Bad Boy Boxset

by JD Hawkins

  Brad’s veneer of smug victory usually ebbs away at this point. You’d think the guy would have learned that Margo can give better than she receives by now. Except the usual flinches, the usual loss of the glint in his eye, the usual stumbling over words signaling that Brad knows he’s beaten aren’t there now. He’s got something else.

  “So confident!” Brad smiles. “But the thing is, Margie, I know you’ve got a secret. And I’m really bad at keeping them…”

  Margo’s face goes a little red, barely perceptible, but I know every expression on her face like a second language, and I can tell she’s rattled.

  But Brad’s dumb, and about as far from empathetic as you can get. He doesn’t notice he’s got Margo squirming, and shows his hand like the greenest cowboy in the west.

  “What were you doing hiding out in the parking lot for the last hour, Margie?” Brad says, Cheshire Cat grin so big it makes his face look small. “It’s way too early for your lunch break.”

  “What business is it of yours?” I interject, hoping to throw him off a little.

  Brad glares at me, taking an inch off his smile. “I just want to know what an employee of the company is doing spending an entire hour sitting in her car. Shopping online? Taking a nap? Sneaking a drink? All of the above, perhaps, and while you’re on the clock? Tsk, tsk. I’m sure Melissa would love to hear all about—”

  “Were you spying on me?” Margo says, but under the indignant tone I can hear a bit of shrill desperation.

  Brad grins. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “It sounds like you were,” I add. “Which would qualify as harassment.”

  “It wasn’t harassment.” He reddens a bit, and his voice gets louder. “I just noticed her hiding in her car when I went to get something from my own car, and then when I went to put it back just now she was still there. Wasting company time.”

  Margo hesitates and I decide to end this before it gets even uglier, before the other half of the office starts listening in on Brad’s ridiculous one-man show.

  “Look, Brad—I know we have fun when you come to visit us at our desk. Throwing jibes and remarks around like we’re actors in a third-rate Tennessee Williams knock-off, but this is a little too petty—even for you. What’s next? You gonna follow Margo to the bathroom and comment on her hand-washing technique? Gonna get her file from HR and scour her resume for formatting errors?” I give Brad just enough time to struggle for an answer, but not enough to give one. “Here’s what we’ll do—for you, because I kind of feel sorry for you—we’ll let you walk away, forget about it, and start over again when you come back with something else. Just—please—try and make it a little better next time. And not just something that makes you look like a creep.”

  This time I let the silence run, Brad filling it with a few ‘you know whats’ and ‘never minds’ until he turns around and stomps off.

  Margo sighs deeply when he’s gone and doesn’t even turn to face me.

  “Something wrong?” I say, scooting my chair a little towards her.

  Finally she turns and as soon as our eyes meet she smiles guiltily. “No. Just embarrassed. And kinda freaked out…”

  “About Brad spying on you out in your car?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “Well he is a freak.”

  Margo laughs and says, “A freak who wants to get me fired.”

  “Pfft. He’s hanging on a thread himself. Have you read his sports columns? They read like a high schooler trying to translate ancient Sumerian. I used to find it funny, now I just get depressed when I accidentally see them.”

  Margo sighs and smiles, but I can tell she’s still upset about something.

  “Seriously though,” I say, in a tone that gets her attention back, “I was kinda worried. You don’t usually go off like that—for that long. Is everything ok?”

  “Yeah…” Margo says distractedly. “I think so. I guess I just zoned out, or…”

  There’s a heavy pause, the kind that precedes somebody letting something off their chest, so of course my phone vibrates loudly once again on my desk.

  “Fuck,” I say, grabbing the phone and seeing that it’s my dad again.

  “Your dad again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Answer it!” she says, making a shooing motion with her hand. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

  “And hear about how he laid some twenty year old stripper last night in horrifying detail? No thanks.”

  Margo tilts her head. “At least he’s trying to reach out. When was the last time you two spoke?”

  I look at Margo guiltily, genuinely having forgotten. I don’t even need to say it, and she doesn’t need to hear it. Too long.

  I roll my eyes and finally answer my phone. “Hey Dad.”

  The voice that greets me is smooth as whiskey, deep and melodic, a voice that seems to have almost hypnotic powers over women. I’m told we sound similar, though I’ve never found the comparison flattering. “Owen! Is that damned phone of yours still broken? I must have called you fifty times, son.”

  “Did you? Damn. It’s been sitting in front of me all day and hasn’t rung once.”

  I only glance at Margo enough to see that she’s shaking her head at me. I shrug my shoulders and then get up and move to the office window out of earshot.

  “I’ll get you a new one, then. You can pick it up when you come by the house. How about this weekend?”

  “Dad, I’m kinda busy these days—”

  “Bullshit—I’ll get Nancy to order you one through Prime so it’ll already be here when you come over. She knows all about phones and gizmos and such.”

  He wants me to ask. It’s part of the routine. Drop the name first, then tell me all about her like they’ve been going out forever. But I’m not in the mood to play the game.

  “Is Sunday good for you?” he says. Another part of the routine. Don’t even ask if I can come—just jump straight to the assumption. “Nancy’s thinking of cooking up a leg of lamb. Just let me know if you’re bringing someone. I know half the girls out there these days are gluten-free vegans or whatever.”

  “Dad…no day is good right now, actually. I’m totally swamped with work and I’m in the middle of a big—”

  “Nonsense! What kind of life are you living that you can’t even spare time for a Sunday dinner with me and Nancy?”

  “Dad, listen—”

  “You haven’t even met her yet, have you? I just realized, you haven’t even met Nancy yet! God, it really has been awhile. We need to remedy this, son.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Dad! Would you just listen?” I let the tension percolate for a second, my dad’s silence agreement enough. “I’m not coming for a Sunday dinner. Look: if you want to see me then let’s meet somewhere for a beer—just you and me. But I’m not—”

  “When are you going to meet Nancy then?”

  “I don’t need to meet Nancy—”

  “Of course you do. She’s—”

  “No, Dad, I don’t.” There’s another second of silence, but I can’t hold myself back from putting words to something that’s been a weight on my mind for as long as I can remember. “Nancy is probably going to go the same way as Lisa, and Angelica, and Rosanna—or maybe even she’ll be like Jenni and won’t even be with you by the time I’m supposed to meet her. You’ve been doing this my whole life. I already know how it’s going to end.”

  The silence lasts a little too long now, my anger fading into discomfort, then regret.

  “Look, Dad, I’m sorry. I’m just stressed.”

  “No, no. I get it, Owen.”

  “Dad…”

  “It’s fine. You’re your own man. I understand.”

  “I’m just tired of meeting your girlfriends and hearing about how much you’re in love with each other and that she’s ‘the one’ when it’s so clearly never true. It never lasts, Dad. It makes me feel sorry for them, and you.”

  That horrible silence lasts only a little while now. A
nd then he laughs. The man actually has the balls to laugh at me. “Well, if you really feel that way then I don’t know what to tell you, son. Apart from I love her.”

  “It’s not love, Dad. It never is. It’s temporary insanity.”

  He chuckles again, and I try to ignore my rising blood pressure.

  “You know, I’m starting to doubt that you even know what love is, Owen,” my dad says. “And for the record? I loved every one of them. It just never worked out.”

  I sigh into the phone, then glance over at Margo, who I know has overheard the entire conversation. There’s a concerned expression on her face, and when she mouths ‘is everything ok?’ at me, all I can do is shake my head.

  I turn back toward the window, knowing I’ll regret this, but feeling like I have no other option. “Fine, Dad. Arrange whatever you like. I’ll see you then.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take care of everything,” he says smoothly, as if the entire last five minutes of arguing had never happened. “But I’m telling you, Owen. She’s the one.”

  12

  Margo

  The night sky is almost pitch black now, the moon high, full, and pale, though it can’t compete with the colored lights dotted around the railings and tables of the rooftop bar. An oasis of bright vibrancy against the darkness beyond. The glowing colors refract and reflect along the wine glasses, shimmering jewelry, metal and marble surfaces of the bar and tables, casting a luxurious radiance across the whole place and the people in it. So otherworldly and light you almost feel like if you fell over the railing you’d just fly back here.

  I know that Tom is probably going nuts with the lens-flares and depth of focus as he films this. Personally, I’d take a pub with sticky floors over this any day. Some place where the drinks are cheaper and the people are the attraction rather than the location.

  But I’ve got work to do, so I’m sitting at the bar in a dress so tight I feel like I’m naked, facing the date that Owen chose for me: a tall, dark, handsome man with a serious look on his face.

  Luckily, Tom and Mia decided to set up hidden cameras in the bar, so this time I’m spared the embarrassment of having them hover around me. Though I still feel like I’m being spied on.

  The tall, dark, handsome man is named Brett, and so far he hasn’t made any missteps—though I’m only a third of the way through my white wine. He sips his whiskey on the rocks slowly, eyes smiling at me over the glass, then laughs warmly as he puts it down.

  “What’s funny?” I ask.

  “Nothing…I just get a good vibe from you,” he says sweetly.

  I laugh and sip. “Oh, I’m just being nice for the cameras.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you like when they’re off?”

  “Terrible,” I say, and Brett laughs. “I’ve got a smart mouth, I’m demanding, and I get really annoyed when men can’t keep up with me.”

  I smile over my drink as Brett continues laughing.

  “Well,” he says slowly, his eyes rolling over my body unashamedly, “I guess you can get away with a lot when you look like that.”

  I wink playfully and take a slow sip of wine. Maybe this dating thing isn’t so bad after all. I knew Owen wouldn’t deliberately pick me a bad date—it’s not his style. But I still had my doubts about whether Owen would be able to pick out a good one when I still struggle to find suitable guys myself.

  But so far, I have to say, he nailed it. Brett’s good looking, easy to be around, and we haven’t shared one awkward moment in the twenty-seven minutes that I’ve known him so far.

  “So…” I say, putting my drink down, “you work in independent film?”

  “Yep,” Brett says, raising his empty glass at the bartender. “I’m a producer.”

  “Oh,” I say, the word ‘producer’ immediately conjuring my preconceptions of lying jackasses with too-firm handshakes and slimy personalities. But so far, it looks like Brett might make me reconsider all of that.

  “Yeah. I actually came to L.A. to try and make it as an actor at first, and somehow ended up connecting a few people together on some projects. Next thing I know I’m—”

  Brett is interrupted by his phone ringing, and he hurriedly fishes around in his pants pocket for it. “Excuse me,” he says, and I nod empathetically as he spins in his bar stool to face away from me.

  I take the opportunity to check my own phone, and see that Owen’s texted me. An involuntary smile comes to my face that I can’t suppress.

  Where the hell did you get a dress like that?

  The smile is printed on now. I look around the bar to try and figure out where Owen is. I knew we were having our dates at the same time, but I didn’t see him when I got here and now the place is so crowded I can’t find him. I hammer out a response.

  Where are you?

  Owen’s reply is quick. Your ten o’clock- in the booth.

  I take another look and find him sitting alone in his booth, raising a glass of beer at me. I frown and text him again, suddenly inexplicably nervous over the ‘perfect’ woman Louise and I picked out for him.

  Where’s your date? I text.

  I look up and see him groan, then type on his phone for a few seconds. She saw Johnny Depp in the corner and went to get his autograph.

  When I check him out again he shrugs his shoulders and I see he’s serious. I look back down to type a reply but get distracted by Brett raising his voice on the phone.

  “Executive producer, asshole! Executive! And in the opening credits, or I’ll ram a pole up your ass and spit roast you like a suckling pig. You even think about putting my name under the same title as Joanne and I’ll make sure every person connected with this film knows about your good-for-nothing son’s drug habit, you hear me?”

  Brett’s voice is so hard and venomous that a few of the other drinkers at the bar look in our direction. Suddenly I feel naked again—for entirely negative reasons. I pray for Brett to lower his voice or end the call but the filth just keeps on coming, and people keep on looking.

  “You know what? Forget that bitch. You know she slept with our lead, right? No? How do you think he got the role in the first place? Well, I do know—and I’m this close to telling her husband right now. Fuck you too, Ralph. I couldn’t give two shits about your problems. If I don’t see my name in the first five minutes of the movie I’ll burn the whole house down and make sure you and Joanne are in it.”

  Finally, once every single person within ten feet has noticed what a ranting lunatic Brett is, he ends the call and spins back around to me. I see a flash of hateful anger on his face, a scowl so deep it looks like he’s wearing a mask. In that instant I can almost believe I’m meeting the devil. And then he changes, in an instant, back to the charming, humble guy I was—or thought I was—getting to know.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, in a voice and tone entirely different than the one he used on the phone. “It’s a tough business.”

  “Um. So I’ve heard.” I nod and try my best to smile nicely. I look over at Owen, his date now opposite him, then turn back to Brett.

  For the next hour, Brett genuinely convinces me that he’s a textbook psychopath. Funny, charming, and sensitive enough to make me genuinely start to like him; then his phone rings and for a few minutes he turns back into the most awful human being I’ve ever met in real life. If it weren’t for the fact that there are cameras on us, Tom and Mia hovering among the crowd, I would have already left for my own safety. But the show must go on.

  Every once in a while, I glance over at Owen in his booth. He’s got his date-face on, wry, distant, mildly interested but incredibly focused. It’s a pretty good look for him. His date is hotter than Louise and I could even imagine from the pictures. A six-foot tall Amazonian with dusky skin straight from the pages of a seventies Playboy magazine, with a degree in epidemiology and a penchant for exotic, spicy food, classic Russian novels, and an interest in holistic therapy. I notice whenever I look that I’m not the only one whose attention seems diverted in that direction
. I can’t imagine Owen’s not totally into her. I’d practically date her myself.

  And she likes him, too. That much is obvious. Each time I look over, it seems like they’re getting a little closer. She’s playing with her hair, throwing her neck back, stroking her glass like a prelude of what she wants to do to him. Ten minutes later I look and she’s leaning over the table reading his palm, fingers tenderly stroking the inside of his hand, and when I look again a little later and she’s moved to the same side of the booth as him, his arm around her now, her hand on his thigh.

  Meanwhile I’m on a date with the two-faced villain from Batman.

  “Have you been to New York before?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I say. “I know quite a few people there, though, and I just had an interview last week with—”

  I stop myself as soon as I hear his phone ring, a sound which invokes the same reaction as an air-raid siren in me now.

  “Damnit,” he says ruefully. “I’m really sorry. We’re in post-production and there are simply endless fires to put out. Last time, I promise.”

  I watch him fish the phone from his pocket and shift in my stool.

  “Sure,” I say, “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick.”

  He nods, bringing the phone to his ear, face already twisting into that demonic expression.

  “You better have a really fucking good reason for calling me or I’m gonna tear your…” I hear him snarl into the phone behind me as I walk to the bathroom rubbing my forehead.

  I ask a waiter and he directs me to a long, sectioned off passage with exits to the bar at both ends. I’m at one end when I look up to see Owen at the other, walking to the middle where the bathroom door is.

  “Wow,” he says, looking me up and down with that keen, focused smile as we draw nearer to each other. “You look even better the closer I get.”

  Something about the way he says it sparks a brief fire in my mind, as if he’s implying he wants to get as close as possible…but I push the idea away as soon as I have it. I’m just having a really bad date—and considering that Owen has had his arm wrapped around a mesmerizingly beautiful woman for the past hour, right now is hardly the time to be worried about awkward sexual tension between us.