by Paige North
“I think we should risk outdoor exposure,” Rex says, playing along, “if only to prove that we can.”
We’re in bed—we’re always in bed—and I’m snuggled up next to him. When Rex comes over he usually stays a while. We make love then lie in bed and talk, sometimes for hours.
We talk about everything—all the crazy stuff he’s seen in L.A., insider stories of celebrities and excess, the things people will do to get a leg up on the competition—and not just movie industry competition. I tell him stories of some of the ridiculous auditions I’ve been on and the assholes I’ve seen—we both mention Damien—and he always tells me that my time is coming, that the perfect part is just an audition away.
We don’t talk about our families. The more time we spend together the stranger it feels, talking about everything but that. Like him, I’m not eager to bring it up.
Rex always leaves late at night so he can go home, get a little sleep and then shower and get dressed for another day at work. But we haven’t yet ventured outside, that’s true. Having Rex ask me out on a date gives me a whole new level of thrills.
“Where would we go?” I ask, curious as to what levels of extravagance he might plan. “To the moon?”
“If you want,” he says. “But I was thinking something more like dinner. Maybe a show at the Hollywood Bowl.” He looks at me very seriously. “You have been to the Hollywood Bowl, haven’t you?”
“Yes, actually, I have,” I say indignantly. “I went for a job as a ticket-taker, but they’d already hired their staff for the season. So ha, I have been.”
“But not to see a show?”
“Nope. But it looked pretty cool.”
“God, Addison, why are you even in L.A. if you don’t see all the amazing stuff here?”
“Hello, look around, Mr. Moneybags. I don’t really have the funds.” As soon as I say it, I cringe. I don’t want to sound like a woe-is-me kind of girl. I don’t mind how I live, especially since one day, when I land my first big role, I’ll know it was all worth it. Hard work pays—that’s what I have to keep believing.
“Then I’ll take you,” he says. “I’ll show you L.A. How does that sound?”
It sounds like perfection. Actually, anything that involves seeing more of Rex Croft sounds like perfection. I tell him so with a kiss that lasts for hours.
REX PICKS me up on Friday evening, right on time and in a limousine. I’m wearing the new dress and bracelet he gave me and have also dabbed on a little of the French perfume he brought me last time I saw him.
I have never had anyone treat me like this, showering me with such gifts. It makes me feel both uncomfortable and thrilled. Uncomfortable only because I can’t buy him anything in return. He doesn’t seem to want anything but time with me but still…it makes me feel a little guilty that I can’t return the appreciation.
Rex opens the car door for me and I get in as elegantly as I can. When he’s next to me, I realize two things: one, that I have never ridden in a limo before and two, that we could fit at least a dozen more people inside this huge monster.
“Picking up some friends on the way?” I ask as we pull out into traffic.
“No,” he says. “I figured if we got tired after dinner we could stretch out and take naps.”
“You think of everything,” I say. I snuggle into him and kiss his neck. “But I can assure you I will not be sleeping any time soon tonight.”
His hand rubs my thigh and I squirm slightly. The truth is, I’d like to straddle him right now, this very second. But I should give the illusion that he doesn’t make me a total horn dog one hundred percent of the time.
“So what are we doing?” I ask. It’s too early for dinner and beyond that I’m a blank. A show? Too early for that too. Despite the fact that it’s technically fall, the air is still warm and the sun still high enough in the sky.
“It’s a surprise, of course,” he says.
Fine, I can’t resist. I lean in and kiss him. He takes me back more deeply, his hand slipping around the back of my neck and pulling me closer. We manage to only kiss—a herculean effort, to be sure—and too soon the car has stopped. We’re at our destination. An airport.
“Um, are we going somewhere?” I ask.
“Yes and no,” he says. “Have you ever been on a—oh, never mind. Of course you’ve never been on a helicopter. I don’t know why I bother—”
“We’re taking a helicopter ride?” I practically squeal.
He shakes his head. “You’re like a kid. Everything is new. I love it.”
“We’re going on a helicopter?!”
“Yes,” he says, kissing me again. “We’re going on a helicopter.”
Except it’s not just a helicopter but a Croft helicopter. It says so right on the side.
“You own this?” I ask.
“The company does,” he says. “I use it when I need to get down to San Diego or out to Palm Springs. Places that aren’t too far away but that in traffic are murder. Watch your step.”
He takes my hand as we get out of the limousine. The wind created by the blades isn’t great for my hair but luckily it’s long so I gather it to the side and we make a run for it. It’s actually pretty fun, like we’re in an action movie running from zombies.
Once we’re inside Rex says, “You can be sure I’ve never taken another woman on a ride before because it didn’t occur to me until just now that the wind would be too much on your hair.”
“It’s fine!” I tell him.
We get situated, buckled and helmeted and then we’re off. We soar above Los Angeles, looking down on traffic with particular delight that I’m not sitting in it in my sad little car that’s constantly on the verge of overheating.
We swoop past the Hollywood sign, and Rex points out his estate. From above it’s even more spectacular, even bigger than I realized from my one night there. We head across the city and down the coastline. I can spot late-afternoon surfers bobbing in the water, long black marks that look like sea lions. We were so close to the all the smog and congestion and stress of the city but now we’re flying above California’s natural beauty. The sun sparkles behind us across the sapphire-blue water, and we’re heading out to sea.
“Where are we going?” I ask into my headset.
“Dinner,” Rex says.
When I see an island in the distance I say, “Is that Catalina Island?”
Rex nods.
Holy shit, I’m seriously dreaming right now.
Once we exit the helicopter a black car is waiting for and takes us to a restaurant. We’re seated on a balcony overlooking the harbor as the sun sets off to our left. It’s spectacular.
“Just another Friday night for you, huh?” I ask.
“Hardly,” he says. “But this place is amazing. Seafood comes from local fisherman. Can’t get it any fresher than here. Oh, and the martinis are amazing, ice cold. Sometimes my buddies and I come out just for drinks.” Rex glances past me. “Good evening, Johnny. How’ve you been?”
A waiter has appeared, an older gentleman, and greets us warmly. “Mr. Croft, it’s so good to see you again. How’s business?”
“Busy as always,” Rex says. After some pleasantries Rex starts with the ordering, insisting I try the martini but assuring me that if I don’t like it I don’t have to drink it.
When I see that a drink costs more than my usual dinner, I feel a bit of the pressure but decide that I’m going to relax into the evening and really let Rex take over. I have to admit, it feels good to let go for a night and not worry about money or auditions or next steps or anything. I literally sit back in my chair and let the cool ocean breeze waft over me.
“You look amazing sitting there,” Rex says once he’s ordered. “The sun is just glowing on you.”
I reach out for his hand. I don’t even know what to say. I simply hold his hand in mine, our eyes on each other, soaking it all in.
Turns out the martini is refreshing (and strong—I decide one is enough), cold and de
licious. Rex has also ordered sashimi and teases me as I tentatively taste the yellowfin tuna but it turns out it is smooth and delicate and I love it.
Once the sun sets I get a little chill in the evening air. I did think to bring a coat but mine is black and bulky and would have looked ridiculous with this gorgeous dress so I left it at home.
When the owner stops by to say hello to Rex, he brings me a thick wool wrap that warms me up instantly.
They think of everything it seems.
We watch as the boats in the harbor bob in the black water, some of their lights on and twinkling in the night. As dinner goes on we move closer and closer to one another.
Soon enough Rex is sitting right next to me, his hand often reaching out to touch me as he eats—rubbing my back or dropping down to my thigh. Once we’ve finished eating (the lobster is just so oh-my-god good) I’m snuggled up next to him with my head on his shoulder, the two of us looking out at the view, enjoying being with each other.
“If you’re up for it,” Rex says, “I have another little something for us back in L.A. If the helicopter was too noisy or uncomfortable we can take a boat back or even spend the night here.”
“Are you insane?” I say. “This is so amazing. It’s too much.”
“Hardly,” he says. “You deserve all this and more. And there is more, I promise.”
I KNEW when he said he had “a little something” back in L.A. that it wouldn’t be little at all—and it’s not.
The limo that dropped us off and took us to the airport now pulls into the lot of the Hollywood Bowl. Except it’s late—almost eleven—and there are no cars here so if something had gone on tonight, it’s long over.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You simply can’t be an L.A. girl without really going to the Hollywood Bowl,” he says. “This place is too iconic. The season is over, obviously. You haven’t been here a full year but it does get cold in the winter, at least at night. Oh, here.” He moves forward to a box on the seat up near the driver. “I had Donald—” that’s the driver “—pick this up for you while we were at dinner.” From the box he pulls out a long wool black coat, elegant and classic. “I don’t want you to be cold.”
“Rex,” I say. “I can’t believe you. You bought me a coat.”
“I want to keep you warm,” he says.
I pull on the coat and cinch it at the waist with the belt, and it fits beautifully.
“What normally happens,” Rex explains, “is that you come early before the show begins and have dinner. Everyone brings a picnic unless you sit up in the box seats.”
“Which I’m sure you do,” I say.
“Well, Croft does own a couple,” he says. “They serve great food and wine here so it’s a whole dinner experience. And then the show begins. You have your wine while you watch the show, maybe get dessert—it’s pretty cool.”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” I say, wondering if I’ll come here next summer. Wondering if I’ll still know Rex. Wondering if I’ll have landed a decent role yet.
“I think what I have planned is even better,” he says, sounding quite sure of himself.
There’s one lone security guard who lets us through. The lights are off over the seats but the stage is lit.
“Mind going up to the top?” he asks.
“Sounds good.”
We go up the steps to the cheap seats. A little table is set up with a canister of warm apple cider, which Rex serves me.
“Served by you personally?” I ask. “Wow, this must be a first. I have a feeling you’re not one of us.”
“Us who?”
“The millions who waited tables to get through college,” I say.
“It’s true, I have never waited tables. But look, I didn’t spill. I wanted to be up here alone with you—there’s no one else here but us, Richie the security guard who will stay where we saw him, and her.” He points with his mug toward the stage, where a woman walks across the stage and sits at a grand piano.
“Is that…” I say, totally dumbfounded.
“Yep,” Rex says. “It’s her.”
And it is. It’s Sylvia Stratford, my favorite singer. Everyone’s favorite singer. She sings bluesy pop and has a voice that proves that her six Grammy wins were no fluke.
“Good evening Mr. Croft,” she says from the microphone. “I can’t see you for all these lights but I hope you don’t mind my playing you and Addison a few songs.”
“Oh my god,” I say. “Sylvia Stratford just said my name.”
Rex pulls me close. “She’s also singing to you right now. Would you like to dance?”
I’m staring down at the stage, past all the empty seats, and I can’t believe it. We have this entire theater to ourselves as Sylvia Stratford sings directly to us. Above the roof of the stage is the Hollywood Hills, dark except for the Hollywood sign, its white letters lit up against the black. Rex turns me and takes my hand, and we’re dancing to the slow tunes and soft piano playing of a mega superstar. It’s nothing less than surreal.
Rex holds me close as we dance. I rest my head on his shoulder, always wanting to be as close to him as possible. I let the songs fill my head and Rex’s hand warm and comfort me. When Sylvia thanks us—thanks us!—for letting her sing tonight, I suppose twenty minutes have gone by, but the time definitely flew.
I wonder how much it cost him to hire someone who makes millions performing for thousands of adoring fans.
Rex kisses my forehead as I come out of my little trance. I could have danced with him all night, Sylvia or no. Frankly I could watch paint dry with him and feel completely satisfied.
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks. “Or…you could come back to my house. Sheldon promised to leave us dessert, just in case.”
“I’m tired of my place,” I say, and I don’t mean that as just a crash pad for our nightly romps. After this evening and being treated like royalty, going back to my dump in the crappy part of town is the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to go home and be alone. I want to stay with Rex.
“So let’s forget your place,” Rex says. “Move into mine.”
“Very funny. I mean for tonight. Let’s go have dessert.”
“Sounds good. And maybe some chocolate cake too.”
REX
I ’m not sure what’s happening between me and Addison.
All I know is that I want to spend every moment with her. I want to make her happy, and anything I can do to assure that—from taking her on a helicopter ride, to buying her jewelry to feeding her chocolate cake—I’ll make happen. Because not only do I want to see her happy, but it brings me joy to see her that way.
The way her face lit up when she saw Sylvia Stratford made me feel warm. I’m not used to that. My father taught me and my brothers to keep ice running through our veins. “You’ll achieve everything you ever wanted if you remember that, boys,” he often told us.
I remember one time, I was probably eight or nine, Father caught me staring at a girl—Mellie Hollingsworth. She had dark red hair and freckles like cinnamon. We were at a soccer game that Jackson was playing in, and she was there watching her brother too.
Father leaned to me and said, “She’ll make you weak, son. They always do.”
At the time I thought it was some actual physical thing that girls took from boys—like I would lose the ability to walk or something. Later, in high school, I came home from boarding school and wanted to take out a girl I’d been seeing who went to the girls’ school near mine.
Dad said I could leave the house for the evening to go out with her…but first I had to prove to him that I had memorized all the rivers in Africa. I was working so hard to finish before I went out that I didn’t realize how late it was. I left her waiting for me at a café for over an hour. She finally gave up and went home. I never heard from her again.
Since I got out here to L.A., I’ve kept everything with women casual. The closest I came was Monica Saunders, and that’s only becau
se I saw her multiple times. I try to keep a three-date rule with women. More than three dates, I’ve noticed, and they start expecting commitment.
So what is it with Addison? I’ve been to her place several times, and tonight is definitely a date. Usually I don’t have to remind myself when it’s time to drop the girl. It’s habit. With Addison, though, I have no intention of dropping her. I also have no intention of falling in love with her.
Marriage—yes, that’d still be good for my position in the company. But love? Hell no.
When we get to my house, Addison insists on a full tour.
“I only saw two rooms last time,” she says. “The kitchen and the bedroom.”
“What else is there?” I say. “Besides, I would have given you a tour if you hadn’t run out so fast in the morning.”
She puts her arms around my neck. “I promise that won’t ever happen again.”
“Better not,” I say, kissing her lips. “If you really want a tour we better get going. There’s eighteen thousand square feet to cover here.”
“Jeez,” she says. “All just for you? How many rooms do you never go in?”
“I’ve been in most of them.”
“Most?”
“And I’m sure they’ve all been used,” I say. “I’ve had some pretty epic parties here, I’ll have you know.”
“I’ll bet,” she says, digging her fingers into the back of my neck. I run my hand over her ass. “God knows what kind of debauchery goes on at Rex Croft parties.”
“What do you think goes on at my parties?” I ask. “What kind of wicked things do you think I do?”
“I know what kinds of wicked things you do,” she says. “And probably have done all over this house.”
I run my hand over the curve of her hip. “Do you have any ideas?”
“Ideas of what?”
“Wicked things,” I say, kissing her neck, my dick growing in my pants, “we can do all over this house.”
She turns her neck to give me more of her to taste. “You’re the best at coming up with deviant stuff, aren’t you?”
