Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Now you’re in Hollywood, doing movies. That’s pretty awesome.”

  No. It really isn’t. I need to change the subject.

  “It’s awesome that you’re here,” I say. “I never imagined you’d do something like this. Why’d you leave the SEALs?”

  Gates shakes his head, halfway rolling his eyes. “I’ll show you,” he says. He kicks off his shoes and peels off a sock, then starts lifting the leg on his jeans. I see the small scars first; little nicking things like small cuts. Then, as he lifts the pants leg higher, the scars become more and more pronounced. He draws the cuff up above his knee, revealing a well-healed surgical incision that disappears under the fabric, running up his thigh.

  “Shrapnel from an explosion crushed the bones in both legs, destroyed my knees,” he says, studying the scars that he’s obviously grown comfortable with. “Uncle Sam put me back together again with custom-made parts and a lot of PT.”

  “PT?” I ask, trying not to stare at his scars or the well-developed muscle of his now, pock-marked calves.

  “Physical therapy,” he says. “I had to learn how to walk again. It took a few months. I still can’t run for shit, which has put a crimp in my work-out routine. I used to do a three-minute mile, but no more.”

  “You learned how to walk again,” I say.

  “When you put it that way, it sounds better.”

  He doesn’t look like anything has put a crimp in his gym-routine. He looks as buff as he did back then, framed in the viewfinder of my Nikon. It’s hard to believe that in the three years since we first met, he’s been to a war, been blown up, gruesomely injured, hospitalized, healed, built one career, and is now starting another. Meanwhile I’ve been stuck, sitting on my hands feeling sorry for myself.

  “So that’s my story,” Gates says, pulling his pants leg down, tucking his bare foot under his knee. “What about you?”

  I got nothing. I should just tell him the truth.

  I shrug. “The work just dried up,” I say. “No one would hire me for anything. I think the last decent professional shoot I did was the SEALs calendar with you. I work for my father’s production company because I’ve got no other prospects.”

  Gates’ brow knits. He’s even handsome when he frowns.

  “I thought your work was great,” he says. “I know Ella Covington thought so. I asked her about you not long after I got out and started thinking about modeling. She said she didn’t know what you were doing or where you were. I wanted to try and find you—”

  “She said what?” I ask, interrupting.

  Ella Covington has my number, my email, and all my social media, and none of it has changed in the years since she stopped giving me work. She knows my father and knows where I’m working. I run into her occasionally at the Country Club.

  “She said you just kind of dropped off the radar,” Gates says, surprised with my reaction.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say, feeling my ire piqued. “She knows how to get in touch with me. I never left town. I never could. Why would she tell you that?”

  “I don’t know,” Gates replies. “I was pretty adamant that I wanted to find you. I didn’t go into any detail, but I told her we sort of had a short thing before I deployed, and I wanted to try to rekindle it, if you were interested.”

  It all clicks into place in that moment. My father saw the photographs from the SEAL shoot. He dug around and found the agency and client I was working for. He black-balled me by threatening them. He had me black-balled all over town. When Gates showed up, asking Ella about me, she probably freaked, realizing how my father would react to me having any kind of relationship with ‘the talent,’ as he refers to them. Fraternizing with ‘the talent’ is particularly forbidden.

  My father forbids me from having any friends in the industry aside from permanent employees of Addison Productions. All the “rest” are headed straight for hell, according to him.

  I wish I could say I’m shocked and outraged, but at this stage, I’m not. The only thing that surprises me in this whole ridiculous drama, is that I can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together sooner.

  “Yeah…” I say. “I think I know what’s going on. It doesn’t matter. I believe Ella meant well. She was probably trying to save me from my father’s wrath. He’s a bit of a tyrant, and he’s… overprotective.”

  Gates cocks his head slightly.

  “Is that what you call it?” he asks.

  That’s what I call it when I am trying to be diplomatic.

  “I saw how he overlooked you today. I saw his expression when I said you were lovely.”

  Gates leans forward a bit, fixing my gaze. “You are lovely. And talented, and smart, and I’m really not worried about your father’s wrath.”

  “You should be,” I state. “Especially if you want this role in Hearthfires.”

  Gates shakes his head, dismissing the notion of my father’s legendary temperament. He leans forward more, inching closer to me, then puts his hand out, palm up, between us.

  “Winter, I’d like to get the role,” he says, his amber eyes fixed steadily on mine. “But when I saw you today, I wanted you again. And nothing stands in my way when it comes to getting what I want.”

  Gates Vaughn’s astounding good looks pale in comparison to his earnestness. Who is this man and where did he come from?

  “I should go,” I say, not even knowing where the words come from. “Before I screw up everything and ruin your shot at a movie career.”

  “You can’t ruin my shot,” he insists, frustration thinning his tone. “I wouldn’t even have a shot if it wasn’t for you and those pictures you took for the SEAL calendar. Stay with me. Let me cook for you. We’ll take it slow. Not like last time. Just stay a while, and we’ll talk.”

  I could slip my hand into his, then slide across the couch, into his arms, then fall into his lips, kissing him, drinking him up, and drown in him. Except… my father would cut him off at the knees, ending any hope he ever has of working in Hollywood, or in films anywhere west of Bollywood. With all Gates has accomplished in the short time he’s been at it, I can’t be the one responsible for bringing it to a crashing conclusion.

  “I can’t,” I say, summoning up every last ounce of self-control I can muster. “I wish things were different. I should have stayed that morning, but I didn’t. And now… now my father is calling all the shots for both of us. If he even knew I was here, he’d blackball you all over town. I… I just can’t be responsible for that.”

  “Winter—”

  I stand up, gathering my purse and keys. “I’ll see you around,” I say, hustling toward the door, shoving back tears that want to spring forth. “You’ll get the part. I know you will. You’re going to be a star. Trust me.”

  “Winter.” His voice almost commands me to look at him. His intense amber eyes are locked on mine. I can’t help imagining his body, entering mine. I want the pleasure of being with him, being next to him, submitting to him completely. But I don’t give him.

  “Trust me,” I say again. “You deserve a shot at this. And I’m just going to fuck it up for you.”

  I leave him standing in the apartment complex parking lot, shoeless, wearing only one sock, a scene of epic confusion marring his handsome face. I drive away with tears streaming down my cheeks, scalding my eyes, blurring my vision, while I press the Range Rover fast toward the Pacific Coast Highway and home.

  When I get there, I call Margot and pour out my heart to her, crying into the phone. She listens patiently, taking it all in, soothing my angst and my rage at my father for ruining everything, over and over again.

  When I’m spent, when every tear has been shed and every detail exposed, every raw wound probed until I have nothing more, Margot takes in a long breath.

  “Something tells me your boy Gates isn’t going to let you just slink out like a coward this time. A guy who gets blown-up by ISIS, who goes through everything he’s been through, he isn’t going to roll-over this easy.
And maybe this time—after all you know your father has done to screw with your head and screw with your life—maybe you shouldn’t roll over so easy either.”

  Her words strike me hard in the gut.

  “At the end of the day you just have to ask yourself if everything your father gives you is worth everything he’s taken away?”

  How do I even begin to answer that question? How do I even know?

  * * *

  When I finally lay my head down, sleep doesn’t come easily. My eyes close, but my sleeping brain is fraught with memories of Gates’ embraces, his attentive lips and mouth. I dream of our bodies entangled in damp sheets and in one another, of sharing sweat and heat and ourselves. Then I see his face as I left him standing in bare feet, imploring, unable to understand my rebuff.

  I see his fearless soul reaching across the threadbare cushions of a worn-out couch, reaching for my heart. I see his earnest eyes and his adoring regard. And I see myself withdrawing, closing myself off, hiding inside a cavernous mansion built on a cliff of sand.

  In my dream, the sand shifts, slipping away, disappearing into the depths of the rising, boiling ocean below. The foundations of my fortress begin to crumble like so much dust in the wind, the stones tilting and sliding beneath my unsteady feet.

  Chapter 8

  Gates

  I got the role in Hearthfires. I’ve got a signed contract and a check for five hundred grand—before we even start shooting. I’ve got a new apartment in West Hollywood, and a slightly used Audi A6 that didn’t cost an arm and a leg, but services my leading man image adequately. There’s a write-up in the Hollywood Reporter, and Entertainment Weekly, and half a dozen other industry publications, about me, and a web site for my new fan club. That already has a few thousand members, thanks to my modeling career. I have a team of publicists handling the press, an accountant handling the money, and a lawyer handling everything else.

  I also have a laundry list of public appearances to make, a list of restaurants I must visit, a lengthy list of clothing brands to wear when out and about, and—to top it all off—a studio assigned companion who I am supposed to be seen in public with at least once a week, in addition to accompanying to various required functions.

  That companion isn’t Winter, unfortunately.

  Sam, my agent, tells me this kind of thing is taken straight out of the old Hollywood playbook of the 1930’s, when the studios almost owned their performers. She says that Bill Addison only gets away with it now because he signs unknowns, gives them their first break, and then hangs onto them as long as the sense of obligation lasts.

  “One film,” she says. “One and done. I’ll get you out from under this nonsense as quick as I can.”

  In truth, it’s not as bad as it sounds. My companion—the press is being told we’re dating, and we’re supposed to act like we are—is Dylan Denali, a country music singer who’s popular on the radio and now trying to break into films. She’s in Hearthfires, playing the role of the female lead’s younger sister. Dylan is pretty as a peach, funny, and as easy-going as it gets. She’s not taking any of this too seriously, and like me, she’s willing to play the part in order to get what she wants.

  Tonight is our first big outing together as a couple. It’s the Country Music Association Awards show, and Dylan is up for Female Vocalist of the Year. My publicist says we’ll both get a lot of coverage, but I’m the primary beneficiary, as this is her venue, her fanbase. Being on her arm means that millions of people will want to know who I am, and will follow me just because I’m associated with her.

  Whatever works. There’s so much on the line.

  The arranged nature of everything is all very weird, but Dylan is completely on-board with the idea that it’s just theater. She’s playing the part, just the same as me. I was worried that maybe she’d think there could be more to it than just contractual obligation, but when we sat down and talked it through, she was even more adamant than me that our relationship was just a ruse for the press, to help us both earn cross-over fans. She has absolutely no interest in me outside the bounds of work.

  For the awards show tonight, I’m decked out in the finest blue suit Armani can muster, which is a pretty fine look. Dylan is dressed to the nines in a heavily embroidered Michael Kors gown that shows off her curves and her athletic build. The red carpet is more intense than Fashion Week in New York, with press stations every ten feet along the procession. When we’re not being photographed by an army of paparazzi and fans, we’re peppered with questions from network, cable, and online media interviewers.

  This is Dylan’s show, so I hang back, playing the part of eye candy to her talent. That is until one inquisitive blond from Entertainment Weekly asks Dylan, “Who’s the gorgeous hunk on your arm tonight? Is this Gates Vaughn, who just got cast in Hearthfires? Are you two dating?”

  We’re both demure, saying as little as we can get away with. I reply to the question, stating, “I’m here supporting the most beautiful, most talented woman working in the music industry today. It’s my privilege to back her up.”

  Ten minutes later, and for most of the next day, my comments are top-trending hashtags on social media. Of course, I don’t know this until much later. We navigate the red carpet without further incident, making our way into the auditorium and our seats.

  I wish I could tell you the awards show was a highlight of my blooming career, but that would be a bold-faced lie. It was tedious, painfully over-produced, and drawn-out, with dead zones built-in for the live television audience, and way too many drunks stumbling across the stage thanking everyone they know for supporting their demo tape.

  Long story short, Dylan did not win Best Female Vocalist of the Year. She was up against stiff competition, including at least three women with decades of hits to their credit, and double platinum selling singles this year. She took the defeat in her stride.

  “I’m only twenty-four years-old,” she says, giving me a sideways smirk. “I’m just getting started.”

  Something tells me those other women need to watch their backs.

  Once the awards ceremony is done, we have one last command performance. Bill Addison is hosting an after-party at a swank hotel on Wilshire Blvd. All his ‘projects’ are required to attend.

  Dylan and I walk through a storm of paparazzi and fans to get to the venue in the ballroom, both of us worn-out from a long night of posturing and posing for the cameras. Once inside, I bee line for the bar, leaving Dylan to the care of a cadre of industry professionals. I get a drink and start looking for the one person I’ve been hoping to see all night.

  I spy her thirty paces away, standing with the cameraman from my screen test, a woman I don’t know, and a guy who looks like Conan O’Brian, but twenty pounds heavier in all the wrong places.

  Winter is dressed in a glittering black gown of silk and sewn-in stones, reflecting the light overhead in a rainbow of dazzling color. Her hair is drawn up in a wrapped bun, with wisps of red curls escaping the confines of the arrangement, dripping onto her pale white shoulders, rolling down her bare back.

  She’s beautiful as ever, but she looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

  I close the space between us quickly, touching her elbow, letting her know I’m behind her. She turns, looking up at me with surprise, but then there’s something else in her eyes as well. She moves toward me, separating herself from her companions to face me.

  “I’m not going to stop,” I say, keeping my voice low. I’ve practiced this speech a hundred times in the mirror, memorizing my lines so I can nail the delivery in one, crucially important take. “You and me, there’s something there. You walked away from me—twice—but I don’t really believe you wanted to. So, I’m not going to stop until you convince me you’re not interested. Your father and all his controlling bullshit don’t scare me.”

  I see it in her eyes, that flash of approval that tells me she doesn’t want me to go away.

  “If my father sees me talking to you, we
’re both going to hear about it,” she says, glancing around the room nervously. “I’m not supposed to socialize with his projects, and you are—most definitely—his favorite project at the moment. A big, tall pile of muscle.”

  “And big scary men don’t bother me,” I respond. “I was a SEAL. And now I’ve got an apartment in a part of town I’m be happy to show you. There’s a pool. And, not to sound like I’m bragging, but there’s a hot tub too.” I grin.

  It’s silly to try and impress her and I know it. I’m just hoping she’ll be amused enough by my attempt to give me another shot.

  “Oh, a pool?” She smiles back, like she can’t help herself. “I liked your old place just fine.”

  “This one’s better. There’s a sofa you can sit on without the cushions sagging in the middle. And I signed up for an HBO subscription too.”