by P. Dangelico
“I do.”
The hell if I know where that came from. To cover up my extreme lack of control over the crap that comes out of my mouth, I do my best to look bored. He, on the other hand, looks like a guy caught surfing porn at work, wide-eyed and frozen. “I’m kidding. Get real, Vaughn. Not if we were the last two people on a deserted island and I was in dire need of a meal.”
That snaps him out of his frozen state, his lips gently turning up. “You wouldn’t eat me if the alternative was starving to death?”
Clearly it’s his turn to act like an ass. “I’d rather chew my arm off.”
His phone rings. He glances at the screen, and grimaces. Smoothing his tie, he clicks it off. “I’ve seen the way you eat, Jones, and I say you last one day before you start eating me.”
I can feel the heat blast up my neck. So I have an appetite, so what. This mouth needs fuel to operate. Meanwhile, his attempt to tamp down his amusement at my reaction is poor at best. His eyes betray him, turning into half moons even though his mouth stays firmly in a straight line.
“You’ve been watching me? What a creeper. The peeping Tom thing makes sense now.”
His reaction is swift. Gone is the amusement at my expense. Gone is the cocky half smile––sliding right off his face and onto mine. Pink blooms on his high cheekbones. He clears his throat and rocks his chair back.
“I…umm…” He scowls.
“Relax. I’m messing with you, counselor.” I walk over and take a seat directly in front of his desk. My eyes are immediately on the move, perusing the room, anything to avoid eye contact. The intensity of his stares have tripled overnight and it’s making me jumpy.
“So this is where you do your Jerry McGuire thing.” The office is spars, the colors muted, the furnishings simple. “Not what I expected.”
I can tell from the periphery of my vision he has yet to take his eyes off of me. “Jerry McGuire is an agent,” he says as he stretches his neck left and right. I’m also pretty sure he just puffed out his chest. What’s gotten into him?
“I’m a licensed agent and a business manager. Not only is my job more comprehensive, it’s also much more demanding.”
Commercial break for an exaggerated eye roll.
The desk phone flashes. He answers. “June, hold all my calls…yes, all of them…I don’t care who, all of them.” He hangs up. “What did you expect?” he asks, his voice softer this time.
“I don’t know…something a little fancier maybe.”
“I’m rarely here.” He leans back in his chair and laces his hands behind his head. His tailored white shirt clings to his chest. The one I know is all cut muscle under fine cotton. It demands attention and I hand mine over willingly. Until he coughs.
My eyes crawl back up to his face. “Too busy partying on yachts with superstars and strippers?” The glare I receive in response is positively nasty. “What? I watch Ballers.”
“That’s Hollywood, Jones. I live in the real world, where an important part of my job is teaching my young guys how to be responsible with their money.” He has yet to take his eyes off of me. “Can’t do that effectively if I blow mine on things like exorbitant rent.”
“Solid point,” I answer, even though I stopped listening at ‘blow’. What is he doing with his eyes? This is not a figment of my overactive imagination. He is definitely acting strange today. “Are you feeling okay?”
He looks momentarily confused. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”
Cuz you’re acting like a nut job. “No reason. Where’s your buddy? Let’s get this party started.”
“Down the hall.” He dials the phone and says, “Ready whenever you are.”
A few minutes later a guy around Fancy’s age walks in holding a file. Equally fit, he’s a bit shorter than Fancy and a hundred times more jovial. The devilish smirk he wears seems to be permanent. We get up and he walks over, an extended hand leading.
“David Pitt, nice to meet you.” His grip is firm and dry. I like him instantly.
“Any relation?”
Pitt’s smirk widens into a mischievous grin. “Only if it’ll get me a date.”
“Cheeky. I like him.”
“Dave.” The warning comes sharp and fast. I look over and find Fancy Pants scowling, hands on his hips and the set of his shoulders rigid.
Turning back to Pitt, I say, “He’s no fun.”
Pitt looks over at his friend. “I like her.”
“You don’t have to like her, you have to get her out of these bullshit charges,” he grounds out. We all pause at the noticeable anger unpinning his voice. Realizing his error, Vaughn brushes his face with his palm. “You know what I mean.”
Pitt’s focus returns to me, his face tight in an effort to hamper his amusement. “I looked at the case file. It shouldn’t be too difficult. First and foremost time is our friend. We want cooler heads to prevail. And if we put enough time and distance between us and the event, we may have a shot at getting the charges dropped altogether.”
Hallefreakinluiah.
“I’m sure Ethan has instructed you not to contact Gregory in any way. That’s my job. Let me be the liaison.”
I nod in agreement. That will not be a struggle. Quite frankly, I don’t entirely trust myself. If I were to lay eyes on the p.o.s. ever again, I could very well find myself indicted of first degree murder. With cause, this time.
“Should I block him?”
“No. Leave it alone. We don’t want to inflame the situation. Don’t answer if he contacts you. The first hearing is scheduled for the beginning of February but I’m going to ask for a postponement. I don’t need to remind you not to leave the state, do I? Ethan would forfeit his bail money and you would be sent back to prison.”
My gaze immediately snaps to Vaughn, and finds him shaking his head. “Calvin’s money.”
“My grandmother is in assisted living in New Jersey. I need to see her.”
“Tri-state is fine,” Pitt tells me. “I’ll get a note to the judge if you provide an address.”
Fifteen minutes later, after we’ve hammered out schedules and agreed on dates for our next meetings, the three of us walk out of the Vaughn’s office and into the hallway––smack dab into drama.
Female voices arguing in the reception area cause the three of us to turn. A busty blonde holding two bags from BLT Steak is head wagging at Andromeda who’s bearing down at her with an expression that can only be described as sexy boredom.
A quick glance at Fancy’s face tells me this is another dedicated member of the pussy parade. Really? Does this guy’s dick have a vibrate button?
The expression he’s wearing is so tragic I almost feel bad for him…almost…maybe a little bit.
“Isn’t that––” Pitt says absently.
“The paralegal we fired.”
“The one that you––”
I don’t miss the slight widening of the eyes and the stiff shake of Vaughn’s head, all of it directed furtively at his business partner over my head.
Maybe not. And by the looks of it, he already has pube fleas.
Chapter Seven
The next day I head to midtown, to the offices of Glaser Talent Agency to meet with the man that has been not only a steadfast supporter of my career the last eight arduous years, but also a good friend. The building is sandwiched between a florist and a deli on a busy street off Broadway.
Marty is old school. He’s still in the small space he started in forty years ago, refusing to move to a better location when his business took off because he feared it would be ‘bad luck’.
“What’s up, kid,” the man in question says from behind his cramped desk in his equally cramped office. The familiar smell of pastrami and the sound of the lunch rush drift up from the deli below. I walk in and throw myself down on the old leather chair in front of his metal desk as I always do––seems to be a ritual with us, slip off my beanie and mittens, and place my motorcycle boots on the corner of his desk. He pushes them off, also part
of the ritual.
“What’s up, my dear Martin, is that you left a particularly depressing bit of news on my voicemail the day before New Year’s.”
“I was in Florida. I thought you’d want to know.”
“I was so sure I had it,” I admit, exhaling my frustration. Shafted once again after my third call back. I lost out on a supporting role on a time travel series that was written by a best selling romance author.
Long story short, Camilla had managed to get me an audition. It turns out the author happens to be Mercedes’ daughter’s best friend––Mercedes being Calvin’s estate manager of sorts. I say of sorts because Cal and Cam considered her family. At any rate, I got an audition. I even flew out to L.A. to meet with the producers on the third call back. To get so close and come away a loser was a blow of epic proportions.
“Sorry, kid. The network wanted a known commodity. They went with a household name.” He fiddles with his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, not being famous is often the biggest obstacle to becoming famous. “Look, it’s time for you to make a change. I could have five auditions lined up for you in L.A. this week alone.”
As I start to argue, he cuts me off. “You can’t keep putting your life on hold for your grandmother. I hate to say it, but she could be in a bad way for a very long time and you’re not getting any younger. It’s the nature of the business.”
He’s right. Except my grandmother is no longer the only thing keeping me from moving to Los Angeles. Lips curling around my teeth, I cringe as I give him the bad news. “I can’t leave the state of New York for at least the next three months and it has nothing to do with my grandmother.”
“You’re not making any sense, kid.”
“Let’s just say that after I got your message, the shit hit the fan.”
One Maple is the hot spot in Manhattan, an upscale lounge that’s a perfect blend of uptown sophistication and downtown trendiness. Our regulars mainly consist of music industry moguls and professional athletes, your occasional film and television star. And then there’s the common folk. And when I say common, I mean the Wall Street millionaires that are about as common in this city as the jumbo sized rats.
It’s my third night back to work since that unfortunate event as I like to call it, and the week already feels twice as long. It’s not even midnight yet and my feet are already aching. Lately I find myself wondering if it’s time to hang up the bartending towel. By the look of my feet, which at present resemble pink sausages stuffed into casing that’s too small, I can’t help but think that maybe I’m getting too old for this. I’ve worked for this restaurant group for years, and although there was a time when this job was a boatload of fun, lately the good times have waned and the jokes a little harder to muster up. Not to mention, the customers ruder.
“Hey, baby doll. I’m back.”
Case in point: rude customer numero uno. I can only assume this douchebag’s inability to understand that I will in fact never ever see his “crib” nor ride in his “whip” is due to either oxygen deprivation when he was being birthed, or one too many testosterone shots. Ignoring him, I go about business as usual. This bar is packed three rows deep with bodies and although I’m one of four bartenders on duty tonight we still have to hustle.
“Hey––Abby, hello.”
I’ve corrected him twice to no avail. Without a glance in his direction, I continue mixing two cosmos for a group of models sitting at the end of the bar with yet another Wall Streeter.
“Unfucking believable,” I hear him mutter to his equally rude friend. “How long you gonna continue ignoring me. Hey, I’m standing right here!”
“No shit,” I bark in exasperation. “Too bad you didn’t drip down your momma’s leg with the rest of your brothers and sisters.”
Nothing. It went right over his head. Explain to me how this guy is allowed to trade millions of dollars for his company. Turning away, I start on a large order for one of the VIP tables crowded with NY Gladiators. Their season came to an embarrassing end a couple of weeks ago thanks to the Seattle Seahawks. At least, that’s what Kevin, one of the other bartenders, whispered when they all filed in earlier. Kevin’s eyes meet mine. The universal signal for ‘get this jackass off my back’ is exchanged, and we switch places.
“That odious man is back. It’s like he gets off on upsetting me.”
I glance up into Sarah’s wide doe eyes, her full lips puckered. She’s been complaining about one of the players all night.
“Any news on the grant yet?” I don’t envy Sarah. If the life of an actress is tough, that of a documentary filmmaker is exponentially worse, the struggle real as she waits to hear if her funding is approved.
“No. Can somebody else take that table?” I glance around her, at the VIP table the Gladiators are occupying, the table that will without a doubt earn a hefty tip.
Sarah who graduated top of her class at NYU film school, brilliant documentary filmmaker Sarah, Sarah who looks like a Lilliputian sized Whitney Houston, barely five feet, happens to be as dumb as a bag of d…rocks when it comes to men. It’s usually an endless source of entertainment for me. Except for tonight. Tonight I do not possess the required patience to be amused. I raise an eyebrow. It’s either that, or stab myself in the eardrum so I don’t have to listen to another minute of this.
“He can’t be that bad.”
“He asked me if he could borrow my magic wand for his trip to Vegas. The time before he asked if I could take him to Middle Earth. It’s been shit like this all night,” she snaps, arching a well groomed brow at me.
“And you have no idea why?”
Her expression morphs from confusion to suspicion. She knows me too well. “What’s your point?”
“Have you looked in a mirror in the last decade? Put a freaking paper bag over your head if you don’t want the attention. Now go deliver these drinks to the table where that decidedly terrible man is sitting.”
“I miss having Camilla around to rein you in.”
“Shoo.” I wave. “Off with you. And don’t forget to shake that moneymaker. Mama needs the cash.” She gives me the stink eye over her shoulder and I laugh for the first time tonight.
The crowd parts and I’m greeted by a pair of friendly dimples. Longish, disheveled chestnut hair. Light brown eyes capable of casting a spell from across a room. Not on me, of course. I’m immune to such nonsense. I’m talking on the general female population. What started as the worst, most awkward date in the history of dates last summer on the Fourth of July has turned into a fantastic friendship.
Justin Harper, also known as Dimples, ranked fourth best wide receiver in the league last year. He caught 111 passes for 1,521 yards and 11 touchdowns.
Or so I’ve been repeatedly told.
Yawn. I am not a football fan. But seeing as my best friend is married to a player and my other dear friend is one, I make a real effort to pretend to be interested whenever the topic comes up.
Justin’s ready smile and easy swagger part the crowd at the bar without effort. “Hey there, sugar.” He pronounces the pet name with all the sarcasm in the world.
“What are you doing here, man candy?” Seems only right to return an equally offensive pet name. “Don’t you have curfew with a play-off game only a few days away?” He pushes past a few suits, takes a seat, and hands me a shopping bag. Peering in cautiously, I pull out an official Titans jersey with his name on the back in big block letters.
“I don’t know what to say.” My lips pull up into a creaky smile. Does he want me to wear this hideous thing? Awkward.
“You can say that you’ll wear it when you come to the game on Sunday.”
“Umm…”
“My sister’s still overseas. I won’t have any family there.”
Jeez Louize, why didn’t he just punch me in the tits? I rub the achy spot over my heart. His much older sister, a sergeant major in the army, is the only family Justin ever talks about. I suspect that the parts he hasn�
��t told me include a lot he’d rather forget.
“What about that accountant you were seeing?”
“Uhh, yeeeaaah, that’s over.”
The surprise is all over my face. And disappointment on his behalf. I thought Justin had met a good one, someone that was genuinely interested in him as a person and not all the jazz that goes hand in hand with dating a celebrity athlete.
“Since when?”
“Since I forgot to call her back and woke up in the middle of the night to find her standing at the foot of the bed, staring at me.”
“There’s no good explanation for that.”
“Not one.”
“Did you change the locks?”
“That same night––so you’ll do it. You’ll be cheering for Team Harper on Sunday.”
The big goofball tilts his head and bats his lashes a few hundred times. “Watch this––” he says, “BAM.” Then he smiles, showing off his dimples. I reluctantly smile back. Such a goofball.
“If somebody’s gotta cheer your lazy ass on, it might as well be me.”
“I knew I could count on you, Jo.” He thumps the bar with a loose fist and slides off his stool. A pretty redhead backs up, bumping into Justin’s side––not at all by accident––then gazes over her shoulder with a huge smile that Dimples, ever the southern gentleman, returns with not one but two, “pardon ma’ams.”
Leaning over the bar, he places a quick kiss on my cheek and whispers, “Gotta go and get my beauty rest. This gorgeous face needs to be camera ready for national television on Sunday,” probably more for the sake of the redhead that’s still gobbling him up with her eyes than anything else. The redhead pouts and huffs and turns back to her friends.
“Yeah, yeah. Beat it. Some of us have to work for a living.”
Justin beams a bright smile at me. “Oh, hey––you never called me back on New Year’s?”
I splurge on a cab ride home even though I’m wearing a heavy down jacket, a hat, and gloves. It’s in the teens again, so cold my breath has mass. Los Angeles weather beckons me every time my body spasms from the frigid temperature. Around two am I trudge into the house and ascend the stairs as quietly as possible, tiptoeing down the hall. A slice of light bleeds out from under the closed door of Fancy’s bedroom. As soon as I walk past it, the light turns off. That’s the third time that’s happened this week. Does he have Spidey sense? I know I’m being quiet.
