by Maggie Marr
“You know, I did something.” He shifted closer and his breath was warm on her neck.
Mary Anne tilted her head.
“Just in case … I wasn’t assuming anything but … I thought maybe … if I had a chance? I got a room.”
Mary Anne tried to play it cool, but the sexiest man alive, according to People magazine, rented a luxury hotel room just in case she would repeat their one-night affair.
“You did?”
“I haven’t forgotten our night together.” Holden gave her ass a firm squeeze.
“That was a long time ago,” Mary Anne said. She sank into the sultry sensation of Holden rubbing her backside.
“The best sex ever,” Holden whispered into Mary Anne’s ear. Mary Anne closed her eyes and relaxed into the naughty thoughts that filled her brain.
*
They barely made it to the suite. Holden fondled Mary Anne’s breast under her shirt with one hand as he struggled to open the hotel room’s door with the other. She rubbed her hand over the bulge in his jeanse as her heart bounced around her rib cage like a ping pong ball on a cement floor. Thank God she’d worn good underwear.
“Damn door,” Holden muttered. With one hand he tried to insert the key card and with the other he still clutched Mary Anne’s breast.
“Got it!”
They stumbled into the oceanfront room. Her lips tingled with the remnants of his long lingering kiss. She pulled back and glanced around the room. Flower-filled vases decorated the room, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilled in a bucket next to French doors that opened onto a deck overlooking the Pacific.
“You like it?” Holden asked.
She could barely breathe, barely speak, barely believe where she was and with whom. She nodded and once again tilted her head the tiniest bit upward toward Holden. His arm circled around her and pulled her back toward him. Electricity pulsed through her—a want—a desire—a need. She pressed her lips to his and his mouth opened to her tongue.
A tingle shot up her spine—a tremor as he lifted her onto the bed. With each button he undid on her shirt a tiny hot trace remained on her skin. He gently nudged her shirt over her shoulders. She trembled as his eyes surveyed her breasts. He leaned forward and with one flick of his thumb and finger unsnapped the front clasp of her bra. Mary Anne’s breast sprang free. Holden found the tight little bud of a nipple with his lips. Mary Anne moaned with the hot wet sensation encasing her pert nipples. She grabbed for the button at the top of his pants, unwilling to wait. She reached into his pants. No underwear! Of course, how could she forget? She pushed his jeans down over his hips.
Her fingertips danced lightly around the head of his cock. Her fingers traced circles, and a moan escaped his lips as he worked his way from her nipple down her stomach. He pulled off her jeans, and she arched her back as his tongue roamed over her.
“Give me your cock,” she whispered.
His tongue never left her pussy as he moved himself to straddle her face. Mary Anne took him into her mouth.
She arched her hips with pleasure and knew she was going to come. Pulling him from her mouth, she reached up and grabbed the back of his head. “Fuck me.”
Holden flipped her onto all fours. He reached his fingers around her to massage the wet, now engorged spot between her legs.
Heat pulsed through her—heat and desire and a deep want in her belly all tightening her pussy.
“You like that, baby?” he pushed his cock into her wetness.
“Harder. I’m going to come,” she moaned.
Holden pushed into her. She felt him stiffen and let out a loud grunt just as she felt the pleasure shoot through her in waves. Her toes curled, and a small squeak escaped her lips. He gave one last thrust and collapsed across her back. Slowly he pulled out and lay beside her on the bed.
“That was so good. Just like last time,” he said.
Mary Anne blushed. Something about sex with Holden allowed her to be dirty. When she slept with him, she felt a wildness that she’d never experienced in bed before. Embarrassment raced through her.
“You’re blushing,” he said and smiled his million-dollar smile. She turned her head and buried half her face into the plush pillow. “Could you be more adorable?” he asked and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and giving her a peck on the nose.
“I could try,” Mary Anne whispered.
Rule 5: Be Unpredictable
Jessica Caulfield-Fox, Manager-Producer
Film sets, Jessica discovered in her transition from agent to manager-producer, were boring ninety-nine percent of the time. Accomplishing anything on a film set was an exercise in tedium that always took a minimum of forty minutes. Changing a light took forty minutes, setting a take took forty minutes, adding an actor took forty minutes … nothing, except the expenditure of money, moved quickly on a movie set.
Jessica stood behind the monitor on the set of Collusion (her biggest production to date) and watched Zymar talk to his DP about a shot, a minor task that was now twenty minutes into the requisite forty minutes.
Heat, caused by her impatience, bubbled through Jessica. She developed many skills while she worked as an agent and ran CTA, but she had failed to learn patience. She semi-mastered the skill when she became a mommy to Max Fox and a wife to Mike.
Jessica glanced at Holden Humphrey. Returned from his script meeting with Mary Anne Meyers in Los Angeles, he now stood in front of the camera waiting and stomping his feet, trying to endure the cold. Holden was the picture of professionalism, a producer’s dream. He arrived to set each day on time and with his lines memorized. If only Holden’s costar and former lover, Viève Dyson, could be so pleasant. But no, Viève became the one wild child tormenting the cast and crew from preproduction until now. Ten days remained in their shooting schedule, and then the cast and crew could return to Los Angeles. Only ten more days. Jessica survived law school, pushed a mail cart, ran an agency, started a company, and produced films … but Viève Dyson exceeded any of the Hollywood eccentricities that Jessica had previously witnessed.
*
Just before Collusion went into production, they lost their female lead; the young actress took a role in a Scorsese film—and who could blame her, really? It was Scorsese. With production scheduled to begin in twelve days, they had scrambled to find a new female lead.
Jessica watched Viève’s entire casting session, unable to place her.
I know that I know this girl, Jessica thought, sitting on the couch next to Collusion’s casting director. With brilliant green eyes, red hair, and translucent skin, Viève appeared innocent and fragile on camera, but gave powerful performances. The tiny creature created a character for the role in Collusion that exuded innocence and strength, with a hint of dirty-girl spiciness.
As Viève finished delivering her lines, Jessica finally remembered how and when she’d first met Vieve. Holden Humphrey. This little nymphet had dated Holden years before, when Jessica still presided as president of CTA. The three of them—Jessica, Holden, and Viève—ate lunch together at the Ivy. Well, Viève hadn’t eaten; she drank water while Jessica and Holden ate. Jessica supposed any actress had to forgo some meals and live on laxatives to remain a size zero.
“Excellent, just excellent,” Skylar, the casting director, said. Skylar shot Jessica a look that seemed to say is there really any question here?
“Thank you,” Viève whispered.
“Viève, I think we’ve met,” Jessica said.
“Yes,” Viève said. Her green eyes appraised Jessica’s face. “At the Ivy with Holden.”
“You have a great memory.”
“I never forget a face,” Viève said.
A shiver rushed down Jessica’s spine with Vieve’s statement. As fragile as Viève appeared, her comment was somehow a warning. Viève’s eyes, now that she finished her scene, appeared eerily vacant. Almost as though the character she created filled her completely and now, with no lines to read, the girl was empty—void of anything
inside.
“There’s one more meeting, a chemistry read. Have you done one before?” Skylar asked.
A chemistry read was part of the audition process that most male stars and producers looked forward to. That reading determined if sexual energy existed between the male and female lead. Watching a chemistry was akin to watching badly lit soft-core porn.
“Yes,” Viève whispered. She looked toward the ceiling. “I have. They feel so dirty.”
Jessica and Skylar exchanged a glance. With her wide eyes, and tiny hands clasped in her lap Viève seemed so vulnerable.
“I know, chemistry reads seem like such a setup,” Jessica said. The chemistry read felt unnecessary in this case, especially since Viève and Holden had dated years before. But there could be baggage that might interfere with the sexual nature of their on-screen relationship.
“Holden’s coming in at two. Will that work for you?” Skylar asked.
“No,” Viève said. “Two won’t work.”
“Okay …” Skylar said. Viève’s response surprised both Skylar and Jessica. “What about three-thirty?”
Viève paused and looked toward the door.
“Yes, three-thirty will work,” she said in a hushed tone.
“Great,” Jessica said, “we’ll see you then.”
The chemistry between Holden and Viève smoldered. Their sexual tension bated your breath with anticipation—exactly the kind of anticipation that, in a sexually charged thriller, kept the audience interested and aroused. Holden and Viève had a hot history, or so it seemed by the sparks flying in the room. Jessica felt anger emanateing off Viève as she read opposite Holden. Jessica remembered the story: Holden had blown off Viève for a one-night stand with Mary Anne Meyers (of course, that was after Viève had slept with Mary Anne’s live-in boyfriend). But Mary Anne wouldn’t be working on Collusion, and if Viève and Holden could maintain their civility and their sexually charged chemistry, then Collusion would be one hot thriller.
After the chemistry read, Jessica had made two phone calls. First she called Lydia, both because she was her friend and because she was the president of production at Worldwide, the studio financing Collusion.
“It’s fine, cast her. But are you sure you want this mess on your set?” Lydia had asked.
“Holden says he can work with Viève.”
“And what about Viève?” Lydia asked.
“She tells me she’s over Holden.”
“Uh-huh. I hear she’s crazy. You ever deal with crazy?”
“Lydia, this is L.A. Who hasn’t?”
“It’s your film. I just write the checks,” Lydia had said before hanging up the phone.
Worldwide business affairs had then closed and papered the deal, and Jessica had flown to Toronto for filming with cast and crew. Her excitement about casting Viève as the female lead in Collusion quickly turned to regret. Once Viève landed in Canada, she turned on Jessica like a wounded wild animal you fed for months and nursed back to health only to have it bite off your finger. First,. Viève demanded that the studio fly in her pets. All her pets. The menagerie consisted of three dogs (all weighing less than two pounds), her Persian cat, and a pet bunny. As soon as the pets arrived, the hotel informed Jessica that they were happy to house Collusion’s crew, director, and production staff, but not Viève’s zoo. Jessica needed to find another home for the elf and her animals.
Jessica rented a three-bedroom house within walking distance of the hotel for herself, Max, and Max’s nanny to live in during production. This house, Jessica soon realized, was the only place for Viève to live. But once outside the confines of a hotel that included housekeeping, a concierge, and room service, Viève demanded an entire staff … which had all been very slyly pre-negotiated by Viève’s agent, should Viève be moved from her hotel.
“Jessica. See section three, paragraph four, line C,” Tyler Bruger, Jessica’s former colleague at CTA, barked over the phone when Jessica originally said no to Viève’s list of demands. A subservient twit with a very bad coke habit and a penchant for malnourished redheads, Tyler, Jessica soon realized, enjoyed screaming his demands. A biting anger lodged in Jessica’s chest as she grudgingly hired staff for Viève and took Tyler’s calls. All of Tyler’s calls. Tyler complained on behalf of Viève about the staff, the sheets, the special rabbit food that the studio flew from Los Angeles every third day.
Jessica surrendered the three-bedroom house to Viève and her pets. Meanwhile, for herself, Max, and Max’s nanny Jessica found a tiny two-bedroom condo farther from the set and the hotel—meaning she was farther from her son. Jessica hoped that Viève would be happy. But for Viève, happiness was not in the cards, or at least that’s what Viève’s tarot adviser had told her.
*
Jessica glanced at Zymar. His conversation with his DP finally finished. According to Jessica’s slim Rolex, the PA originally called Viève to set twenty-seven minutes ago. Viève’s driver had dutifully delivered the tiny creature to set on time, as he did every day, after the multiple stops for prescriptions, chai tea, and hair care products. But as always, Viève, like a tiny mouse, had scurried to her trailer and slammed the door. Each day, Viève barricaded herself inside her trailer with her pets and her personal makeup artist and hairstylist, both flown in from L.A., as no local hires could satisfy her. “See section two, paragraph two, line D in her contract,” Tyler had bellowed over the phone. Viève was never seen until she was called to set a minimum of four times, was thirty-five minutes late, and Zymar, the ever-patient, ever-comedic Zymar, was spouting epithets and hurling chairs.
“So, Jess,” Zymar said as he walked up beside her and glanced at his watch, “I see we’ve got at least twelve more minutes before the little twat opens her trailer door.”
Jessica nodded as her PA, Matt, walked toward them.
“I’ve tried three times,” Matt said. “I think it’s your turn.”
“Even he’s ready,” Zymar said and pointed over his shoulder at Holden, now hopping on one foot to keep warm in the Toronto snow. “And I’m ready. Why isn’t she ready?”
“I think I heard tears,” Matt said.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not this again.” Zymar stomped toward the monitor.
Anger stabbed Jessica in the chest. But anger would be of little help in this negotiation. She sighed and put on her oh-isn’t-this-lovely face, the face she’d learned watching her friend Lydia Albright produce films before Lydia became president of production at World Wide. Jessica handed her coffee to Matt and walked toward Viève’s trailer door.
She heard the wailing before she got to the Star Wagon’s stairs.
“Viève,” Jessica called. She tapped on the door. “May I come in?”
Jessica heard Viève’s crying turn to sniffles. “Yes,” she said.
Jessica took a deep breath and forced down the irritation that bubbled in her throat. She pulled open the door and there, per their daily routine, sat Viève cross-legged on the couch with her three teeny tiny dogs perched on her lap, her bunny beside her, and her Persian cat pressed against her neck as though it were fur trim for her shirt.
“Sweetie,” Jessica approached slowly as one might approach a wounded wildebeest. “We’re ready for you on set.” She bent forward and put her hands on her knees so she could be eye level with the star.
“I can’t,” Viève hiccupped through the beginning of more tears.
Vieve’s emotional display was worse than yesterday. Jessica glanced at the prescription bottles and homeopathic remedies strewn across the trailer floor. “Oh, sweetie, yes you can. You’re beautiful and you’re brilliant and the camera loves you. We all love you.” Jessica inched forward ever so slowly, so as not to frighten the beast.
“You don’t understand.” Viève clutched the white Persian so tightly to her neck that the poor cat’s eyes bulged.
“No, darling, we don’t. It’s a lot of pressure, but you’re doing an amazing job.”
“He hates me.”
&
nbsp; “Who hates you? No one hates you.” Jessica stepped closer. She could think of no one who admitted to hating Viève, although she guessed most of the crew harbored a desire to string the little harpy up by her toes.
“Yes he does!” She jumped up and all three dogs scrambled from her lap.
“Darling, no one—”
“What the fuck do you know?” Viève hurled the Persian to the floor. “He’s awful to me! He hates me!”
Jessica stood up straight and put on her parental I’ve-had-enough face. Anger rose in her throat. “Viève, who hates you? I can’t help you unless you tell me who hates you.”
“Holden. Holden Humphrey hates me.”
Jessica placed her hands on her hips. Holden might dislike Viève—because, at this point, who didn’t?—but on set he appeared completely respectful toward her. “Viève, Holden doesn’t hate you. He respects you. He talks about how talented you are.”
“Respect?” Viève spat like a snake spitting venom. “Respect? I don’t care about respect.”
Obviously. With this tiny gnome, none of the rules of logic applied. “Then what is it? What did Holden do?”
“Fuck me,” Viève sobbed. “He won’t fuck me.”
*
“He won’t fuck her? Oops.” Zymar pointed to Jessica’s toothless babe of a boy Max, who giggled.
Jessica sat next to Zymar at the dining room table, across from her husband, Mike.
“He won’t remember,” Mike said, glancing from Max to Jessica. “Well, he might repeat it, but he won’t remember.”
Jessica looked first at Max and then at Mike. The feeling of calm she always felt when sitting with her two men was absent. She failed to regain her sense of equilibrium after her encounter today in Viève’s trailer. Usually Jessica shrugged off Viève’s tantrums as behavior from an overindulged child. But today Viève’s lack of self-respect and her insistence that her costar bed her had forced Jessica to ask herself the question: Why? Why, after she had received a law degree from Harvard did she choose to babysit petulant prima donnas? Jessica hoped that Mike’s arrival from Los Angeles two hours before, just as Collusion wrapped for the day, would cure her discontent, but anxiety still crackled through her like a brittle candy wrapper. She picked at her Chinese food.
