Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

“No. No, it didn’t. It sounded really insightful.”

  “I can be insightful. I’m not just a dumb girl with a pretty face, Tate. Geez, I have a brain.”

  It’s his turn to laugh, which he does long and hard. His too-big smile seems to take over half his face, and I know I’m grinning stupidly at the sight.

  “So how would you describe your editing style?” I ask as we round the corner toward the double doors of the Vamp Camp set. The red light is on, indicating that they are filming inside. They must be filming coverage of the other actors in the scene, because the star of the show is currently walking shoulder to shoulder with me.

  “My editing style. Hmmm. Right now, I’d call it nonexistent because I just don’t have time to do anything. For example, my friend is in a band and they sent me all this footage from a video they shot, just some friends messing around with a couple of cameras. And I told them I’d edit it, but I’ve barely touched it.”

  “I know what you mean. I’ve been working on this script for years and since I moved here to really start my career, I’ve spent maybe an hour on it, combined.”

  “We should make a pact with each other,” Tate says. “We should both spend at least twenty minutes a day working on our own stuff. No matter how tired we are.”

  “I like it. And maybe each morning we can meet to talk about what we did the night before. Kind of like brainstorming and checking in both at once. It will keep us honest.”

  When I hear myself say the word “honest,” I immediately feel anything but. I want to back off a bit and end the conversation on a neutral note, but Tate is looking down at me with such an earnest and open expression, so eager to connect with me about our love of filmmaking, that I’m pretty sure putting space between us would make me physically ache.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” he says, almost too casually. “I just got the new version of Final Draft and Avid,” he tells me.

  “The version that came out last year or the version that’s not supposed to come out for another three months?”

  Tate smiles at me like a big shot. “What do you think?”

  “You have the new software for Final Draft and Avid?!” I exclaim with a soft punch to his arm, which is firmer than I ever thought possible. “I’m so jealous. I just read on some forums that the new Avid is the best version yet. And I just realized how dorky that made me sound, so forget I said that.”

  “It definitely made you sound like a dork, but in a good way,” Tate promises. “Do you want to come over sometime and play around with it?”

  If this were any other guy friend, I would totally make a “that’s what she said” joke. But the very thought of saying anything sexual to Tate makes me flustered to the point of shaking palms.

  “And by ‘play around with it,’ I hope you know I only meant Avid and Final Draft,” Tate quips, clearly reading my mind. Hearing the words “play around with it” come out of his mouth all over again makes me trip over my own two feet, and I have to grip the wall of the soundstage to keep myself from falling flat on my face. The fact that I thought of a sex joke and he verbalized it two seconds later makes me giggle way too shrilly than should be allowed, but I can’t help it. I don’t have a single read on this guy and he keeps surprising me.

  “I’m sorry. That was a bad joke,” Tate says as I finally quiet down. I shake my head at him and press my palms to the corner of my eyes to keep my tears at bay.

  “No, I’m laughing because I literally thought the exact same thing, but I didn’t want to be inappropriate. But then you came out with it, guns blazing and . . . you’re just not who I expected at all,” I tell him.

  “Well, that’s good. Most people are surprised at how weird I am. Anyway, if you ever want to come on by and play around with the programs, I’d be happy to show them to you.”

  “Sure, that would be great!”

  “How about tonight?”

  “I’m free,” I say, without hesitation.

  “I think I wrap around five. Give me your phone. I can put my number in, and you can text me when you feel like stopping by.”

  As Tate handles my phone, I have a momentary break from his shimmering aura of charm and penis jokes to think clearly. And what the hell am I thinking, just inviting myself over to his house?

  Wait. He invited me.

  Is he flirting? Tate is definitely a nice guy, but . . .

  “So let’s plan for tonight,” Tate says as he hands back my phone. I look down and see he programmed his name as “Taters” in my contacts. I glance at him knowingly.

  “You can’t be serious. Who the hell calls you this?”

  “No one. Until now. I’m going to make it a thing.”

  “Well, you’re doing it wrong,” I insist as I erase the “s” and add three “z’s” so it reads “Taterzzz.” I show him the edited name and he grins.

  “That’s even better. I sound like a rapper.”

  “Definitely not something you should be going for.”

  “Now I gotta think about how to name you in my phone. Don’t text me for a bit so I can think about it.”

  “You got it.” There’s an awkward pause, which leaves enough time for me to realize I just got invited to my friend’s boyfriend’s house. Without using any of Elise’s tried-and-true strategies for seduction. An itchy sensation starts crawling up the back of my neck, almost like I’m ashamed of what we just agreed to. I feel the words bubbling up my throat, trying to force their way out of my lips. I open my mouth to change the subject, but those words are still there and they burst forth.

  “Don’t you have a girlfriend who might feel weird if we’re hanging out?”

  “Wow, you’re blunt,” Tate says, giving a laugh of surprise. “I do have a girlfriend, but she won’t—”

  “Right, we’re not even hanging out. As friends, I mean.”

  “We’re not friends?”

  “No, we are. What I meant was that this is business-related. So we’re not hanging out to have fun.”

  “I’m not fun?”

  “Tate, you know what I mean!”

  “I don’t really, but . . . sure. And to answer your original question before you started saying I wasn’t fun, she won’t mind. I’m allowed to have friends,” he says.

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  I want to move on from my awkward massacre of conversational skills and ask him where he lives, but I’m cut off by the stage doors bursting open. A very pissed (and handsome) Camden emerges from the dark. He shoots glares at Tate from behind his thick hipster glasses, and then at me, and then back at Tate.

  “Didn’t want to be around for your first scene of the day, Lawrence?” Camden all-but-growls. Tate’s expression, which was loose and lit up just a moment ago, is now the perfect picture of a professional.

  “Sorry, Camden,” Tate says. “I lost track of time helping Dani with some production work. I’ll get right in there. I’m ready to go.” And with those few words, Tate the actor strides into the soundstage and leaves me alone with Camden.

  Camden looks especially cute today with his white thermal shirt and navy blue knit cap, like an adorable art professor.

  “Hey, Cam—”

  “You shouldn’t hang out with Lawrence too much,” he says darkly.

  “Oh, we’re not hanging out or anything. We’re just . . .”

  “He’s a total player—like all actors.”

  I consider this, because that’s what Elise has always been afraid of. What if, despite Tate’s seemingly sweet personality, he really is a player?

  “Haven’t you seen those photos from Tarantula?” Camden adds.

  Tarantula? Why do people keep bringing that up? In all my research on YouTube, it didn’t come up. Does Tate have a spider fetish or something? Or did something happen with Tate recently that Elise doesn’t know about but definitely should know about?

  “No, I haven’t seen them. We just ran into each other a little bit ago. I don’t even know him,” I explain. Camden st
udies me for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. I wrap my hand around his forearm and take a step closer.

  “Camden, honestly. We were just small talking. No big deal. I’m glad to see you,” I coo in an effort to change the subject. Camden stays rigid for a moment longer and then finally relaxes and pulls me in for a hug.

  “Sorry. I just didn’t want him hitting on you or anything. He tends to do that with any girl he sees. Just like every other young actor in Hollywood.”

  It’s an odd thing to say about Tate, even if the two of them rub each other the wrong way. I tug at the corner of his sleeve.

  “Are you jealous?” I ask teasingly, though I am honestly interested to hear his response. Camden’s eyes dim for a split second before he smiles, lighting them up again.

  “Of course not! Just watching out for you,” he says, pulling me closer. “In fact, I was hoping you would go to this thing with me in a couple weeks. It’s a stupid award show, but the show was nominated for writing, so everyone is going.”

  “The TV Spotlight Awards?” I ask, my high-pitched voice doing nothing to hide my excitement. I’ve watched that show every year, from my couch, with my printed ballot in my hand. Trying to guess the winners, memorizing their shows and their stories to success. And now I’d be going?!

  “Yeah, it’s kind of lame, but it’ll be less lame if you are there,” Camden says, now hugging me close to his hip. “What do you think?”

  I bury my face in his neck and breathe in the smell of cigarettes, sawdust, and sweat. The smell of a busy showrunner. I press myself more tightly against him and think about one day smelling just like that, except without the cigarettes. Maybe even with Camden by my side.

  As Camden kisses my neck, I see that Tate didn’t go directly to set like I thought he did. He’s standing not far away from us, watching our every move. His expression is unreadable, but he turns around and disappears into the shadows before I can meet his gaze.

  * * *

  At home, I’m in the middle of picking out the perfect color T-shirt (black, white, or gray?) to go with my gun-metal silver jeans, and laughing along with Golden Girls season two, when I hear something from Brit that I have never heard before.

  A heavy, frustrated sigh. Followed by a swear word. This must be bad. I put my nerves about visiting Tate’s house on the shelf and pause Betty White before hurrying out to the living room.

  Brit is on the couch, hunched over with her red locks completely covering her face. I approach her carefully.

  “You okay, Brit?”

  She looks up at me and I notice that her usually glittering green eyes are lacking any shine. Something is definitely wrong.

  “Is it something with Hannah?” I wonder nervously. I sincerely hope not. I’m not equipped for dating advice, especially considering the fact that I agreed to seduce my best friend’s boyfriend. Who I’m about to pay a house call to in an hour.

  “Just look out the window at my truck. At my business!” she says as she maniacally points toward the sliding glass doors in our living room. I step out onto our small patio and peer over the edge until I see Brit’s truck in the parking lot below. I’m looking for a flat tire, a smoking engine, or a shattered windshield. But I see nothing wrong.

  “Brit, what’s wrong with it? Did it break down? I don’t . . . ohhh.”

  I finally see it. Someone has spray-painted the side of Brit’s food truck so it reads “Vegan Fart” instead of “Vegan Art.” I bristle. Who in the hell has the audacity to ruin someone’s business like this? And it’s happening to someone so sweet and so hard working as Brit. She may be upset about the graffiti, but I am positively livid. I go back inside and stand in front of Brit.

  “Did you see who did it? Do you know their names or addresses? I swear, I’m gonna beat them over the head with a sock full of oranges. That’s such a shitty thing to do! It’s so immature and illegal! Hello?! It’s illegal to do this! Just wait until I find out who did this . . .”

  “Dani, relax. I appreciate your anger, but it won’t help in this situation. Let’s take some deep breaths.”

  “You take some deep breaths!” I shout back, desperately wanting for her to match my anger and feel better, all at the same time.

  “I am. C’mon. Count with me. Big belly breaths. Positive in, negative out.”

  I watch Brit breathe deeply while I stew in anger for about ten seconds, and then I start breathing with her. She’s right, I don’t feel like I want to punch people as much as I did. I’m still pissed, but at least it’s under control.

  “There we go. I’m furious, too, but all I need to do is channel this incident into something that propels my life down the right track. Maybe it was meant to happen,” Brit reasons with a small shrug. I throw my hands up in disbelief.

  “Really? You were meant to have a phrase for passing gas emblazoned on your only source of income?”

  “Well, when you put negative energy like that out there, of course it’s all going to seem dire. Do you want to take more deep breaths?”

  “No, I don’t want to take any more deep breaths. Just my regular ones for now,” I reply as I go into the kitchen to get Brit some water. I glance at my phone on the counter and see that Tate (or Taterzzz) has texted me his address along with a message about traffic.

  I would wait another 20 minutes before leaving the west side. Traffic can be a real you-know-what coming up to los feliz. Drive safe!

  Thanks, I’ll see you in about an hour. Peace out, Taterzzzzzzzzz

  I only have 3 Zs!

  I smile to myself and shove my phone in my pocket. On the way to bring Brit her water, I’m struck with an idea.

  “You know what, Brit? I’m starting to know some pretty famous people—or at least, the people I’m friends with know other famous people. I can totally talk up your business to them,” I offer.

  “You don’t have to do that, Dani. I don’t want you lying to people for me.”

  “What? I wouldn’t be lying. Look, your vegan recipes aren’t for me, but they probably will be for tons of people. And even though I don’t like the meals, I know that they always smell good and taste really fresh. And . . .”

  “What?”

  I pause for dramatic effect. “I always feel better when I drink one of your smoothies instead of just having coffee in the morning,” I admit.

  Brit beams. “That’s wonderful! I can design a weeklong cleanse for you and then we can get you on an all-vegan diet! It’ll be—”

  “Awful. I need more fruits and veggies in my life, sure, but I don’t need to go all vegan. I love steak and bacon way too much. But I can tell some folks about your catering company, and I bet you’ll be flooded with calls. Who doesn’t want to be fed delicious food by a hot redhead?”

  Brit’s expression is back to its normal happy-go-lucky glory, which is exactly how I prefer it.

  “Thanks, Dani. I always knew your heart was capable of so many things besides beating.”

  Last week, this expression would have made me wrinkle my nose, but now it just makes me happy. Brit gets up and heads to the kitchen with a little more bounce in her step.

  “So, do you want some dinner? I can whip us up some zucchini spaghetti and seitan meatballs? It’s one of my favorites!”

  I bite back the urge to gag. “Um, no thanks. I’m going to Tate’s house tonight.”

  Brit stops her motions and stares at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

  “Did you say you’re going to Tate’s house? Like, the guy you’re supposed to be seducing?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not going over there to seduce him.”

  “So why are you going over there? Is this something Elise wanted you to do?”

  “No, not exactly,” I say slowly. I let Brit’s questions sink in. What am I doing? “He just invited me over to look at some software and talk about film and my career. I was so excited that I didn’t even think about if this was . . . like, against the rules.”

  “Rules? W
hat rules? You made rules for yourself?”

  “No,” I lie. I don’t think our actual rules of seduction are zen enough for Brit. “I’m talking about, just, you know, girl code. Do you think I’m breaking some kind of rule by hanging out with him even though Elise didn’t set it up?”

  Brit is silent for a moment, thinking. “Well . . . I think it’s okay to go over there, since it’s kind of for your career. But you know what you should do?” Brit asks.

  “Tell Tate the truth about what Elise is having me do?”

  The words fly out of my mouth without a single thought to them, and both Brit and I realize the weight of what I just said. It hangs over our heads for a moment, the idea of telling Tate the truth.

  After a couple beats, I put my hands up and let out an awkward chuckle. “No, that’s not what I meant. That’s dumb. I’m helping out Elise. So. Anyway. Um, what should I do?”

  Brit looks at me meaningfully for a second longer than I want, but she doesn’t press me on the issue. She just starts rummaging through the little desk by the front door.

  “I know you like making lists. You should write down three goals for yourself that have nothing to do with Tate or Elise. I think it’s important that you have goals outside of this little scheme,” she says. “When it’s in ink and on actual paper, you are setting an intention. You’ll be less likely to break them that way.”

  She hands me a pen and a piece of paper. It sounds like new age crap to me, but it’s worth a try. I think for a moment about everything that I’ve been missing out on since taking the Vamp Camp job and focusing my energy on Tate.

  Go out and see something in the city at least once a week. Don’t be afraid to get lost.

  Do something for Tower every day: write, brainstorm, anything

  Take up a healthy habit.

  I hand Brit the piece of paper, and she slaps it on the fridge and secures it under a rainbow magnet with a flourish.

  “There. Now you have to see it every day. It’s out there for the world to possess.”

  “Also, the rainbow magnet makes it pretty,” I add. Brit nods in agreement and studies the list once more. She taps her finger on number three.