The Last Virgin in Texas

by Jennifer Woodhull

  I must be every bit the poor company I feel like I am, because it’s not long before he says he better call it a night since he’s got meetings in the morning. When we walk back inside, we find Mama and John in the kitchen.

  “Oh, are you leavin’ already?” Mama asks, looking at her watch, disappointment painted across her face.

  “Early morning tomorrow.” Colin pats John on the shoulder and chuckles. “This one’s a real hardass.”

  “Well, we were so glad to have you. I hope you’ll come see us again before you head back to Texas.” Mama gives him the gracious handshake particular to genteel southern women.

  Colin looks over his shoulder at me as he shakes her hand. “I’d like that a lot. Thank you.”

  I walk Colin to the front door since I’m apparently his personal concierge for the evening.

  “It was nice meeting you.” It’s not a lie. He seems harmless enough and having a good-looking man flirt with me all night was pretty good for my bruised ego.

  He closes the distance between us.

  Whoa. Okay, is this guy going in for a kiss? Is he nuts? This wasn’t even a date.

  He presses his palm to the door behind me and leans in close. He raises an eyebrow, grinning, then brings his free hand up toward my face. He holds a business card between his fingers.

  “My cell is on the back. When you get back to Shiner and get things figured out, call me, Gretchen. I promise we’d have fun together.” He looks down at the card, then his eyes meet mine again.

  “O-kay. Thanks.” I gingerly grasp the card and take it from his hand.

  “Okay. Have a good night, beautiful. I hope I hear from you soon.” He backs up, taking a step toward the front stairs. He winks and makes a clicking sound with his cheek as he points his index finger at me with one thumb raised before turning and heading down the steps.

  I roll my eyes and head back inside, finding Mama and John on the sofa in the den.

  “Well?” Mama draws the word out as I kick off my ballet flats and slump back into the sofa between them.

  “Well, what?”

  “Are you gonna go out with him?”

  “I knew it!” I point to her. “I knew you only had Captain Cliché over here because you were tryin’ to set me up.” I swat at her shoulder with the tips of my fingers.

  “What? He’s a good-lookin’ man, Gretchen. And a doctor. You can’t ask for a lot more than that.” She shakes her head as if I’m ridiculous.

  “I can. I can ask for a lot more than that, actually.”

  “Oh, Gretchen!”

  I do my best deep-voiced impersonation. “Doctor Gale is my fa-ther.”

  That makes John laugh, and I laugh, too. Mama rolls her eyes.

  “Mama, he said I was too pretty not to have a boyfriend.”

  “Well you are pretty, honey.”

  “Her attractiveness has nothing to do with whether she chooses to be in a relationship, though, Sophia. I can see Gretchen’s point.” John gives me a single nod of solidarity.

  “Thanks, Dad. At least somebody’s got some sense around here.” I wag my head back and forth.

  Mama and John both lean forward and look at each other, then, look at me.

  “What? What’s wrong with you two?”

  John blinks and his eyes suddenly look red. “What you just said.”

  “That we’re the only two with any sense? Harsh, I know, but true.” I shrug and chuckle.

  “Gretchen…you called me Dad.” He has a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  My brows pinch together for a moment as I think about my words. I didn’t even realize I’d done it. I shrug.

  “I guess I did. Sorry. Is that okay?”

  John tries to look stoic as he presses the back of his finger to one eye and then the other.

  “Yes, honey. It’s better than okay.” John slides his arm behind my shoulders and pulls me into a hug. I feel Mama’s palm patting my back and I’m suddenly overwhelmed.

  I put my arms around John’s neck and squeeze him tight. Mama puts her arms around us, too, and I feel so safe and so loved. A thought nags at the back of my mind and I can’t seem to shift it. If I moved out here, with my family, I could feel like this all the time.

  As a bonus, I’d never have to risk seeing Tucker ever again.

  Thirty-Three

  Sloan is pacing back and forth in front of me like a hyperactive toddler after half a birthday cake.

  “He will not like it, Tucker. Ryan isn’t going to like this one bit. You simply cannot do this.” She faces me, her arms crossed, one hip jutting out.

  The sad part is, she probably thinks she’s intimidating. This move has probably worked on someone, but that someone wasn’t me.

  “Well, Sloan, that’s the thing. See, I’m a grown-ass man, and the star of this show, I haven’t signed my contract yet, and well, I can do this. You’re lucky I came to talk to you about it first. I didn’t have to, ya know.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.

  “So, I need you to go find Ryan so I can tell him myself, in my own words.” She cocks her head to the side, and I do the one thing I know always works on her. I dig into my arsenal of acting moves and pour on the charm. I give her the smile that the drama reporter from Hollywood Live called the panty dropper. “Please, Sloan. Do this for me?”

  Her shoulders drop and she looks up, heaving out a sigh. She throws her hands up and turns toward the door. “He won’t be happy. Ryan simply won’t be happy about any of this!” Her heels click against the hardwood as she scurries out of the office.

  I lean back and rest my arms on the back of the sofa. I don’t have to wait long. The door to the office swings wide as Ryan enters with a force.

  “What the actual fuck, Tucker? Tell me that Sloan is confused, or you’re high, or there’s some other explanation because you tanking my number one show is not a goddamn option!” He slaps a file folder down on his desk and turns to me, hands on both hips. One piece of hair has fallen from his perfectly combed head and is swinging in front of his eyes.

  As long as I’ve worked for this network, I’ve never seen Ryan frazzled before. It’s kind of like watching a car wreck. You don’t want to see it, but you can’t really look away either.

  “Calm down, Ryan.”

  “Ha. Calm down.” He turns, pacing for a moment, and runs a hand through his hair. “Calm down, he says.”

  He stomps back over to the sofa and faces me. “How the fuck am I supposed to calm down? Do you know what the C-suite is going to do to me when they hear this?” He throws one hand in the air, then points it at me. “And you! You’ll never work again. You might as well pack your shit and go back to the middle-of-fucking-nowhere Texas because you’re done. Done!”

  “Sit down, Ryan. Let’s talk about this.”

  He shakes his head, takes two steps toward his desk, then turns back, throwing his hands up, and comes to sit in the chair opposite me.

  “Talk. Okay, Tucker. Talk to me. Tell me how I’m going to explain that my number one star wants to ruin his career and mine by telling the world his girlfriend is gay. Tell me all about it.”

  I lean forward again, bringing my hands together, and look at him, one brow raised. “I’ve thought this through, and I think I have a plan that will work for everyone, including you. Just hear me out.”

  I tell him about my plans to film another segment with Barbara Banner and have Marissa with me. I tell him how we’re going to tell Barbara that Marissa has been in a relationship, but her partner had escaped an abusive situation. We’ll position it that the ruse we put on was just to keep her girlfriend safe until we could get her removed from a dangerous husband. It hits all the right notes. The network helped us save this woman’s life. Marissa gets to be a positive gay role model, and I get to look like I was helping Marissa, which is, coincidentally, true. It’s a story people can connect with and makes us look more human.

  After I finish, Ryan leans back in his chair. “And why
should I agree to all this?”

  “Because if you do, I’ll sign my next contract if you meet three other conditions.” I look at him from under my brows, and I can see he’s considering it.

  “What conditions?”

  “First, I’m locked into filming the show, and I’ll film whatever, whenever you want. Any storyline, any time, any location. Beyond that, and let’s say, five personal appearances a year, otherwise, my time is my own. No more jumping when the network says boo.” I lean back and cross one leg over the other.

  Ryan leans back as well. “What else?”

  “I want to spend more time writing and producing. I’d like to get an associate producer role starting next season.”

  “And the third condition?”

  I tell him about my plan to move out of LA, and he nods.

  “Let me take it upstairs. I have to get the boys in the C-suite to agree, but if they will, I’m okay with it.” He stands and faces me. “I’ve got to give you credit, Tucker. It took balls for you to come here and throw this at me. I can see you’ve thought it through, though. So, what happens if we don’t get the all-clear?”

  “Well, then I don’t sign a contract.” I lean my arm on the top of the sofa as I sink back into it.

  “That would be career suicide. You’d be throwing your whole life away.” He shakes his head.

  “Or getting it back. Just depends on your perspective.” I stand and shake his hand. “Thanks for your help, Ryan.”

  Thirty-Four

  The sun is setting on another beautiful California day as I walk along the beach near Marissa’s home. Beside me, Barbara looks elegant in her linen pantsuit.

  “I appreciate you calling me, Tucker. This will be a nice tie-in to the footage we shot in Texas. Your life back there, your new life here with your gorgeous co-star. Michael can start rolling whenever you’re ready.” She gestures ahead of us to where the tight-shot camera man is positioned on a sled, being pulled by a gaffer on a four-wheeler. Off to the side, from the edge of the sand, another cameraman is capturing what’s known in the business as B-roll, filler video without sound that can be mixed in wherever it’s needed.

  “That’s the thing, Barbara. When we go into the house, Marissa and I are going to give you a scoop that no one else has heard.”

  “Oh? Are there wedding bells in your future?” She smiles, a twinkle in her pale blue eyes.

  “Not with Marissa. She and I…our relationship is not what it seems. We aren’t actually a couple.” I look at her over the top rim of my aviators, but she doesn’t even flinch.

  “I see. So you’re dating someone else? Is he anyone I know?” I guess she’s been in the business long enough to see it all.

  “No,” I chuckle. “It’s her. She’s in a relationship and has been for a while. I was trying to help her protect her privacy. Do you think you can help us put a spin on it that will minimize the impact to her career?”

  “You aren’t worried about your own career? America’s sexiest bad boy has been lying to the public. You aren’t afraid this will hurt the show?” She blinks up at me in seeming disbelief.

  “No, I’m not worried about me. I’ll be fine. Besides, you know we talked to Ryan before he called you to set this up. I think we can weather it. If we don’t, we don’t. I’ll be fine. I’m just worried about Marissa. She’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” I can’t help but grin as I think of that first scene we shot together and how nervous she was to be on her first network show. We’ve been through a lot since then.

  “I can spin it. Just leave it to me and my producer. We’ll take care of you both, don’t worry.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Although if you ask me, the real story is a Hollywood hunk who cares more about his friend’s well-being than his own. That’s harder to find these days than a virgin in a whorehouse.”

  Back at the house, the camera crew has set up in the den with the bookshelves, awards, and photos with celebrities as backdrops. I go to check on Marissa in her bedroom and she’s pacing back and forth, wringing her hands.

  “You look scared shitless.” I chuckle as I stand in the doorway.

  “I am. Thanks for asking.” She rolls her eyes. “Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe we should wait until Fall ratings season is over.”

  “It’s fine. I talked to Barbara. She’s got our backs on this. She’s the most-trusted reporter in the country. She’ll know what to ask and how to spin the story.” I step forward and take her hands in mine. “We’ll be fine. You need this, Marissa. You deserve to be happy.”

  She looks up at me, her big, brown eyes soft. “So do you. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “Don’t worry.” I pull her into a hug. “I’ll get myself straightened out. One thing at a time.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders, and we walk into the room where the broad LED lights are set up behind softening screens. The setup is meant to give every aesthetic advantage, both to Barbara, who has been on TV for at least eight different presidential administrations, and to us.

  Marissa and I take our places in the two chairs they’ve set up for us, and a makeup artist touches up the shine on both our faces. The producer, Kenya, walks over to talk to us while the sound guy mics us up.

  “You both look great.” She’s grinning–almost gleeful. Barbara must’ve told her the plan.

  “So, Marissa,” Kenya snaps her fingers toward one of the half-dozen assistants that are milling around and is presented with a piece of fabric. “You hold on to this.”

  Marissa looks at the piece of beige fabric in her hand. “Is this one of my dinner napkins?”

  “Well, you don’t want little rolled-up balls of facial tissue all over your nose in HD, do you?” Kenya raises a brow at Marissa who looks up at her, eyes big, lips turned down at the corners and slowly shakes her head from side-to-side.

  “Next, you’re going to be facing the lights, so it will be hard to see. I’ve got this flashlight with a red filter.” Kenya backs up to show Marissa. “When I flash it from behind Barbara, like this, that’s your cue to start with the waterworks.”

  “You want me to cry on camera?”

  “Honey, you’re an actress. It’s literally your job. Do you think it will be a problem?” Marissa glances at me then shakes her head, indicating it won’t. “Just a sniffle and moist eyes, okay? Slightly smudge-y mascara is fine, big red noses and wub-wubs are not.”

  “What the fuck is a wub-wub?” I can’t help but ask.

  “You know, when a girl sobs so hard, she can’t breathe.” Kenya demonstrates, acting as though she can’t breathe and making a wub-wub sound as she feigns crying. “Wub-wubs.”

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  Kenya smooths the sleeves of Marissa’s blouse and tugs lightly on the corners of my collar. “So, tall drink of water, since you two aren’t really a thing, maybe I should give you my number.” She winks at me and that makes me smile despite the serious confession I’m about to make on camera.

  “Sorry, darlin’. When we work all this out, I’ve gotta girl back home I’m trying to convince to take me back.”

  “Too bad. I would’ve wrecked you, cowboy.” She winks and smiles before taking her place at the other side of the room as Barbara sits down.

  Barbara begins the interview and I have to admit, she’s a sight to behold. The woman can spin a question and work the camera like nobody else.

  After talking about our careers and praising our work, she goes in for the hook.

  “But we’re not here to talk about your Golden Globe nominations or your People’s Choice awards tonight, are we, Tucker?”

  “No, ma’am, we aren’t.” I look over at Marissa and she gives me a sad smile. “We’d like to share some more personal things if that’s okay.”

  As Barbara launches into the questions about how our relationship began, Marissa reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it. Barbara asks us how we first started dating, and I tell her how we went to lunch as fr
iends our first year of filming together, completely oblivious to the surrounding paparazzi, and the photos caused a media frenzy, so we just rolled with it.

  She turns her questions to Marissa, who tells the story of how she met a wonderful person who made her feel whole, but how she was in a tough relationship situation. That as they became friends, it became clear that they were developing deep feelings for each other, but she didn’t know how to help get her out of the marriage.

  The light flashes when she eludes to psychological abuse, which is true. Arnie is the biggest ass in Hollywood. Marissa turns on the tears, her voice cracking. It makes me think she was robbed of that Emmy she was nominated for but didn’t win. The woman is a damn fine actress.

  Two hours later, Barbara wraps up the interview more graciously than anyone else could. “I’m Barbara Banner with a newfound respect,” she leans forward and squeezes Marissa’s hand between hers, then glances over at me. “And a bit of a crush, quite frankly. And that’s the story, America. Goodnight.”

  “Cut!” Kenya yells and everyone applauds.

  The crew is dismantling the equipment and Barbara is thanking us. “We’ve got gold in the can. Don’t worry, you two. I’ve got you. I’ll spin this so that every woman in America will wish she had best friends like you two.” She turns to Marissa. “And tell Willa I’m so happy for the two of you, dear. Arnie always was a little cunt. I hope she gets half of everything.” She pats Marissa’s hand and turns to walk away, then turns back. “Oh, and tell her to have Jerry, her lawyer, do some digging. That prick Arnie spends every Thursday afternoon with a couple of hookers down near Chinatown. I hear he likes to be blindfolded and walked like a dog.”

  Marissa and I look at each other, both stunned at this revelation.