Shooting Star (Beautiful Chaos)

by Arianne Richmonde

My gaze wandered to the horizon where a sailboat was dipping into a golden sun—it reminded me of a painting by William Turner; the light luminescent, flickering and changing hue by the second. Like me. Changeable. Mercurial. Running from one role to the next; the real ‘me’ always in question.

  “Yeah,” I said distractedly. “But Jake’s a determined type, stubborn—you can see it in his jaw, you know the kind? Daddy issues. Wants to prove himself.”

  Mindy laughed. “How d’you know that?”

  “Google.”

  “His daddy issues are common knowledge?”

  “No, but I can read between the lines. Takes one to know one.”

  “Jake’s dad’s a producer, right? And his uncle won all those Oscars for Best Director and for that movie Angelina Jolie was in? What was it called? That was his last big hit?”

  “Daddy’s a powerful player in this town. Real asshole. Ruthless and tough. Bet he beat the shit out of Jake when he was a boy.”

  “You’ve done too many years of therapy, my dear. I’m sure Jake was just fine and had a golden, blessed childhood with all that cash floating around.”

  “No, he isn’t fine. I can read his eyes. He has a wild, feral look about him, like he could do anything, like he has a secret temper. Like he could go off the rails.”

  “Well if anyone can test him, it’ll be you.” She looked at me to gauge my expression and added seriously, “He’s fucked around a lot so be on your guard.” Mindy winked at me and I smiled wanly, feeling the emptiness at the pit of my stomach. Flirting and fooling around with guys was second nature. The truth was that every single make-out episode was a blank. I guessed it was more about control than pleasure. I’d save the love crap for a rainy day. Meanwhile, Jake could eat his heart out. How dare he think that he could resist me? Not only was I going to show him I could act, I’d have him right where I needed him:

  Under my thumb.

  “FUCK YOU’RE TALENTED,” Leo said as he thumbed his way through my storyboards for Skye’s The Limit. “No, really, is amazing.”

  Leo was Ukrainian—hence the thick accent and absence of articles in his speech, although his vocabulary was pretty impressive. He’d become a close buddy of mine during the last six months and was going to be my AD—assistant director—for the shoot. He was younger than me—just twenty-two—and I’d found him fresh out of the London International Film School. I’d set up a competition for a ten-minute short and his was—amongst an ocean of talent—my favorite work. He’d done a sort of collage; half animated, half with actors—the subconscious mind and dreams of a man in turmoil. I loved Leo’s arty style and saw a great future for him so signed him up to work for me.

  He was looking at the storyboards for the car chase scene in the Badlands I was mapping out. “Is incredible how you plan ahead. Me? I just go with flow, you know? Make it up as I go along. They call me pantster in USA, like I’m driving by seat of pants.” He slapped me on the back, laughed and drained his glass. “Mind if I give myself top up?”

  “Feel free,” I said, watching his tall frame bound up from the sofa and swagger purposefully toward the drinks’ cabinet, the bangs of his thick dark hair obscuring his face. He was thick set, handsome and very muscular—his myriad tattoos making him look rough and tough—I noticed that women went crazy for him, partly because of his unnerving charm and brazen confidence.

  “So when’s girl arriving?” He filled up his glass with vodka and clunked in a few ice cubes.

  “Today,” I said.

  “Very sexy girl. Very hot,” he suggested meaningfully, with a vigorous nodding of the head. Leo and I had done our fare share of partying together. We made a good team—pretty wild when we got going. He had a penchant for curvy women, in particular.

  “I’m not going there, Leo,” I warned.

  “Why fuck not? Come with job, no? Like Parmesan on pasta or vodka with caviar. You can’t have one without other.”

  “Not this time. I need to concentrate. Besides, she’s too young. Practically underage. The last thing I want is to break her heart. Especially when we have a film to do together. I can’t have her crying on me, or worse, using drugs again. Or getting drunk and maudlin.”

  I didn’t want to sound arrogant but it was true. For whatever strange reason, women ended up falling in love with me—at least that’s what they told themselves—how genuine it was, I very much doubted. But still, it was always a downer in the end. I was out to have some fun (making it clear from the start that there were no strings attached) and the next thing I knew they were planning some phantom honeymoon.

  “Ha!” said Leo, letting out another chuckle, “bet you concentrate on tits and ass—not if she gets her lines right, no?”

  Just then there was a huge commotion—my dog barking at the back door where deliveries arrived. Biff—my assistant—rushed in, her arms thrown up in the air in defeat. Her name “Biff” said it all. She was chunky—a boxy body with no waist—her jeans slung low like a rapper, keys dangling from her belt. Her brown hair was cropped short and she habitually wore sneakers, huge, baggy black T-shirts, no make-up and never any perfume. I liked her that way, e.g. no temptation. I’d ended up fucking every single one of my assistants up until Biff and it had always ended in tears. They’d wanted more than just to work for me. This way I couldn’t cross the barrier. Besides, I was pretty sure that Biff was a hundred percent gay.

  “I’m so sorry, Jake,” she said in her deep voice, “I totally forgot to mention her chef was delivering stuff ahead of time.”

  “Whose chef?”

  “Star Davis’s. He’s at the door. He’s bringing her weeks’ supply of food. Fresh and frozen stuff for her mini-meals. She eats several mini-meals a day, like J-Lo—at least that’s what I read in National Enquirer. Or maybe it was somewhere else I read—”

  “What the fuck? I told her my cook would sort something out!”

  “From what I’ve read, this chef is ‘haute cuisine vegan’ if that makes sense. Used to work for Madonna.”

  Leo was holding his sides, laughing. “She’s going to be bundle of fun, this one.”

  Star Davis taking over my life already and she hadn’t even arrived yet. “Fine. Just go and deal with it, Biff. Show him around the kitchen. Offer him a drink or a cup of tea. Is there anyone else I should be expecting? Any other of Star’s entourage?”

  Biff nibbled her lower lip. “Well her masseuse will be coming by three mornings a week. And her personal trainer every day, except Sunday. Her acting coach and, um, I think that’s it. Oh, and also her hairdresser called to say he’d be by on Tuesday. Oh yes, and her bedding.”

  “What?” I yelled.

  “She has a bed and special mattress that’s being delivered too. Made of cashmere or something. Same thing Princess Anne has. I read these swanky mattresses cost up to fifty-five thousand dollars—custom made, hand crafted, used by the Savoy Hotel in London for their presidential suites.”

  “Are you serious? A fucking bed is being delivered to my house?”

  “And special sheets and pillows and so on. Zillion count Egyptian cotton.” Biff made a face as if to say, Well, it is Star Davis—and rushed out of the living room.

  Leo was grinning. “Don’t look so gloomy, Jake. You get to try out cashmere mattress. Test for quality. Test talent. Ha, ha.”

  “I will not be fooling around on that mattress, Leo, I can guarantee you.”

  “If you don’t want to sample goods, then I will—” He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth gaping open. I turned around and saw Star walk coolly into the room as if she owned the place.

  “Hi guys. I’m early. Just thought I’d make a few arrangements—you know, make myself at home, hope you don’t mind.”

  Leo’s eyes slid down Star’s body—from where he was standing across the room—around her pert but ample cleavage, down to her nipped in waist, the tight little skirt, down her long, smooth, golden legs and back up to her face, resting on her pouty lips and then trailing up to her b
ig blue eyes. My heart was beating but I did no more than steal her a glance—I didn’t want to indulge her ego. My eyes were on Leo as he stripped her naked. But she wasn’t his usual type! A surge of inexplicable jealousy ripped through me. I stared at him, shaking my head with a silent warning: No you fucking don’t, mate.

  “LEAVE, LEO,” Jake barked as I entered his living room for the first time. As I stood there, thrilled confusion spiked my veins. Not one, but two hot men both turned their heads to stare at me: Jake, and this guy named Leo.

  Jake said, “I mean it, Leo. We’ll talk later, okay?” His voice was no-nonsense—a man used to bossing people around. “I need to clear up a few things with Star, first. Excuse my manners; Leo, this is Star, Star Leo. He’s my AD.”

  “Attention Disorder?” I said with a hint of a smile.

  Leo enjoyed my joke and sauntered toward me slowly, undressing me with his deliciously wicked eyes. He had “bad boy” written all over him. I knew the type. The kind I’d try to drink under the table (failing) or play roulette with (winning). The type that would definitely drive a car too fast. Know where to get the best drugs. Who’d try to slam you up against a wall rather than take you to bed. He was tall, taller than Jake—and very muscly. He had YOU’RE MINE stamped on his forehead, dancing in his intense green eyes. His hair was dark, mussed up. I knew I had to keep myself well away from him. A party boy if ever I saw one.

  He took my hand and kissed it but pulled me towards him, gripping my fingers somewhat, leaning in close and said—his accent was foreign, Russian or something—and laced with innuendo, “We’ll be seeing each other, Star. Oh yeah.” He winked at me and smirked a little like he’d already had his way with me.

  “No,” I said. “I doubt I’ll be seeing you but you will be seeing me—through your camera lens.” I tossed my head cockily.

  But he ignored my quip and whispered in my ear, “How loud?”

  I crunched my brows at him. “What?”

  He lowered his voice almost inaudibly so Jake couldn’t hear, “How loud will you scream when I fuck you?”

  My mouth hung open. He didn’t even know me! But his arrogance was amusing—I had to admit. I was about to slap him across the face (just for good measure) but he turned on his heel and was out the door in a flash.

  Jake’s gaze penetrated me. “What did he say to you?”

  I shrugged. “None of your business.”

  “Well it is kind of my business, actually. You’re my property, Star—at least for a while.”

  His words excited me for some reason; I liked the idea of him feeling possessive over me but I retorted, “Me? Your property? In your dreams, Mr. Director.”

  Jake added, “Leo really fucks around, you know. Watch out.”

  “So do I.”

  Jake squinted his eyes, challenging me.

  “Anyway, you’re one to talk,” I shot back, knowing his reputation as a major womanizer.

  “I don’t want you getting distracted during filming.”

  “Hang on a minute! Not wanting me to drink and do drugs is one thing but you can’t control who I hang out with. Or date!”

  “Just watch me, Star.”

  “What, you’re going to lock me in a room, or something?”

  “I won’t have to—you’re not going anywhere fast.”

  “Oh no? What makes you so sure?”

  “Your bed”—a flicker of a smile. At first I thought he was suggesting something but then it dawned on me. My bed was here—I hated sleeping on strange mattresses and he knew I had no intention of going anywhere. Caught out. Again.

  Jake walked slowly toward me. He stood there, legs astride. Assertive. Strong. I could smell him; sun, and a woody, masculine aroma that I couldn’t place that brought back some happy memory buried deep within me. Jake took my hand in his and grazed his fingers over my knuckles. This tiny gesture of affection shot a bolt of desire through my limbs to my core—a shudder that caused goose pimples to break out all over me.

  “You’re special, Star—so beau—” he stopped mid-sentence—“don’t misdirect your energy. I want you to concentrate on your part. This movie’s your chance, don’t blow it. Anyway, I’ve got to go to a meeting now. Big John’s outside, watching the house, so don’t try anything funny. I won’t say ‘make yourself at home’ because you already have. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  I watched him walk calmly out the door, purposefully on his way to whatever meeting he had.

  All he cared about was the movie.

  THIS WAS THE PART I fucking hated. Sitting around in a circle, feeling self-conscious and having to bloody “share.” So far, I’d managed to avoid it but this was my sixth meeting so people were beginning to eye me up with expectation. I took a breath and said, “Hi, my name’s Jason and I’m a sex addict.” I cringed at my words—still didn’t quite believe them. But here I was—proof that I had to turn my life around for the better.

  “Hi Jason, so glad to have you here,” said an old hippy type with round glasses and stringy gray hair. Not the sort of person I had imagined being here, but of course being a sex addict isn’t really about sex; it goes deeper than that.

  “Hi Jason,” several people mumbled, smiling hopefully.

  “I . . . um . . . well, I just thought I’d say that I’ve been abstinent for two weeks and—” I paused, wondering what the fuck I should tell them. That I was climbing the walls? That giving up sex was a thousand times worse than not drinking, not smoking, not taking drugs, all rolled into one? That having Star in my house was like having the Devil as your best mate, when you were training to take your vows as a priest? “Well, hello everyone,” I concluded awkwardly, feeling like a prize jerk.

  A gangly woman who must have been about thirty said, “Thank you for sharing.” And then everyone chanted in unison, “It works if you work it. Thank you for sharing.” I looked at them and then back at her and thought how incongruous she looked in this setting. You’d think sex addicts would be sexy. But people looked “normal”—boring, really—and definitely not sexy. Luckily. The last thing I needed was more temptation. We weren’t in the more glamorous West Hollywood branch, no. I wasn’t that stupid. I knew that most of that sex addict lot went purposefully to hook up, and to the AA and NA meetings specifically to do movie deals. I was anonymous here in the Valley. Or so I hoped.

  I wasn’t lying when I said my name was Jason—it is my real name but nobody calls me that except my mother and a few old friends. SAA—Sex Addicts Anonymous or, as some call it, SLAA, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. But “love” wasn’t my problem. I’d never been in love. Love didn’t come into it. It was like being a wild cat hunting for prey and women were my dinner. If I saw a pretty woman somehow it felt wrong not to make a play for her. I needed a weekly conquest—sometimes even daily—to keep myself functioning. Sex was my drug. No prostitutes. No excessive porn. No—I wanted the real thing, not some fake image on a screen and I sure as hell never needed to pay for it. It was easy for me. Stunning women were at my beck and call. Perks of being a movie director. I was rich. Most people described me as good looking. Sex for me was like brushing my teeth—something that was necessary. Easy.

  Often I wondered what it was, exactly, that gave me my high. I think it was the intensity. The adrenaline of the chase. And the thrill of having someone so into me. Yeah, yeah, my shitty childhood didn’t help my self-esteem issues. Been there, done that. Done the whole shrink thing, the mother abandonment issues, the father-beat-the-shit-out-of-me saga, the little boy sexually abused at boarding school. The lonely lost boy who needed love and affection, seeking it the only way he knew how: through sex.

  But the bottom line was—for whatever bullshit reason—here I was, needing more.

  More, more, more.

  It was as if my dick had a brain of its own. Not a very intellectual one (no kidding) but a force that propelled me to do things, even when logically I knew it was crazy. Fucking women in public places, having pretty women I “needed
” flown out to me on private jets while I was on location, just to get my fix—the list went on and the bills piled up. Dinners, transport, jewelry, cars. I may have been a “love-em-and-leave-em” bastard but I was a generous one. But it got to the point that it was affecting my career—compromising my work by hiring actresses for their fuckability, not their talent.

  Being an addict is expensive. You’re ruled by a more powerful force and you’re out of control. You convince yourself you’re calling the shots but no, it’s your cock. Dick has you as his slave, his minion, dancing to his horny tune that blares in your ears twenty-four seven.

  And each time I—the lion—caught his catch, I always found myself plummeting to a low like a come-down after drugs, and the only thing that would set me right again was seeking a new thrill—jumping back on the roller coaster, all over again. Over and over. And now I was fucking burnt out.

  I’d pushed myself to my limit and had to stop.

  And then I met Star bloody Davis.

  And all I could think of since I first set eyes on her—twenty-four hours a day—was when, and how, I’d fuck her.

  STAYING IN JAKE’S HOUSE was less fun than I had imagined. The big wild partygoer licking coke off nubile starlets’ navels, two at a time? Dancing on tables? Not a bit of it. He was quiet and reserved. Brooding even. Most of the time he was talking on the phone or working on his laptop—completely ignoring me. Yet if I strayed toward the front door—his eyes on his work—it was as if he had a sixth sense. “Where-the-fuck-d’you think you’re going?” he’d say without looking at me. It didn’t matter what I did—walk round half naked in a skimpy bikini, not wear a bra, sit with my legs wide apart so he could see right through my panties (if he’d paid attention)—or even “accidentally” bump into him when I was naked after a shower—he’d brush past me as if I were a slightly irritating little sister or something.

  Sure, I had the run of the house and he was treating me well in that way—my own suite, with a huge bedroom and a beautiful view to the pool area, where lemon trees, lush palms and tropical green foliage spilled onto a mossy lawn. It was like a wall of vegetation—very private, no neighbors could see in—which suited me perfectly. So far, I’d out foxed the paparazzi. At least, there wasn’t the usual crowd of them hovering around. But the place was eerily silent except for maybe music or the tweeting of birds, or the mumble of Jake’s voice as he made his pre-production calls to his crew or producers.