Trouble Me

by Beck Anderson

  I whisper to the velvet curtains. “Kelly? Are you in there?”

  “Nope.” She stands behind me.

  I jump out of my skin.

  “Jesus!” I grab her around the waist, ready to scold her for the scare. Instead, her lips are on mine, and she kisses me hard.

  “Come this way.” She takes me by the necktie and pulls me down a narrow corridor behind us.

  “Are you dragging me to the brig?”

  She kisses me again. “Just a little quiet, velvety spot I found when I was looking for the bathroom.”

  She pulls me around a corner, and it’s a dead end. Wow. This is scorching hot.

  “I enjoy this side of you, Kelly.”

  “It’s way better than puking.” She teases me with little kisses on my neck.

  “Hormones that don’t make you vomit. I like it.” I snake an arm around her back, press my hips up against her.

  “Are you up for this?” She doesn’t sound like it’s totally out of the question. I think she’s really asking. My God, this is suddenly my favorite investors meet-and-greet in the history of meet-and-greets.

  “Why not?” I loosen my tie. I’m about to work on the buttons of her shirt when there’s a loud noise behind us, between us and the stairs.

  “What was that?” Kelly turns her head.

  “I don’t know.” I kiss her behind her ear, brush a hand down the front of her shirt to below her waist. She wore a skirt. The heavens are smiling upon me tonight.

  She turns back to me, but there’s a clatter of metal on the floor of the hall. We both turn this time to see the back of someone disappear around the corner, hear feet going up the stairs to the deck.

  “Andrew. We had an audience.” Kelly’s eyes are wide with fear.

  “Yeah, that’s creepy.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Good feeling gone.” She shrugs.

  “We better get back to Tucker.” I curse whatever peeping Tom it was. That could’ve been epically sexy. Now the night just got typically bland. Maybe my luck’s not so great after all.

  12: Living Proof

  THAT NIGHT I LIE IN BED, taking stock. I realize I haven’t had a nightmare since we came to New York, almost a month and a half ago. No more nightmares. Maybe having someone I love in my bed helps with that. And here Andrew is, in my bed right now.

  He fell asleep while reading For Whom the Bell Tolls. Hemingway was my thing, but then Andrew started reading him too, so now I guess it’s our thing. I set the book over on his bedside table when he drifted off. Now I’m wide awake. I consider picking the book up to see where he stopped. Instead, I just stare at my guy, my movie star.

  He’s got his arms sprawled up over his head. His chest and stomach are pale in the moonlight. I really want to reach out and run my hand over the planes of his body. He’s a light sleeper, though. It wouldn’t be fair. I sigh. He’s so lean—his muscles are taut, sinewy even in sleep—and here I am next to him. Miss Softie, maybe spelled Softee, like white soft-serve ice cream.

  That’s what pregnancy does to my body. I widen at the bottom, and my boobs and stomach start to merge into one pile of flesh. Yuck. But just as I am ready to sink into the depths of self-loathing, I feel it. It’s a tiny, tiny flutter, but I know exactly what it is. The baby moved. The baby is moving. I feel it again.

  “Oh!” It’s not a kick to any part of me—he’s still too tiny for that. He’s swimming around, dog-paddling and dolphin-kicking in his still-spacious hideaway.

  Andrew stirs.

  “Andrew! Hey!”

  “Hmm?” He turns his chin toward me, but he’s still asleep.

  “I felt the baby move. He’s moving.”

  Andrew opens his eyes now, luscious long eyelashes blinking sleep away. I hope the baby gets those. He’ll be adorable.

  “What’d you say?” He sighs, sinking back into sleep again.

  “The baby’s moving.”

  He sits up on one elbow.

  I turn on the lamp. “He’s moving. I can feel him moving.”

  Andrew puts a hand on my stomach. “Can I feel him?”

  I shake my head. “He’s still too little. It won’t be long, though.” I grin. It feels real and good—the baby reminds me that there’s a payoff to the dead, heavy fatigue and nausea and spread of cellulite. His check-in is well timed.

  Andrew keeps his hand on my stomach and lies on his side. “You keep calling him him. What makes you so sure?”

  “I don’t know.” I keep doing it, but I don’t know why. Habit, I guess—that’s all I know is boys.

  “What if he’s a she?” His eyes close; he’ll be asleep again in a minute.

  “Good point. I guess we’ll know for sure tomorrow.” I put my hand on Andrew’s, lace my fingers between his. “That’d be nice too.”

  “She’d be my little girl. Daddy’s little girl.” He smiles, and he’s asleep, the smile drifting away as he falls more deeply.

  I let go of his hand, and he turns over.

  There’s one more little flutter, and then I remember—hiccups. Baby hiccups. When I was pregnant with Hunter, he got the hiccups in utero all the time. Maybe this is baby’s first case.

  “Is that it?” I ask baby quietly. “You have the hiccups?”

  He or she is my little hiccup, that’s for sure. Certainly wasn’t part of our regularly scheduled programming. But this pregnancy is no calamity. On this journey Andrew and I get to take together, it’s just a bump in the road.

  “Hiccup. That’s your gender-neutral nickname until you arrive, darling.” I pat my tummy and turn off the light.

  The next morning we’re up and headed to the baby doctor. I’m excited, I won’t lie. I like the ultrasounds. Andrew hasn’t seen this before. I know he’ll love it. Sharing this with him will send him into orbit about the baby.

  I watch him jiggle his leg and check and recheck his phone.

  “You’re nervous.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “There’s nothing to be nervous for. This is the fun part. It doesn’t hurt me, and I don’t have to give up any bodily fluids for it, either.”

  He nods absently. “I just want to know he’s in one piece. Everything’s where it’s supposed to be. All that developmental stuff.”

  “I’ve never for a second worried about it. I think he’ll be just fine.”

  “So, we need to have the talk, though.”

  “If we’d had that, we wouldn’t be in this position.” I point to my belly.

  “Ha ha.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “Do we want to know that he’s a he? For sure?”

  I hadn’t thought about this. With Hunter and Beau, eighty million years ago, it was kind of obvious in the ultrasounds that they were boys. They weren’t shy. “I guess we could ask not to see, if he’s showing off.”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes, when the tech is taking measurements, it’s hard not to notice. But it’s also kind of early, so the tech might not even be able to tell.”

  “Well, let’s do this differently. I want to be surprised.”

  I’m touched. He so often defers to me on decisions. He lets me be the one with strong feelings. How nice that it’s reversed on this one.

  “And you’re convinced he’s a he, anyway, so it’d just be confirming what you apparently already know.”

  “Okay, Andrew. You take the lead. I just want to be clear what this does for baby gifts.”

  “What does it do for baby gifts? Do tell.”

  “We’ll get a ton of green stuff. People will go crazy for the sage green baby stuff. Our baby will wear soft celery onesies for an eternity.”

  “I can deal with that. I could spring for some different-colored ones when the baby comes, anyway.”

  “Oh, you’ll be able to afford them. But when you’ll have the time to actually acquire them is a different story.”

  “We’ll send Jeremy out. To a baby store. He deserves to have to go to a baby store.”


  “That does sound fun. He should have to buy butt cream. Ooh! No, nursing pads. He needs to ask someone in Babies ’R’ Us where the nursing pads are.”

  “I like how we bond over making Jeremy squirm. But do I want to know what a nursing pad is? Maybe it’ll make me squirm.”

  “All part of breastfeeding. What a joy. Then you’ll know all about nursing pads, and liniments, and hopefully not thrush, which sucks more than almost anything, and mama when baby won’t latch on right, and when baby gets teeth. Yeah, can’t wait.”

  “So, breastfeeding sucks is what I’m hearing.”

  “Pretty much. Someone else might’ve liked it, but I was taking one for the team when I breastfed the boys. They’re geniuses now, so I guess it was worth it.”

  “Time to change the subject. I can only take the dirty, gritty details in small doses.” He goes back to fidgeting.

  Janus drives the car around the block, checking for tails. We really, really don’t want pictures going in and out of the doctor’s office. I don’t relish looking like the beached whale next to gorgeous Andrew. Tucker doesn’t want anyone to know where the office is—or, you know, that we have a reason to visit such an office. Tucker, always with the security over the vanity. What a guy.

  After his circuit, Janus seems satisfied, and we park in the garage. Andrew texts the front desk, and as a result, we’re led through the reception area straight into an exam room. I giggle inside because the look on some of the pregnant ladies’ faces in the office when they see Andy Pettigrew is priceless. I’d bet most of them convince themselves it wasn’t him. Why in the world would he be strolling through their OB’s office?

  The room is different than usual. It’s the ultrasound room. It’s dim, and I’m tempted to take a nap. Except that I was good and followed orders and drank a large amount of water before I came. I can’t sleep when I might float away.

  “Time to find out what you’re having!” The tech breezes in and goes to the sink to wash her hands.

  Andrew straightens up. “Not exactly. We want to be surprised.”

  “What?” She smiles. “I’m Stacy, by the way. You sure?”

  “Yep. I want to be surprised. Miss Psychic over here thinks she already knows.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I nod. “Mother’s intuition.”

  “What are you thinking?” Stacy has pretty black ringlets of hair almost to her butt. She tosses them when she asks this, almost like a challenge.

  “If I told you then you couldn’t be trusted. Your face would give away what you saw.”

  “Hmm…you’ve thought through this. I like it. Okay, well, let’s get to it.”

  She has me lie back, and we get rolling.

  Andrew sits next to me, watches my face. “You’re okay?” This is the first visit he’s been able to come to. I’ve been a good patient, taking the initiative to find a doctor in NYC (with Dr. Joe in Boise’s blessing, of course), making all my appointments. Poor Andrew, this ultrasound is nothing. He’s going faint dead away during delivery—talk about the ugly, dirty truth.

  “I’m completely fine. Watch the screen.” I point to the monitor.

  Stacy adjusts the wand on my belly a bit. “I’m trying not to have the little one give you a show. Let’s measure head to butt.” She drops and drags a dotted line, marks, types the measurement into the computer. “Yep. Okay, let’s get a head measurement.”

  She angles the wand, presses a little. “I need to get him to turn a bit.”

  Andrew perks up. “Him?”

  “Or her. Don’t know yet.” Stacy looks at him and smiles. “I promise. I won’t give it away. I’ve done this a time or two, you know.”

  “You can call him Hiccup.” I offer this up to be helpful.

  “Nice nickname.”

  “I’m not wild about it.” Andrew runs a hand through his hair. He hasn’t relaxed yet.

  “It won’t stick. Don’t worry, nicknames like that don’t stick. Usually.” Stacy chuckles. She’s teasing him.

  I like her. She has not one bit of shyness or weirdness given who Andrew is. She’s just got moxie.

  She gets a few more measurements and prints a picture of the head, looking like a creepy alien baby head, and a cute one of the foot, and one where it looks like baby is waving. The boys will love that one.

  “Okay, last chance to check out the goods. Any takers?” She looks at me, then Andrew. “What willpower. Well, Dr. Sorensen will get a look at these, but I feel safe saying it’s all systems go. I think your due date of February thirteenth is pretty on-target. And everything’s looking good.”

  “Healthy? Ten fingers, ten toes?” Andrew asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Except for the tail.” I can’t help it.

  “What?” His face goes blank.

  “Gotcha.” I slap him on the arm.

  “Wow. That was hysterical.” He stands up. “I’m going to take my baby pictures and leave in a huff.”

  “Let me get my shoes on.” I sit up.

  “Fine. Still going to be huffy.” He puts a hand out to Stacy. “Thanks for your help. And thanks for not teasing me like my terribly cruel significant other here.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a great rest of your stay in New York.” She leaves the room, and I get my stuff together.

  Andrew fidgets, sitting on the doctor’s stool, flipping his phone over and over. I’m mostly ready, but he keeps looking at me. “Are you done yet?”

  “Are you in a hurry?” I stand up and pull on my coat.

  “I was waiting to do this.” He pulls a small box out of his coat, takes my hand.

  “What’re you doing?”

  He pops the lid. It’s a ring pop, shaped like a pacifier. “Proposing again.”

  “A ring pop?” I shake my head.

  “Wait, are you saying no? Is this my first no? I was going for a four-peat.”

  I kiss him, pull him close. He answers with a strong kiss of his own, his hands sliding under my coat, around my waist, and all of a sudden I’ve forgotten the doctor’s office and the ultrasound and everything else.

  He breaks the kiss and the mood. “I’m taking that as an unspoken yes. And now we need to go home. This is not the place for what we’re about to get up to.”

  We leave the office, and Janus has the car running at the door of the garage. He’s out of the car and has the back door open.

  Andrew stiffens. “Uh-oh.”

  “What?” I don’t see anything.

  “Janus is rolling.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means someone texted from the doctor’s office, and there are probably photographers in the garage. Let’s go.”

  He holds his coat up in front of my face, and he propels me through the garage doors.

  All of a sudden, the garage is filled with echoes, shouts, and men. Janus gets a hand out in front of one guy with a video camera who steps in front of me.

  Andrew puts a forearm into the guy’s chest, pressing him out of my space. “Move.”

  Then we’re in the back of the car, but I’m startled by a smack, smack, smack, on the glass of the car window. Paparazzi press their camera lenses flat to the glass, and flashes rapid fire as they try to get a shot inside the car.

  I sit paralyzed.

  Janus guns the engine and peels out.

  “What just happened?” I don’t even have my seatbelt on all the way.

  “The magic of our interconnected world. That’s all it takes. One tip-off about where Andy Pettigrew is. One tweet lets loose a feeding frenzy.”

  I don’t know how he stands it. And then I wonder how long I’m going to have to stand it. “That kind of stuff makes me miss Boise.”

  “You and me both. Let’s go get lunch. Janus, drive us all around Manhattan and ditch these losers.”

  “No problem.” Janus turns out on to Seventh Avenue and guns it. A town car, two scooters, and a BMW give chase.

  13: Making Plans

 
THE SUMMER’S BEEN NUTS. I’ve been putting in sixteen-hour days on set, we just had an ultrasound for the baby, Kelly and the boys are due to go back to Boise for the start of the school year, and yesterday someone tipped off the paparazzi that we were at the doctor’s office. The last thing I want to do right now is spend lunch with Jeremy talking about me and my film career. But I know Jeremy’s right. We need to sit and have a strategy session.

  Someone in Hollywood once said, “You’re only as good as your last picture.” That’s bullshit. You’re only as good as the next project you have lined up. And it better be financed, locked and loaded, and starting pre-production. Second unit better be gearing up to start location shots, or you’ve got nothing.

  I’m white hot right now. That’s not vanity; that’s fact. And if I don’t capitalize on it, squeeze every last deal out of it while I can, I’ll turn around and find the offers for Dancing with the Stars and VH1’s Where are They Now and Lifetime Christmas movies as the only game in my town.

  I’m not ready for my fifteen minutes to be up. I love acting. I like the challenge. I want to get better. I need to work to get better. And yes, I won a Golden Globe, but I haven’t gotten one of those little golden guys that make every actor salivate.

  I want one. I’m ambitious. This town would have eaten me alive ages ago if I hadn’t been hungry, willing to push myself, and willing to expect more from myself every single time.

  So, Jeremy sits with me at lunch at the Lion in the Village. Lucky for me, as one of the best agents in Hollywood, Jeremy King’s not just hungry; he’s downright bloodthirsty. He’ll die making a deal for me if he thinks it’ll get us closer to the prize. He wants an Oscar for me, sure, but he also wants me to have my pick of projects, and he wants the projects I pick to get made.

  Easier said than done in our business.

  “Let’s talk about Flat Rock,” he begins.

  “Give me the update.”

  “Daniel means well, but I swear he needs to not talk to the money guys at Paramount. Every time he does, they call me, and I have to promise that we can control him and that, no, shooting will not take ‘as long as it needs to take.’”

  Daniel is the best director for this picture, but he gets lost in the art. Movies are about money, plain and simple. If you want to shoot a period piece with horses and special effects and a star like me, you better serve up a budget and a tight shooting schedule and lots and lots of promises that the movie will be loved by every demographic group from twelve to sixty-four.