by Lexi Whitlow
I’ll take his money, but I’m sure I don’t have to like him.
Addison returns the smile, then he nods to Sam. “Call me this week,” he says. “In fact, I’m free this afternoon. Can you give me a call around three?”
Sam nods. “Sure Bill, I’ll be back in my office by then.”
She grabs the check and we bolt, leaving Addison and his companion to their lunch.
Once we’re outside Sam breaks into a huge smile. “You charmed his pants off him! You’ll get it! I swear, I think you already got it!”
She’s doing everything but dancing a jig.
“You know who that was with him? No! You don’t. There’s no way you could.”
“I have to admit I have no idea,” I say, with some confusion.
Sam is almost beside herself.
“That was Donny Britain. He’s head of PR for Addison Productions. They’re probably sitting in there right now plotting how to pitch you as their new leading man!”
I’ll believe all this when I see it. That said, Sam is usually straight with me.
After all the build-up, I’m a little diminished by the time I get back to my apartment in Long Beach. My apartment is a tiny place, more than a mile from any actual water. It’s in a complex filled with noisy people who are always doing noisy things. It’s a long way from the guys I knew in San Diego, and the family I made with the SEALs. I miss the guys a lot. I miss the adrenaline and the fact that every one of those guys had my back just the same as I had theirs.
I miss Ransom more than any of them. After getting shot, he got sent back to R&R until he was ready to either re-up or retire. He opted for retiring with ten years in the Navy, nine of them as a SEAL. He’s working in San Diego now as a security consultant, doing electronic surveillance for corporations and military contractors, along with detailed data analysis. It isn’t too far off from his specialty in the SEALs. He was our senior intelligence liaison with the CIA and other spooky outfits that used us to do their bidding. He was privy to a lot of stuff the rest of us never got to see. He also met a lot of interesting people in that role. Some of them were impressed enough with his skills they were more than happy to give him lucrative work when he left the Navy.
Ransom always was the smart one between the two of us.
I sit down on the gross couch in my crappy living room, and dial Ransom’s number. It goes to voicemail, which I know he never listens to. He’ll see that I called and call me back when he’s free. It rarely takes him very long.
My phone rings while it’s still in my hand. I expect it to be Ransom, but it’s Sam.
“Hey,” I say, surprised she’s calling so soon after our lunch today.
“Addison asked me to send him everything you’ve done for film or television, plus your CV and head shots,” she chirps. “He said he was impressed with you, and that the director will call tomorrow to schedule a time for you to come in and read for the part. He also said you have a million-dollar smile and a face that was made for the big screen.”
I can hear her grinning across the ether of our cell connection.
“Gates, your life is about to change. I’m going to call a publicist I’ve worked with for years and get you set up with her. You’re going to need a little more management from here on out than just an agency can give you.”
Great.
“What does that cost, Sam? I mean, really. I’ve got almost no spare cash.”
“You need a lawyer too,” she says. “And don’t worry, we’ll work it all out. Let’s get you the part first.”
Somehow this just doesn’t make sense. Suddenly I’m in need of a staff of retainer compensated specialists to service my career—and no one even knows my name.
Chapter 7
Winter
My father has been in a horrible mood for weeks, ever since finding out the leading man on his latest film, Hearthfires, is bowing out. Rumor has it that heel bone spurs are just an excuse. Don Francis, former heartthrob on daytime television who made the overnight leap to the big screen courtesy of Hearthfires, got an early taste of Bill Addison’s personal micro-managing, and decided it wasn’t worth it. He’s back in New York negotiating with his old soap opera to resurrect his character from the dead and give him back his old job.
And who can blame him?
Maybe I can get a job on a soap?
Nope, good-old-dad would squash that in a New York minute. He’s too connected. He could blacklist me from any production I signed on with. And soap operas don’t fit his “brand image.”
There’s so much that doesn’t fit his “brand image.” If only people knew what an asshole Bill Addison is.
Today I’m pulling duty as the camera operator’s assistant on a reading and screen-test for some poor noob who’s trying out for the role in my father’s new production. Dad likes his human projects young, green, and malleable, so I expect this guy to be as clueless as everyone else in this cast, only more so.
I’m also charged with pulling some early publicity stills of the guy, because my father is certain that this is the guy who is getting the job. It seems the screen test and reading are just a formality.
Hearthfires is going to be a horrible film. It’s got everything a truly awful movie requires. First, the plot is trash. It’s a second chance romance about family values, and a too-clever-for-his-own-good kid bringing everyone together. And then, Keira Daily. She’s the female lead, a big star, a prima donna who hasn’t earned the right to headline in anything except her own B-roll. She’s famous for being famous. My father loves her because she’s got a Southern accent and he equates that with being a good girl. She’s also petite, blond, has deep green eyes and a little turned up nose, with dimples.
And she’s generally a horrible human being.
The new guy coming in, however wretched he is, cannot make this film any worse.
We’re still setting up gear in the sound room when my father appears. He rarely comes to these things. He must really like this new guy.
He looks at me, then at Artie, the cameraman, and he shakes his head disapprovingly at our arrangement.
“Don’t shoot from the left,” he barks. “Shoot straight down the center of the room. Make him move around so you can establish his best angles from the camera’s perspective.”
Artie is in charge of the blocking and filming. I’m just here for back-up and stills. I turn to attend to my own gear, leaving Artie to fend for himself. About the time I finish situating my cameras, I hear voices outside. The actor is here, and my father greets him with more warmth and welcome than is customary from Bill Addison.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes early,” I hear the guy say from the waiting area, beyond the open door of the sound room. “I hate being late.”
Something about that voice… I know it…
“Never apologize for being early, Gates. I wish more actors were as conscientious.”
Gates?
An image flashes through my brain. Broad shoulders and deeply chiseled abs, with a squarely cut, slightly stubbled jaw, and the most beautiful amber colored eyes I ever wanted to stare into, until the end of time. He kissed me in ways and in places no one has ever managed before or since. I still dream about him. I still dream about his hands on me, about his lips, his hips.
A second later the whole entourage comes through the door. I recognize Sam Fox, agent to some of Hollywood’s biggest A-list actors, and Amelia Nordam, the best publicist in LA. They’re each trailed by an assistant, with my father and Gates—my Gates—bringing up the rear.
He’s even taller than I remember him. He’s just as beautiful as I recall, even more so. His hair is a little longer, but in essentials he’s the same stunning man who listened to me talk about myself and my ludicrous dreams for two hours, hanging on every word like they were all gospel. The same self-effacing, natural born hero, who was entirely too decent and kind to me, and who made me feel good, and good about myself.
“This is Arthur Godwin,” my father s
ays, almost dismissively, introducing the cameraman, who is also head cinematographer on the film. “Camera operator.”
Artie shakes Gates’ hand, giving him a sturdy once-over, as any decent photographer would.
My father calls the director forward. “Douglas Witherspoon. Hearthfires director and the man you most need to impress today.”
Gates flashes that stunning smile, shaking Doug’s hand. “I hope I don’t disappoint,” he says. “I’m nervous.”
“And this is my daughter,” my father ads as an afterthought. “She helps out as we need her.”
He doesn’t even say my name.
Gates turns his eyes toward me and I see the flash of recognition ignite in them. He steps forward, then halts. A brief wave of confusion paints his expression. Then he smiles again, that smile that could melt the polar ice caps.
“Your daughter is lovely,” Gates says, staring straight at me. He takes another halting step forward, putting out his hand to shake. “Gates Vaughn,” he says. “And you’re—?”
I take his hand without thinking, then feel the power of his grip and the heat coursing through his palm and fingers.
“Winter,” I barely squeak out. “Winter Addison.”
“What a lovely name,” he says. “Winter. That’s my favorite season.”
Oh God, I think I’m going to burst into flames.
“Let’s get started,” Doug says, saving me from self-immolation. “Gates, we’re going to have you stand over here and do some of the monologue scenes from the script. In a few minutes, Keira will join us to do a couple of the dialogue scenes between Ashe and Nora, the two main characters in this film.”
It takes a minute, but I manage to collect myself and get busy doing my job, which is first, helping Artie get everyone on their marks and the scene framed. When that’s done, I gather my camera in trembling hands, and start composing stills of Gates, capturing his face the way I couldn’t the last time we were in a similar situation.
His eyes are so expressive. His mouth speaks without forming words. He’s as much a natural born actor as he was as a speechless, faceless model, contorting his body with the expressive flex of a ballet dancer. He works the monologue lines from the script as un-self-consciously as Paul Newman.
Before I know it, the monologue is done and I’m up close, with Gates staring into the camera, his face placid, patient. The room is quiet while he and I work cooperatively, communicating only through the frame.
“I think I could schedule some time just for this,” Gates says in a discreet whisper as I draw nearer. He’s smiling at me. “So we don’t have an audience.”
I freeze. Shit. I lost myself in those eyes.
I drop my camera taking two steps back, just as Doug announces, “Keira’s on her way down. Let’s take a five-minute break and assemble back here to see how the two of you look together.”
I back all the way to the table where my gear is assembled, then turning away, I fumble, switching out flash cards and lenses. I can’t get that close again.
“Winter—”
I swing around. Gates is standing right in front of me.
“Good God, it’s really you,” he says.
I don’t have any words.
He licks his lips, swallowing hard. Then he smiles again; that damn beautiful smile.
“When this is all over, can we talk?”
My father will kill me.
“I… I don’t think—”
“Please,” he says. His voice is tough and gravely but somehow comforting too. “I know it’s been a long time, but… Just to talk.”
I can’t help myself. I nod. “Back lot. By the parking deck, there’s a smoking section. No one ever goes there.”
“Okay,” Gates says, his expression brightening, warming the way it did so long ago in my hotel room in San Diego. “I’ll see you there as soon as this is done, and we can get away.”
When Keira Daily arrives, the whole vibe in the room changes. She takes command.
“I like him,” she pronounces, seizing on her first close look at her proposed leading man. “He’s easy on the eyes, and I bet that closing scene kiss will be stellar.”
Gates rolls with the punches during the whole thing, playing off Keira’s overly emotive performance, softening his own reactions, just letting his character subtly respond to her over-the-top, diva drama. He crushes it. Even Doug, the director, is impressed.
When the day is a wrap, I make myself small in my own corner, packing up my gear, letting the big players have their scenes without my input. I’m surprised when Gates steps away from Doug and my father to thank Artie for his time, then thank me.
Artie claps Gates on the shoulder. “The camera loves you,” he says. “Some people have it like that. You’ve got it in spades. Today was fun.”
“I’ll see you in the smoking section,” Gates says to me, once no one else is listening. “You have no idea how many times I wondered where you were or what you were doing. I can’t wait for you to catch me up on everything.”
There’s nothing to catch him up on. Three years ago, I was closer to my dreams than I am now. Today, I’m just a go-fer on my father’s production crew. Do I tell him that? Or let him think this is where I want to be?
Just as good as his word, Gates is waiting for me downstairs by the parking deck, hanging out on a concrete bench in the last smoking section in all of Los Angeles.
He stands as I approach, my arms crossed anxiously over my chest.
“Good Lord, Winter, you’re even more perfect than I remember you,” Gates says, his expressive eyes almost desperate.
The next thing I know his arms fall around me and he’s hugging me tight inside an embrace the likes of which only occur in steamy romance novels and tear-jerker Hollywood firms.
“I missed you,” he says. “I missed you so much.”
Ensconced inside his arms, pressed against his broad, strong chest, I feel safe. I feel safe for the first time in years, since the last time he held me like this, so long ago.
“Listen,” Gates whispers in my ear. “I kinda got a sense today about your world and your father, and all that nonsense. But if you want to get away for just a bit, I can offer you respite in a tiny apartment in Long Beach, with noisy neighbors, dirty carpet, ugly furniture. It’s not much, but I make a mean seafood quesadilla and I know where to get the good Sangria.”
I laugh. “That does sound like fun.” I whisper the words, hoping no one notices.
“It will be.”
“But my dad would kill me if he thought I was interfering with his next favorite project.”
“Nobody’s offered me a contract yet,” Gates reminds me. “I’m still a free agent, and so are you.”
“You don’t know my father,” I say.
“I’ve heard,” he replies. “But I’m way more interested in what’s happened with you over these last few years. Come tell me.”
“You don’t seem like the type to remember a girl you slept with three years ago.”
“Well, come over and find out what type I am.”
I smile, and a spark deep in my core lights and rekindles. I remember that day with the pregnancy scare—the thoughts I had about seeing him again, the terror I felt.
I shove it aside. It’s not important.
I’ll just have fun. That’s all this is.
* * *
Gates apartment is tiny and grubby, but it’s his own space. I live with my father these days, in the same giant house in Palos Verdes Estates where I was raised, with staff peering down their noses, judging every move I make. Even my laundry is scrutinized for untoward stains.
Gates’ ugly couch isn’t nearly so bad as advertised, and the carpet was cleaned at least once this decade.
“Winter Addison,” he says, settling down a safe three feet away from me on the couch, handing me a glass of fruity Sangria procured from a Mexican market not far away. “Finally, I know a last name.”
“And Gates Vaughn,” I say
awkwardly.
His expression is loaded, like he has a hundred things he wants to say, and five hundred more questions to ask. It’s difficult to maintain eye contact with him, as doing so makes my knees shake and my cheeks flush pink.
“I expected to run into you in New York, or London, or maybe even Paris, when I was modeling,” he says, not realizing just how much those words sting. “I was sure you’d turn up at some shoot somewhere, but you never did.”
“I was busy with rehab. And trying to figure out how to pay off my debt.”
