by Thea Dawson
As long as I remember that this is one of Archer’s transactions—I get my dream weekend, he gets a break from his roommate—and nothing more, I’ll be fine.
When Archer pulls a small card with his phone number out of his breast pocket and hands it to me, I take it.
Normally, I’m up by 5:30 am. I get my best writing and studying done first thing in the morning. Today, I sleep in until almost seven. I wake up in my room, surrounded by fragments of my childhood: the prize ribbons, the stuffed animals, school yearbooks on the bookshelf, and that photo of me and Tommy Lipstein, who fell out of love with me the first time he met Carina, on my desk.
Why do I keep that photo?
I stretch, feeling unaccountably excited. Okay, so I have a crush on Archer. He showed me a great time last night, that kiss was amazing, and now I’m looking forward to spending more time with him at my parents’ lake house.
Some annoying, sensible part of my mind is still insisting that this isn’t a good idea—my family could find out I hired him, Archer could turn out to be a total jerk when he’s not on the clock, and I’m pretty sure that violating my contract with Gentlemen, Inc. carries some stiff penalties …
That sensible voice has kept me out of trouble my whole life. It made me save my allowance when my sisters were spending theirs on clothes and makeup; it made me date nice, safe, nerdy boys instead of setting myself up for a fall with the cool, popular ones; it kept me in the library studying on weekend nights instead of partying when I was in college; and it made sure I went straight into the best graduate program I could get into rather than wasting my early twenties in dead-end jobs or aimless travel.
I owe it a lot, but for the next four days, I’m putting it on hold and living for fun over function.
I stretch again and bounce out of bed. I waste no time texting the details of our trip to Archer, then I quickly turn my phone off because I don’t want to obsess over how long it takes him to get back to me.
I throw a robe on over my pajamas, dig out my beloved fluffy slippers, and head down to breakfast.
Not surprisingly, only my father is up. I get my early rising habits from him. He’s already eaten but is sitting in the kitchen reading the morning paper.
“You’re up late,” he observes.
I laugh and help myself to the pot of coffee he’s made. “I’m still up before everyone else.”
I dig around in the fridge, find some leftover cut fruit from the party, and help myself to a plate of that and some yogurt, then sit down at the table with my dad.
“I hear your young man is joining us at the lake,” he says, his eyes still on the paper. Although my mother said Archer had made a good impression on him, it’s hard to know if he really did or if my mother’s enthusiasm is speaking for both of them.
“Mm,” I answer. “I hope that’s okay.”
My dad looks back at the paper, nodding. “How are you getting up to the lake?” he asks.
“I’m driving,” I answer, a little surprised at the question.
“Not driving with Archer?”
“Oh. No.” I wonder if Archer has texted back yet. We probably should have talked through the logistics more last night. “He’s taking his own car. I’m going to stay here and work on a grant proposal before I head out,” I add. “So I might not get there until a little later.”
My dad nods and folds up the paper. “Well, I’d better go wake up your mother and your sisters or the rest of us will be late too.” My dad has little patience for people who keep him waiting. Even Brianna isn’t always efficient enough for him.
He rises, puts down the paper and picks up his coffee cup. “I’m looking forward to getting to know Archer better,” he tells me before turning away, coffee cup still in hand.
“Me too,” I whisper to myself once he’s gone.
A few hours later, my parents, Carina, and Brianna have gone on ahead. I put the final touches on my grant proposal then send it to my advisor to look over. Having already done most of my packing back at the apartment, I don’t have to do much more, so I throw my bag into the back of my little Subaru and get ready to hit the highway.
And that’s when I realize my car won’t start.
12
Archer
I wake up later than usual, and it’s another half hour before I bother to check my phone. I’m relieved that Annabelle’s sent the directions and that the weekend at the lake house is still on, but I note that she texted almost an hour ago. She’s an early bird. She’ll probably have me up at dawn so we can go sailing or hiking or something.
Which might actually be fun.
I wonder if she could teach me how to sail. It’s always seemed like a fun thing to do but was well out of reach for a kid who grew up poor and miles from a body of water.
I open the shades that are drawn over the bedroom windows and let the bright California sunshine in. I probably would have heard Alex if she’d been in the kitchen or had left the apartment, so I assume she’s still in her room.
Knowing her, she could be deeply engrossed in writing her screenplay … but it’s equally likely that she’s just avoiding me.
That sick feeling twists in my gut again. I hate that she’s not speaking to me, but I hate to think of her being used by this asshole Trevor at least as much.
And I’m sure he’s using her. I’d bet my next residual check that he’s married, or at least involved with someone else. Why else would he be so cagey about talking to her when he’s out of town?
I pull myself out of bed and take a shower. I’m actually torn between wanting to go to this lake house with Annabelle and her family and staying here until I make sure things are good between me and Alex again.
But even aside from the Trevor thing and the Zac Borstein thing, I like the idea of spending time with Annabelle’s family. It’s kind of crazy, but they seem like nice, low-drama people.
Except maybe for Annabelle herself. I think of the look of pain in her eyes last night when she thought I was going to the lake to spend time with Carina. I’m sure she doesn’t think of herself as high drama, but the way she’s battling her insecurities suggests that things could explode any minute.
But I’m not going to worry about that. I’m more worried about Alex. I hate leaving things the way they are with her.
I check my bank account quickly. Cassandra has already transferred funds for last night’s “role” as well as the perfume launch gig at Neiman Marcus into my account. With money in the bank, I quickly write Alex a check for the rent. This gives me an excuse to walk down the hall and tap on her door.
“Come in.”
She sounds grumpy, and I know that our friendship isn’t out of the woods yet.
I step into the gloomy room. The shades are still drawn and she’s hunched over her computer, wearing an old t-shirt and yoga pants. Her hair is up in a messy bun and she’s not wearing make-up. She doesn’t look at me.
“I brought you a check for the rent.”
She continues to stare at her screen. “Thanks.”
I put it on the desk next to her, but instead of leaving, I stand there with my arms folded. “Talk to me, Alex.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Are you going to be able to get out of my hair this weekend?”
I nod. “Yeah. I got invited to spend the weekend at a lake.”
“Nice. Who’d you have to sleep with to get that gig?”
“Don’t be a bitch, Alex. You asked me to leave, so I’m leaving. I said what I said the other day because I’m worried about you.”
She finally turns her head to glare at me. “You basically called me a whore, which is a bit rich coming from you.”
“I didn’t call you a whore,” I answer, trying not to lose my patience.
“You said I was sleeping with a married man. Pretty much a whorish thing to do.” Her voice is bitter.
I pause, trying to choose my words carefully. “I don’t think you’d sleep with a guy if you knew he was married.”
/>
“Trevor isn’t married!” Her voice is rising now.
“I know,” I lie. “I’m … probably totally wrong. I just … I don’t want to see you get hurt, Alex.”
“The only person who’s hurting me right now is you, Archer.”
Another knife in the gut. I suppress a wince, but I feel my jaw tighten. “C’mon, Alex. Come out to the kitchen, and let me make you breakfast.”
She shakes her head and looks back at the screen. “I’m busy. I’ve got a scene to finish and then I need to get ready for work. Trevor’s coming in later this afternoon. I trust you’ll be gone by then?”
I stare at her a little longer, trying to think of the magic words that will heal our friendship.
But I can’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be leaving this morning.”
I stalk back down the hall. After making myself some breakfast and some coffee, I pack a bag. I futz around, doing the dishes and tidying up the living room for a while before I finally realize I’m just wasting time. Even if it means being late to work, Alex isn’t going to come out of her room as long as I’m here.
Based on the directions that Annabelle texted, it’s about a four-hour drive to this lake house of theirs. A good stretch of it is along the coast, and it should be a nice drive. I’m looking forward to some time alone to clear my head.
I’ve loaded my bag into the back seat of my car when my phone pings. A text from Annabelle:
Are you still in town? My car won’t start. Any chance I can hitch a ride to the lake with you?
I groan. I’m in a lousy mood and was counting on a few hours of alone time to get my head back in the game so that I can be the social and charming escort she’s expecting me to be.
For a moment, I consider pretending that I didn’t get the text until I was halfway there. I’m sure she can rent or borrow a car—but that will take extra time, and the idea of arriving at the lake and having to spend a couple hours alone with her family feels even less comfortable than spending four hours in a car with her.
I sigh and text back.
Be there in 20 minutes.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re headed up the Pacific Coast Highway.
Before I came to LA, I used to imagine driving up the coast on a gorgeous day in an expensive sports car, a sexy woman at my side, on my way to some exotic, beautiful-people-only location, the world my oyster.
So I’m driving up the coast, but the car is a beat-up Honda, the woman beside me is wearing an oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts, and I’m in danger of losing my only friend.
I don’t even care if this lake house is all that nice or not. My fight with Alex is weighing too heavily on my mind.
Annabelle makes a few attempts at conversation, but I answer shortly and after a while, she lapses into silence.
At the hour mark, she turns to me. “I guess now that I’m not paying you, you don’t have to be charming anymore.”
Shit. I bite back a snappy retort. Her remark pisses me off because she’s right. I promised I’d be Prince Charming this weekend, and so far I’m acting more like a toad.
I’ve made a deal, and I’m not holding up my end of the bargain.
“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “I had another fight with my roommate this morning, and I’m still in a bad mood. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“It’s okay,” she says, her voice quiet. “You want to talk about it?”
Part of me is tempted to tell her what a sleaze Trevor is and how stupid Alex is being, but it’s not my place to share Alex’s life with someone neither of us really know. I shake my head. “Nah, not worth getting into. Tell you what, why don’t you check the internet and see if there’s a good restaurant coming up where we could have lunch. My treat.”
It’s an extravagance, given how little cash is in my bank account at the moment, but I decide to look at it as an investment in keeping her happy. It’s stupid, but I still feel like I owe her for coffee the other day. More importantly, if she gets too annoyed with me, she can kick me out of her parents’ house, and then I’ll either be sleeping on a park bench for the next couple of nights or back at Alex’s, where I’m likely to lose her friendship once and for all by punching Trevor.
And no shot at getting to Zac Borstein except through Mila.
Turns out Annabelle already knows a restaurant from previous trips with her family. She directs me off the highway a couple of exits later and pretty soon we’re seated at a nice little roadside diner with a casual, retro vibe. It’s well past the lunch hour by now, and it’s not crowded at all. We order burgers and settle in for a classic American lunch.
“So tell me a little bit about yourself,” Annabelle says. “Where in Ohio did you grow up?"
I’m not in a mood to talk at all, let alone about myself, but she’s making an effort to be friendly. Returning the favor is the least I can do.
Besides, I need to stay on her good side, at least for the duration of this weekend.
“Smallish town near the Indiana border.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
I shake my head. “Nah, only child.”
“How about your parents? You get along with them?”
I’m tempted to make something up, but I know from experience that when you’re going into a complicated situation—like spending four days with a group of virtual strangers—you need to keep it simple and stick as close to the truth as possible.
“My mom died when I was ten. Cancer. My dad’s an alcoholic. We don’t really talk anymore.”
Annabelle studies me, and I notice something interesting.
Usually, when you tell a chick something like that, they feel sorry for you. You get “Aw,” and “You poor thing.” I won’t lie: I’ve used that pity to get inside a few girls’ pants. It’s like they think a little sex will make up for a dead mother and a dad who loved the bottle more than his own son.
But when Annabelle replies, “I’m sorry to hear that,” there’s something in her voice that I can’t identify. She is sorry, but she’s not sorry for me. And for the first time, I realize there’s a difference.
Which is funny, given that she grew up in a wealthy, apparently normal family. You’d think she’d feel sorry for a kid whose family life was pretty much over by the time he was ten.
I decide to push it a little further to see how she reacts. “I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen. My dad and I got in a fight over his drinking and I left.”
It’s true, but it’s more than I tell most girls.
“Wow,” she says, looking at me intently. “How did you get by?”
“One of my friends, his family let me sleep on their couch for a couple of months until I graduated high school and turned eighteen. Nice people, but man, if I never have to sleep on a couch again, it’ll be too soon.” I chuckle at the memory. “Then I got a job—well, I had a couple of jobs actually, but I got work as a caddie at the local country club.”
“Good tips?” Annabelle asks.
I smirk at the memory. Yeah, the tips were good. Too good for a boy like me to turn down.
“Yeah … then I started getting hired to do things for the club members. You know, mow their lawns, clean their pools, that kind of thing.”
I do not tell Annabelle that my services sometimes went further than this. That the women who hired me were more often than not divorced or sometimes widowed. That they had money and time to burn, and were essentially bored and looking for some entertainment. My relationships with them were never as obvious or as crass as cash for sex, but there were favors done, and favors returned.
“And then one of the club members hired me to be kind of a personal assistant,” I add.
I think of Elsie with a complicated mixture of shame and gratitude. She did a lot of good things for me, but they came at a price. At the time, I thought I was getting the better end of the deal, but it wasn’t until I’d been on my own for a couple of years that I’d started to realize that the w
hole situation had been kind of messed up.
Would I do it again?
I honestly don’t know.
“That must have been rough,” Annabelle is saying, and I force myself to tune in to what she’s saying. “I can’t even imagine being on my own at that age. I’m amazed at how far you’ve come.”
I narrow my eyes. The expression on her face is definitely not pity.
It’s respect.
Internally, I cringe a little. I don’t want pity, but I don’t deserve respect.
My life as a man whore kept me off the streets, helped pay for classes at a local community college, even got me my car, a hand-me down from Elsie. But it kept me on edge, being beholden to women like that. In a business relationship, you can never fully relax.
Maybe it’s sort of funny that I’ve ended up working for Gentlemen, Inc. I don’t have to sleep with clients, but I’m still available for sale.
“Maybe that’s why I came to Hollywood,” I say, half to myself. Maybe I’m just used to being for sale, and acting is the next step up.
Annabelle, who can’t hear my thoughts, mistakes my meaning.
“To reinvent yourself? They say a lot of actors are looking for love from fans that they didn’t get from their families,” she says quietly.
Her expression is serious and earnest and sweet. Despite our fictitious relationship, she herself is very genuine. And despite my cynicism, I’m touched.
I force a light laugh. “Yeah, maybe. Okay, enough about my sad past. Tell me about yourself.”
She understands that I don’t want to talk about myself anymore and doesn’t push it.
She smiles at me and changes the subject. “I threw out that photo of me and Tommy Lipstein,” she says.
I grin at her. “Maybe you’re going to reinvent yourself as well.”
“I don’t need things to be all that different from what they are … but …” She leans forward a little, confidingly. “Having you with me last night … I know it was all fake, but it really did make me feel more confident.
