by Lexi Whitlow
I look up at her, my eyes wide.
“…You are the luckiest human on the planet. You’re not pregnant.”
She turns on heel and walks out of the bathroom. I glance down at the little stick on the tub, and sure enough it’s a blue – sign instead of a big + sign.
Oh, thank God.
“You owe me nineteen dollars and the last forty minutes of my life. I will never get those forty minutes back. I’m not ready to be an auntie yet. You need to learn how to use protection.”
Margot tosses another box at me. It’s a box of condoms.
“Next time,” she says.
We both crack up laughing. I’m so relieved, I feel like a brand-new person.
“You’re nauseous because you’re stressed out about your father. You need two glasses of wine and some chocolate cake. C’mon. Let’s go.”
Wine and chocolate: universal remedies to cure all ills.
* * *
Hours later, back at home with a wine buzz and tired from too much laughter with Margot, I think hard on my day. Margot is always right about almost everything. Her ideas about me pursuing my own work, even while I work for my father, are solid. Sitting at my computer, I browse the last great photoshoot I did before the work all dried up. It was the SEAL shoot. Those images are so lovely. The lighting is perfect. The composition is flawless.
I study the images of Gates. I managed to sneak a shot of his profile when he wasn’t looking. He has magnificent bone structure, and the most disarming, amber colored eyes. When he looked at me, it felt as if he was really seeing me, straight through to my soul. He listened to me and was interested in what I had to say.
Gates—in those few brief hours we spent together—made an impression on me, more than any guy in years.
I really should have stayed.
Just to see what could happen.
Chapter 6
Gates
Three Years Later
Stepping out of the shower, I instinctively pause, taking a moment to inspect the scars wrapping both my legs. I do it every day without thinking about why. It’s no longer necessary to check the wounds. They’ve completely healed. Some of the scars are even fading now. The most prominent ones are from the incisions made for my knee replacements and metal implants to replace lost bone in my thighs. Those scars are long and straight, running from the middle of my thigh to the top of my shin, the same on both legs. The rest of the scars are irregular, mostly on the backs of my legs, so not nearly so obvious. The shrapnel wounds were ugly right after the incident, but the real damage was done to the bones and ligaments of my knees and lower thighs when a chuck of metal, launched like a missile from the explosion, slammed onto the back of my knees, crushing the bones to fragments.
I don’t remember any of it. I just remember waking up in the hospital on board the air craft carrier after having some fantastic dream about Winter, the red-headed disappearing act and thinking that I’d somehow lost Ransom. When they told me Ransom was en route to the hospital at Ramstein, and it looked like he was going to be fine, I didn’t much care about why I was there. I didn’t even ask. Then they started packing me up too.
I asked them what they were doing, and the nurse just shook her head, smiling sadly at me, while shoving enough morphine into my IV to put me down for the entire trip.
When I woke up next, I was at Ramstein Air Force base in Germany, in the hospital surgical recovery ward with about five other guys who looked a lot worse off than me. I was flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling, disoriented. I sat up on my elbows and all sorts of alarms started going off. That’s when I saw my legs.
My feet were the color of wet cement and I couldn’t move them. The bandages started at mid-calf and went up to mid-thigh on both legs. I couldn’t feel anything below my thighs.
“Lay back down, honey,” a nurse said, pressing against my chest, switching the noisy machines off. She was short, with dark hair wrapped in a surgical cap. She had big brown eyes and a sweet expression.
She told me where I was and why, and what was happening.
“You’ve just come out of surgery to stabilize you, following an injury you suffered on a mission. Do you remember getting hurt?”
I shook my head.
“The doctor will tell you everything as soon as he makes his rounds. I’m going to get you ready to move you to your room now. I heard your mom is on her way here. So, you’ll have some company while you get all patched up.”
Looking back on those long hard days, I was luckier than most. I had doctors who were willing to go above and beyond the call of duty to save my legs. I had my mom with me for the worst of it, always encouraging me, refusing to let me give up or get down on myself. She was there for a lot of the guys on the ward. For a few months she was mom to a whole hospital unit filled with broken Marines, Army guys, and SEALs like me.
I don’t know what I would have done without her. I know things wouldn’t have gone as smoothly as they did.
Looking down at the scars now, the whole thing seems like it’s a lifetime behind me. I’m out of the Navy. I always knew something like this could happen, but knowing it doesn’t really prepare you for it when it comes to pass.
After all the surgeries, when I finally got steady on my feet after months of physical therapy, walking with crutches, then canes, I realized I was going to have to do something with the rest of my life. I went into the Navy because I knew I was never going to get paid to play football (my first love.) I can’t image working behind a desk or doing the same repetitive task for decades.
The only thing left to me seemed like the most far-fetched idea anyone in my situation ever considered, but I decided it was worth giving a shot. I kept Ella Covington’s business card from that day in the gym with Winter, the disappearing photographer. When I called her, I didn’t even have to remind her who I was. She remembered me, and even remembered my antics on the pull-up bars.
Long story short, Ella got me an agent, and she gave me my first modeling job. After that, the work came quick and got better and better. A year into professional modeling and I was able to selectively choose what jobs I wanted to do. Everyone who knows about these things says my career trajectory was unprecedented. I went from an unknown to a top model, commanding a sixty-thousand-a-day rate, in just ten months.
I was in New York for Fashion Week, working the crowd for Calvin Kline, when a lady walked up to me, gave me her card, and said I should call her if I ever wanted to move from modeling to acting. That was a no-brainer. Modeling sounds great, but it’s not. The clients treat every model, male or female, like a clothes hanger. When I was first getting started, the agency nickel and dimed me to death, even charging me for haircuts the client insisted I get for the shoots. At the end of the day, I made great money with the clients I wanted to work with. But overall, modeling is a horrible way to make a living.
So now I have two agents. I have one in New York who handles an exclusive list of clients I like working with, and I have an agent in Los Angeles who’s done amazing things to move me from glossy fashion shoots to television and hopefully, movies.
My LA agent is Sam Fox, and she’s my guardian angel. Today we’re having lunch together so we can discuss a few scripts that have come across her desk, as well as one long-shot she wants me to go for. Sam is about my mom’s age, mid-fifties I guess, but she seems a lot younger and she pulls no punches. She tells me exactly what I need to do, even when I don’t want to hear it. She made me sign up for acting classes. I hated the classes—at first. But now I’m glad I did it. I’m also auditing a technical film-making course at UCLA, so I can understand the process better. This industry is a whole lot more complicated than it appears. When I got my first bit of television work as an extra on a CSI set, I didn’t understand a fraction of what was going on. I didn’t even know where to stand.
I’ve been out here in LA almost a year. I still don’t know much, but at least I know where the camera is, which among the army of bossy peopl
e floating about on set is the director (the one who everyone fawns over,) and where my marks are. I’m not famous, but I’m working steady, and so far, everyone likes what I’m doing.
I live south of LA at Long Beach. Sam works on Wilshire Boulevard. When we get together for a lunch like this, it’s usually somewhere in between. Today she wants to meet in West Hollywood at some popular restaurant called Lucques. It’s a long way for me through horrendous traffic, but she insisted. I don’t ask why. Just like in the Navy, I know to do what I’m told.
When I get there, I’m early, because I never want to be late. I walk in the front door and every head turns in my direction. As soon as the patrons see I’m nobody famous, they go back to their business. While I wait at the bar for Sam, I watch the same thing happen again and again. When someone famous finally does walk in the place, a hush falls over the room for a just a moment as all the patrons confer on the status of this poor soul. I don’t recognize him, but apparently, he’s somebody.
This kind of nonsense is why I don’t hang out in Hollywood, among many other valid reasons. I have no idea what Sam is up to, bringing me to a place like this. I glance at the menu and just about choke on the prices. She better be paying.
Luckily, my wait isn’t long. Sam appears with her usual grin and warm hug. The host shows us to our table in the back of the restaurant, which is quieter than the front. It’s cozy back here, and warm.
“They seat locals in the back,” Sam says to me as we settle in. “Tourists go up front.”
“Trying to impress me?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at her.
She grins. “Not you darling,” she says. “But play along.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I figure she’ll get around to filling me in sooner rather than later.
I order a burger, fries, and a beer, while Sam orders something called gnocchi, with wild mushrooms and nuts, which essentially sums up the difference between me and everyone else in LA. I burn about six thousand calories a day at the gym; I’m not about to give up red meat or carbs.
Before our meals arrive, Sam starts pitching scripts. All three are for television shows. Only one sounds interesting. It’s for a cop drama, planned for three seasons, about a serial killer. Sam wants me to read for the part of one of the cops. It’s a bigger role than I’ve played before, with lots of interaction with the stars, tons of lines, and plenty of camera time. She likes the director and the female lead has already been cast, a big name British actress with an impressive resume in film, television, and the theater. Her name guarantees the show will have an impressive audience.
“It’s called Downfall, and it’s a Netflix production, so no networks to deal with. No advertisers to please. It’s a great opportunity,” Sam says.
“Sign me up,” I say. “Do they have a production schedule yet?”
I’d love to get cast and start working tomorrow.
“They don’t even have scripts beyond the pilot yet,” Sam says laughing. “The thing just got greenlighted this week. It probably won’t go into production ‘til early next year.”
Shit. I still need to eat, the gym isn’t free, and LA is an expensive place to live.
“Don’t worry, Gates. I’m scheming,” Sam says, a sly smile turning her lip. “How do you feel about family-oriented themes?”
“Huh?” I ask.
“You know, sweet, vapid, white-bread stuff,” she states. “Family values.”
“I… um… don’t have an opinion on it,” I hedge, unsure of what the right answer is.
Sam nods. “Okay, there’s this film that’s about to start shooting next month. I heard a rumor, from a very good source, that the male lead is dropping out. He’s got bone spurs or something and can’t do the filming schedule. It hasn’t been announced yet because the studio wants to have a replacement lined-up, so the investors don’t freak out.”
Sam wants to pitch me for the leading role in a big studio film? What?
“The deal is, you are the embodiment of this studio’s vision for the role. Clean-cut, all-American. Gorgeous. And completely unknown. This studio likes to discover and develop talent. It’s their MO, along with PG rated, family entertainment.”
Okay.
Sam sucks in her cheeks, poking her lips out like a goldfish. She only does this when she has bad news. She’d be a shitty poker player. Her tells are as pronounced as Dolly Parton’s tits.
“The thing is, this studio, the producer, is a real piece of work. He’s a manipulative, controlling SOB, who likes to think he owns the people he works with. His contracts are like pre-nuptial agreements. You have to agree to appear at specific events in the company of assigned people. You have to play a part, even when you’re not at work. You can’t wear your favorite clothes in public unless he agrees they’re suitable—”
That’s completely fucked up.
Sam sees my expression. I’m a rotten poker player too.
“On the upside,” she continues. “The contract is for two million up-front, for an eight-week shoot, plus a percentage of box, media, and streaming.”
Holy shit.
“The contract extends from signing to the second week following opening. Basically, the studio owns your personal life for a little more than a year.”
“Sign me up,” I say, feeling optimistic.
The Navy owned me night and day for eight years. This producer might be an abject asshole, but I doubt he’s going to shoot at me or try to blow me up. I can handle a jerk with control issues.
Sam grins. “Good answer,” she says, a mischievous smile creasing her eyes. “Now… with that in mind, in about five minutes, the aforementioned producer is going to walk into this restaurant. He’ll be seated at a nearby table. We know one another. We’ll speak, and then I’m going to introduce you. Watch your language, kiss his ass, and flash that gorgeous smile at least once. Then, we’ll beat a hasty retreat out of here, leaving him to think about this handsome young, completely unknown actor he just met, who charmed his socks off.”
Two minutes later, the whole scene goes down just as Sam choreographed it. The producer, Bill Addison, comes in with some other guy and they’re shown to a table right behind ours. Before they sit, Addison sees Sam and he pauses at our table. He and Sam exchange warm, typical Hollywood greetings, and then she puts me forward.
“This is Gates Vaughn,” Sam says.
I stand up to shake the man’s hand and am happy to find I’m at least two inches taller than he is. Despite that, he’s still an imposing presence. His grip is solid.
“He’s only been in town a few months and has already done some recurring television work.”
Addison sizes me up the way some of the art directors on my old modeling jobs used to do, like he’s looking at a slab of meat, trying to determine how best to carve me into small pieces.
“Little old for a new actor,” he observes correctly. “But I feel like I’ve seen you. What have you done?”
I flash the smile, then shake my head. “Almost afraid to say. I’ve done some modeling. Still do a bit.”
“For who?” he presses me.
This guy’s a born-again type. He probably doesn’t need to know about the hundred-foot-tall billboard of me in nothing but underwear, that’s standing on Time’s Square.
“Ralph Lauren,” I say. “Armani. Calvin Kline jeans. Hugo Boss. A bunch of others.”
He stands back a little, still assessing.
“Before his modeling,” Sam interjects, “Gates was a Navy SEAL. Eight years.”
Addison blinks and I see his wheels turning.
“Really?” he asks, and for the first time I see genuine interest building. “And why did you leave the SEALs?” His tone implies that someone should spend a lifetime getting shot at if one is physically capable of doing so.
I bet no one’s ever shot at his pasty ass before.
“A bomb factory blew up behind me while I was extracting an unconscious team member from the venue. Shrapnel took out my kne
es.” I look down at my feet, then back up at him. “Damn near lost both legs. Luckily, the VA is letting the docs do some cool stuff with titanium these days. I have two bionic knees and implants in my lower thighs. Seven different operations, but I can walk again.”
Addison nods as I conclude my story. He shoves his hand out to me again.
“It was an honor to meet you, Gates,” he says. “And thank you for your service.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. People thank me all the time, but I’m not sure all of them know what they’re thanking me for. They’re thanking me for getting my knees blown off, for making sacrifices I don’t think anyone should make, for putting my body through the paces on a daily basis.
“Seriously, son, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Sir,” I say. “It was good to meet you.” I flash the smile again, just for good measure.
