The Fifteenth Minute

by Sarina Bowen

  “Well…” God. “Pretty terrible. But I can wash and peel things.”

  Mrs. Trevi beams. “I’m just teasing. This is actually the last step—it’s one of the toppings for chili. I don’t even need help setting the table, because I was going to let everyone eat it in front of the basketball game instead of dragging them to the table like I usually do.”

  “Oh.” Last night we’d had pot roast in the dining room, and I’d been nervous about sitting down with the whole family, but it turned out to be fun. They have an easy way about them.

  It’s a little weird staying in their house, though. His mom set me up in the guest room, which makes it a little easier. I don’t think I could wander out of her son’s bed in the morning without bursting into self-conscious flames. It was bad enough this afternoon when he gave me a hug and a slow kiss before I left to go out with Violet. Violet made a catcall and yelled, “Get a room!” then cracked up.

  I pretty much wanted to die.

  “I’m still happy to help. Maybe the cleanup, then.”

  Mrs. Trevi winks. “Perfect. Because I’ll be at my book club. That’s why I’m serving dinner in the den. Actually, you could pour some drinks. Ice water for Violet and milk for DJ and Leo.”

  “I can manage that,” I say, heading for the cabinet where I’d seen glasses earlier. “But cooking is something I haven’t gotten around to yet.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Mrs. Trevi says lightly.

  “That is true.”

  “I don’t know any other nineteen-year-olds who work full time.”

  “Not all year,” I protest. But I’m secretly glad to hear her say it. People think acting is just prancing around, looking important. But it’s really four AM wakeups and shoots that go until midnight because the sound guys are arguing about where to place the boom.

  It’s not like I dig ditches for a living. But it’s not bonbon-eating, either.

  “Where does your mother live?” she asks, scraping her onions into a serving bowl. She places it alongside another bowl of avocado chunks and another of shredded cheese.

  “It depends on…” Who she’s fucking. That good girl complex I’ve got? It comes from never wanting to become my mother. “The season, I guess. She’s always said she never wants to be tied down anywhere. Lately she’s dividing her time between France and Palm Springs.”

  “Huh. So where’s your home base?”

  I chuckle. “Um, I have some things in storage in LA. And a PO Box. And a dorm room. I mean—there’s a room for me in Palm Springs, but I don’t think of it as home.”

  When I look up, DJ’s mom is studying me with big brown eyes. I know there’s no biological relationship between her and DJ, but they have a similar gaze. “And you’re an only child?”

  “Mostly. It’s complicated.”

  DJ walks into the room then, smiling when he sees me. “Hey! Is my mom grilling you? That’s not cool.”

  Mrs. Trevi tips her head back and laughs. “I totally was. Lianne honey, I’m sorry.”

  “No!” I protest. “Don’t be.”

  He walks around to stand beside me, putting an arm around my waist. “How was the salon? Were you painted and squealed over?”

  “Only in all the right ways.” I lean into his side, and his clean laundry and aftershave scent is all I want out of life. I hold up my hands so he can see. “Big decision. I went with purple instead of pink.”

  “Nice.” He kisses my hand. “So when are we leaving for the city? It takes about an hour to get there. Ninety minutes if the traffic is bad.”

  “Let’s see…” I do the math. “We leave at seven and get there after eight or eight-thirty? Is that okay?”

  “Sure.” He squeezes my shoulder. “What am I wearing to this thing?”

  “Whatever you want. Seriously. There is nobody we need to impress.”

  He chuckles. “Let me rephrase the question. What are you wearing to this thing?”

  “Because you want to be twinsies?”

  He gives me a grin. “Sure, smalls.”

  “I’m wearing dark jeans and a fancyish sweater. No baseball cap. And eyes done in I-only-see-you-every-few-months-so-I’ll-make-a-little-effort.”

  His mom laughs, but DJ raises an eyebrow. “What was that last part?”

  “Never mind. Just wear New York casual.”

  “Gotcha.”

  I pat him on the back. “Now let’s pour some drinks. Your mother has a book club to get to.”

  Then the three of us move around their comfortable kitchen, dishing up chili, counting spoons, and just generally being nice to each other. I could get used to visiting here.

  32

  The Weakest Handshake in the World

  DJ

  At seven o’clock a navy blue limousine pulls up in front of my house. “Lianne?” I call up the stairs. “Either the car service is here or the queen is visiting.”

  “Be right down,” she says.

  I peek again through the curtains and wonder how much that rig is costing her for the night. Maybe I don’t want to know.

  “Sorry,” Lianne says, her feet light on the stairs.

  I turn to watch her descend, and, damn. She really has no idea how beautiful she is bouncing down the last few stairs in tight jeans and a soft sweater which drapes from shoulder to shoulder. I want to smooth my hands across it, taking in the creamy skin exposed by that feminine neckline.

  She comes to a stop in front of me, tilting her perfect chin up to look at me. “Is something wrong?”

  I’d like to take her right to bed. But I have to be content with grabbing her for a quick hug. “Not a thing, gorgeous.” I kiss her forehead and take a breath of her vanilla scent. “Where’s your coat?”

  “By the back door. I’ll get it.” She darts away, and I’m just standing here like a dolt, smiling at the empty room. This is the effect Lianne has on me. Every damn day.

  When she returns, I open the door for her and follow her out to the car. The chauffeur extracts himself from the driver’s seat. “Miss Lianne!” he says. “How are you?”

  “Hi Reggie. Thanks for driving out here.”

  He opens the rear door. “My pleasure.”

  The pleasure, of course, is in the paycheck I’m sure.

  I follow Lianne into the back. The only time I’ve ridden in a limo was at my high school prom. And this car is a hell of a lot nicer than the garish white stretch we’d hired back in the day. It smells of leather and money.

  Even the click of the door closing sounds expensive.

  “I would have driven you to the city,” I say quietly, putting an arm around her slim shoulders.

  She looks up at me with a little smile. “I know, and I appreciate it. But then you wouldn’t be able to drink, which I encourage. In the first place, you can be sure that my friends have excellent taste in liquor. And I think they’ll be easier for you to tolerate if you’re holding a glass of their overpriced single malt. I have to stay sharp, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t indulge.”

  “That’s an interesting theory.” I pull her a little closer to me. “But then we could have trained it in.”

  “Daniel.” She snuggles up against my side. “I know you probably think I’m crazy to drop a few hundred bucks on this car for the night. But the train isn’t fun for me if I’m asked to sit for a dozen selfies when I really just want to spend time with you. So would you do me the favor of just enjoying it? I hired the car so that we could be together in the least stressful way. I really think we’re due for that, don’t you?”

  Ah, tonight I have the feisty Lianne. My favorite one. “Yeah, sweetheart. I can do that for you.”

  “Good,” she says, folding her small hands. Her nails gleam with a light purple polish.

  I can’t resist bending down to kiss her collarbone. “You are delicious,” I say before kissing her again. “And if you want to rent a fucking jet for a trip into the city, I promise not to argue.”

  “Billy Joel takes a helicopter t
o his concerts,” she says, lifting her chin to give me better access to her jawline. “But it’s not door to door.”

  I chuckle into her neck. “Good to know.” God, she feels so good in my arms. These past twenty-four hours have been torture. I’d hoped she’d sneak into my room last night, but she’d stayed put in the guest room. “You look beautiful tonight,” I whisper, and she gives an unmistakable shiver.

  “Have to put on my game face,” she says, her hand warming a spot in the center of my chest. “So you can’t mess me up until afterward. But in the meantime, we can play the button game.”

  “What?” I ask, stealing one more kiss just below her ear. The button game sounds dirty to me, which probably means that Lianne and I need more time alone.

  “What do you think this one does?” She points at a switch on the console overhead.

  I squint at it. “Opens the moon roof?”

  She pushes it and a bank of soft lights comes on. “Not quite.”

  “Fine,” I laugh. “What’s this for?” I tap a button beside the switch.

  “The television.”

  I push it, and when the moon roof opens and we both laugh.

  * * *

  An hour later we’re inching through midtown, just a few blocks from our destination. Lianne has begun to look uncomfortable. She’s backed into the corner of the long seat, her arms folded across her chest.

  “You okay over there, smalls?”

  She sighs. “Yes and no. This could be a disaster.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. I’m starting to think this was a bad idea. If my manager is not in the mood to talk about the Scottish play, it will be a wasted trip.”

  I stretch a foot out and hook it under hers. “It won’t be a total loss, right? We just watched an episode of Jimmy Fallon on the hidden satellite TV. And we found two secret compartments.”

  But she doesn’t even smile. “DJ, do we need a safe word?”

  “What?” I sputter.

  “Not for sex. For this party. Like if you say ‘hippopotamus’ I’ll know we should leave. Okay—not that word. That wouldn’t come up in polite conversation. But if my friends are assholes, you might be completely miserable. And I’m happy to bail at any moment if Kevin is being an asshole or Bob drops more names than a Kardashian before we even get our coats off.”

  “Aw, sweetheart—I don’t care what they do. And if they’re really as bad as you say, there’s the entertainment value to fall back on.”

  “Ugh. But your family is so nice, D! And it’s been so much fun to meet them all. But now we’re walking away from the freaking Waltons into my really dysfunctional proto-family. When they get out of hand, they can be despicable. I’ve learned to tune them out, but I’m afraid you’ll just hate it.”

  “Smalls?” I wait until she looks up at me. “For most of the last eight months, my middle name was dysfunctional. And how bad could it really be?”

  She picks at a fingernail cuticle. “If it’s really bad—like The Great Gatsby, but without the groovy flapper dresses—will you still love me?” Her chin snaps up and there’s panic in her eyes. “I mean like me. You know what I mean.”

  I slide all the way over to sit beside her and kiss her on the temple. “Even if your friends are the most obnoxious people I’ve ever met, I’m still falling for you, smalls. Because you’re the best one there is.” I palm the side of her head and press my lips to her hairline. It humbles me to know she’s worried what I’ll think.

  Her breath catches, and she slides her arms around my waist. I’m engulfed in the sweet smell of her hair, and the press of her body against mine is giving me big ideas. But then the car slides to a smooth stop at the curb, and Lianne and I let each other go as the door clicks open.

  “You have my number, Miss Lianne?” the chauffeur asks, offering her his hand.

  “I do,” she promises, stepping outside.

  “Call me if your plans change. Otherwise I’ll see you here at ten-thirty.”

  I duck my head and step out of the car. And when I straighten up, the first thing I see is the exploding flash of a camera in my face. Jesus H, that’s blinding.

  A small hand closes on mine and tugs me forward. I follow Lianne past a snarl of people on the sidewalk. A burly doorman yanks the hotel’s door open and sort of shovels us inside, putting his body between the photographer and us.

  Everything is black. I blink several times, but my vision barely improves. “What the fuck? I can’t see anything.”

  “I know,” she sighs. “They painted everything black in this hotel’s lobby. Because that’s hip. Give it a second.” She guides me to the side where I can make out a female hotel clerk behind the desk. “Excuse me,” she says, and the female clerk’s eyes widen in recognition. “I’m here to visit Kevin Mung. But I forgot to ask him which ridiculous superhero he registered under this time. It’s usually Captain America or Thor.”

  The knowing clerk smiles. “Well, Miss Challice, I can’t tell you if Mr. Mung is a guest of our hotel. But there is a superhero registered to the Suite Royale on the penthouse level.”

  “Of course there is,” Lianne says under her breath. “Thank you.” With a vice grip on my hand, she leads me to the elevators. There aren’t many people around, but heads turn anyway, lingering on my gorgeous girlfriend. She doesn’t seem to notice. The elevator doors slide open and we get inside. “Okay, I’ve decided we do need a safe word. It has to be something that might come up in conversation. I know—that French history class you hate. What are you studying?”

  “Balzac.”

  “Perfect,” she says, watching the elevator display climb all the way to “PH.” When you’re really rich, it’s not good enough to stay on a numbered floor.

  We find the right suite by choosing the door with music thumping from behind it. I hang Lianne’s jacket on a coat tree beside the door, and take in the scene. There are maybe twenty people, but some of them are at work while others are at play. There’s a uniformed hotel worker clearing away dinner dishes from a table. And another one passing out drinks on a tray. Lianne flags her down and asks me what I’d like to drink.

  “Whatever ale you have in a bottle,” I say, just to be easy.

  “Right away, sir.”

  Okay. I could get used to that.

  I recognize Kevin Mung from his movies with Lianne. He’s sort of splayed on a showy, velvet sofa. Two women are sitting on tufted footstools at his feet, giggling at everything he says. When he spots Lianne, he beckons lazily. It’s not how a man should greet his guests, let alone his friends. But the rules are probably different if you’re him.

  Lianne holds up a finger to tell him just a second. Then she waves to someone else, who comes bouncing over. He’s a skinny…trans woman. She’s a skinny trans woman, I mean. “Hiiiiiiii baby!” she says, kissing Lianne on the cheek. “Good to see you, girl. I miss you.”

  “Lightmare, this is DJ, my boyfriend. DJ, this is Lightmare, who does makeup for me sometimes.”

  “Lianne, honey, your boyfriend is a cutie! And it’s always a pleasure to see you. Baby, I need some new music. It’s all the same old playlists because I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Fine,” Lianne says, smiling. “I’ll make you some new stuff, but we have to keep to our usual deal.”

  “Gawd,” the flamboyant woman with the weird name complains. “Getting the shakedown from a movie star. And it’s only nine-fifteen.” But she winks, so I know it’s all in fun. Then she digs into the big bag on her shoulder and fishes around for a minute before emerging with a tube of lipstick. “Here’s a down payment. Brand new color from Yves St. Laurent’s fall line. It’s not even for sale yet.”

  “Ooh!” Lianne squeals, opening the tube. Then she touches the lipstick to the back of her hand and holds it up to the light. “Nice shine. And it’s cool, but the undertones aren’t too blue.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  To me it’s just a pink dot on Lianne’s hand. I don’t re
ally get it, but Lianne’s face suggests she’s just won the lottery. “Really? I can keep it?”

  “That color will look better on you than me.” Her friend sniffs. “But don’t tell Kevin’s bitch, because she’s been pawing through my stuff all night and I didn’t give her shit.”

  Lianne giggles. “Where is her highness anyway?”

  “Probably in the bathroom, because that’s where the biggest mirror is.”

  My beer arrives, along with a soda for Lianne. After the server walks away, Lianne blows out a breath and leans to whisper in my ear. “Unfortunately, looks like we’ve got Drunk Kevin tonight. I apologize in advance. The sober one is more fun.”

  I squeeze her hand and take a deep sip from my bottle. “Doesn’t matter, smalls. The beer is cold.”

  “And I don’t see Bob anywhere. If he blows me off tonight, I will not be a happy camper. This was his idea,” she grumbles. “Come on. Let’s talk to Drunk Kevin.”

  The ridiculous footstools are vacant for the moment, so Lianne and I sit there.

  “Hey!” her friend Kevin slurs. “You look good, babe.”

  “Thanks?” Lianne’s voice is cautious. “I want you to meet DJ, Kev. He’s made my second semester bearable.”

  The guy offers me the weakest handshake in the world. “Pleasure,” he slurs, like an imbecile. And I don’t miss Lianne’s wince. I wish she wouldn’t worry about what I think. She’s a class act, even when she’s surrounded by assholes.

  “How was the premier?” she asks him, nudging his foot with hers.

  “Fun. But we’re celebrating a new deal tonight. Did you hear?”

  She shakes her head. “You got a new part?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m playing The Saber in the next Flash Man movie.”

  “Wow, Kev.” Lianne sits back a few inches. “That must pay well.”

  “I know, right? And I did it, babe. I made the jump. Playing a grownup and everything. It’ll be your turn soon.” He takes a sloppy sip of whatever he’s drinking. “Seven months from now we’ll be done with sorcery. Just have to get through one more.”