously. "Hahaha, nothing, nothing! My friend here was just talking about—uh—some biology project. You know, parasites in nature. Very fascinating stuff!"

The guests just stared at them for a moment, then lost interest. Jefferson's worry was unfounded—these people didn't give a damn about them at all. In their eyes, Marcus and Jefferson were beneath notice. Working class. Middle class at best.

In their eyes, they were a joke.

"Marcus?"

Marcus turned. Frank was standing there with Alisha beside him—though she immediately put distance between them the moment Marcus looked over. Jamie and Ellie were there too.

"What are you guys doing here? You're invited too?" Frank asked, genuinely surprised.

Marcus looked at Frank. This guy was a rich kid too—he'd almost forgotten that. Same with Jamie. Even Alisha and Ellie came from money. Typical for kids living in Los Angeles.

Beside Frank stood a few other people Marcus didn't recognize—probably more trust fund babies.

"Do you know this guy?" one of them asked Frank.

"Uh, yeah. He goes to the same school as me." Frank turned back to Marcus, then noticed Arya. "You look really beautiful today, Arya."

Arya just nodded slightly, acting cold. But honestly, Frank was probably better than most of the judgmental pricks in this room.

"Wait, how do you guys even know Alexander?" Frank asked.

"Actually, I've never met him. I'm here for business." Marcus said simply.

"Business?" A fancy-looking guy in the group burst out laughing. "I knew it! This guy's part of the cleaning crew!"

Frank, Alisha, and Ellie didn't laugh—they knew Marcus and Arya better than that. But Jamie? He was laughing right along with the rest.

"Seriously, dude?" Frank looked confused.

Marcus nodded, then gestured at Jefferson casually. "This is Jefferson—he works for me. He knows Alex, so he brought me here today."

At the way Marcus phrased it—"works for me"—Jefferson didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Technically it was true—he was CCO of Netflicks, Marcus was CEO—but the way the kid said it made it sound like Jefferson was just some employee he'd brought along.

Frank and the others looked Jefferson up and down. They didn't see anything special about him—just another guy in a suit.

'These kids are sizing me up...' Jefferson felt insulted but reminded himself they were just spoiled rich brats who didn't know any better.

"Jefferson! Oh, Jefferson! You came to my twenty-eighth birthday!"

Everyone turned. A twenty-eight-year-old man approached—chubby but well-groomed, dark hair combed back neatly, designer suit tailored perfectly to his frame. An expensive Rolex gleamed on his wrist, gold rings on multiple fingers. His voice carried that practiced elegance—the kind money could buy.

"Alexander." Jefferson turned and embraced the man warmly.

Frank and the others' eyes went wide. Alexander Chesterfield wasn't the type to greet people so casually. As the son of Richard Chesterfield—founder and CEO of Chesterfield Media Group, worth over three billion dollars and one of the biggest players in television and film distribution—Alexander had status. The kind of status that made people grovel.

Marcus looked at Alexander. 'So it's actually his birthday? I thought this was just some random party he threw on a whim.' He studied the man—twenty-eight years old, nearly thirty. 'I was expecting some college kid, maybe early twenties at most. But this guy's approaching thirty and still throwing parties like this?'

"Who are these two?" Alexander asked, noticing Marcus and Arya standing beside Jefferson.

Jefferson leaned in and whispered something in Alexander's ear.

Alexander's expression shifted from curious to pleasantly surprised, especially as he looked at Marcus. "Oh, it's actually you. The one Jefferson's been telling me about. It's good to finally meet you!"

Marcus nodded and offered his hand. Alexander hesitated for just a split second before accepting the handshake—then immediately pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hand clean.

Marcus felt his mouth twitch. 'This guy is a fucking baby.'

But he kept his expression neutral. Business was business.