by J. J. Bella
"Just what the hell is this?"
It was Jace.
Turning around, I saw that there was now a white splash of foam on the table in front of Jace, a disgusting little mess that his assistant next to him was frantically blotting up with little balled-up napkins. And rather than the men at the table looking at Jace, all of their eyes were on me. They knew whatever had happened, it was surely my fault.
"Is this fucking soy milk?" he demanded, pointing to the cup in front of him as though it were rancid, maggot-covered piece of meat. "I specifically said ‘almond.' Almond! I can't drink this!"
"Mr. Landau is highly sensitive to soy," said his assistant, still blotting up the mess.
"I can speak for myself, Antoine," said Jace, turning his eyes to me. "I'm very sensitive to soy."
"I'm-I'm sorry!" I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth.
"Didn't you hear me when I told you?" asked Jace, still shocked at the misfortune that had befallen him. "Or was that head of yours totally blank?"
I wanted to cry; I'd never felt more humiliated in my life.
"I can get you another one!" I said.
"Forget it," said Jace, holding his palm up theatrically and shaking his head. "I don't feel in the mood for coffee any longer."
I opened my mouth to say "sorry" once again, but before I could even get a word out, Mr. Cohn cut me off.
"Mia, get out of here. Now!"
I was happy to comply. I turned on my heels and rushed out of the office, tears streaming down my face. Once I reached my sorry little cubicle, which was nothing more than a three-walled partition with enough space for a computer and little else, I let the tears flow. I felt like I was in over my head, like I couldn't do anything right. After all, if I couldn't even take a drink order right, how was I supposed to do anything else in this industry?
"What's up, M?" asked Sophia, standing at the entrance to my cubicle.
"I fucked up," I said.
"I heard," said Sophia.
"What?" I asked. "How did you hear already?"
"I was near enough to the door to the office to hear that little primadonna freak out over his coffee," she said, stepping into my space and sitting on the small desk of cheap plastic.
"Ugh," I said, now feeling somehow ever more embarrassed than I had been. "Nice to know that not only did I screw up, I did it in front of an audience."
"Don't sweat it," said Sophia. "We've all made little fuck-ups like that. I got yelled at by Paul Giamatti for getting his sandwich with Swiss cheese instead of provolone."
"Really? What happened?"
"Nothing, just like what's gonna happen with you. This is a high-pressure industry, and people are just looking for excuses to blow their tops and let off some steam. Sucks that it's usually us little people that they take it out on, but at least we don't have to take it personally."
I was already feeling a little better. Sophia was calm and cool in a way that I could never be; nothing seemed to bother her, but her attitude had a way of rubbing off.
"Just think of it this way: the more you get yelled at by these jerks, the faster you get used to it. And the faster you toughen up, the faster you move up. This line of work has a way of filtering out the delicate little flowers, you know?"
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
Sophia's little pep talk was just what I needed; I still felt silly, but less like I wanted to run out of the office crying like a little girl who'd just stepped barefoot on a Lego.
"I think you need some motivation," she said. "Let's go have some rose; I've got something to show you."
With a smile, she stepped out of my cubicle and headed down the hall. The idea of drinking during the middle of the day seemed like a bad idea, but man, did it sound nice. I checked my phone and saw that it was about time for lunch, so I figured a quick glass couldn't hurt. Gathering my things, I headed out and caught up with Sophia. Ten minutes later, we were down at some trendy wine bar on the same block as our office building, a glass of pink wine in front of us as we sat out on the back patio.
"OK, so what's this motivation?" I asked.
Sophia smirked and slipped her iPad out of her bag.
"I just got some of the latest headshots of guys who're gonna be in some of the movies we're producing in the next few months."
She swiped her iPad on, and a few more swipes later, had the image of an absolutely gorgeous man with a hard-angled chin, shaggy brown hair, and a killer smile up on her screen.
"This is, um, Ken Worth, I think. Fucking stud, right?"
"Oh my God," totally," I said.
And he was; total California surfer look. Not my usual style, but hot-as-hell is hot-as-hell.
She swiped through some more pictures. Most were black and white eight-by-ten standard headshots, but some were more candid pictures of them at the beach, holding dogs, shots taken on vacations, even a few with friends.
"It's like Tinder except every guy is unbelievably gorgeous," she said, swiping picture after picture.
"So, how is this motivation?" I asked, taking a sip of my wine, my eyes locked on the procession of hotties.
"Because if you can stick it out, these are the guys who'll be after you," she said, continuing to swipe.
I blushed. "Oh, come on," I said. "Guys like this won't have anything to do with someone like me."
"Are you kidding?" asked Sophia, taking her eyes off the screen long enough to shoot me a disbelieving look. Mia, you're a fucking babe. You should be chewing these guys up and spitting them out."
"Stop it," I said, blushing somehow even harder.
"I'm serious," she said. "And what's worse is that you're one of those girls who thinks she's, like, a five-and-half when she's actually a nine."
"A what?"
"Every guy rates girls on a ten-to-one scale- all of them. Ten is the hottest of the hot, five is average, one is…um, well, someone really ugly. And girls like you think that they're lower on the scale than they actually are."
My face stayed that same deep red; I was never very good at getting compliments.
"Thanks", I said, sheepishly.
"I mean, if I were I guy I'd do ya," she said with a smirk before turning her attention back to the iPad.
"Oh, look at this one," she said, pulling up the photos of some generic-looking, square-jawed type.
She swiped through the pictures, stopping on one briefly of him standing with another man…another man who looked strangely familiar. The two were in tuxedos, their arms around each other's shoulders in some kind of manly camaraderie pose. I couldn't look closer from Sophia holding the pad close to her face.
"Hey, lemme see," I said.
Sophia pulled the pad away and threw a playful smirk my way.
"Why, see something you like?"
I had to take another look at the picture, to try and figure out who this man was. But before I could, a "ding" sounded from the pad.
"Shit," said Sophia. "Mr. Cohn's calling a staff meeting; looks like break time's over."
We downed the rest of our win in quick swigs, paid out bills and headed out. And the whole walk back, the fleeting image of the other man in the picture lingered in my mind, haunting my thoughts like a ghost from the past.
3
The morning breeze was pleasant and cool as I stood on the balcony of my West Village penthouse, my eyes on the stretch of city in front of me as I took a long sip of my coffee and considered the day ahead. A few meetings were here and there in my schedule, but nothing too pressing; my thoughts were on the projects that I had lined up in the next few months- a few more low-budget pictures that would result in a tidy profit if they performed as our market testing is indicating.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me out of my mental planning. I slipped it out, seeing that it was an unknown number. I normally wouldn't answer a call that I didn't already have in my phone, but my curiosity got the better of me.
"Liam Thorne," I said, my brow furrowing as I walked down the long stretch of my bal
cony.
"Liam! Liam, this is you?" came the voice on the other end of the phone, an eager male voice.
"Speaking," I said, now even more curious.
"Liam, this is Murray Rothbard- you remember me?"
I winced, realizing now why this number wasn't saved in my phone; I should've had it blocked, actually. Murray Rothbard was an…enthusiastic man. I'd worked with him on a production back when I was first getting my company established. He was a real mover and shaker in the New York film world but could run you ragged if you weren't careful. After spending a few months around him, I was almost ready to pack it in and try my hand at finance.
"Murray- good to hear from you," I said, turning my attention my to the interior of my apartment to see if my guests had gotten up yet.
"I've been looking over the returns for your last couple of pictures; I'm blown away! I can't believe what you've been making off these flicks! How do you do it?"
"Just intuition and a little luck, I suppose."
The production company that I'd founded years ago since moving to the city –Throne Pictures- had built a considerable reputation of taking chances on small pictures by unknown directors and screenwriters who the other major studios here in the city, and in LA, might otherwise pass on. Many of these scripts were fantastic- all they needed was someone to pick them up and provide them with a little bit of necessary funding. More than a few had gone to make much, much more than their budgets, which, as I said, meant plenty of money in my pocket. And it wasn't just the money that motivated me; being able to produce films that weren't the standard superhero tentpoles that the big studios were putting out provided me with some measures of creative satisfaction.
"'Luck'?" asked Murray, incredulous. "It takes more than luck to win the Palme d'Or, my friend."
He was referred to The Gold Thief, one of the more recent pictures I'd put out. An indie made by a director from Winnipeg who hadn't produced anything of this scale, it ended up making quite a splash, even winning the top prize at the Cannes Film Festival. There was even a little Oscar buzz.
"I'm assuming that you didn't call me to tell me how wonderful I am."
"Oh, please," said Murray. "I'm sure you've got all the girls you need to tell you that."
A little smirk formed on my face, and my eyes flicked back into the apartment.
"So, what's up?"
"I got a lead on a new project," he said.
"Oh?" I asked.
"Yep. Might be a little more of a challenge than you're used to, though."
I narrowed my eyes at this. Murray had a way with people, and knew just what to say to get them interested. In my case, he knew that appealing to my love of working in situations in which the odds weren't in my favor was the key to catching my ear.
"I mean," he continued, "unless you have anything more pressing going on."
"No," I said. "We've actually just put the finishing touches on the projects I've been working on; I've actually got nothing but housekeeping and organizing press junkets for the next month- nothing I can't have my subordinates handle."
"Excellent," he said. "Then it was meant to be!"
I held the phone back as he spoke; his thin voice could reach some high registers when he wanted it to.
"You know Jace Landau?" he asked.
"The Australian actor?" I asked. "Vaguely. Only enough to know his star has the potential to rise."
"Oh, more than rise!" said Murray. "They're thinking he might be the next Tom Cruise! Or Will Smith! Or whoever else is that famous!"
"Go on," I said, keeping in mind Murray's tendency to over exaggerate.
"Anyway, they're in talks with him over at Bronzeplate to produce his next picture. But I'm thinking you can use a little of that nest egg you've been saving up to snatch him and the script they've got right out from under them!"
"What's Jace got to do with this? Can't we just buy the script?"
"No dice," said Murray. "The scriptwriter…er, writers, are a finicky pair. Couple of brothers out of Chicago, I think. Everyone wants this damn script, so they know they're quite the bargaining position. And they want Jace. No one but Jace; they think he's their muse or some cockamamie horseshit, the only actor who can bring their precious words to life. Goddamn artists!"
I smirked. Wrangling artists was part of the process and one that I felt I was more than skilled at. You see, once you get past their high-strung temperament, you find that what they want deep-down more than anything is a strong hand to guide their process.
"So, we outbid Bronzeplate, get Jace on board, and make the movie. You think this is worth the hassle?" I asked, draining the last dregs of my coffee. "I mean, there's no short supply of up-and-coming screenwriters who'll do anything to get their work on the screen."
"You're right, but you want to play in the little leagues forever? You want to make Thorne Pictures one of the biggest names in the business, or do you want to keep gambling on these indie pictures? I mean, don't get me wrong kid, you've had a hell of a string of hits, but it's only a matter of time before you roll a few losers. You need the kind of security that these big pictures and big names can bring."
I wasn't all that keen on playing the big budget game, but Murray was right; the money I could make from making bigger, more mainstream pictures could provide me the financial buffer that I needed to keep putting out the small movies that I'd built my company on.
"So," I said, "if I were interested, and that's still an ‘if,' what would be the next move?"
I heard Murray say "yes!" under his breath.
"I can send you over the script. Take a look over it; I think you'll love it. And if you want to move forward, I can get you in on the bidding that's going to be taking place soon."
"Sounds good," I said. "Go ahead and email it to me; I'll clear my schedule and read it today."
"Perfect," he said. "And when this project takes your company up into the stratosphere, don't forget about your old pal Murray, eh?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said.
"Oh, and one more thing: you need to let me know by tonight. You wait too long, and this little opportunity is going to slip right through your fingers."
"Understood."
We said our goodbyes, and that was that.
I hung up the phone and slipped it back into my pocket. Walking over to the edge of my balcony, I rested my hands on the wooden railing and looked down over the sweep of the West village, the towers of the Financial District looming overhead. If this project was what Murray said it would be, then he was right- a high-profile picture with an up-and-coming star could greatly help in making Thorne Pictures even more than it already is. When I moved to the city to make my name, I wanted to have the biggest production company in the city by the time I turned forty. And here at thirty, things were already looking bright.
I stepped back into my apartment, poured myself another cup of coffee, and grabbed my laptop. But before I could head into my office to sit down with the script, a woman's voice spoke from behind me.
"There he is," she said.
Slightly surprised, I turned on my heels and was face-to-face with Emma Pacific, the…guest who I'd had over the previous night. Wearing nothing but my silk sheets wrapped around her lovely body, she gazed at me with a sly smile. Her red hair was tossed around her heart-shaped face in a very enticing manner, and it was clear that she wanted a repeat of the last night's…activities.
Emma was one of the latest ingénues on the scene here in New York. We'd met while working on her latest picture, The Crown Thief, and, well, we hit it off. My line of work brought me into plenty of young, beautiful women like her, and though I was in the business for other, more substantial reasons, I wouldn't pretend that my many nights with stars-in-the-making like her weren't a nice little perk of the job.
Unfortunately, there was too much work to be done. I'd need to spend the next few hours going over the script, and the rest of the day to really give it the consideration it likely needed. I had
to have a decision made by tonight, and I couldn't afford any distractions.
"Good morning, Emma," I said, eager to get to work.
"Morning," she said, walking towards me with slinky strides and slipping her arm around my shoulders.
The smell of sweat and sex lingered on her body as she moved in close to me. I could tell what she wanted, and she wasn't being subtle in the slightest about it.
"Hell of a night last night," she said.
"Indeed it was," I responded.
I stepped out of her grasp and positioned my body towards the hallway leading to my office.
"Unfortunately, I have a busy day ahead."
A girlish pout formed on her startlingly attractive features.
"Oh, boo," she said. “I was thinking that you, me, and Alexa could just spend the day in, really get in some good R&R, if you know what I mean."
Alexa? I thought.
And before I could say a word, a figure stepped out from my bedroom door down the hall. Wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of underwear, her long, shapely legs on full display, was Alexa Cooper, the other ingénue that I was lucky enough to spend the previous evening with.
"You manage to talk him into coming back to bed?" she asked, her blue eyes searching me up and down, her beautiful face framed by bright blonde hair draped onto her slim shoulders.
I'd completely forgotten that after our dinner on the town, Emma asked me if I might want a little more company when we arrived back at my place. I wasn't sure exactly what she had in mind, but I was more than pleased when I opened my front door and saw Alexa standing there. The events after that were beginning to come back, and the more primal part of me wanted nothing more than to take off my clothes and pass the afternoon with these two young beauties.
But there was just no time.
"Sorry, ladies," I said. "Just…no time."
I felt my will being sapped by the moment.
"Oh, that's too bad," said Emma. "If only there was something I could do to talk you into it."
With that, she let the blanket drop to the floor in a heap, her magnificent body now on full display. My eyes tracked across her body, moving from her full breasts to her flat, Pilates-toned stomach, to the small patch of red hair just above her sex. Alexa followed suit, pulling her t-shirt off and leaving her in nothing but a pair of very skimpy black panties.
