Under the hot spray of the shower, I allow myself to wonder if I am socially inept. Have I become rusty when it comes to simple conversations? I cannot get Arlen to say anything I need him to say. I thought I was so good at getting what I wanted from people. But my only experience is from work when we're doing a show. Has everyone just been kissing my ass all these years, playing the game to get a part, a script, a credit? Have they all been playing me as much as I've been playing them?
No, I decide, turning off the shower. I am the ultimate player. After all, I always manage to elicit what the show needs so everyone shines.
But Arlen's not playing.
And that's the problem.
I've got to switch gears. I've got to get real, get into his head, and get him to play Sam.
As I get dressed and slip into my Classic Chuck Taylors, I remember that once upon a time I used to have friends. And it wasn't even hard. So I can do this. Totally. I can talk to Arlen on a person-to-person level. I've done it before.
I bound into the kitchen knowing exactly what to do—but I stop short. A pot of coffee has just finished brewing. I walk toward it cautiously, as though it might heckle me. Arlen must have done it. Arlen Black came into my kitchen while I was in the shower and put on a pot of coffee. That's weird, right? Odd in a way that makes me feel shivery. Arlen was in my kitchen making a pot of coffee while I was in the shower thinking about him. There is just something so sexy about that. “Oh, Sam,” I sigh on a whisper as I take two mugs out of the cupboard.
In a few minutes, I'm climbing out of my upstairs office window and onto the living room roof.
“Careful,” Arlen says without looking up from what he's doing, peeling away and stacking roof tiles. “Standing too hard on the tiles will break them.”
Standing? Too hard? What am I? An elephant? I mean, I know I'm no skinny Minnie, but he's got to outweigh me by at least 40 pounds. Right? Still, I watch my footing as I step gingerly across the curving terra cotta tiles. “Want some?” I hold out a mug of coffee.
Arlen stops working and looks up at me. “I made it for you. So you could be on your way that much faster.”
“Thanks,” I say, holding my ground. “But I am capable of sharing, you know.”
He looks out over the canyon for a few seconds. Then standing up, he turns to face me.
“It has a spill-proof lid and everything,” I cajole.
He actually lets slip a smile. “Thank you,” he says, accepting the mug. “Does this mean I'm going to have to write you a note for being late?” But then he stops talking and quickly takes a sip, as if he just told me something that was supposed to stay secret.
My heart kicks up a notch and I would have done a jig for joy if not for the tiles. Arlen cracked open, if just a bit. Not that I know what it means. But finally, I'm getting somewhere. His allusion to childhood protocol gives me the keycard I need to start snooping in earnest.
“What do you know about late notes?” I ask, and I see a flicker of … something ... in his eyes. “I mean,” I forge on, “you seem pretty punctual. I bet Mrs. Black didn't have to write you too many notes.”
“Mizz.”
“'Scuse me?” I say, my coffee mug halfway to my lips.
“Mizz,” Arlen repeats. “My mother's name is Ms. Black. Abigail, to be precise. And she wouldn't like you calling her Mrs.”
“I'm sorry,” I say softly, sincerely. Even though I am absolutely giddy that he is talking to me about his mom. “I shouldn't have assumed she was married. How old were you when your parents got divorced?”
He looks at me over the rim of his mug. “She was never married.”
“So it was just you and your mom? That must have been tough.”
He slides me a look. “Did you seriously just say, a few seconds ago, something about how you shouldn't have assumed?”
“Hey! I'm just trying to have a conversation.”
“Is that what you're doing?” he asks. “You kind of suck at it.”
I open my mouth to protest, but change my mind. “Maybe I do,” I admit with a hint of a smile. “Help me out?”
He stands there looking at me, then he kind of smiles back. “So, Arlen,” he says, “tell me about your mom.”
“So, Arlen,” I repeat with a toothy grin, “tell me about your mom.”
“She's an entomologist,” he answers. “And my dad is a moderately successful painter. We all lived together and everything—a pretty happy family. They just never got married.”
“Are they still together?”
“They broke up when I was in college.”
“Oh. I'm sorry.” My own parents irk me to no end, but what would life be like if they split up? It's just inconceivable.
“They still date,” he says.
“Come on,” I say. “That's one heck of a colorful story. And you're getting on my case for not seeing how it all played out?”
“There's more in heaven and earth, Horatio.”
Okay, that hurt. I'm a writer, for Pete's sake, and Arlen just called me out on my lackluster imagination. By kind of quoting Shakespeare. And I walked right into it, damn it!
“Well,” I say, “people tend to be much more mundane in their predictability. At least in my experience.”
“Maybe you're hanging out with the wrong people,” Arlen suggests.
That makes me laugh. Arlen Black, another person in my life telling me I've got it all wrong. “And who should I be hanging out with?” I ask. “You?”
Arlen pulls back. “No, definitely not me. I've got your decrepit house to fix. Now, go to work and let me do my job.”
“Okay,” I say on a laugh and get up. “But let me just make sure I've got this story straight. You have your mom's last name. Not your dad's.”
He spears me with a look so quick I wonder if I really saw it, like a flash of a mermaid in the choppy wake of a boat.
“His last name is Schrempf. Paul Schrempf. I've always considered myself kind of lucky.”
I can't suppress a laugh at that. Neither can he.
“Besides,” he continues, “my mom would be damned before a child she carried for nine months had anyone's name but hers.”
“Good for her,” I cheer, and raise my mug to Abigail Black in salute. “I've got to get to the studio,” I say. I climb through the window, then turn back to him. I don't want to leave, but I know that retreat at this point is the best tactical move. There's only so much I can accomplish on the roof before breakfast. “Thanks for the coffee,” I say as I hustle back into the house.
“Sure,” he says, putting down the mug and getting back to work.
I head out to the garage, climb into my car, and go. When I pull onto the 101 five minutes later, I step on the brakes. The usual morning traffic. What the hell? Why did I get on the freeway? I never take the freeway during rush hour. I know all the surface street alternate routes and use them liberally. Now I'm stuck in this crawl until the next damn exit.
Arlen Black. That man is seriously messing with my grasp on … well, everything. Why couldn't my perfect Sam have been an out-of-work actor desperate for a big break on a TV show? Why? You could throw a handful of pebbles in Los Angeles and hit about ten actors looking for their big break. But Arlen Black is such a cool customer I cannot imagine him desperate for anything. Damn him! Why can't he just want to play Sam? I breathe deeply and try to center myself. I have an entire day ahead of me of contracts, permits, and rewrites. I'll deal with Arlen later.
When I finally glide into the office, I skate by Ray as though everything is under control.
“Lola,” he greets. He waits until I cruise past his desk to jump up and follow in my wake.
“Ray,” I call, as if he's still sitting at his desk and not dogging my heels. I just know he's about to shower me with troubles and questions, as if he has a bottomless quiver of arrows. I take a seat behind my desk and pull my chair in sharply, ready to face the day. But as soon as my butt settles into my gorgeously comfortable desk chair
, the headache lands with a decisive throb behind my eyes. Damn! I smile up at Ray as he stands about to launch into some theatrical tirade. I freeze his pose with one index finger held aloft. I swivel to the small refrigerator behind my desk, grab a cold bottle of water, turn back to my desk, and wrench open the top drawer. I am just tapping three Advil into one palm when I say, “Yes, Ray?”
He slaps a stack of papers onto my desk with a flourish. “Arlen Black's contract,” he says. “Notice how it's not signed yet?”
I shuffle through the sheaf. “What do you know.”
“Lola.” Ray goes to the office door, closes it, and comes back to my desk. “We have to talk.”
I take three slugs of water to wash down the Advil. “No, we don't.”
“Yes, we do,” he insists in a harsh whisper. In a wink, he's sitting in the chair on the other side of my desk and pulling it in close. “I've been keeping my mouth shut since I got back from the dentist two days ago to find that everything was suddenly inside-out. Why? Because you are the great Lola Scott and all will become clear? No. Because I truly believe there's a method to your madness? No. Because if you get fired I get fired? YES.”
“Ray—”
“Shut up, Lola!”
What the hell? Ray is yelling at me? But I do not say anything. Because he is Ray and he has not ratted me out. I close my mouth and sit up straight to let him know that I'm listening to whatever abuse he has to fling my way.
He leans across my desk. “Did you or did you not convince Tom Glenn that Arlen Black is going to be Sam?”
“Yes, I did,” I answer.
“And Tom doesn't know that Arlen is actually a handyman.”
“Right.”
“And Arlen doesn't know that he's Sam.”
“Right.”
“STILL?!?!?” Ray shoots up from the chair and starts pacing maniacally around the office. He claws at his hair and breathes deeply and loudly.
Just then the door flies open and Tom Glenn breezes in. “Good morn—” He stops mid-stride when he sees Ray. “What's wrong with you?”
Ray turns, hands still clutching his hair.
“What's going on?” Tom looks to me then back to Ray. “You look seriously spooked.”
“It's just too embarrassing,” Ray squeaks out.
My heart drops to my shoes.
“Lola ...” Ray splutters. “Lola just told me what she's thinking of wearing to the Upfronts next month. In New York.”
Tom's Colgate smile returns, “Well, I know you'll make sure she looks presentable,” he tells Ray. Back to me. “So, Lola, let's talk about Arlen Black.”
Ray stands stiff as a toy soldier just behind Tom's right shoulder.
“Okay,” I say innocently. My insouciance throws Tom a hair off his game.
“Well, uh, for one thing, the contract isn't signed.” He huffs in a big breath and gains momentum. “And Ray tells me he can't get a hold of Black's agent!”
“Well,” I confess, smiling sheepishly, “I kind of discovered him. He doesn't even have an agent.”
“No agent?” Tom's eyes light up like a dragon's when he's just spotted the sacrificial virgin chained to the rock. “Well, get him in here! Let's get the contract signed.”
“Can't,” I say, twisting my mouth into chagrin. “He's in Vancouver this week. Shooting pick-ups.”
“Shooting pick-ups?” Tom echoes. “He's in a movie? I thought you said you discovered him.”
I see Ray wince.
“Well,” I explain. “I discovered him in America.”
Ray's face gets more contorted but I forge on.
“And this movie,” I say, “who knows if it'll ever see the light of day.”
“But does he have his SAG card yet?” Tom asks. “That makes a big difference in the contract.”
“No, no. No SAG card. He's not in the union yet. This isn't even a speaking part.”
Tom furrows his brow. “But he has to go back up to Canada for pick ups? When he's just an extra?”
Jesus, why does Tom Glenn have to be paying attention today of all days?! But I stick with my story.
“He's not an extra,” I insist. “His role is central to the plot.”
“But it's not a speaking part?”
“Right,” I say. “It's … well, it's … a Sasquatch movie. He plays Sasquatch.”
“Sasquatch?” Tom squawks. “You mean Wendy Hunter's new leading man is Bigfoot? You paired America's Sweetheart with Bigfoot?!”
My heart thumps as Tom turns purple. “It's really a sweet story,” I assure him. “Bigfoot, in love from afar, with uh … an ice skater.”
“An ice skater?!”
“Yes,” I say. “She skates on this frozen lake every day and he watches her, and then one day she falls through the ice—”
“Ray,” Tom barks. “Go look up this Canadian Sasquatch ice skating project on iMDB. Let's see how screwed we are and if we can possibly kill this thing.”
“We don't need to kill it, Tom,” I interject. “I've already spoken to Arlen about playing the part uncredited. Lends such a mysterious finesse to the project. And the producers jumped on board with the idea.”
“Oh,” Tom said. “You're sure this won't leak out?”
“I'm sure. But it will if suddenly the Hollywood Reporter is asking why Tom Glenn is killing some Canadian indie movie.”
“Mmm,” he said, considering. “Here's what we'll do. Nothing for now, but get Arlen to sign the second he gets back to Cali.”
Cali?
“Good plan!” I beam at him. “I'll get right on it.”
“Good.”
The moment the door slams, Ray turns on me. “CANADIAN BIGFOOT ICE SKATING MOVIE?!”
Chapter 16
LOLA
I speed through the gate at the bottom of my driveway, ready to tackle Arlen. The guy'll be exhausted after a hard day's gritty labor in the sun, making him more vulnerable to my machinations. He might even be something close to relaxed. His shields will be on half power, and I might be able to wedge in far enough to make him see just how playing Sam could be the best thing that ever happened to him.
I stop beside his truck and cut the Tesla's engine. Right on cue, my quarry steps out of the garage looking all dust-on-dried-sweat and deliciously better for the wear and tear. I'm not an idiot—I recognize the bolt of bone-melting lust that shoots through me. I'm feeling positively molten, and this is exactly what I want.
Mmmm-mmm.
This man is Sam! That's all my sizzling desire means.
Sucking in a breath, I slide out of the car, grabbing the two white paper bags on the seat next to me.
“I brought dinner,” I call to Arlen, holding the bags aloft. I force myself to remain still as he walks up to me, eyeing me warily. Maybe he won't want to stay. Maybe he can't. Why the hell didn't Ray find out anything about this guy? Who, in this day and age, isn't all over social media? He didn't even seem to have as much as a parking ticket to his name. God, I feel so damn tired. Why is this guy such a hard nut to crack? I smile at him, channeling the day's weariness into my face, trying my best to look as innocuous as all get-out.
He gives me an easy smile in return. “Where do we eat?”
A few minutes later we're settled at the antique wooden farmer's table under the flowery pergola on the side patio. I look out over the brushy canyon dotted with pastel houses as I start delving into the bags. “Deli sandwiches a mile high,” I say. “Either brisket or turkey. Potato pancakes, chicken soup, pickles—”
“Lola,” Arlen says. “This spread could feed a small army.”
“I just wanted to make sure I got some stuff you liked.”
“Why?” he asks, claiming the brisket.
“Because.” I totally concentrate on unwrapping the turkey.
“I mean it,” he says, opening one of the Coronas I brought out from the house. “Why did you bring me dinner? Why are you here when you said you wouldn't be?”
“I—” I know I have to t
iptoe with some finesse. “I wanted to pay you back for this morning.”
“All I did was make a pot of coffee. And it was your pot. And your coffee.”
“But it was very nice of you,” I point out.
“Worthy of a feast?”
I sit back and cast my eyes down. “Does seeing me really bother you that much?”
Arlen sinks his teeth into his sandwich. A minute later, he answers. “No.” He pauses. “No. But I've worked out a schedule and I want to stick to it. The fewer distractions, the better.”
I bite into a pickle. “Hmpf.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I thought contractors like to make jobs drag.”
“Not me.” He continues eating. “And I'm not a contractor. I'm a handyman who works for Jim.”
I stare at him, watching his throat bob as he eats. Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam. To distract myself, I grab the potato salad and shovel a forkful into my mouth. Damn! I do not like potato salad. “So,” I say, still reeling from the taste, “when will you be done?”
“July tenth, absolute latest.”
Perfect. He will be here during the filming time frame of the pilot. He's mine to use if he lets me.
“Why July tenth?”
“My kids get here the twelfth.”
I swallow my mouthful of turkey sandwich way too soon but force myself to snuff out any choking sounds. This makes my throat really hurt. “Kids?”
“Yes.”
I take a drink, trying to soothe my voice. “You have kids? Are you married? Divorced? Do they live with their mom?”
“They arrive from Tacoma in July,” he explains. “They spend a month with me in the summer.”
Nice non-answer. But I don't blame him. Being divorced has to suck.
“Hey,” I chirp, as though I just thought of it. “When I asked you to play Sam, you said you didn't need any more money.”
Queen of the Universe (In Love in the Limelight Book 2) Page 5
