by Lucy Lambert
I couldn’t say I cared that much for the Bourne films, but he was adorable in The Martian.
“Looks mostly like designers and models at the moment,” Vance said, seeing what I was up to, “But if you have any interest, let me know and I can introduce you.”
“I’d be too embarrassed,” I said, “I get most of my stuff from Target. When it’s on sale.”
“Oh, you mean Tar-jay?” he said. “Don’t worry about them. You look good.”
“Why? Because I’m here with you?” I replied.
“Well, yeah. But not only. You clean up nice. I knew there was a beautiful woman under the khakis and the black shirt they make you wear at the studio. Oh, that reminds me. Now that you’re with me you don’t have to wear that anymore,” he said, that cocky grin tugging at one cheek.
“I’m not sure I have anything…” I started.
“Well, you could come in nothing at all, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to let you out of my trailer. Propriety and all. You’d be surprised at how stuck up and conservative some of these people can be about clothes.”
I laughed at that.
Then that little spark of heat started up again inside me. I tried not thinking about being naked in Vance’s trailer. On that big bed, with music playing…
I wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?” I was alarmed. For a second, I feared he knew what I was thinking.
“I was beginning to think you were actually just a pretty robot. But that laugh was pretty genuine.”
“Well that joke was funny. Kind of, I guess,” I said.
I realized then that my cheeks hurt a little. He was smiling, and I was smiling back at him. I clasped my hands under the table, my fingers squeezing and kneading nervous knots against each other.
But it wasn’t just nerves, I realized. Also excitement. It could be hard to tell between the two sometimes.
Then our drinks came.
Vance looked at the yellow concoction in my cup. “Do you drink that, or do you pour it down the sink to unclog it?”
“Hey, it’s good!” I said, trying to sound serious but with that smile still hurting my cheeks.
“Sure, but for what?” Vance asked. Then he looked around.
“Waiting for someone?” I said. I took a sip from my glass. It was good, I hadn’t had one in a while.
“When I’m here with you? No. Just checking to see if anyone I know has showed up yet.”
I followed his glances. His eyes came to rest on a man sat at the bar, his back to the bar, a foamy glass of beer in one hand and a phone in the other.
“Friend of yours?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. He sipped from his glass, then swirled the brownish liquid absently.
“Then you can try my drink,” I said. I held the glass out to him, “I can’t have you making fun of it, since I don’t think you’ve ever had one before. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
He took another look at my glass, “I’m good.”
“Good looking? Yeah. Good at knowing what drinks are good and what ones aren’t? Not so much.”
He set his glass down and pretend-scrutinized me, one eye squinting more than the other. “Are you calling me out?”
My heart fluttered in my chest. The only experience I could liken it to was going up to ask a boy to dance at a middle school dance. That light, giddy feeling of anticipation. That dread at possible rejection.
But he’d told me to be spontaneous, to have a little fun. Well here I am, like it or not.
Oh, God, please like it!
“You’ll like it. Trust me,” I said, still holding the glass out.
“And if I don’t?”
I shrugged. He leaned forward, reached out. When he took the glass from me his fingers overlapped mine.
Except he didn’t take it right away, the touch lingered, and I knew he experienced the same thing I did.
That electric flash. That passing of sensation through touch that made goosebumps prickle and pebble all over my back.
“Erin, you have to hand me the glass if you want me to try the drink,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, right. That would help, wouldn’t it?” I said, then doubtful that he felt what I did.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the guy at the bar raise his phone up like he was trying to get a signal. He lowered it soon after.
Vance took a sip and grimaced. I laughed. Giggled, more like it. When was the last time I giggled?
He took another sip. His eyes squeezed shut and he contorted he face like I’d just shoved half a lemon into his mouth.
“Oh, come on!” I said, “It’s not that sour. Nowhere near!”
Then the look fell from his face and he smiled again. He took another sip and then handed the glass back. Our hands didn’t touch this time.
“I know. I was just messing with you. Not bad, actually.”
I laughed again. Loud enough that a few people at the tables around us glanced over. I bit the laugh off, self-conscious. But then Vance laughed too, not caring about people seeing, and that self-consciousness went away. Mostly, at least.
“Told you,” I said.
Then Vance leaned closer, propping his elbows on the table. “Now, Erin, tell me the story of you.”
My breath caught. What? There wasn’t really a story of me.
“It’s pretty boring,” I said.
“No,” he came back right away, as soon as the words left my mouth. “Everyone’s a world unto themselves. Just because you don’t think you’re interesting doesn’t mean other people will, too. For instance, if I thought you were boring, would I have you here right now?”
My hands slid down the sides of my thighs so that I could grip the hard pad of the seat. “No, I suppose not.”
“For instance, you don’t sound like you grew up in the valley. Where are you from?”
Relax, just relax, I thought. I urged my fingers to loosen their death grip on the chair. I thought for sure I'd leave permanent imprints.
I looked up at him and saw genuine interest in his eyes. I realize that if I focused on just those eyes I could relax.
There was a depth to those eyes, something in them that suggested more than the persona he put on for the camera.
“I’m from a town called Lincoln, back in Maine.”
“Maine! I hate lobster. Ever get to Bar Harbor?”
I smirked, “Lobster’s not my favorite, either. They look kind of like aliens. And once or twice I’ve been there, yeah. I worked a summer there during tourist season before starting at UCLA to afford my plane ticket down here.”
On a normal date this is where I might have asked him where he was from. Except I already knew. It was kind of embarrassing, if I really thought about it. I knew quite a few facts about his life, as did many of his fans.
I put my hands back up on the table, making myself feel the smooth and cool glass surface. “And you don’t really sound like where you’re from anymore.”
He snorted at that. “You can take the man out of Brooklyn… where do you think I learned to smile like this?” Again with the crooked grin. “I sound like they want me to sound. My agent was in talks for a guest spot for me on Downton Abbey, but it fell through.”
I thought about what he said. About sounding, being, really, how they wanted him to sound or be. They being directors, producers, executives, that sort of thing.
“But what are you when you’re not who they want you to be?” I asked.
For once, Vance Tracker didn’t have an immediate and snappy comeback. For once, I saw him sit back in his chair. A stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead but he didn’t seem to notice.
I found myself wanting to lean forward and tuck it back in place, feel my fingers go through his hair, but I didn’t.
Imagine if someone saw. Imagine if someone saw and took a picture!
Scratch that, there’d been one time before wh
en I saw him look that way. When he broke up with his girlfriend, Sandra Livingston, during a live interview.
He’d told her he didn’t think they were right for each other. That he didn’t like her, let alone love her.
He looked then like he did at that moment sitting across from me. Sandra had fled the set and Vance sat back against the couch and had that same expression on his face.
I thought maybe that was the real Vance Tracker.
“I didn’t realize it was such a difficult question,” I said, smiling to take the sting out of it.
“Sometimes questions that are simple to ask are difficult to answer,” he replied. “I’m me. And hey, I thought I was the one interrogating you, not the other way around.”
“Well here, let me fill you in on the basic bio sheet. Erin Paige, twenty-one, UCLA senior, from Lincoln, Maine. I love the movies and I don’t mind long walks on the beach, so long as I have a sturdy pair of sandals. Walking on sand’s terrible for your arches, you know. What else do you want to know?”
I gave my hair a little flip. That felt good. I discovered that I didn’t want to be nervous. That I could choose not to be.
Like a few days ago at Vance’s trailer, when I grabbed Linda Campion’s wrist to keep her from braining Vance with what I recalled was a brown glass bottle of Yeungling beer.
Still, there were vestiges of those nerves tingling in my stomach. Especially when I felt Vance’s eyes on me.
“There’s really nothing that special about me. I’m not an orphan. I don’t have superpowers. I’m a little below average height… need I go on?” I said, wanting to fill the silence.
I wasn’t used to him being so quiet.
“I’ve figured out what it is,” Vance said.
“I… what? What is it?”
“The thing about you I couldn’t put my finger on.”
I thought about the way his hand felt against the small of my back on the two occasions when he put it there. The pressure of his fingers against the curve of my spine, the warmth of his palm.
I swallowed.
He downed his whiskey and water in one gulp and set the glass on the table. He ran the tips of his first and middle fingers around the edge of that glass.
“You’re like me,” he said, rather cryptically.
“Sorry?” I said, wondering how the two of us could be anything alike. I mean, we didn’t even share the same gender.
“You do what it takes to get what you want. You just said so yourself. You worked to get into school, you even worked to pay your own way down here. And now you’re finishing school and you’re working on this film with me, even though you’re not particularly fond of me.”
“I wouldn’t say that…” I said. My heart thumped and I wondered if I’d offended him somehow.
And my hands really wanted to go back to squeezing the hell out of my seat pad.
“You don’t have to. I did. But I think that’s changing. I want it to change. Because I do what it takes to get what I want.”
“And what is it you want, Vance?” I asked. I wanted him to say he wanted me. I also didn’t want him to say that.
Funny how your feelings can completely, paradoxically contradict themselves like that.
“Right now I want to get out of here. Finish your drink.”
I did. Not as quickly as he had. It took my three solid gulps before I emptied the cup. I normally never drank that quickly, and could already feel the pleasant warm fuzziness of the booze in my mind and in my stomach.
He stood up and I followed suit. He took a $20 out of a thin black leather wallet and put it on the table, setting his glass over the corner so it couldn’t blow away.
Then he took my hand. I almost yanked it back. Almost.
His hand was much bigger than mine, yet they fit together so well. I looked up and saw everyone glance our way, some more secretively than others.
I felt a swell of something other than embarrassment for once at all the attention. Something like pride. It was nice and warm deep in my chest.
Unless it was just the booze. I pushed that thought away and he led me back to the elevator.
The guy at the bar raised his phone again. Was he taking selfies?
Was he taking pictures of us?
Chapter 13
VANCE
I didn’t know who he worked for. It could have been Perez Hilton, TMZ, Yahoo, People Magazine. Any number of places, really.
All I knew was that Rudy said if I came to the bar on top of the Ace Hotel today, there’d be someone there to take pictures of Erin and I together.
Those doubts of mine surfaced again. Especially with Erin’s hand clasped in mine.
But I hadn’t lied about what I said. I did what it took to get what I wanted. I wanted to regain my former fame and glory.
But you also want her, I thought.
And Sandra had also been for getting what I wanted, too. And look how that turned out.
I glanced at Erin while we waited for the elevator. She was already looking side-eyed at me. When she saw me see her, her eyes flicked back to the floor indicator above the elevator door.
She swallowed, rolling her lips. A hot flush of color started creeping up her neck.
And I realized then that I wanted her. Badly. The lower reaches of my body rushed and heated with the sudden onset of that desire.
In the elevator, she took her hand back. I let her.
Sunset burnt all the towers and buildings a blinding and deep orange. The streets rang with traffic and stank of exhaust, but I hardly noticed.
We got back to the parking garage having hardly said a word to each other on the walk over.
I fished the keyfob for the ‘vette out of my pocket, and the car chirped back at me when I unlocked it.
Erin reached for her door, started opening it. I shut it, standing so close to her our bodies grazed.
She turned and looked up at me. She was doing that incredibly sexy thing again. The one where she chewed on her bottom lip.
The throbbing pulse of desire ran through me again, hard and unstoppable.
“I bet your lips still taste like that drink,” I said.
I leaned over to kiss her. She put her hands against my chest but didn’t push me away.
I kept leaning. Her eyes hooded. Our lips touched. The barest graze. My entire body tingled. I felt like I could power the whole city grid if someone jammed me into it.
Then she pushed me away. “No, Vance.”
Again, words I wasn’t used to hearing.
She kept her hands on my chest. I could feel the pressure of each individual finger against my ribs.
Even in the washed out glow of the parking garage I saw the flush in her face.
“What is it?” I said.
She sighed, her mostly bare shoulders rising and falling. Then she let her hands fall from me. Even with them gone, that lingering sensation of pressure remained.
It took my body longer to realize the frustration than my mind.
She crossed her arms, “I’m still not sure what you think this…” She raised one finger and shifted it to indicate both of us, “…is. Though I can tell you that even though I don’t know, it isn’t that.”
“We’re both single, Erin. I don’t think there’s a problem.”
I looked around, for once wondering if we were alone. There were a fair number of other cars sitting in their spots in the structure, but I didn’t see anyone else.
Still, sound carried funny in a place like this. Could others hear us? I knew this was supposed to be a public thing. Something to get attention.
But all I wanted at that moment was privacy.
She started to speak, still holding herself tightly.
“Wait,” I said. “Let’s get in the car.”
She considered me. Probably wondering if I’m up to something. I let her look all she wanted. I was used to people looking.
She relented and turned to the car, opening the door and climbing in. I closed th
e door behind her, the thud echoing.
I climbed in on the other side, and when I closed my door our world contracted. It felt intimate.
Even though she clicked her seat belt into place and then crossed her arms again.
“Vance,” she started again, “I’ll be your assistant, but nothing more. You’re right, I do what it takes to get what I want. And you aren’t something I need to do to get what I want. Just the opposite, I think. A relationship isn’t what I need right now. Especially not one with a man like you.”
My stage swagger rose up inside me. It was second nature by this point. I wanted to tell her, There aren’t any men like me, and offer her my smile, but I didn’t.
Instead I started the car and backed out of the spot.
“Some things aren’t about need, Erin,” I said. That lingering throb of desire in my stomach ached. “You can’t tell me you don’t want me. That would be a lie to both of us.”
“If I did want someone, it would be a different sort of guy…”
I laughed. There wasn’t anything funny about it.
“A nice guy, right?” I said.
“Well, yeah.”
“The last thing you want, or need, is a nice guy,” I said. We came to the booth before the exit. I waved my card at the RFID reader, and the checkered bar lifted.
I gave the ‘vette a bit more gas than it needed and the tires chirped when we shot out onto the road.
If the light at the next intersection had been red, I would have run it.
“Nice guys,” I continued, “use their niceness like currency. They think being nice gets them into your pants faster. And if it doesn’t, then they get pissed. They think they deserve it, deserve you. Nice guys are the worst, most entitled of them all. You want to know why women like the jerks and the assholes?”
“I bet you’re going to tell me,” she said.
“It’s because you know where you stand with a jerk. They’re upfront about what, and who, they want. They’re not nice for pay.”
It was later now. The sunset was almost spent. The ‘vette’s lights came on automatically, the gauges in the cluster in front of me illuminating a soft blue.
I knew I could’ve hopped on the freeway and gotten back up to Brentwood faster. But I stayed on the surface streets. I found I wanted to be around her longer, even in the midst of this little argument.
