The Siren

by Katherine St. John

  “You’ll need to call the bar and give them a card. I didn’t have one on me,” he continued.

  I was his producer, not his personal assistant, though he rarely seemed to know or care where the line was. Everyone in Cole’s orbit simply did whatever he asked, no matter whether or not it fell within the jurisdiction of their job description. But a night on the town wasn’t in our film budget. “Ben has your personal cards,” I returned.

  “It’s a film expense.”

  I took a controlled breath. “This is an independent film. You know we’re on a tight budget. Anything you spend on things like fishing trips and bar tabs, it comes out of what goes on-screen.”

  His laugh had an edge to it. “You gotta stop worrying about money, half-pint.”

  I hated the way he called me half-pint, but he claimed the nickname was a term of endearment and found it hilarious. “It’s my job to worry about money.”

  He propped up on his elbows, his lips curled into a smile. “It’s my money,” he said lightly. “Just pay the tab and raise the budget. The more I spend on this movie, the less I pay in taxes. You have any idea how much I pay in taxes?”

  “Roughly half, I’d guess,” I muttered.

  He chuckled. “Not if you have the accountants I do.”

  “If we’re raising the budget, I have a list about a mile long of things we actually need that got cut after Steve—”

  He held up a hand. “Enough about fucking Steve.”

  I bit my tongue. Fucking Steve was the line producer hired before I was brought on. He’d been used to working on much higher-budget films and had so grossly overpaid for everything at the top of the list that he ran out of money long before he reached the bottom, leaving us scavenging for crumbs to make up the rest of the cost. I’d recognized the problem early on and had wanted to replace him, but he and Cole had been “mates” (Steve was British) for years, and Cole wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, Cole was so adamant that I had to wonder whether Steve had some kind of dirt on him that demanded Cole’s loyalty. Suffice it to say that Cole was extremely protective of his image. Unfortunately, the satisfaction of being proven right about Steve’s incompetence was far outweighed by the stress of having to clean up his mess.

  Cole flopped back onto his stomach. “Get your thumbs between my scaps,” he instructed Tina. “Yeah, that’s it.” He groaned. “You’re an angel. Right there. God, I love a woman with strong hands.”

  I imagined her strong hands around his neck, squeezing.

  But it was his money—all of it, including the part that paid my salary.

  I’d been recruited to produce The Siren mainly because Cole had gotten flack in the media for his entertainment company being a boy’s club, which it was. For my part, I’d gladly accepted Cole’s offer not only because it was generous, but because it was the sole offer I’d fielded in the half a year since I’d been unceremoniously dumped from my prior job, and I was running out of money, not to mention losing my sanity to a deadly cocktail of inertia and depression.

  Power Pictures was smaller than customary for entertainment companies owned by stars of Cole’s stature and was yet to deliver anything when I came on board. He handed me The Siren—a low-budget, complicated, truly independent passion project without studio involvement or even outside money—while the rest of the team stayed in LA to develop bigger things.

  Why Cole had given his son, whose life he’d never much been involved in as far as I could tell, a three-million-dollar budget to direct a movie as his film school graduation present was beyond me. He and Jackson were far from chummy, and it was certainly a lot of trouble to go to for a tax benefit. But then, God only knew how much he had in the bank after the box-office-smashing success of the Gentleman Gangster series. (The fifth installment, for which he’d been paid thirty million plus an unheard-of percentage of the back end, had opened last month to even bigger numbers than any of the previous four.) The world was head over heels for the vicious yet charming anti-hero Gentleman Gangster. In a time of ever-declining ticket sales, Cole Power was one of the few movie stars whose name still drew a crowd.

  Not only was father-of-the-year Cole Power financing The Siren, but in an even curiouser move, he’d agreed to star in it. It would be the lowest-budget film he’d done since before his first turn as Hollywood’s Sexiest Man. Of course, his appearance in it all but guaranteed the film’s success, which boded well for me and everyone else working on it, so I wasn’t protesting. I was now one of the many, many people whose livelihood depended on audiences continuing to fork over their hard-earned cash to see Cole Power smolder “A gentleman never shoots a man in the back.”

  Tina continued to rub Cole’s shoulders as he squinted across the water at the siren on the rock, now leaning out over the water to converse with Jackson, her breasts dangling before him like ripe grapefruits. “Who’s that?”

  “Stella’s new assistant.”

  “Of course.” He sniggered.

  “Funny. Jackson had the same reaction.” I raised my brows.

  “Did he?” Cole eyed the two of them, the corners of his mouth downturned. “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  I contemplated. I’d just pissed him off by reminding him the movie had a budget, and I certainly couldn’t care less about Stella’s preferences, but if a known pattern indicated there might be a problem, as producer I needed to know. I’d had a hell of a time getting Stella insured to play Cole’s wife after her checkered past, and the insurance had caveats—like her staying sober. “Is there something I should know?” I ventured.

  “No.” He suddenly rose to his feet, leaving Tina kneeling in the sand with no shoulders to rub. She looked to me for direction. I knew he’d probably want her to hang around, but I saw a chance to handle my sticky business with him and decided to take it before we were interrupted again.

  “Thank you.” I dismissed her with an apologetic smile, pressing a fifty into her hand. Cole had an accurate theory that people rarely had anything bad to say about stars who were generous, so he insisted everyone around him always have cash on hand to grease the wheels.

  “Hey, handsome!”

  “Speak of the devil,” Cole said under his breath.

  Seriously? Was I ever going to get a moment alone with him?

  Stella traipsed across the sand toward us, her slender frame clad in a turquoise caftan, wide-brimmed white sun hat covering her expertly highlighted honey-and-milk-chocolate waves. She was still beautiful at what she claimed was thirty-six but I knew from processing her paperwork was really forty, her heart-shaped face and delicate features offset by large, come-hither green eyes. I also knew after seeing her barefaced at the makeup test that even with the aid of fillers and Botox, the years of partying had taken a toll. She’d mastered the art of camouflaging the fine lines around her mouth and the hollows beneath her eyes with foundation and contouring, but our cinematographer would have to be incredibly careful how he lit and shot her.

  Cole fired up his megawatt smile. “Stella! Gorgeous.” He slid his arm around her and gave her lingering kisses on each cheek. “Good to see you. Mmm, you look good enough to eat.”

  “Oh, stop it!” Stella swatted at Cole. “You know you’re more gorgeous than I am.”

  Stella and Cole had been an item way back when, and the scandal surrounding their breakup had been massive, but that was a long time ago and Cole was so insistent on hiring Stella that I’d figured they must have made peace since. Anyway, as skeptical as I was about casting her after her multiple, very public breakdowns, she’d been nothing but agreeable thus far. It had been nearly a decade since her last stint in rehab, and all her party-girl friends seemed to have gotten it together and moved on with their lives. Maybe her troubles really were in the past. She and Cole certainly appeared chummy enough now, play-fighting about whose abs were tighter.

  I stood outside the circle of mutual admiration sweating in my inappropriate clothes, my curls sticking to the back of my neck.
“Glad you finally made it,” I said. “How was the flight over?”

  “That little plane, my God! I don’t think I’ve ever flown on anything that small… Landing on the water was crazy. I thought I might die.”

  Cole snickered. “Glad to hear your flair for the dramatic is intact.”

  “This place is amazing.” Stella swept her arm toward the horizon. “The water is just…so blue. I can’t even. I’ve always wanted to live on an island, drink from a coconut. So romantic. I love it.”

  Out in the bay, Jackson splashed the girl on the rock, eliciting a cascade of squeals. We watched as she stood, laughing, then dove into the sea.

  June 2, 2006

  Celeb Spotter

  Stole Getting Married?

  It was a wet-n-wild weekend for Stella Rivers, 27, and Cole Power, 36. The two, who have been hot and heavy since playing opposite each other as star-crossed lovers in the film Faster, were spotted Saturday in Miami, lounging on Power’s yacht. Rivers flaunted her toned figure in a barely there white bikini, while Power helped lube her up with sunscreen [picture]. Later that night, “Stole” were spotted in the VIP room of Thrive nightclub’s annual white party, dancing the night away to the sound of DJ Hall with a group of friends that included actress Hannah Bridges and her boyfriend, Chad Young. But the biggest news came on Sunday, when Stole were spotted canoodling at brunch at hot spot South Shore, Stella wearing what appears to be a square-cut diamond solitaire on her ring finger [pic]. According to our source, the ring is startlingly similar to the engagement ring Cole’s character gives Stella’s character at the end of Faster. Could wedding bells be in their future?

  Stella

  Felicity!” I called, waving my hand overhead.

  She glided in with the surf like Aphrodite, only way hotter. I’d seen the paintings—I knew. One wealthy Austrian I dated in my early twenties who shall remain nameless even had a museum-quality Diana hanging in the entry hall of his country estate, by one of those famous Renaissance artists whose objets d’affection were always depicted as lumpy and pale—a reflection of the beauty standards of the time I’m sure, but Fee! My God. Greek goddesses had nothing on her. She was TV pretty. Though these days it did seem like every casting wanted “real people.” As if having a symmetrical face and a trim waist somehow made you not a real person.

  People might think I’d be jealous of my young assistant—and I’m sure some actresses would be—but you can’t hold youth against the young. I am an Aquarius, after all; I’ve always valued aesthetics. And I understood what it was like to be splendor in the springtime of life. I was a girl like her not that long ago: hot without caveat. I knew I was still beautiful—it would be ungrateful and disingenuous to pretend otherwise—but I had to admit I was always a little thrown when I looked in the mirror these days. Like, Who is this woman staring back at me?

  As much as I’d have loved to imagine myself aging gracefully like a sexy French dame, I lived in Hollywood, where women were put out to pasture at forty. Which is why I couldn’t let anyone know I’d just turned forty. Forty! Lord, it sounded so old. The problem was, I’d been acting since I was a child, so it was hard to lie believably about my age. And it didn’t help that I had to dye my hair every three weeks to keep the grays at bay. I did it myself so no one would know. You can’t trust hair stylists. At least I still had my “captivating emerald” eyes (September 2005 Vogue’s description, not mine), though the crow’s-feet drove me nuts, and I was afraid to get injections around my eyes for fear of looking frozen. C’est la vie.

  I stepped beneath the shade of the thatched umbrella and fanned myself with my hat as Felicity sauntered across the pale pink sand, her thin beige bikini clinging to her curvy wet body like a tan line. I couldn’t help but notice Jackson pretending not to watch from out in the bay. Ooh…they would make a cute couple. Maybe I should play matchmaker. I did want to help her any way I could. Contrary to popular belief, I was actually quite generous. “Come meet Cole,” I continued. “And—” Oh hell, I’d forgotten the producer girl’s name again. “And everybody!”

  Felicity fluffed her bangs and ran her fingers through her short brunette waves, flashing a smile that warmed her cat-like dark eyes. “I just have to hug you,” she purred, throwing her toned arms around Cole’s neck. Accustomed to but never bored by the attention of beautiful girls, he inhaled her like a wolf would a rabbit, his hands on her back as she pressed her damp skin to his. “Bad Boy got me through high school.”

  “Glad to be of service.” He fixed her with his mesmerizing gaze.

  “I’m Taylor,” the producer girl chimed in, extending her hand.

  Wait a minute—this was Taylor? Surely she couldn’t be the same Taylor the wardrobe girls were dishing about at my fitting. She certainly didn’t look like a “devious little slut.” She was diminutive and pale with messy black hair and brown eyes, wearing an unflattering mix of knee-length cutoff jean shorts and a bulky T-shirt that seemed specifically designed to repel any romantic interest.

  The wardrobe girls were shocked I hadn’t heard about the scandal—something about her being fired for embezzling from the studio run by her father while having an affair with a coworker—but after all the hurtful things printed about me over the years, I never read gossip. Which of course meant I shouldn’t believe it either. So maybe this Taylor wasn’t a homewrecking embezzler after all. But I kinda hoped she was. It had been my experience that devious little sluts were generally way more fun than upright citizens.

  “I have to hug you too.” Felicity beamed, wrapping Taylor in an embrace. “Thank you for having me down.”

  Over Felicity’s shoulder, I could see a wave of discomfort pass over Taylor’s face. I hadn’t exactly told her I was bringing an assistant. But what could she expect? I was a star; of course I had an assistant. And the line producer had approved the cost last-minute without protest. She was lucky I didn’t travel with a personal chef, a trainer, and a makeup artist, like some of my contemporaries.

  Felicity fingered Taylor’s curls. “Your hair smells amazing. What is that?”

  “It’s just the…uh, the hotel shampoo,” Taylor stammered, her cheeks pink.

  “It’s delicious,” Felicity breathed. “I’m gonna steal every bottle in my bathroom.”

  She released Taylor, leaving the impression of her wet swimsuit top on Taylor’s black T-shirt, and swept her arm out at the brilliant beach. “Gorgeous day.”

  “So you’re Stella’s assistant?” Cole asked her, though I could’ve sworn I’d just clarified this. Maybe I hadn’t. Sometimes the pills I took for my anxiety made it hard to differentiate between what I’d thought and what I’d actually said, but they made me feel so good I didn’t mind. I’d snuck an extra on the plane ride over, and now I was wrapped up in its soft embrace like a baby in a blanket. I was supposed to be sober, of course, but the pills were prescription. No one but Felicity needed to know how many I’d taken or how delightful they made me feel.

  Felicity nodded, batting her kohl-rimmed almond eyes at my ex-husband.

  “She’s the absolute best,” I confirmed. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  I could see the edge of Cole’s lip twitching like he was holding back a smirk. “And how long have you been working together?”

  Felicity slipped her tanned arm around me and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Feels like forever, doesn’t it?”

  “But how long has it actually been?” he needled.

  What was he on about? “We met around the time the rains cleared,” I offered. I’d thought that would be enough, but they were all still looking at me expectantly. “It must’ve been spring,” I clarified, catching Felicity’s eye for confirmation. “The jacarandas were blooming, remember?” She nodded. “I love the jacarandas, raining soft purple flowers all over the city…” Now they were eyeing me. Perhaps I’d said too much. It was so difficult to strike a balance between not enough and too much when you were floating on a cloud just above your body. “I
’m so transported by beauty,” I explained. “It makes me feel alive. It’s beautiful here too though, isn’t it?”

  There, I’d brought it back around. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back as we all took a minute to appreciate the gently lapping sunlit sea.

  “Yes.” Taylor nodded. “I love those flowering red trees.”

  “The flamboyant trees!” I exclaimed, proud I knew the name. “I love the flamboyant trees too.”

  “Flamboyant trees, what a great name.” Taylor was smiling for real now. I could always tell when people were smiling for real. And I have to say, her wide smile made her much more attractive. “How did you know that?”

  “I shot a movie down here—Call of the Sea? I played the daughter of a ship captain, learned to sail a boat and everything. But I just fell in love with those trees. Loved them so much I had one planted in my yard back in LA.”

  “I know Call of the Sea,” Taylor piped up. “You were fantastic in it. Weren’t you nominated for a supporting Oscar?”

  “No.” I sighed. It was a sore point. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I got freshly angry anytime I thought of it. “I got the Golden Globe nom but was snubbed by the Oscars.”

  “That was one of the first R-rated movies I ever saw,” Felicity chimed in.

  “No need to remind us of your embryonic age, babe,” I teased. “You exude youth like a virgin at prom.”

  Taylor laughed. “You’re funny,” she said in what I thought just might be an admiring sort of way. Maybe I was going to like this devious little slut after all. She was no beauty, bless her heart, but she was cute. She had spunk, and a little spunk goes a long way, especially combined with flattery.