The Jerk Who Saved Me: A Romantic Comedy

by Ellie Rowe

  “It sells movie tickets.”

  “Does it?” That’s one hell of a question.

  “That’s what Gary says,” is the best answer I can offer.

  “Gary Morgan is a piece of shit. You know it, I know it, he knows it. You’re bigtime now. Even so,” he took a deep drink, “party life ain’t so bad.”

  “No,” I have to admit. “No, it ain’t.”

  “Look, man.” He peers at me with those clear, incisive eyes of his. “It only lasts so long. If I were you, and Yvonne D’Mica was waiting for me? I’d figure my way around a bout of ennui. Just saying.”

  The sonovabitch has a point. You only live once, right? Leaning back to polish off my beer in a series of thundering gulps, I splash some more Llorona into the glasses and give him a wink.

  “Atta boy.” Doc claps a hand on my back. He may be the devil on my shoulder, but he’s the only one I can trust.

  “Hey, Hank!” My navigator Rik Sawyer pokes his head out of steerage. “We’re getting an SOS.” Now you’re fucking talking!

  “What is it?”

  “Some lady on a sailboat with a nasty storm.”

  “That one?” I stab my finger at some angry, black clouds roiling on the horizon.

  “That’d be the one. We’ve got coordinates.”

  “Then let’s hit it,” I clap the tequilas down on the bar in front of Doc. “Do me a favor and run these downstairs, would ya, buddy? I’ve got some real shit to do. Make room in there, Rik.”

  Time to shove my way onto the bridge. All my best parts have been heroes.

  Three

  Veronica

  I’ll probably leave this part out of the published story. Not the storm. Surviving that squall is going to be great copy. I mean what just happened, which is me slipping and falling ass-first into the three inches of water I’m trying to bail out of the boat.

  The story will probably say something like, With the help of a motorized pump, I’m able to bail out the water, and the rest of my inspection reveals little significant damage. It will decidely not say, As I turn on the water pump, the boats rocks and lays me out on my keister like an idiot.

  Just when I was starting to dry out from the storm, too. Now my linen shirt and khaki shorts are once again sopping wet, clinging to my body the same way my damp hair clings to the sides of the face.

  The good news is my ass and my pride seem to have more bruises than my ship. The storm turned out to be more bark than bite. Kinda like a certain ‘shitstorm’ I used to be married to. Oops. I said I was gonna stop mentioning him, didn’t I?

  The repairs amount to locating an emergency kit in storage, fixing a hole above the waterline and a few other minor patches. The sails are in good shape and the rigging is un-damaged, so I’m still in good shape.

  The sun’s even coming out. It feels delicious on my body. My skin tingles slightly as the warmth slowly evaporates the sheen of sea water. I close my eyes to it, enjoying the calm-after-the-storm, the lapping of the waves against my boat, the party music and the laughter –

  Wait, what?

  I open my eyes to a sight that I never would have imagined or craved. There’s a yacht headed my way. Even from a distance, I can see it’s more flesh than boat. Stem to stern, she’s covered with bikinis and boobs interspersed among a few tanned and shirtless assholes.

  Dammit, I was trying to get away from LA. Now it’s premiere booze cruise is sailing to meet me?

  They must have received my damn SOS, I realize with a groan.

  Not the rescue I was hoping for. I’d imagined something along the lines of a speedboat full of handsome, off-duty Coast Guard sailors.

  I try to wave off the party boat, calling out, “I’m good! I’m good!” They all react to my swaying arm by whooping and raising their glasses to me.

  Then the line of bimbos and bozos parts so a handsome, slightly greying man in a white linen suit can come to the rail. I hate myself for recognizing him: Hank Wilder, a movie star now trying to get artistic cred as a director of mid-budget ‘independent cinema’.

  A professional like me is never far from the imaginary keyboard in my mind, so I immediately start writing mental copy: Hank Wilder’s yacht approached from the port-side. He posed at the bow like a ship’s figurehead. We all know Wilder is famous not only for playing heroes in the movies but in real life as well. There was the time he saved a little girl from being crushed at a red carpet event, and the time he picked up flood victims stranded on a roof in his helicopter. Was I to be his next talk-show couch tale?

  I’m suddenly self-conscious of my wet-fish appearance. I realize my thin shirt is clinging close to my breasts. I’m obviously not wearing a bra out here alone on the sea.

  Simultaneously, my body reminds me that millionaire party boy actors have always been a weakness of mine. Particularly the greying ones. With my wet shirt almost see-through, I pray he doesn’t notice my, shall we say, peaked interest. Also, I kinda hope he does.

  His yacht closes the distance between us and someone shuts off the tunes. I try to anticipate his opening line. Something quippy, I hope, like in the movies.

  What he offers is less than inspired. “Hey little lady!”

  Guess somebody else writes all his best lines.

  I stay silent for a minute, trying to arrange my thoughts. I’m of two minds: not wanting to deal with this and wondering if I can turn it into something catchy for the article.

  He interprets my silence for my not hearing him. He calls, louder, “Need a hand, babe?”

  Little lady? Babe? Fucking LA men. It’s like they get an injection of chauvinism along with their Botox.

  The yacht’s deck is a good six or seven feet higher up than mine and I have crane my neck up a little to look at him. “No, I don’t need a hand, thanks,” I say in my flattest voice. I make a living as a woman alone in exotic places, I know how to turn away pushy men trying to be ‘helpful.’

  “You sure?” He flashes his extremely white teeth to his friends along the rail as if to say, Look how chivalrous I am!

  Save it for the Late Show, I think.

  He fixes a dramatically concerned look on me. Even across the short distance between our boats, those dark eyes are still as alluring and dangerous as storm clouds. “We got an SOS call!” he insists. “Pretty sure it came from you!”

  “Yeah, it did. But the emergency is all over, now. Thanks. Guess you were a little late.” I shrug to the party guests. Not that the boatload of easy C-listers and horny junior agents gives a shit about me to begin with.

  “You all alone on that boat?” Wilder asks. His tone manages to be half-concerned and half-salacious. It’s also wholly sexist.

  “Yeah, just me,” I say. “Something wrong with that?”

  “Doesn’t seem safe for a pretty girl who might get into trouble.”

  “Good thing I’m a smart woman who can handle herself.” Asshole, I don’t add.

  Then he does it: runs those storm-cloud eyes up and down my body. I know that my wet clothes leave little of either my desert-toned muscles or my natural soft curves to the imagination. I refuse to flinch under his gaze. I got nothing to be ashamed of. Plus, I imagine it’s been a while since he got even a partial glimpse at a pair of real tits. Let him get a whiff of what he’s never going to taste.

  He leans over the rail and holds out a glass of what looks like tequila. “Since it’s just you, why not come over here and party with us? We can get you into some dry clothes. Or at least slip you out of those wet ones.”

  The crowd on the boat laughs at that. I see a girl in a bikini that’s two-sizes too small for her to adjust her thong in frustration, no doubt wishing Wilder made her an offer like that.

  She is welcome to him. “Yeah, uh, I’m in the middle of things,” I say, still trying to be polite.

  Wilder calls back, “Oh, we’re in the middle of a lot up here, too…”

  “At least three different types of venereal disease from the looks of it!” I call back, al
l smiles and sunshine despite my words.

  A few of the girls lose their grins and several of the guys look uncomfortable. Guess I hit a little close to the mark, there.

  Wilder smirks, but only so I can see it. At least he knows to take a joke. “Now, I’m just trying to be a good sport,” he calls loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “There’s nothing to see here,” I call back. “Kinda like your last film.”

  There’s a mix of hushed laughter and a few “ooohs” from the party folk. Wilder shifts his feet and the smirk vanishes. “Y’know, if you didn’t need any help then maybe you shouldn’t have put out an SOS,” he says. “Ever hear of the boy who cried wolf?”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

  “I’m just saying, it’s not nice to lead a guy on…”

  “Poor baby. Good thing you appear to have plenty of shoulders to cry on. Among other body parts.”

  “Gee, lady, I can’t tell if you’re green from seasickness or jealousy.”

  “Now I see why the critics never labeled your work insightful.”

  “But they did say I directed my last film with a ‘delicate touch’.” To illustrate his point, he places a strong hand on the rail and gently brushes his palm along the smooth varnish. Against my will, a part of me quivers inside.

  I turn up the bravado as a cover. “Thanks for stopping by,” I say, flashing him my best smile. “Feel free to fuck off, now.”

  “That’s the plan,” he assures me, putting an arm around the waist of the nearest living blow-up doll. Then Wilder calls out to his captain while keeping me fixed in his stare, “Hey, Rik! Put us back on course. The chick’s right: not much to see here.”

  He may not be good at openers, but his closers sure sting. I keep my face unreadable.

  Once the ship’s a good ways off, I drop my head. Shit. The whole encounter is probably tabloid-bound? There’s no way someone wasn’t filming that on their cell phone. Why do I let these men rile me up like that?

  Fuck it. There are still repairs to finish up. I get back to work, figuring the quicker I can put distance between myself and the S.S. Hollywood Harem (or whatever he called that thing), the better.

  Four

  Hank

  The DJ cranks the music back up and the drinks flow freely once again. I make my way through the crowd and try to put that halted rescue – and the woman – out of my mind.

  “Hey, Hank, screw that broad anyway, right?” some guy – I think he works at my agent’s firm – calls to me from amid his grinding with a few prostitutes.

  I give him a smile and a wave. “Probably a fucking West Joilet fan,” I call out playfully. The guy gives me a sympathetic thumbs-down, but I’m pretty sure I hear one of the hookers pout about how she ‘loves West’. Everybody’s got their opinions, I guess, even ladies-for-hire.

  Speaking of ladies, I remind myself there’s a very willing, very nubile and probably very flexible one awaiting me somewhere on this yacht. It’s one of the nice things about being a movie star: rejection never lasts long.

  I gird myself for action when suddenly Doc moseys over to me, beer bottle in hand and a wry grin on his face.

  “Dodged a bullet there,” he says cryptically.

  “Oh?” Few things will delay me from a lovely lady, but conversation with Doc is one of them.

  “Who needs a broad like that?” He snorts in derision, but I can sense the sarcasm. I recognize his tone of voice. It’s the same one he uses when he thinks one of my ideas for a shot is stupid but he doesn’t want to come right out and say it.

  “Independent. Opinionated. Fiery,” he goes on. “Reminds me of my first ex-wife.” Doc starts to take a sip of his beer but hesitates. “Or was it my second? No. Definitely my first.”

  “Didn’t you tell me your first ex was the only one you think you truly loved?”

  Doc gives me a meaningful look but doesn’t answer the question. I know where he’s going, but why I choose to follow the thread is a mystery to me. “So why didn’t it work out with numero uno?” I ask.

  “Oh, come on, Hank.” His eyes sweep the party all around us, but the gravity of his look lets me know that he’s thinking of the entire movie business in general. “A woman like that isn’t going to put up with guys like us. You think her kind sits around the hotel room waiting while you shoot on location, surrounded by starlets and models? No. She’s looking to have her own adventures, making her own mark in the world.” I think about her, out there on the boat all alone. What was she up to?

  Doc keeps going. “She doesn’t need your money. Doesn’t care about your fame.” His words are disparaging, but there’s an unmistakable respect beneath that. “She sure as shit ain’t going to stand in your shadow! You’re better off with that chippie from earlier.”

  Damn you, Doc, I think. He’s struck a chord with me and he knows it.

  “Speaking of which…” I see him eye a lady across the deck. “Looks like another future ex-wife in the making.” He gives me a wink and heads off, leaving me with a mix of emotions and thoughts. I hate it when my thoughts and emotions are mixed.

  I down one of the tequila shots I’m still holding, hoping the booze will un-mix things. It doesn’t take effect quickly enough and I find myself considering Doc’s words.

  The truth is, I want a woman like the one she described. I want the kind of life I could build with someone like that. Imagine if I didn’t have to shell out money for parties like this, just to keep up appearances. Imagine if I could let the Hollywood bullshit go. Let the rivalry with West go. (Though, let’s be honest, I’ll never not hate that guy.)

  This yacht, these people, even myself right now. We aren’t real. We might as well be wandering around in motion capture suits in front of a green screen for all the artificiality on display. I’m not even really a Hollywood celebrity. I’m an actor playing the part of a Hollywood celebrity. All the people here play along because that’s their job.

  The woman in the boat is reality. She lives a gritty documentary life compared to my bloated, tent-pole fantasy film fiasco.

  I suddenly imagine that I’m not on this yacht, but on the boat with that woman. Woman. Not a girl. Definitely not a ‘chick’. A real woman. I picture the two of us weathering a storm on that tiny boat, struggling to keep the ship from tipping over, holding on to each other to keep ourselves from going overboard. I imagine the aftermath. The two of us sopping wet. Holding one another. I imagine the kiss. It’s mature, experienced –

  “Hey handsome.”

  My fantasy is interrupted by the return of Yvonne D’Mica and her itsy-bitsy bikini. Yvonne is the text-book definition of male fantasy. Most men would kill for thirty seconds with her. So why am I thinking about grabbing a dingy and paddling for dear life after that other woman?

  Yvonne drapes her arms around me and presses her breasts against my chest. “I was all alone down there for so long,” she says. Then she whispers in my ear, “I was getting myself all prepared for you…”

  “Yeah,” I say, “there was a bit of an emergency.”

  “I saw. Watching you play the hero got me even more ready.” To make her point, she puts one of my hands between her legs. Then she takes my other hand and leads me to one of the cabins below-deck.

  I’ve barely shut the door before Yvonne is licking and nibbling my ear. Her breath is hot against my neck. She’s already got my fly undone and a hand down the front of my pants. There’s something about the young ladies today – maybe it’s too much internet porn – but foreplay seems to be a lost art.

  I imagine the girl back on the boat appreciates that the build-up is as important as the pay-off.

  I’m still a virile man, however, and my body knows a good thing when it’s got one. Yvonne’s fingers find I’m more than interested in where this is going. She gives a sexy laugh, pleased with herself, seductively biting her lips.

  Then she throws herself against me, slamming me back against the wall. Our mouths crush against each other, h
er tongue deep in my mouth, letting me know how badly she wants me. I respond in kind and try to give over to the carnality of the moment.

  We pause our fervent kissing to catch a quick breath. “I want to be a star so bad, Hank,” she says, taking a few steps away from me. In one quick move she lets her bikini top slip to the floor, revealing breasts crafted to perfection by some talented plastic surgeon. “Do you think I’ve got what it takes?” she asks.

  My desire suddenly wanes. I can’t believe I’m here again. I don’t flatter myself that a girl like Yvonne is necessarily interested in me for my brains or my heart or, whatever, my political opinions. But to have her motives laid literally bare like this makes me go cold inside.

  Her thong joins the other half of the bikini on the floor. She crawls onto the bed, her ass high in the air, giving me a full glimpse of everything else she’s offering me, as well. She glances over her shoulder, looking at my unzipped fly with appreciation for what it reveals. “That harpy in the canoe must’ve been out of her mind turning you away.”

  I’m as surprised as Yvonne is by what happens next. I turn away from her and march out of the cabin, slamming the door shut behind me. In some sort of hot daze, I race up the stairs back to the deck where the sun, sea air and music start to bring me back to my senses.

  “That was fast.”

  I look to my right. Doc stands there, the girl from a few minutes ago now in his arms and nuzzling his neck. He gives a quick chin nod toward my groin. My pants are still wide open, though any excitement that lay beneath is long gone. I zip up. I avoid the knowing look in Doc’s eyes and make my way to the ship’s rail instead.

  Leaning on it, I take a deep breath of the salty sea air. I want to blame Doc for planting the seed that’s now growing into a full fucking redwood in my mind. But the truth is, I’ve been feeling this lack for a long time.

  The lack of someone who’s a challenge. The lack of someone who challenges me.