by Andrea Joan
I’m not an idiot—I know my looks helped make my career, not that I don’t have the talent to back it up. But when I look in the mirror, I see what no one else sees—something on the inside, something dark and tortured. That old proverb is so true. Eyes really are the windows to the soul. And when my eyes stare at my reflection in the mirror, sometimes all I see is a lonely, weak, disturbed girl.
“Girl, I’m ready to have an amazing night, and I have a few little green friends to ensure us a good time. Allow me,” Noah says, pulling an orange prescription bottle out of his black leather “murse,” as he calls it.
Noah is of course dressed to the nines. He tips his head in my direction, flashing that pearly white grin and I marvel at just how handsome he is. His black skinny jeans showcase his long, toned legs, paired with a white dress shirt and gray button-up vest. His shoulder-length hair is slicked back and he’s wearing just a hint of his best cologne.
If only he preferred vagina we could have been perfect together.
He slips his arm around my waist and I tense immediately from the contact. I’m not comfortable with being touched. Most of the time I hate it, even if it’s someone like Noah that I have known for years. Noah knows this, but occasionally he will touch me in some small way as if to get me used to the idea. When I have to be touched in a scene I never have this problem, but that’s work and I’m really good at compartmentalizing. Noah ignores my awkward body language, as he always does, and drops two little green pills into my palm, then turns away for a moment to grab two full champagne flutes from the bedside table.
“What am I taking, my love?” I ask, not really caring what the answer is since I’m going to take it anyway. I know Noah would only give me something to relax me, to help my brain slow down a minute. Filming is over, which means I’ll have nothing to occupy my mind until my next project, which is never good for me.
“That, my Morningstar, is Klonopin. It’s an anti-anxiety medication my gorgeous doctor prescribed to me. All I know is when you take it with a little champagne, you feel like you are flying free as a dove.”
“Well, cheers!” I say.
I toss the pills back and take a small sip of champagne, ready to end this trip in style. The last two months filming this movie, a project I’ve been so passionate about, has been the happiest I have been in a long time. But it’s also incredibly bittersweet because I knew each day brought me closer to the last. Orcas Island seems to have brought out the best in me, the bright parts of me, two months with no incidents.
As soon as the pills hit the bottom of my stomach I know I can hold on to the light, even if it is synthetic, for just a few more hours.
We decide to walk to O’Connor’s as it’s only two blocks away and we can use the exercise. Chances are we may end up a bit too drunk to drive after this party is over. Though it’s possible we may be too drunk to walk too now that I think about it. I hope they have cabs around here.
The first thing I notice as we ascend the steps is the sign above the front door. The sign is weathered as if it has seen some unforgiving winters over the years, and forest green lettering spells the name of the bar: O’CONNOR’S, FAMILY OWNED FOR FORTY YEARS.
An odd sense of nostalgia overwhelms me…or maybe déjà vu. This seems odd because I have no reason to feel nostalgic for a place I’ve never been, but I decide to revel in the feeling because it is one I am unaccustomed to. As an actress it’s good to lock on to these types of emotional states, to remember them so you can bust them out in a scene when necessary. This sort of makes me sound like a sociopath, I know, like I’m trying to “learn feelings” or something, but it really does help me hone my craft.
Then, as if my little pharmaceutical miracle has perfect timing, I feel the Klonopin kick in. A light and blissful cloud descends and I’m suddenly very excited to see where the night will take me. When I step through the doors, I instantly fall in love with the ambiance. Warm and inviting, old pictures of the town and pictures that appear as if they were taken in Ireland blanket the walls. Perhaps the owner is actually Irish.
One photograph specifically catches my eye. It hangs on a wall inside one of the booths: a black and white side profile of an older man wearing a newsboy cap with a small grass hill serving as a backdrop. The man wears a mysterious smile on his face and his eyes look as if they contain a secret, a type of wisdom that comes with age and a life well-lived. They definitely do not have bars like this in L.A.
Bars and clubs in Los Angeles are more like bordellos most of the time; not so much the devils’ playground as the devils’ circus, overflowing with half-dressed waitresses, copious amounts of drugs, and usually some sort of “inventive” theme, like a bank vault bar, that will make it the new bar of the moment, for at least a few months anyway. Even the “dive bars” are laughable, touting themselves as the “best dive bar” in L.A., which sort of defeats the idea of a dive bar in the first place.
But for all my grievances, I still go to these places I detest so much. Everything and everyone is phony in L.A. I promise I am no exception.
“Where do we sit, my little Morningstar? Seeing as no one is here yet and it’s eight-fourteen, it seems as if we get to pick the spot.” Noah looks at his watch, obviously a little irritated that none of the cast and crew have arrived.
“How about that booth right there?” I point to the table with my now favorite picture, which also happens to be right next to a few big tables that could fit large groups of people.
“Perfect. Whoa, Skylar, look at the bartender.” Noah stops, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow, and points, rather obviously I might add, to the bar in front of us. “Holy walking penis. If he’s not the hottest man you’ve ever seen I’ll scrape my eyes out right now.”
“Holy walking penis? Really, Noah, thank you so much. Now all I can picture is a walking penis with legs and little feet.”
I glance over at the bar, if only to shut Noah up. I’m not expecting much. Noah’s barometer for “hot man” is not set high and always varies. It’s like playing a game of hottie roulette with him. When I look over this time, however, I find myself staring directly into the gorgeous eyes of the bartender. Am I moving? I think I should try to be moving if I’m not, otherwise I’ll just look like a creeper.
Noah was right. The bartender is stunning. Am I allowed to say stunning when describing a man? Is that weird? Anyway, the point is I can’t look away.
But I’m trying, I swear.
I know there are other things I should be concentrating on in this bar right now so I don’t appear so obvious, but I am frozen, drinking him in as he stares back at me unapologetically. I look behind me briefly to make sure it’s really me he’s staring at. No one is behind me, so I guess it is me.
He’s impeccable; tall and muscular, with deep charcoal eyes and a full head of dark brown hair with two-day scruff on his face to match. Not many men can pull off a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans, and he is doing it with ease. But it’s not just how he looks; I’ve seen many good looking men in my line of work. It’s how I feel when he looks at me.
Cherished. Wanted.
“Told ya so,” Noah says, sending a lightning bolt right through the verve between me and the bartender.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s sit down, Noah. People should be arriving any second now and we’re right in the doorway gawking at the bartender. Not a good look.”
I try to play it cool, not giving too much of myself away to Noah because he would devotedly run with it, and if I’m not careful I’ll find myself in love by the end of the night.
“Okay, Morningstar. Let’s sit, you little buzzkill. What kind of shoes do you think it would wear anyway?” Noah asks nonchalantly as he leads me to the booth.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The walking penis with legs and little feet. What kind of shoes would it wear?”
“Are we talking about your penis right now, or his?”
“Mine. Always.”
“Then
probably pumps.”
Noah erupts in a loud laugh. I love you so much right now. Why are you not a man?”
“Why are you not straight?”
“Because the thought of vagina makes me feel all skeevy inside.”
Well, okay then.
By eight forty-five the cast and crew have all arrived along with quite a few locals, and the bar is almost full to capacity. I happen to be enjoying the evening, high not only on the pills and beer but on the conversations going on around me. People reminisce over the two months we all spent together filming a movie we were so passionate about. Darin, the genius behind the script and also the director of the movie, is talking to me about all the film festivals he wants to enter and how he thinks it’s the best work I’ve done, and that with my name attached there is no way the movie can’t go the distance. Noah is prattling on about how the sunsets in Washington have inspired a new color palette for a makeup line he has recently decided to start. No doubt the Klonopin talking, I suspect, since this is the first I’m hearing of a makeup line. But I’ll support him all the way if it’s something he really wants to do.
Thirty people are talking around me, some to me, and I try to remain engaged in conversation, but I can’t keep from watching the bartender’s every move. I watch as he serves drinks and talks to patrons, and every time he moves his arms I catch the hint of his forearm muscles contracting. Occasionally he reaches up for a bottle of liquor, his shirt raising, and I catch a glimpse of his six pack, muscular oblique’s, and the V-shape that leads down to where his pants hang on his hips. Noah always refers to them as sex marks. I want to run my tongue—I mean my hands—down them. I’m about to avert my gaze before he catches me staring when he suddenly looks in my direction, a knowing smirk on his face; almost like he was aware I was staring the whole time.
He just seems so damn cocky, and I love it. Most men are intimidated by me, and the ones that aren’t just love to take advantage of me. He clearly doesn’t fall under the former, obviously I’ve no clue as to the latter. But alas, I watch him display the occasional smile as he hands drinks to the striking blonde waitress who he watches attentively, and I realize he’s probably not single, and now I feel…jealous, maybe? Another emotion I’m less than familiar with, and I don’t think I like it. Shit, I’m spinning now, and I know I have to rein it in. I need to slow down before I become manic. I cannot lose control of my emotions, not tonight.
“Penny for your thoughts my little Skylark? You’ve been gawking at that hot bartender all night, you little minx,” Noah says, trying to get a rise out of me. He does not miss a thing. Especially if a hot boy is involved.
“Ugh, so wrong.” I roll my eyes slightly, causing Noah to grin at me knowingly.
What a bitch.
“Okay…maybe I am guilty of a bit of stalker-like behavior,” I relent.
“So…go talk to him. You are Skylar Joy Barrett, after all. If you can’t land that man then he must be gay. In which case, tag me in. You aren’t the only one stealing glances, he’s been looking at you all night. Every time I look over to stare shamelessly at his beauty, he seems to be eye fucking the shit out of you. Watching over you like any second he’s going to go all alpha male, ripping your clothes off and fucking you right on the table.”
“Jesus, Noah! Tag you in? What about Erik, your boyfriend, remember?” I lift my beer up to my mouth in a lame attempt to hide my blush. I do not blush. “Whatever, he’s probably just trying to figure out what my tits look like. Besides, I think that blonde waitress might be his girlfriend.”
“Always the cynic, Morningstar, but you’ll never know unless you grow some balls and go talk to him. And I will have you know that if Erik could see what I’m looking at he would be disappointed if I didn’t hit on him. But I guess if you’re too scared you could always go talk to that lovely group of rowdy young men across the bar over there. They’ve also been staring your way all night,” Noah spits out sarcastically.
Without even looking I know who Noah is referring to. My douche radar has been going off in their direction. A group of four men, scratch that, four guys acting like boys whose balls just dropped, have been loud and obnoxious all night. No, not just loud and obnoxious; I’m used to that. I live in Los Angeles, after all, birthplace of the super douche. But there is something about them that I don’t like, something unnerving. Every other word out of their mouths is “bitch this or bitch that,” and the “cunt got what she deserved.” One in particular, the one wearing a black beanie with a goatee who was playing with an unlit cigarette, seems to enjoy harassing the blonde waitress anytime he gets the chance. He’s doing it quietly and under the radar with a small pat on the ass here, a quick caress while she takes their drink order there. And I can tell she is obviously irritated by the attention from the way she tenses or pulls away. I recognize the game he’s playing with the waitress as I have been victim to it too many times to count.
I really hate them.
Just as I’m about to look away I see goatee guy grab the waitress’ arm as she walks by him, and he starts to yell at her.
“Dammit, Shayla, stop behaving like a fucking spoiled-ass bitch. I’m trying to talk to you about important shit and you’re fucking ignoring me. Do you think you’re too good to talk to me now, is that it?” he slurs at her. Obviously there is history there.
“Mason, I don’t have time to deal with your crap right now. I’m working! I know that’s a foreign concept to you, but take some notes, you might be able to use them in the future,” she shoots back as she tries to pull her arm from his tight hold.
Damn, girl has spunk. As jealous as I may or may not be over Shayla’s possible relationship with my bartender, I have to give the girl credit.
“You are such a cunt,” Mason the douche says as he shoots up off the chair drunkenly still holding on to Shayla’s arm.
I wince and think maybe I should say something. Someone should. But before I have a chance, movement erupts from behind the bar as the bartender charges forward until he’s at Shayla’s side, pulling her behind him, shielding her from the asshole. The whole bar goes silent except for the music blaring from the jukebox, and I swear it’s Jay Z’s 99 Problems. The irony is not lost on me.
“You touch my sister again, Mason, and I will end your fucking life.” The bartender’s dark warning sends a chill through the entire bar so intense it’s like you can see it. Yep, there’s definitely history there.
“Fuck you, Liam, you can’t do shit to me and I will come at your sister anytime I feel like it,” Mason shoots back.
Liam. I have a name now. I also have an answer as to who she is to him; his sister.
Although that seems like the last thing I should be focusing on at this second. I watch the scene unfold with everyone else, but unlike the rest of the audience I am not excited or titillated by the idea of watching people beat each other up. Noah is grabbing my arm in anticipation as he stares on, just as Shayla takes hold of Liam’s arm in what looks to be an attempt to hold him back. It’s clearly lost on Liam, however, because he grabs Mason’s shirt and cocks his fist back. I can’t breathe. I can’t watch but I can’t look away.
“LIAM, BACK OFF AND CALM DOWN!”
Everyone, including me, turns and looks toward a booming voice that radiates through the entire building. I turn towards the sound and see a man standing about ten feet behind Liam, a man that looks a lot like him. So much so in fact that I come to the conclusion that this has to be his father or his uncle at the very least. It’s in the eyes, those piercingly distinctive gray eyes paired with the darkest eyebrows I have ever seen. I look back at the scene unfolding and my heart is beating out of my chest.
“Liam,” the man says, his voice softer and slower than before. “Let go of him and step back. Listen to my voice.”
I look at Liam. His chest is heaving so quickly that I think he might burst. The way the man speaks to him is odd. He seems to be trying to calm him down, but is being very cautious, right down to the
words he is using. Over the years I’ve learned to pick up on small idiosyncrasies people use in everyday life, things that may be typically overlooked, because I’m an observer. In order to be the best actress I can be, I have to learn to observe others, become tactical about it.
“Come on, Liam,” Shayla whispers, pulling her brother’s arm back toward her tenderly. “Everything is fine. I’m okay, big brother.”
Well, damn, if that isn’t sweet as hell, and it must register with Liam because he lets go of douchebag Mason’s shirt, takes a few steps back, and looks around the bar, almost as if he is trying to remember where he is. And for a brief second I swear his eyes fall on mine as if searching for something in them. Embarrassment? Reassurance? He turns around and leads Shayla back behind the bar and into what I assume is the kitchen. The man who is possibly Liam’s father, better known now as the man who has clearly prevented a brawl, walks over to the table of douchebags and leans over to say something I can’t hear while pointing at the door.
Three of them get up and start walking out of the bar. Mason is the last to move, obviously trying to prove he’s in charge while he stares the man down. The man crosses his arms in and stands stoically, not breaking eye contact with Mason for a second. Mason reaches down, grabs his full beer, and chugs the whole thing within a few seconds then slams the bottle back onto the table so hard that remnants of beer and spit fly out of the top. Then he turns and saunters out of the bar, his lackeys following close behind. And as if nothing out of the ordinary has just happened, the whole bar erupts with conversations that were temporarily put on hold as I stare on in disbelief.
“You okay, Skylar?” Noah yells in my ear.
