You would think she’d find it invigorating to actually have something to do, but apparently not.
Pushing her rolling chair away from the desk, she edges over to a little fridge near the wall. The woman is sloth like. Every second literally creeps by as I wait for her.
She grabs one bottle from the fridge and shuts it.
“I need more than that,” I say.
She huffs, but grabs four bottles. It will have to do. I’ve already lost enough minutes thanks to the paper towel fiasco and don’t have time to hold my breath and wait for her to roll herself back over to the fridge. I eagerly reach my hands over the counter top for the water.
“Thanks!”
Speed walking down the hallway, I burst into the office.
“Got them!”
“He’s here,” Dana loudly whispers, pointing at Mr. Mulroney’s door.
“Oh.” I press my fingers against my mouth. One of the bottles tumbles from my arms and hits the carpet. I close my ears, waiting for the explosion. It doesn’t come.
“Just go take them in,” Dana says.
I snatch up the bottle and walk across the room.
“Knock,” Dana reminds me.
I rap on the door and wait. The condensation from the bottles presses against my shirt, getting the cotton wet.
“Come in,” Mr. Mulroney says.
I push the door open and flash a quick smile. My boss sits in his usual seat, his back straight, his hands folded in his lap. Across from him is a wrinkled Japanese man. I nod to them both, trying to act like it’s totally no big deal to be in the presence of John Murakami.
“I brought you some water,” I feebly explain.
Mr. Mulroney says nothing. His eyes dart to the fridge in the far corner. I get the hint and go to put the water away.
“Are you Sydney?” Mr. Murakami asks.
About to bend down towards the fridge, I halt and turn around. “Yes. Hello.”
“You met my wife the other day.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, not sure where this conversation is going, but holding onto hope nonetheless.
“She likes you.”
“Oh. Wow. Thank you.”
I clutch the water bottles in an effort to not do a happy dance right then and there. If I’m not careful, I might jump onto the desk and attempt the electric slide.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Mulroney giving me a deadly stare. It’s enough to yank me back down to reality. I hold my back straight and square my shoulders.
Sorry to distract you for fifteen whole seconds, I want to say to him. That man can do anything he pleases, but he is not going to intimidate me.
The asshole clears his throat. “Let’s return back to our conversation. As I was saying, it won’t work with Michelle in the lead. It’s too risky.”
Obviously, I was just pushed off the tracks. Turning back to the fridge, I do the job I came to do and set the bottles of water in on their sides.
What… an… asshole.
“You’re living behind the times, Simon,” Mr. Murakami says.
I smirk to myself while I close the fridge door, thinking of how Mr. Murakami insists on having scripts hand delivered but then has the audacity to suggest someone else is old fashioned. Not that I dislike the man for his predilections. On the contrary, I find them charming. I also like the man a hell of a lot more than the person sitting across from him.
“Don’t you even suggest I’m sexist,” Mr. Mulroney says.
I straighten back up and turn around. One step and Mr. Murakami looks at me.
“Sydney is a woman. Let’s ask her.”
I freeze. “Uh, sorry. What?”
“She’s barely eighteen,” Mr. Mulroney says.
“I’m twenty-two,” I correct him. And you propositioned me for sex while you thought I was “barely eighteen.”
“Her age doesn’t matter,” Mr. Murakami says. “Surely she goes to see movies.” He looks back at me.
“He’s right,” I slowly answer. “I see a lot of movies.”
Mr. Murakami leans forward in his seat with his forearms on his knees. “John thinks we need to change the gender of the lead in my script.”
I glance at Mr. Mulroney. His face is stony and unreadable.
“Why is that?” I ask.
“He thinks people won’t come see a film with a female lead in it.”
“It’s statistics,” Mr. Mulroney quickly answers. “The numbers do the speaking. Obviously, I have nothing against films with female leads, but women usually go to see films about women. Both women and men go to see films about men.”
I can think of five films off the bat with female leads that grossed record high numbers.
“That’s only because that’s the way we’ve been trained to approach films,” I say. “We’re taught men’s stories can be related to by both genders, but we’re told only women can relate to stories about women. It’s the same with a lot of things. Like clothes. Men and women can both wear pants, but God forbid a man put on a dress and walk around in public.”
Mr. Mulroney stares at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted horns.
I clamp my mouth shut, afraid I’ve said too much.
“I agree,” Mr. Mulroney says, taking me by surprise. He continues to keep his eyes locked on mine. A little shiver goes down my back.
So that’s one thing we agree on.
Mr. Mulroney continues, turning back to Mr. Murakami. “That doesn’t change the fact that this business is about making money, just like every other business. The percentage of female leads is dismally low. I know that. But we can’t change the whole system in one year. And your films do too well. They’re not the ones we can afford to take risks with.”
I put my hand on my hip. “If you’re speaking of percentages, over half of the moviegoers in America are women.”
Both men turn their heads back to me, and I go on, no longer really caring whether they want my opinion or not. I’ve got something to say and holding it back seems nearly impossible.
“It’s not that much more,” I continue. “But it’s something. Last year it was about fifty-three percent.”
A long silence follows my statement and I clench my teeth together. Damn. I may have done it again. Was that last comment too out of line?
Mr. Murakami bursts into laughter and claps his hands together. “Sydney is right, Simon. We just need to give the audience a chance.”
Relieved, I smile.
The edge of Mr. Mulroney’s mouth ticks. Is that a smile playing there, or a grimace?
“Maybe you should hire her instead of me,” Mr. Murakami says.
My stomach flutters at the compliment. “Thank you, sir.” My boss still doesn’t say anything. I’ve definitely overstayed my welcome. “Let me know if you need anything else.” Nailing my gaze to the floor, I quickly leave the office.
Daniel is on Facebook when I haul ass through the door. He snaps the laptop closed and turns in his chair with an expectant look on his face. When he sees it’s just me, he turns back around and opens his computer back up.
Chuck and Dana are both lost in their own busywork. No one pays me any attention. I go and sit down across from Dana, my mind on a joy ride.
Supposing I did just tick off the man who signs my paycheck, at least I impressed John Murakami. Maybe if the day ever does come where I get fired from Mulroney pictures, Mr. Murakami will hire me on as his personal assistant.
Heck, I’d be his dog walker if that’s what he needed.
Mr. Murakami leaves thirty minutes later. He says a pleasant goodbye to the four of us and ambles out the door. Twenty seconds later, the buzzer goes off.
“Send Sydney in,” Mr. Mulroney says.
I cringe at the request. It takes everything in me to not drop my head face down onto the desk and thump it until my brain bleeds.
You’ve done it this time. You’re getting fired for sure.
Dana glances at me but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know what ha
ppened and probably doesn’t think anything out of the ordinary is going on.
He’s sitting in his chair going through a stack of papers and I slink back through the door. His hair is ruffled in the front, like he just ran his hands through it. Unfortunately, it looks an awful lot like his hair does in my recurring dream about him.
I shut the door behind me and hover there.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says, still busy with his papers.
“Oh.” I look at the floor, then out the window, then at the wall. When I look back at the desk, he’s staring at me.
He opens his mouth, then hesitates and closes it again.
The silence is too much to bear. I need to do something. “That’s good.”
He smirks.
“What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I’m toeing the line. I shouldn’t be using such a blatant attitude with my boss.
But everything about our relationship toes — or crosses — the line. From the very first minute, it’s been that way. We’re miles and miles past any sense of real propriety. Nothing about this work environment could be considered “normal” in any regard.
“You’re cocky,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
I burst out laughing. “Me?”
I think he’s going to chastise me for my cheekiness, but he only smiles. It’s genuine too. The corners of his eyes crinkle up and there’s a lightness in his blue eyes I haven’t seen before.
“Well, now I can never fire you,” he says. “John likes you, and he’s a commodity. Each one of his films grosses more than the one before it.”
I respond without thinking. “So put a woman in the next one. Maybe your expectations will be surpassed.”
He gazes at me. “Maybe.”
In half a second, my heart beat doubles. Am I imagining the heavy connotations in that one word? I need to leave this office before everything I promised myself I wouldn’t do happens.
“I should get back to work.”
He smiles again. His voice is slow and sweet, the consistency of molasses. “I know you four don’t do anything when I’m not around.”
The comment takes me by surprise. If he’s going to be so honest, maybe I should do the same.
“Then why keep us around?” I ask.
He blinks rapidly, his honey colored eyelashes fluttering. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
Ouch.
“It’s good to keep up appearances,” he tells me, leaning back and linking his fingers behind his head. “When people see I have four assistants, they think I’m more serious about my job.”
I snort. “That’s what I suspected.”
He cocks his head and a look holding some semblance of pain quickly flashes across his face. I’m instantly regretful. Douchebag or not, maybe the comment was a little harsh.
I grasp at the doorknob behind me. Time to save my tail. “Do you need anything?”
“Who were you with Friday night?” he asks, taking me once again by surprise. “Were you on a date?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He straightens his back and opens his laptop. “And I’m fine.” He stares at the screen in front of him as if I’m no longer there.
He stares at the screen in front of him as if I’m no longer there. What on Earth just happened? The man is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Seriously. It’s the only thing that explains his sudden attitude shifts. Or, if he’s not from a nineteenth century Scottish horror novella, he suffers from legit bi-polar disorder and needs to get himself hooked up with some meds right away.
My brain exploding — just like it always does when Simon Mulroney is around — I leave the office.
CHAPTER FOUR
At midnight, I still can’t sleep. I stare at the TV while Eryk channel surfs.
“How’s the screenplay going?” he asks from the other end of the couch.
“Huh?”
He waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello. Earth to Sydney.”
I force a grin. “Sorry. I was just spacing out. The screenplay… is going. Kind of.”
He looks back at the screen and continues flipping. “What does that mean?”
I sigh and drop my head on my arms. “I seem to have hit a bump in the road.”
“What’s it about again?”
I run my thumb over my bottom lip. “I don’t really have a pitch put together yet.”
He gives me a look. “Do I look like a movie producer? Save it for your boss.”
I ignore that one.
“Come on,” he prods. “Tell me.”
I twist my hands together. There’s a lot on my mind, and I don’t really feel like talking about writing. I take a deep breath, racking my brain.
“It’s about this girl who moves to the south to live with her aunt after her family dies in a car accident. Strange things start to happen around her, and she discovers she has supernatural powers.”
“Ooh. So it’s a superhero movie?”
“No. It’s more subdued.”
“Is there a bad guy?”
“The town sheriff, who wants to turn her in to the government.” I shrug a shoulder. “It’s okay. I feel like there’s something lacking.”
“Like a… a what do you call it… a theme?”
“The theme is learning to let go and trust the new people in your life. The main character doesn’t get along with her aunt at first, but they have to learn to trust each other in order to beat the sheriff.”
“Cool.”
“Eh,” I mumble.
His thumb goes back to work. “What do you want to watch?”
I shrug. “Whatever. None of it is any good anyway.”
“Wow. Sorry to hear you feel that way, Miss Debbie Downer.”
I nibble at the edge of my fingernail. It doesn’t matter what Eryk calls me. It doesn’t matter what anyone says or does. All that matters is that the enigma of Simon Mulroney is threatening to destroy me.
“What’s up?” Eryk asks.
I look over at his face, the television screen flickering against it in the darkness. He’s still got his black work shirt on and smells faintly of kitchen grease.
“I lasted one hour.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
I sigh. “I had it together. I actually stopped caring about what that maniacal man does for a whole sixty minutes this morning. Then we had one conversation and I lost it.”
“You’re in love with him.”
I snort. “Yeah, that explains why I hate him so much.”
Eryk shrugs. “Damn, well, I don’t know. All I can say is I don’t think I’ve been as hot for someone the way I think you are for him. Maybe it’s because you’re a woman, and women are just crazy.”
“Hm.” I give it some thought. “Maybe.”
“So what happened?”
The words are lame before they even come out of my mouth. “He was nice to me.”
Eryk stares at me like I’m stupid. “Wasn’t he nice to you the other day?”
“Yeah, but this was different.”
“How?”
“It… I don’t know. It just was. It was more intense.” I drop my face into my palms. “I’m just being stupid. Oh my God, Eryk. What is going on with me?”
Eryk shimmies along the couch to settle next to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Sydney Andrews, look at me.”
I drop my hands and do as he says.
“I’ve said it before,” he continues, “but I will say it again, since I obviously have to. You. Need. To. Get. Laid.”
I stick my bottom lip out. “I think you’re right.”
“Good. Now you’re getting some sense back in you. Do you want to get on Tinder right now?”
“What? No. I don’t have a Tinder account.”
He claps his hands together. “We’ll make you one.”
“No! Ew.”
He looks offended. “I have Tinder.”
“I bet you do.”
The offense in
creases two fold as evidenced by his eyebrows. “What is that attitude supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Sorry. I just don’t want to do it that way. I don’t want to meet someone online.”
He sighs and falls back against the cushions. “You don’t want to meet someone online. You don’t want to meet someone at bars. You’re running out of available options here. Sounds like it’s gonna be either your boss or your body pillow, and only one of those options is going to buy you dinner.”
“Very funny,” I mutter.
“I try. Stay here.”
He hops up and runs for his bedroom. I bleakly watch a commercial for a multivitamin. By the time the thirty-second spot is over, he’s back.
“I think I just need an anti-depressant,” I tell him. “Drugs would make everything better.”
“They make anti-depressants in penis form.”
He settles cross-legged next to me, his laptop in his hands. “If you won’t get on Tinder, we can try something else. There are plenty of dating sites.”
I twist my finger around a lock of hair. “I don’t know…”
“How about we just make you a profile and you can see who’s on there? You’re not obligated to go on any dates with anyone.”
“Fine,” I concede. “Let’s do it.”
“Excellent.” He pulls his browser up and begins typing away.
“But what about when people message me asking to meet up and I don’t want to?”
He shrugs, his eyes glued to the screen. “Ignore them.”
“I don’t want to be mean.”
He stops typing and looks at me over the top of the computer. “It’s the internet. It doesn’t count.”
A couple minutes go by while he types and I twirl hair around my finger, imagining a dozen different scenarios in which Internet dating can go wrong. In the best situation, I meet my soul mate but have to spend the rest of my life admitting to everyone I resorted to internet dating in order to find my husband. In the worst situation, I end up dead, lying in three inches of water in the Los Angeles River, like that guy in Chinatown.
“You know what the best part is?” Eryk asks.
“What?”
“Supposing your boss has a profile on the site we pick, you two won’t match up.”
Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) Page 31
