by Josie Brown
“Twelve. Here, let me show you, Mr. Godwin.”
Following her lead, he tried hard not to stare at her cute rounded behind, which was clad in Tommaso’s snug-fitting regulation khaki jeans. She was certainly a knockout in a town of knockouts. So what was she doing here? She was too good to be standing behind a gourmet grocery store’s cash register, in tears over some terrible slight.
More than likely it had to do with some boyfriend.
The bastard.
She stopped short so unexpectedly that he practically tripped over her—how he wished he had!—as she pointed to a wall of bins filled with bulk grains.
“How much would you like?” Waif tore a plastic bag from a roll. Then she took a dipper and scooped up some tiny purplish brown pellets out of some bin.
He looked down on what she was showing him.
He didn’t get it. “Teff—is this crap?”
I can’t believe that this is what Chastity is making such a big deal over. Damn, I do need to dump that girl…
Waif laughed. It was a sweet, husky chuckle that aroused him in a way he hadn’t felt since, well, since the first time he’d seen Chastity contort herself into a pada hastasana.
Or since he’d heard O, on the CD.
True lust.
“It’s Ethiopian. Very high in calcium. And phosphorus. In fact, 150 pellets weigh as much as a single grain of wheat. Talk about taking in your bulk at warp speed.” She spoke reverently, like a docent at the Getty rhapsodizing over Boudon’s bust of Marie-Sébastien-Charles-François Fontaine de Biré.
He, too, could have rhapsodized over a bust: hers, which was certainly healthy and somewhat perky—not that he wanted to stare at it, but that was necessary in order for him to read her shiny gold name tag:
Nina.
Muy apropiado.
She smiled up at him again, gloriously.
Is she flirting with me?
Alas, that fantasy was shelved, at least for a moment, when she queried, “A pound maybe?”
“Huh?” Suddenly he realized that she was asking him how much “bulk” he thought he needed. He could feel his ears getting hot.
Christ, she probably thinks I’m constipated or something! He groaned inwardly.
“Oh, um, nah! Not that much…say, um…a cup?” He gave a small laugh. “It’s not even for me…It’s for, uh, a friend.”
She nodded sympathetically (which he interpreted to mean, “They all say that”), scooped, weighed, and clipped his teff stash.
Just then, the thought hit him: Damn, does Chastity plan on us rolling and smoking this shit?
“Here you go, Mr. Godwin. Come on back with me and I’ll ring you right up. I’m sure you’ve got better places to be.”
She handed it to him and, for a brief moment, their hands touched.
He felt a hot pulse run up his spine. His heart was racing like a Harley going down Topanga Canyon at full throttle. Hell, in his world, he was surrounded by the most beautiful women on Earth—even Katerina McPherson—and he’d never had this kind of reaction before!
He wanted to say something to her—anything—but all he could do was mutter “Thanks—Nina.” Well, at least she’d see that he’d taken special note of her name, you know, that he was a friendly guy.
Suddenly it dawned on him that she, too, had called him by his name.
Twice.
And he wasn’t wearing any name tag.
So, who was she? Had he met her at some club? Or at some party?
More than likely she’d tried and failed to get past his assistant, Riley McNaught, to beg Sam to rep her.
Maybe she was pissed off about that, and now she was stalking him.
Would a woman do something like that? Stalk an agent who had scorned her?
Sure, if she were desperate enough, he reasoned.
And in Hollywood, every woman was desperate about something.
He stared at the back of her head as they made their way to her desk. Not once did she glance back, but glided as serenely as a princess until she was safely behind her counter again, where she tapped two register keys and murmured, “That will be $12.54.”
Jeez, for just a cup of this stuff? What, is it gold-plated?
Still, he handed over a twenty-dollar bill. When she handed back his change, he felt the same charge run through him as the first time they touched.
She must have felt something, too, because she moved her hand away from his—far away, in fact, putting it under the counter.
He couldn’t stand it anymore. Even if she wasn’t going to say anything, he had to.
“So, Nina, I’ve got to ask: Have we met somewhere?”
“No, not at all, Mr. Godwin.”
He had a hard time hiding his relief, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Then—then how did you know who I was?”
She blushed a deep scarlet, but this time her eyes did not turn away. “Well, you see, I read a lot of industry trade magazines. Hollywood Reporter. Variety. And Defamer.com, you know, online—”
He winced at that.
“—and I’ve seen your picture many times. And I know you represent—well, just about everyone who’s important—and, well…I was just wondering—”
Ha! There it was, he thought. She was looking for a break after all.
And, hell yeah, he was going to give it to her. (Come to Papa, come to Papa…)
“Sure, Nina.” He gave her his patented Sam Godwin eat-you-up-with-a-spoon grin. “Heck, you were my angel just now. So name it. What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering—” Her hand came out from underneath the counter. In it was a DVD and a head shot. He smiled knowingly, expectantly.
“—if you wouldn’t mind taking a look at my husband’s reel.”
Her husband’s reel.
“You—have a husband? But…just how old are you?”
Her smile faded just a bit. He wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn that those big beautiful brown eyes had clouded up again, just for a second.
Yep, there it was: desperation.
But for once in Sam’s life, watching the person he was dealing with become desperate—watching Nina’s desperation—wasn’t such great sport.
No, he couldn’t stand the thought of her being hurt at all.
“Twenty-four…” Her voice trailed off, as if it were a death sentence.
In Hollywood, it practically was.
Her eyes sought his, as if seeking his approval for being over twenty-one.
Legal, as it were.
Hell yeah. Thank God Nina was legal.
Down, tiger. She’s also married. Remember?
The whole thing was so bizarre: his falling hard for some little cashier; she being a mere baby—and a married babe at that!
He looked down at the DVD. Sure, he’d watch it.
Hey, how bad could it be?
He took it out of her hand and got stung again by the ice-cold heat of her touch.
It’s already bad enough, guy. She has a husband, remember?
As he watched the relief flow back into her face, and that angelic smile grace her lips once more on his behalf, he was convinced that his initial instincts were right:
That whoever the bastard was, he didn’t deserve her.
It wasn’t until Sam was halfway down Sunset that he realized he’d left the teff on the counter.
“Ooooh, I want you!”
Sam looked up to find Katerina McPherson—the most recent victor of GQ’s “Every Man’s Wet Dream” contest—standing in his doorway and salivating over what he was watching on his video monitor:
Nathan Harte’s reel.
Because Uma was in town, Quentin had skedaddled on time, leaving Sam with a few minutes to peruse the tape prior to Katerina’s traffic-stopping, fashionably late appearance in ICA’s offices. Looking at her now, he understood very well that it wasn’t just Katerina’s long, tousled tendrils that flowed down to the small of her back almost to her well-toned, sky-high
ass, or the long, come-hither lashes over those deep-set aquamarine eyes, or those exquisitely chiseled cheekbones that put a rocket in the average Joe’s pocket. Nor was it just the way in which her 37CC breasts were miraculously cantilevered, like the headlights on a vintage Jeep CJ-6, over that diminutive waist of hers.
Nope, it was none of that.
It was, however, the look on her face right now, that very moment, that bespoke the hidden desire of any man who saw it and eagerly read its openly blatant meaning:
“I could eat you up alive…and you’d love every moment of it.”
What was making her lick her collagen-plumped lips at that very moment was the tall, blond, and incredibly handsome Nathan Harte—all six-foot-two inches of him: broad chest, washboard abs, dimpled chin, curly locks—caught in a close-up as he emoted soulfully on a poorly lit set to a fidgety Betacam.
Which made Sam think: Imagine how millions of women would react to him in a film made by a real director, with a real script, and with a real budget!
Obviously he’d read Katerina’s mind. Hovering so close to him that he almost choked on her signature fragrance (Forbidden, by Kat, of course), Hollywood’s current princess said the one thing she needed to say to make it clear to Sam that her newest obsession—Nathan—should be his as well:
“He’d be just perfect for my project with Hugo, don’t you think?”
Why, of course he did, Sam assured her. It was almost as if she’d read his mind. However, it was still Hugo’s final decision, remember? And already Hugo had put out feelers to Russell and George and Brad and Matt, all of whom were chomping at the bit to costar opposite her—
Kat pursed her lips into that patented petulant pout that had been described by Esquire as “an instant erector set for big boys” and murmured, “But Hugo will do this for me, right? I mean, for the sake of the movie…”
To infer helplessness (an endeavor truly worthy of an Oscar if the woman deemed the most ruthless in Hollywood could pull it off), Kat let a glossy, Shu Uemura–coated nail meander from the collar of Sam’s shirt to a point just above his nipple. Stopping there, she licked her upper lip and added, “Just think of the fun we could all have on that set…”
“Katerina, I think it’s only fair to warn you that Nathan Harte is happily married—”
Poking him hard with her talon, she laughed demurely. “Sam, you’re such a cute prude! This is Hollywood, remember? Where marriage is an illusion.”
She had a point there.
Turning back to the monitor, he suddenly felt sorry for Nina.
Even more so, he felt sorry for Nathan.
Still, he’d call the kid first thing in the morning to give him the good news: He was going to be represented by Sam Godwin, and he was going to star in Katerina McPherson’s next movie.
Sam Godwin’s stucco beach cottage sat kitty-corner on the Pacific Coast Highway, where it intersected Sea Lane Drive. Because this was the four-lane highway’s closest point to Malibu beach, it afforded the cottage some highly coveted frontage on this dream-laden stretch of sand. A solid wood door, surrounded by a high stucco gate, hid the house itself from view.
It was just as Nina had always envisioned a Hollywood agent should live.
And now, if all went well, this particular Hollywood agent would be Nathan’s…
…and maybe, every once in a while, they’d be invited over to watch the sunset and splash around in the tide.
With Nathan’s agent, Sam Godwin, right there alongside them.
Heck, she reasoned. Then they would be living the California dream!
Considering Sam had agreed to see Nathan’s DVD, Nina felt that the least she could do was make sure he got what he had come to Tommaso’s for in the first place. So she had looked up Sam’s home address in Tommaso’s VIP database, and after her shift ended, she picked up Jake and Plum from Sage Oak, then headed out on Highway One, toward the Malibu colony until she found Sam’s place.
The moment she pushed the cottage’s security bell, a dog started barking from inside. The voice that answered, a bit breathy and certainly annoyed at the interruption, demanded that she walk through the courtyard to the front door.
It was too much to hope that Sam would be home to greet her. More likely he was commandeering what she imagined was a football-sized corner office on the top floor of the three-story Frank Gehry-designed ICA Tower on Wilshire Boulevard at Rodeo, chatting up one of the Toms, or maybe Denzel, or perhaps even Nicole. Still, any brownie points she could secure on Nathan’s behalf was her goal, even if that meant dropping off Sam’s teff with his housekeeper.
Or, in this case, a very pretty, very agile, and certainly very buff Danskin-clad girlfriend, and an overly friendly Labrador retriever.
“Down, Towser, down,” grumbled the girlfriend, seemingly helpless in controlling the friendly pup. Nina patted him on the back, then gave him a command to heel. Immediately Towser went down on all fours with a look of adoration in his eyes.
“So, you’re delivering the teff. Hmmm. Well, that’s certainly…surprising.” Cocking her head in consternation, Sam’s girlfriend ignored Nina’s offering. Instead she reached languorously behind herself to grasp an outstretched leg.
Quite frankly, the position reminded Nina of one she had learned in a free pole-dancing class that Nathan had insisted she take when he’d seen it offered by the gym down the block from their apartment.
Scrutinizing Nina, the human pretzel then asked pointedly, “Say, what sign are you?”
Nina blew the bangs out of her eyes. She suddenly realized that she had forgotten to push the child-lock button on the backseat windows of the car, and Jake had already wrestled Plum’s favorite Diva Starz from her with the aim of tossing it out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and causing a three-car pile-up. “Taurus,” she answered. As if that mattered. “It won’t affect your plans for the teff, will it?”
Slinky blinked twice. Obviously, it did matter, because she said with all seriousness, “Maybe. That depends.”
“On what?”
“On why he left it on the counter in the first place.” She let her leg snake vertically up the wall. Giving Nina the once-over, she added: “Believe me, if Saturn weren’t in retrograde, I wouldn’t be worried. At all.”
“Stop me if I’m wrong, but the fact that you brought it up in the first place makes Saturn’s orbit immaterial, doesn’t it?”
That notion suddenly made Slinky uncomfortable. With a barely civil nod, she snatched the plastic bag of teff out of Nina’s hand and shut the door.
By the time Nina reached the car, Plum’s Diva Starz pop tartlet had already been flattened by southbound traffic. Great, thought Nina. That little problem could be easily rectified with a stop at the closest Toys “R” Us, but she knew that doing so meant being bombarded with cries of “Buy me! Buy me!” from both Plum—a child who had yet to learn the meaning of the word no—and Jake, who, when the situation merited it, could be the perfect mimic.
Considering the day she was having, Nina couldn’t endure that.
Instead she endured Plum’s high-pitched howls of mourning until the kids were shuttled inside the Hartes’ third-story apartment.
It was only after Jake and Plum had loaded up on Cap’n Crunch—her son’s usual after-school treat—and were jumping off his tiny, messy bedroom’s walls by using his bed’s very thin, very cheap Sleep Train mattress as a trampoline, that Nina realized she had forgotten Becca’s grocery order. The afternoon’s only saving grace was that Ylva showed up not just one hour later but two, giving Nina enough time to swing back by Tommaso’s for the groceries, and for precious Plum to crash from her sugar high.
4
The After-Party
By the time Sam had arrived at the Chateau Marmont for the after-party celebrating Hugo’s latest film, Very Bad Boys, the booze was flowing as freely as the hyperbole coming from the mouths of all in attendance. From what Sam could hear, everyone was in development (as opposed to Development Hell); S
o-and-So was just a dream to work with (not, as had been previously reported in Page Six or Ted Casablanca’s “Awful Truth” column or Defamer.com, an unparalleled bitch/raving lunatic/burned-out druggie); and everyone agreed that Hugo’s latest film was “another winner from a true artist with a unique idiosyncratic vision…”
“Who do these fuckheads think they’re kidding?” Hugo growled as he waved Sam over to the barstool beside him, then downed another Dewar’s on the rocks. “They wouldn’t know a hit if it bit them on the ass. These clowns are all here for whatever poontang they can scrape up for later tonight, not for my movie. Besides, by Monday, when the box office numbers are in, they’ll all be back to calling me a has-been.”
Because the bar’s lounge was small, the crowd had naturally flowed into the restaurant and out by the pool on the terrace, which was why Hugo always chose the Marmont for his after-parties in the first place: It was a great place to hide in plain sight while he drank away his angst, ogled the glamorous women hovering about, and most importantly, avoided his constantly hovering wife, Lucinda…
Particularly when he had a reason to avoid her.
That reason being his infatuation with a phantom.
O.
“You know, Hugo, this bar is your purgatory. You sit right there on that same stool after every premiere and whine that same tune.” Sam signaled the bartender that he’d have the same as his soused host. “Face it. You love what you do, and your public loves you.” Taking the glass placed before him, Sam tipped it in honor of Hugo and gulped it down.
“What good is that, if…” Hugo’s voice trailed off.
“If what?” asked Sam.
“If you can’t share it with someone you really love?”
Oh, shit! thought Sam. This infatuation is worse than I thought.
Still, he wasn’t ready to turn over that Ben Franklin to Lucinda without first putting up a good fight.
Sam signaled the bartender for another. Grabbing the glass offered, he motioned for the director to follow him out into the Marmont’s less crowded terrace.
