“Thanks for letting me into your world. Hope to see you soon.”
Chapter Three
The next two weeks, I didn’t see him, or hear a single word from him.
Jenny was encouraging at first. “These Hollywood guys, everyone’s always busy. He’s probably working on so many projects right now, he can’t spare time for himself.” But I remembered not long ago how she’d told me these same Hollywood types would toss a girl to the side after using her, and I grew progressively more sullen over the days. Jenny stopped trying to encourage me, didn’t give me an “I-told-you-so-routine,” she just worked to distract me. She treated me to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which helped lift my spirits.
What didn’t help was when I got a message from Mythic stating that shooting would begin again a week from Friday. It had been over a week since the night I’d spent with Scott, and the prospect of seeing him again, having to wear that outfit in front everyone, was too much to handle. While a small part of me wanted to see him again, even if just in passing or in a professional setting, the rest of me was still hurt by his silence.
During this time I had gotten a job, working a few days a week at a frozen yogurt shop, Kiwi. The work was easy, just arranging toppings on one of our four flavors. If we got a rush it could be stressful having to deal with screaming children and uppity couples just looking for you to make a mistake. But I was making money and able to help Jenny out with the bills.
It was the day after I had gotten the message from Mythic. Business was steady, and I was busy filling out orders. Over the tables a TV was tuned to an entertainment news channel, dishing out the latest Hollywood gossip. I wasn’t paying much attention, the last I’d listened in they were following some new starlet on Venice Beach. I had just finished helping out a family of five when I heard Scott Rushmand’s name announced. I moved to the edge of the station, paying attention to the news. A pretty, black haired announcer in a professional gray suit was following the story.
“Famed Producer/Director Scott Rushmand, founder of Mythic Studios, might be in some trouble. Rushmand is at the heart of a new scandal involving an unknown woman.”
A picture of Scott came up behind the announcer, his crooked smile leering out of the set. My heart sank and my face grew hot with anger. He had gotten my hopes up that something more might happen between us, and in less than two weeks he was already messing around with some bimbo. It was exactly as Jenny had warned me. I imagined him whispering sweetly to a girl who looked strikingly like Cynthia, as he tied her to his bed and had his way with her. A masochistic part of me continued to watch the story played out.
“An unknown source posted a video onto a discussion board around 1:00am last night, and it was soon linked to from over two-hundred websites. In the leaked sex tape, Mr. Rushmand and the woman get into some raunchy S&M situations.”
A hollowness expanded like a sinkhole from the bottom of my stomach and the hair at the nape of my neck began to prickle. No. It was impossible!
A picture took over the screen and the ground fell out from under my feet. The image was surprisingly clear for a camcorder. A brown haired girl was kneeling in a doorway, illuminated from behind. She was wearing a gold thong with metal tassels and a burgundy ribbon top so shear they had censored her nipples. Her hands were raised above her head and she was looking directly into the camera. They were my own hazel eyes looking out at me.
The story was still going, but I wasn’t watching the TV anymore, I was looking around the shop, mortified, hoping not to be seen. None of the customers seemed to have been paying attention, but the other girl working the counter was looking directly at me. Her brown eyes were wide with shock.
“Is that-“
I didn’t bother to let her finish. I rushed into the back, throwing off my apron and grabbing my bag. I didn’t want to go back through the front, so I took the side door to the street. I don’t know how I got onto the right bus, but I did. I was paranoid, convinced that every passenger knew about the sex tape, that in an instant I would be recognized. I tried to make myself as small as possible against the plastic seat.
I made it to my stop without any issues. Walking to the apartment, the breeze playing against my skin, I began to relax. Maybe no one will notice, I thought to myself. These scandals they pop up and blow away, dozens of them in a week. And they may have my picture, but they don’t know who I am. I’m not famous so why bother following it up.
My delusions were dashed as I walked into the courtyard of the condo, which was filled with people. Cameras, recorders, notepads in every hand. A primpy blonde caught sight of me, and they all descended.
“Ms. Jane!”
“Ms. Jane can I get a statement?”
“Harold Tremont, Bloggertainment, can I-“
“Samantha how was it?”
“What’s with the costume?”
“How long have you known Scott Rushmand?”
Bulbs were flashing and their words were like a torrent crashing down on me. I forced my way through them, tears streaming down my face as I rushed up the stairs to Jenny’s apartment. I fumbled with the keys, dropping them. My mind blocked out the noise, the shouts, the lights, just concentrated on getting the key in the door. Just get inside, I told myself. It’s safe inside. The lock clicked and I slammed the door behind me.
Jenny was sitting on the couch, a confused expression on her face.
“What’s with the crowd out there? You’d think somebody had died.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She noticed the tears streaming down my face and crossed over to me.
“Sammy, what’s wrong?”
She grabbed onto my arms, and I tried to push past her, but she wouldn’t let me. I was shaking so hard I could barely control myself. Her face was tense with concern and worry.
“What’s going on? Are those people out there for you?”
Face hot and wet, something was welling up inside me. I heard myself start to yell, “I don’t want to talk-“ but was stopped short when my phone began to ring. I opened my bag and checked the number. It was a private number. On the third ring I answered.
“Who is this?”
A man sighed on the other end, a sigh very familiar, reaching out to me over the days of the last week.
“We need to talk.”
Chapter Four
I was half asleep when a knock came to the door of the guest bedroom. I had been dreaming, dreaming something wonderful. The larger picture, the context of everything escaped me. I turned over trying to trace the details in the cracks of the ceiling. There had been a large space, a field in the valley of a mountain. There had been a stream that ran from the mountain, small and clear. There were no trees but tall grass, and everything had a golden-green hue. Another image, another place and I was standing at the top of a parking structure, big and open. The sun shone white in a sky that arched down blue over everything. Someone had been there, a face I didn’t recognize but the presence felt old and familiar. Comforting. Everything detail spoke comfort to me and I sunk deeper into that warmth.
Another knock at the door and I was brought to the present: the stale odor of the lived in room and the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I turned over, facing the door, the side of my face pressed into the pillow. “Come in.”
I heard the door open and the steps of someone entering. There was no need to turn over and see who it was since no one had been in the apartment for days except Jenny and I. The springs of the mattress shifted as she sat down next to me. She was stroking the hair back from my face, just as my mother had when I was small and scared back in Elgin. While the biggest part of me was filled with fear and shame at the idea of my mother finding out about what was happening to me here in L.A., a small part wished she could be here right now to comfort me, make it all better. But Jenny had been doing a good job in making up for this absence.
I had spent the better part of the week locked away in the apartment, keeping to th
e dark of my closed-curtained bedroom. Though initially shook-up, Jenny had taken control of things quickly, keeping out the paparazzi, getting me to eat now and again, but mostly keeping me company.
Everyday after work she’d come in and would talk to me. Anything that crossed her mind, from the funny looking bus driver she’d seen three days ago to an anecdote from our days back in Elgin became the perfect topics of conversation. She’d distract me before mentioning a word about the scandal, and even then only to illustrate how it was diminishing. I ticked off in my head the bits of good news she had brought, markers of the time that had past: a day since the last reporter had left the apartment complex, two days since the scandal had faded into the background of the entertainment news, eight days since I’d run out of Kiwi, my world collapsing around me.
I sat up in bed, hugging my knees.
“What time is it?”
Jenny replied, “It’s just a little before eight.”
“I slept all day again?”
“No, it’s still morning. Thought you should have a good breakfast today, get out of your room like a normal person.”
“I don’t feel like a normal person.”
“I know, honey, that’s why I’m getting you up. Just sit on the couch and I’ll get everything ready.”
I gave a disgruntled sigh as I followed Jenny into the living room. Everything was bright and clean, all in direct opposition to my mood. I sat down as I’d been told, and Jenny brought a tall glass of orange juice.
“The citrus will perk you up, or at least it helps me. You want something nice and light or something that will fill you up and stick to your guts.”
“Neither sounds good to me, I’m not hungry. You can choose.”
She went to work in the kitchen, which soon emitted the sizzling and sweet smell of bacon. A gut buster of a meal, I thought. My stomach rumbled loudly, betraying my protests from before. In a few minutes Jenny was laying down a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast on the coffee table and she refilled my cup of juice. With little encouragement, I dug in. The meal was coarse and greasy, exactly what I needed. I was on my second piece of toast when Jenny finally spoke up.
“You never told me what happened between you and Scott Rushmand.”
I choked on the toast coughing. “I thought it was pretty clear from the news what happened between us. Told you more than I ever thought would be decent.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. He called you right after the story broke, and you’ve been moping around ever since. So what happened?”
I set down the food and took a long draw of juice.
“I told him to fuck off.”
“That’s it?”
“He said he wanted to talk, I told him to fuck off, then hung up. Simple as that.”
“I understand you’re being upset with him, but you two hadn’t talked for a week. Now you had the chance to, he was reaching out, and you kind of blew him off. You like him right?”
“Yes, I do, but that’s just it. It was at his convenience. He never called me at all until he saw the sex tape. It felt like business. He was only reaching out to me when it inconvenienced him. Before that there was no consideration for how I felt.”
I stopped at this point, realizing exactly how it was that I felt. I could feel my chest tightening and my eyes begin well with tears. I took a shaky breath, wiping the still forming tears.
“I just thought that there was something more, that I was special to him. I didn’t tell you this, but that night, when I went to the party, he was so kind. There was this girl, some model, who was treating me like absolute scum, like I was totally beneath her because I wasn’t well to do or an artist like the rest of them there. And he really stood up for me, knocked her down a peg. Everything that night, it felt like he had specifically chosen me, that I was something, then there was nothing. No calls, nothing. And when he finally did call I felt like I wasn’t a person, that I was just an issue he had to deal with. He didn’t deserve the chance to explain himself, for all I know, he was the one who leaked the tape.”
Jenny nodded her head.
“That’s really reasonable. It’s demeaning for him to treat you that way and you wouldn’t take it. It’s, well, it’s good to see you standing up for yourself. From everything you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like you’ve had the chance to do that for a long time.”
I smiled. Jenny went to clean up the kitchen and I finished my breakfast.
The landline rang and Jenny answered. After a short exchange she walked into the living room, handing me the phone.
“It’s for you.”
It was the young production assistant I’d met my first day at Mythic Studios.
“I was just calling to remind you we’ll be doing a shoot today in Studio B at noon.”
“Sounds pretty inconvenient calling up all the extras. Couldn’t you have just sent out an email?”
There was an uncomfortable, disgruntled pause on the other end of the line.
“We did. But Mr. Rushmand specifically asked that you be there today, Ms. Jane.”
“Oh, okay. Studio B you said?”
“At noon.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”
I handed the phone to Jenny, slumping back into the couch.
“Who was that?”
“The studio. Reminder of the shoot today. And Scott, sorry, ‘Mr. Rushmand’ has specifically asked that I show up.”
Jenny looked concern. “So, are you going?”
I rubbed my temples, trying to clear my thoughts. I shook my head, not liking my conclusion.
“I’ve got to go. I need the money more than ever right now.”
“What about the yogurt job? Seems like more steady work to me. And you don’t have to face that guy.”
I snorted. “They fired me. I walked out in the middle of a shift and had at least two no call no shows. Nope, I’ve got to go to the studio.”
“Well just be careful, alright. Don’t let them screw around with you.”
“Exactly. Its just work. Just show up, get it done, and go home. No fuss.”
Unfortunately, I felt my bravery give out as soon as I walked out the door. My whole commute, I felt like I was heading straight to the chopping block. I was afraid of how the other actors and crewmembers would treat me, look at me. I had this image in my head of myself standing under the lights, half-naked in the slave girl outfit again. I’m trying to do the scene, running through poses, serving guests, but off camera I can see all these people staring at me, whispering to each other behind their hands. But what scared me the most was how Scott might treat me. I was filled with such dread I couldn’t even imagine the how the scene would play out.
At the studio, I felt a small surge of relief getting into costume. Today we’d be shooting the scenes where Captain Malcolm meets with the Yusian resistance, which meant no slave girl costume for myself. All of us were given alien fatigues, dappled brown and green. My costumer from before helped me, the middle-aged woman, either out of ignorance or lack of care, making no mention of my recent scandal. We chatted and joked as she fitted me into my get up: a black turtleneck covered by a hooded poncho that belted at the waist, loose breeches that matched the poncho, brown leather gloves and buckled up calf-high boots.
After they applied makeup, splotches of brown for dirt and streaks of black for war paint, I got a good look of myself. Between the coarse cloth that kept the hair out of my eyes, the makeup, the get-up; I looked the part of a true guerilla freedom fighter. I looked hard, and it strengthened my outlook.
Each of us was equipped with props, an armory worth of guns, knives, swords, and sleek looking pieces of “alien technology”. I was outfitted with a long rifle that slung across my back and a foot long dagger that clipped to my belt. I pulled this out, surprised at the weight of it; though dulled, it was real. Even more surprising, it was intricately etched with swirls of silver inlay that caught the light nicely. I had expected we’d be carrying around foam
and wood mock-ups, but a lot of care had gone into giving the props a feel of reality. Having another look at my costume, I noticed the handiwork I had missed before, the effort that had been put in to make it look homespun. Up to this point, when I had looked in the mirror I had seen only me, but going back now I could see the character that would be on the screen. I felt much more immersed as a part of the film now than I had before.
They corralled the extras together, reminding us as we moved to the set that anyone seen playing around with the weapons would have them taken away and most likely kicked off the set. “What you’re holding is meant to look real and should be treated as such.” This brought a series of murmurs and laughter from the extras, which was extinguished by an awed silence as we entered the set.
His Dark Secret - Part 1 (Erotic Romance Serial Novel) Page 4
