At the age of six, Emily had shoved Layla face first into stardom, refusing to ever loosen up on the reigns. It was this constant pressure that had led Layla to drugs at an early age. She found an escape in uppers and downers that she never quite did in acting, and every time she would withdrawal, her mother would be right there by her side. Emily would hold back fourteen year-old Layla’s hair while she vomited, bringing her cups of cold Ginger Ale on five minute intervals. She would shoo off the paparazzi that gathered outside the gate of the mansion they shared together, or whatever hotel they were holed up in, not wanting them to see Layla in her fragile state.
She did these things, and she did them well, but for all the wrong reasons. When Layla needed a mother the most, Emily behaved more like an agent. Someone who’s role consisted of keeping their client in line and employed at all costs. Because if Layla failed, Emily’s failure lingered close behind.
Layla shivered, adjusting her ankle on the pile of pillows she was resting it on. She wondered how her mother was dealing with the news. Did she know that Layla had been fired? Did she know that her career was over? That it had been diminished into fifteen minute guest spots on daytime television and maybe the late night talk show circuit – but only if she was really lucky. If she wasn’t, and most drug addicted former child stars were not, the world would soon forget Layla Carter’s name and the unimpressive mark she had left on the industry.
Layla pulled the heavy comforter at the foot of the sofa around herself, feeling clammy and cold. This withdrawal was not one she wanted to be having. If her ankle wasn’t swollen to the point where she couldn’t walk – let alone drive – Layla would have been back in LA right now, snorting line after line of cocaine off of one of her dealer’s bathroom sinks. She hadn’t learned her lesson the last time she overdosed.
She never did.
Tired of basking in her misery and allowing one depressing thought after the next to plague at the confines of her conscious, Layla reached for her purse with shaking hands. She fished out her phone, hoping to see a message from Chase. Then, it occurred to her in a haze that he didn’t have her number.
Hell, Layla thought. I doubt he even knows my name.
Leo, Chase and the rest of the boys were hardly the celebrity obsessed type, but it still seemed like a ridiculous concept to Layla that they wouldn’t know who she was. For the past six months, she had starred in every major adult film to grace the small screen. And long before that that, Layla had spent the majority of her adolescence and teenage years on the sets of big budget action movies, always playing the love interest or daughter of the hero. They weren’t the most prestigious of roles, and they certainly weren’t going to get Layla any Oscar nominations, but regardless – they gave her the exposure she craved.
Only, Layla was beginning to wonder if she had ever really craved it at all. The fame, the fortune, and the perks that came with gracing the red carpet – all of that had been Emily’s dream. Layla loved her mother, but she couldn’t help but wonder what her life would be like if she had never been forced into the spotlight by her.
Even so, the movies Layla starred in were the kind of cinema men and boys alike were known for tuning into. Layla understood her audience, and like so many other B list actresses – she catered to them. Her happiness? Well, that was only secondary.
Running a hand through her frizzy red hair, Layla grappled with the notion that in the height of her success, she had really only become moderately successful. Of course, there were times early on in her career that she had been offered roles of a higher caliber. Opportunities to really expand on her craft and step outside of the way she had been molded to act. But, these offers, no matter how interesting, came with pay cuts.
“We see a lot of potential in her,” one casting director said to Layla’s mother. “And we’d love her for this role. But she would have to take a significant pay decrease.”
And there it was. The terms and conditions that turned Emily away every time, no matter how much Layla begged and pleaded. No matter how much the role intrigued her – Emily wouldn’t budge. “My daughter is talented,” she would insist. “She doesn’t deserve a pay cut.”
Of course, it didn’t matter that she was contradicting herself. If she truly thought I was talented she would give me a chance to take on roles with substance, teenage Layla thought after a particularly awkward meeting with the Casting Director of a small budget independent movie. It was a role she really wanted, one that was sure to blow up the Sundance Film Festival circuit and catapult Layla into big time fame, but her mother wouldn’t budge on what she expected Layla to get paid for the role.
“Mom it’s a low budget movie!” Layla insisted. “But it’s an amazing concept. I read the script. It’s sure to do well at film festivals. Who knows – it could even get a theatrical release!”
“Please just give me a chance here,” she begged.
But Emily was firm.
“Low budget movies are for low budget actresses, Layla.”
“Your last two movies financed our home. Quite frankly, it’s an insult that this man…this…”
“Jerry Morgan,” Layla interrupted. “One of the most well-known indie movie directors on the planet. He made the careers of people like Natalie West and Frank Ze. They are big time actor’s mom. Not me…I don’t even really act! I only had like three lines in those last two movies I did!”
“Exactly,” Emily interrupted. “Three lines for one hundred thousand. Don’t you see sweetie? It doesn’t matter how great this…Jerry Morgan…is. If he can’t send us an offer like that, well then he’s just not someone we want to deal with.”
Layla cringed, feeling defeated. She hated the way her mother would use the word we when what she really meant was I. There had been many times throughout Layla’s childhood, for this reason in particular, that she had considered emancipating herself the moment she turned sixteen. She had even spoke with her agent Ronald about it, but since he had been fucking Emily on and off since the beginning of Layla’s career, he had very little advice to offer aside from the complimentary, “she’s not so bad, is she?”
Regardless, fourteen year-old Layla wanted the role in Jerry Morgan’s film, no matter what the pay was, more than she had ever wanted anything. She begged her mother for weeks leading up to the day of the proposed meeting with Jerry, wanting Emily to simply hear him out.
“Alright,” Emily finally agreed. “We’ll see what he has to say, but I’m not going to make any promises. If they lowball us, we’re out of there.”
Layla agreed, feeling hopeful that her time to shine had finally come – but as usual, it didn’t take very long for all hell break loose. Layla and her mother arrived on the set of the movie bright and early on the day of the meeting, entering a small office building and taking a seat after checking in. A few minutes later, a wiry man with glasses and thinning hair appeared in the doorway across from them. Emily stood up, curtly shaking his hand.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Jerry,” he said, leading Emily and Layla into a conference room where two other men were seated around a table sipping coffee and making small talk. When Layla entered the room, they fell instantly silent, all of their eyes wide.
“What?” Layla exclaimed, feeling a blush forming over her freckled cheeks. “Do I have something on my face?”
They laughed hearty laughs, shaking their heads.
“No sweetheart,” Jerry said, “I think they are thinking the same thing as I am. You would be perfect for this role.”
He nodded at two empty seats then, smiling up at Emily as he eased himself into his own across from them. Emily and Layla sat down, adjusting themselves as the men took in Layla’s appearance and jotted a few illegible notes onto a sheet of paper.
“Emily, Layla,” Jerry began, clearing his throat. “This is Matt,” he nodded at a short and stocky man at the end of the table, “my production assistant.”
“Hi,” Layla said, waving at him. Her mother did the same.
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br /> “And this is Steven,” Jerry continued, pointing at a friendly looking man with dark brown hair who sat next to him, “my boyfriend.”
Emily raised an eyebrow in confusion and Jerry and the men laughed.
“Just kidding. He’s actually the director.”
The man nodded, rolling his eyes and extending his hand to Layla and then Emily.
“Jerry thinks he’s funny,” Steven began.
“Yeah,” Matt chimed in. “We kind of just let him think that.”
“Alright, alright,” Jerry laughed. “Let’s get down to business shall we?”
He reached under his legs, picking up a heavy briefcase and setting it on the table. Then, he opened it, grabbing two stacks of paper. He set a stack down in front of Layla and Emily. Layla read over the first page silently, watching out of the corner of her eye as her mother did the same. It was a contract.
Layla’s stomach turned. She was hoping that Jerry would start off by explaining the movie and its plot to her mother before they talked business. That he would somehow sell her on the idea. Layla had tried to on more than one occasion, but she figured Emily might take it all more seriously from the film’s producer.
After flipping through each page of the contract herself, Layla looked over at her mother nervously. There was a lot of technical mumbo jumbo that she didn’t entirely understand, but much to her dismay, Emily seemed to just fine. And she wasn’t happy.
She hesitated on every detail, looking up at the men every few seconds to scoff. Layla felt instantly disinherited. She crossed her arms over her chest, bracing herself for the verbal tongue lashing she was well aware that her mother was about to evoke upon the men.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was done reading. She slid the stapled contracts back over to Jerry, who eagerly awaited Emily’s input. Maybe he just isn’t good at picking up on social cues, Layla thought, cringing as he smiled cluelessly at her mother.
“So?” he asked. “Thoughts?”
“Just one,” Emily began, “were not interested.”
She stood up, walking towards the door and calling out to Layla to follow her. Embarrassed and disappointed, Layla stood up, apologizing to the men for wasting their time.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Jerry personally once her mother was out in the parking lot and out of earshot. “She’s just…”
Jerry nodded. He didn’t need Layla to continue.
“I get it,” he said with a smile. “Really, I know stage moms. How about this…” he reached in his wallet, pulling out a golden business card and stuffing it in the pocket of Layla’s flannel shirt.
“Give me a call as soon as you turn eighteen.”
Layla thanked him before climbing in the passenger’s seat of her mother’s Mercedes – another luxurious item that Emily had financed on Layla’s dime. Emily tried to make small talk with her, but Layla ignored her, sliding her headphones over her head. As they made their way down the long stretch of road towards home, Layla rubbed her finger over the business card Jerry had given her, vowing to never lose it.
One day I’ll be free of her, Layla told herself as she looked over at Emily. She looked so much like her daughter, but they couldn’t have been more different. She lit a cigarette, rolling down her window to ash it and veering slightly into another lane. Someone honked at her, but Emily rolled her eyes.
“People are so fucking inconsiderate,” she scoffed, turning onto the freeway, “no one in LA ever thinks about anyone but themselves.”
Layla couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of her mother’s words.
“Yeah,” Layla whispered, turning on her iPod and pressing play on one of her favorite songs.
“No one ever does.”
MAIN MAN
"I'm my main man.
Always ready for what ever's gonna happen.
Spend my time in a cold jail cell, shootin' up poison
And livin' in hell and I never care what people think,
My history's written on me in tattooed ink."
☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼
“When are you going to tell her?” Emily asked.
She turned over onto her side, running a hand through Leo’s tousled hair. He had arrived at her mansion in Hollywood Hills the previous evening, catching Emily off guard.
She buzzed him inside apprehensively, looking over at the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was eleven p.m.
“Whatever he wants,” she said aloud, “it better be good.”
It had been months since Emily had last seen Leo, and their previous encounter had hardly been a good one. She had reprimanded him for holding her daughter hostage, taking it as a personal attack. He must have found out, she thought to herself.
Emily had never been one to take any stock in coincidences, and when Leo came stumbling back into her life after a single encounter they had shared together over twenty years ago, she became convinced that there was only one reason why.
He wanted money. He had found out that he was Layla’s father. That there was at least a chance of it being true. He had put the dots together. He had done his research, and now, he expected a cut of the pie.
At least, that’s what Emily had convinced herself.
Hearing a knock on her door, she got out of bed and pulled on her silk robe, taking a quick look in the mirror before answering. Leo stood in front of her, soaking wet from the rain, a guilty look etched across his handsome face.
“What do you want?” Emily asked evenly, stepping aside and shutting the door behind him.
She had figured this moment would come eventually. In fact, she had prepared for it.
“Here,” Emily said, stepping into her bathroom and grabbing a towel. She tossed it to Leo and he thanked her. Emily watched as he dried off his hair, pulling off his leather cut and placing it over one of her dining room chairs.
“Wait,” Emily interjected, grabbing it from him. Their hands touched for an electrifying second and their eyes met, but Emily tore herself away from him. She hung Leo’s cut on a hanger, sliding it into a closet near the front door.
“I don’t want to ruin the upholstery,” she whispered, not making eye contact with him.
“Look can we just cut to the chase?” she asked, reaching for her purse on the table and pulling out a checkbook. She had expected this day to come eventually.
“How much do you want?” she asked.
Leo raised his eyebrows, a look of confusion surfacing on his face.
“What?”
“To keep you quiet…” Emily trailed off.
“How much is it going to take? Five grand? Ten? Give me a number.”
Finally understanding what she was getting at, Leo chuckled, leaning against the island counter that sat in the middle of Emily’s kitchen.
“Is that really why you think I’m here?” he asked, his wet t-shirt pulling taut over his muscular chest. Emily swallowed hard.
“Why else would you be?” she bit back.
Leo shrugged.
“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” he whispered, stepping slowly towards her. Emily stumbled backwards, tripping over her coffee table and landing on her large leather coach. Leo laughed.
“You’re the mother of my child, after all.”
The words hit Emily like a slap across the face.
There it is, she thought. He knows.
“How did you find out?” she asked, her voice dull and monotone.
But Leo didn’t answer. Instead, he slid down on the couch beside Emily, closing the distance between them. He was here for one reason and one reason only, and it wasn’t money. If he couldn’t have Layla, he wanted the next best thing, and that was Emily.
“Get off of me,” she demanded, attempting to slide away from Leo as he gripped her thigh beneath her night gown and robe. Finally, she managed to free herself from him. She stood up, pointing at the door.
“Get out!” she yelled.
“Now! I swear to god, I’ll call the cops.”
Her voice was shaky, uneven, and not at all authoritative. Leo could tell just by looking at her that she was all bluff, which is why he didn’t move.
“I mean it!” she bellowed as Leo stood up, inching towards her. He grabbed her hand tightly, pulling her petite frame against his much larger one and pressing a hand over her mouth.
“Shh,” he whispered into her dark red hair. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Emily cowered beneath his grip, her green eyes wild and afraid. She wasn’t sure what Leo was capable of. He might have been the father of her daughter, but Emily barely knew him. All she knew was that actions spoke louder than words, and Leo’s actions were making it quite clear that he was up to no good.
“Please,” she begged, her voice muffled by Leo’s large calloused hand.
In one quick motion, he picked Emily up, heaving her over his broad shoulders as she kicked and tensed beneath him. She hit his back, her tiny fists balled tight with anger, but the impact barely affected him.
Once inside Emily’s bedroom, he tossed her on her unmade bed, locking the door behind himself. She scrambled to stand up, but Leo approached her, slowly pushing her back down.
“Why are you doing this?” Emily begged, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. She looked over at the picture sitting on her bedside table. It was one Emily had taken with Stephen months ago, during one of their random vacations. He was one of Emily’s oldest clients and the man Emily wanted to believe was Layla’s father.
Then, Leo came crashing back into her life, forcing Emily to come to terms with her bitter reality. The father of her only child was a dirt poor biker who, while incredibly handsome in his own right, had nothing to offer her. He wasn’t the wealthy, all-American doctor Emily was embracing in the photograph – the only client Emily had ever developed actual feelings for. What they had wasn’t a relationship, but it was something. For the past twenty years, Emily had been meeting with Stephen on a monthly basis, but it had stopped being about the money a long time ago.
“Who is the guy?” Leo asked, interjecting Emily’s train of thought. She pulled her eyes away from the picture, swallowing hard.
Recovery Page 5
