TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY

by Monroe, Max

  “No, not Buddy, but Billie,” I correct in my sweetest voice. “Billie with an ie.”

  On a sigh, she puts the Sharpie back to the cup, scratches out Buddy with a swift hand, and writes the letters B-i-l-l-d-i-e.

  Billdie? Good Lord. Am I speaking a different language?

  “Uh…I hate to be a pain, but it’s actually Billie without the d. Just B-i-l-l-i-e.”

  The barista stares at me, cup and Sharpie still in her hand, like Billie just can’t be a name for a girl. Like, surely, I’m the one saying my name wrong.

  Michael Jackson sang about a Billie Jean, and Billie Eilish is one of the most successful female artists in music, but whatever. It’s not worth arguing with the barista about whether or not my momma and daddy lied to me.

  I may have been named after my great-grandpa Willy, but Billie isn’t that uncommon of a name for a girl. I want to tell her every blessed thing that’s on my mind, but it’s probably best if I keep things simple between Blondie and me. One day, when I manage to meet a man and fall so hopelessly in love that I don’t care if he leaves all his dishes in the sink, I don’t plan on making this woman a bridesmaid.

  I shake my head. “Never mind.”

  “Your accent,” Summer remarks. “It’s so…different. It’s cute.”

  This isn’t the first time my accent has come up in everyday life here in California, and surely, it won’t be the last. After more than four years in LA, my West Virginia twang is a little watered down, but it’s definitely still there, a big neon sign above my head, letting everyone within hearing distance know I’m an LA transplant.

  “Are you from the South?”

  “Well, I guess that depends on who you ask.”

  She tilts her head to the side.

  “Born and raised in West Virginia,” I explain. “Some people would say we’re part of the South, and some claim we’re from the mountains.”

  “I’ve never been there. Nevada is the farthest east I’ve been.”

  I don’t bother telling her to change that. Some West Coasters, hell, even some East Coasters, snub their noses at the idea of visiting my home state, but I know they’re missing out. I love LA, but country roads, the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the Shenandoah River are at the center of my heart.

  Trust me, John Denver crooned about West Virginia for a reason.

  Instead, I swipe my credit card as quickly as I can and move to the side so the next customer can step up to the register.

  While a young guy with a beanie and gauges in his ears makes my latte, I glance around the café and try to find an open seat, but it seems, with all the unemployed actors and actresses killing time on their computers, they’re all accounted for.

  Outside terrace it is.

  I grab my latte and plated muffin as they set them on top of the case at the far end of the counter and weave through the crowd to the back door that leads outside into the California sun.

  I spot an open seat at the far end of the courtyard, sit down, and use a napkin to wipe the crumbs from a prior patron off the table.

  Laptop out of my purse and powered up, I try to dive straight into work emails, but I barely get through a message about updates needed for lighting equipment when my focus is pulled away by a male voice.

  “Excuse me, ma’am? You can’t smoke here.”

  I look up to see one of Alfred’s baristas standing in front of the table directly beside mine, his eyes directed toward an older woman with sleek gray hair and Chanel sunglasses, the offending cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Smoke billows around her face, and her lips slip into a firm line. “I’m outside.”

  He tries on a smile, but the smoke is wafting into his face now, and it’s really hard to smile and hold your breath at the same time. “Our terrace is smoke-free, too,” he chokes out.

  “Christ,” she mutters. I watch surreptitiously as she reaches up with red-tipped nails, pulls the cig from her mouth, and puts it out on the edge of the table. The butt falls to the ground, but as Jo Dee Messina would say, her give a damn’s busted. I smile as the soundtrack to the scene unfurling in front of me starts to play inside my head.

  “I sure miss the hell out of old Hollywood. You could smoke wherever the hell you wanted, and no one cared. Sinatra would’ve had a coronary if you told him not to smoke on an outside terrace back then.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” the male employee says before bending down to pick up her cigarette butt. “Let me know if there’s anything I can get you.”

  “Punk-ass wallflower,” she mutters this time, but the guy smartly heads inside.

  “Adele,” a white-haired lady sitting across from her chastises with an amused smile. “I swear, I can’t take you anywhere.”

  Adele laughs, a little rasp from years of smoking making it sound almost devious. “With the way this city keeps changing, I don’t want you to take me anywhere. No smoking, avocado toast, and sugary coffee drinks…” She shakes her head. “I hardly recognize the old girl anymore.”

  Her table mate sighs and takes a sip of coffee. “You know what that’s a sign of?”

  “What?”

  I move my eyes back to my laptop, but I can’t stop myself from continuing to eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s too interesting.

  “That you need to retire.”

  “You act like I’m still working full time, Irene,” Adele retorts.

  “You shouldn’t be working at all.”

  “Horseshit. I’ve got a sweet gig, making sure Luca Weaver gets his royalty checks, and I plan to do it until the day I die.”

  Luca Weaver? Good God, I haven’t heard that name in ages…

  He got into acting as a child—I want to say around the age of ten or eleven—and by the time he was eighteen, he had a freaking Oscar. Not just a nomination—the freaking guy actually won.

  He was the “it” thing there for a while, landing bigger and bigger roles every year until his midtwenties. He played the lead in a blockbuster spy movie that, if I’m not mistaken, still holds box office records, but his personal life took on a much more detrimental role.

  Hollywood’s Baddest Boy.

  That’s what they called him. I remember it distinctly.

  Unfortunately, I imagine that kind of moniker is great for notoriety, but bad for the boy. He partied hard, rumors of drugs and alcohol and rehab a near-constant in his wild life. And then one day, he was just gone.

  Up and out of the spotlight completely at the height of his career.

  The conversation veers and Adele goes back to bitching about not being able to smoke with her morning cup of joe, and I lose interest in listening. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve got everything I need to text my sister, Birdie, with the most interesting topic we’ve discussed in a long time.

  Me: You will never guess whose name I just heard.

  Birdie: You’re right. I will never guess. Who?

  Me: Guess.

  Birdie: God, I hate when you do this. Just tell me.

  Me: Birdie, just toss out a guess, for heaven’s sake!

  Birdie: Fine. Post Malone.

  I scrunch up my nose and laugh.

  Me: Post Malone? Tell me you’re not listening to “Die for Me” for the 47th time today.

  Birdie: Shut up. It’s catchy! Just freaking tell me already!

  Me: Fine. Luca Weaver.

  Birdie: Oh my Godddd, I haven’t heard that name in SO long.

  Me: I know, right?

  His younger sister, Raquel, is still a successful actress—in fact, she was pretty much all I heard about when she unexpectedly showed up pregnant in the tabloids not too long ago—but Hollywood finally stopped talking about Luca a few years back. I guess everyone finally gave up hope of him making some big, flashy return.

  Birdie: You had the biggest crush on him when we were kids.

  Ha! Like she should talk.

  Me: I seem to remember YOU having a poster of him in your room. Come to think of it, you had it in just the right
spot to stare at it from your bed while you diddled your doodle.

  Truthfully, we were both fangirls of Luca Weaver back in the day. We would race home from school just to watch him and Raquel act in our favorite television series—Home Sweet Home.

  Birdie: Yeah, right. I didn’t have time to diddle anything. Granny tore it down two days after I put it up.

  I laugh at the thought.

  Granny was a stickler for shit like that. She loathed the idea of us being boy-crazy teenagers. For a woman of her generation, she was quite progressive.

  Instead of encouraging us to think about our dream weddings, she encouraged us to think about going to college. Instead of husbands, she spoke about independence. Instead of babies, she told us to dream about our future careers.

  All of that will come, she always said. She wanted us to live our lives for ourselves and no one else before settling down.

  Birdie: So…are you going to tell me how the name Luca Weaver came up or keep talking about how badly you need to get your kitty tickled?

  Me: STOP. I’m doing just fine on my own.

  Birdie: Sure, sure.

  Me: You’re ridiculous.

  Birdie: As I recall, you’re the one who brought masturbation into this conversation.

  Me: Come on. I JUST slept with someone.

  Birdie: TWO years ago.

  Me: No.

  That can’t be right, can it?

  Birdie: YES. The guy who left his socks on.

  Oh my God, she is right. Ugh.

  Okay, fine, so I’m not exactly out there on the sexual front lines, but that has more to do with me putting my career first than anything else.

  I’ve had priorities.

  Me: Wow. Way to depress me.

  Birdie: Sorry. But be honest with yourself. Your need for gratification is the real reason we’re talking about Luca Weaver.

  Me: It is not! I just overheard some old ladies talking about him. I think one of them is his agent. She was talking about his royalty checks.

  Birdie: So, you’re not going to, like, meet him?

  Me: No.

  Birdie: Talk to him? Work with him? Sleep with him?

  Me: That’s a negative.

  Birdie: So, this conversation was pretty much pointless? Is that what you’re saying?

  Me: Oh, like you should talk. You texted me yesterday about the freaking weather in Nashville.

  Birdie: Because it’s May, and we had a thirty-degree day! That’s a big deal. Like, where the hell is spring?

  Just before I can type out a smartass response, another text fills our chat box.

  Birdie: Hey listen, I’ve enjoyed our chat about old hunks and your dried-up vag, but I gotta run to rehearsal. I’ll call you later.

  I smile despite her mocking.

  No joke, Birdie is living the music dream. The country music dream, that is.

  Daddy always said Birdie was named Birdie because she could sing, but it took her years to find the confidence to step onstage and sing in front of a crowd.

  Luckily, a little over six years ago, after our granny passed away and a cheating ex-boyfriend pushed her over the edge, Birdie finally had enough.

  I was eighteen, Birdie was twenty-one, and we drove to Tennessee on a destiny-fulfilling whim. We arrived in Nashville in the evening, and Birdie entered herself in an open mic night at the first bar we found.

  What song did she sing? Well, exactly what you’d think someone would sing after their boyfriend cheated on them with a girl named Jolene.

  The rest is pretty much history. Someone from a record label happened to be in the crowd that night, and Birdie Harris’s life changed forever.

  She stayed in Nashville and signed with a record label, and I headed for LA, determined to turn the movies in my head into movies on the silver screen.

  Both of us, out there in the world, making our granny’s advice happen.

  All thanks to Ricky Case and his cheating penis, a real-life floozy named Jolene, and country music’s queen, Dolly Parton.

  Billie

  Call me an egg because I crack under pressure. And my yolk looks a hell of a lot like blood.

  Locked and loaded with caffeine and ready to bring my A game to this morning’s meeting, I slide into the chair to the right of my boss.

  In nude heels and a sophisticated white power suit that looks perfect against her caramel-colored skin, Serena perches like an exotic bird at the head of the large conference table. A Bluetooth is in her ear, and she is listening intently to whatever the person on the other line is saying.

  Charles takes the chair to the left of her, directly across from me, and immediately starts trying to one-up me. “Good morning, Serena,” he says, and I don’t miss the way he flashes a stupid smile my way.

  Too bad when your lips are that close to her ass, you can’t see that she’s obviously on a call, numbnuts.

  I open my notebook and review a few of the notes I took while poring over Espionage—the screenplay that Serena decided a few months ago will be Koontz Productions’ next big project. It’s expected to do well, and she’s already managed to get the financial green-light from Capo Brothers Studios.

  Charles, on the other hand, hops up from his seat, heads to the refreshment table at the back of the room, and pours two glasses of water—one for him and one for Serena.

  Smug smile engaged, he locks eyes with me and slides the glass onto the table in front of our boss while she finishes up her conversation.

  Internally, I roll my eyes. Good job, buddy. Way to be Serena’s gofer.

  Apparently, even with all of their family’s money, ole Chuck’s parents couldn’t afford to buy him any common sense.

  Charles and I have reached this point in our careers via very different paths.

  He comes from a wealthy family that had enough money to pay for private schools and Yale and a bachelor pad in Laurel Canyon, and I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by hard times, crawling my way up from the fucking bottom of the barrel.

  If it weren’t for Granny’s gambling problem and her lucky lotto ticket, my family wouldn’t have had anything to give me besides the clothes on my back and a country accent.

  That’s right. My granny won the freaking lotto.

  Four million dollars. Fifteen years before she died.

  It’s a long story. An ironic story. Certainly, a very fucking crazy story, but a real story, nonetheless.

  Since Granny died six years ago, Birdie and I have only touched that money to pay for necessities—my Bachelor of Arts in Film and Television at UCLA, her move to Nashville, and basic living expenses when we can’t afford to cover them on our own. We both know the last thing Granny would want is for us to turn into some kind of trust-fund babies who are too lazy to make something of themselves.

  I’ll make my way in La La Land, fighting for every inch, without leaning on Granny’s money unless I absolutely have to. The fact that I’m currently living in a four-hundred-square-foot apartment in downtown LA with a toilet right next to the fridge is proof of that.

  “That sounds perfect, Eliza,” Serena says, prompting me to look up from my notebook. “Talk soon.” She taps her ear to end the call and watches as the last stragglers of her team file into the room. In Serena’s world, if you’re not five minutes early, you’re late.

  She promptly kicks off the meeting without waiting for everyone to finish getting seated.

  “I trust you’ve all read Espionage.”

  Anyone left standing scrambles to find any available home for their ass. One guy, I swear to everything, ends up sitting on the rim of a potted plant. Meanwhile, those of us who don’t have to worry about the moisture content in the soil nod and hum our affirmation.

  A screenplay by Jakob Kauffman, Espionage is based on a true story about an American CIA agent who lived in Europe and the Middle East for over twenty years to gain intel on foreign enemies. It’s riveting and engrossing and different from the typical secret agent movies that have been made
in the past. It’s not necessarily meant to be showy and action-packed—though, it is; it’s meant to be authentic.

  It absolutely reeks of clout with the Academy. And, I’m sure, all the potential Oscar nominations are at least part of the reason Serena was able to get the Capo brothers to move forward so quickly. Everyone in Hollywood loves the sound of money.

  “How is our casting situation?” Callie Frittle, Head of Development at Koontz Productions, asks.

  “Casting is almost set. Lucy Larson just agreed and signed on as the female lead,” Serena updates.

  “And our director?”

  “Mei Chen is a go as well.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic news.” Callie taps her pen on her leather notebook. “So, we only need the male lead.”

  “Exactly.” Serena nods aggressively. “And that’s why we’re all here this morning. Since you’ve all read the screenplay now, I want your ideas. Your thoughts. Your concerns.” She flashes a grin. “Although, if your concern is anything other than being afraid of showing off with how good your suggestions are for the most important role we’ve ever filled, you can get the fuck out.”

  Soft, albeit slightly nervous, laughter fills the room, and Serena stands up and starts walking around, apparently comfortable in an environment made balmy by our sweat.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking. With Lucy Larson on board, who should play our male lead, Finn Slate?”

  “Personally,” Charles chimes in first. “I think Harry Saint would be perfect.”

  Pfft. Yeah, right. Serena’s gonna shut that shit down faster than Twista can rap about a girl becoming an overnight celebrity.