“Johnny.” I whisper, surprised to see him. “I mean, Mr. Braylock.”
“Oh dear, call me Johnny.”
“Right. Yes.” Sure, I’ll call him by his first name, except it doesn’t matter, because I will never see him again after a few moments.
“Five dollars an hour more than what you were getting paid.”
“What?” That wasn’t even a sentence. What is he trying to say to me?
“Your P.A. pay. I’ll make sure you get five dollars an hour extra to be my assistant.”
Okay, I had no idea there was wiggle room on the pay. Why didn’t I think of that? The winds have now changed!
“Ten.”
“What?” Now it’s he who doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“I want ten dollars an hour more than my P.A. pay.”
He gives me a knowing smile. “I’m not sure if I can do that.”
I shrug at him. “I’m not sure if I can be your personal assistant.”
“Fine.” He quickly jumps on my dispute.
“I want it in writing.”
“You’ll have it by noon.”
“And yet you expect your omelet in two minutes.” I almost laugh at my quick debate.
Johnny swiftly looks away and then looks back to me. “If my omelet is in my trailer in five minutes, you’ll have your salary in writing by eight.”
“I can do that.”
I confidently begin to walk away, when I realize I actually have no idea how to do that. Where’s the omelet guy? Who normally brings Johnny his breakfast? Is that my job?
Oh gosh, what did I just get myself into?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Johnny, no, that’s not a thing. I can’t get you caffeinated herbal tea. It’s naturally decaffeinated.”
“You’ll figure it out.” He smugly leans against his trailer counter.
Oh my gosh, this man is driving me crazy. “I won’t figure it out because it’s not something you can figure out. It’s the way the world works and the world doesn’t caffeinate herbal tea.”
“And yet they make decaffeinated tea that was originally naturally caffeinated. Do you see how your logic makes no sense, Caroline?”
I want nothing more than to scream at him. So I almost do. “It’s your logic that doesn’t make sense. Decaffeinating things is a process. They steep the leaves and then rinse them with either dichloromethane or ethyl acetate for a good ten hours to get rid of that caffeine. That, or they use pressurized liquid CO2 to extract the caffeine. Either way, it’s a process.” I stomp my foot to show that I am finished.
Johnny raises his eyebrow at me, but doesn’t speak for the longest second of my life.
And then he does, and I want to slap him. “Why do you know so much about tea?”
I throw my hands up in the air and storm out of his trailer. I just need a second, and with him, I’m never allowed it. It’s always something with him: his sandwich is too small, his socks are too big, his trailer is too cold, his shirt is too thick, his naturally decaffeinated tea isn’t caffeinated.
This is not at all what I signed up for. I knew the hours would be long, as sometimes a P.A. is on set for over sixty-five hours a week, but this is just bitch work. I’m a serious, dedicated person who is being forced to carry around a thermometer so that I can make sure the temperature of his protein shake is exactly 46.4 degrees Fahrenheit, because apparently if the water is too warm, it’ll denature the amino acids.
And…he thinks it’s crazy that I know how they decaffeinate tea.
“You’re coming to my workout with me.” He leans his head out of the doorway and catches me kicking the stones on the ground.
“Nope.” I sarcastically smile up at him.
“That wasn’t a question, Caroline.”
He tosses me a hoodie, and shuts the door behind him.
The gym they set up for his training is across the studio lot. Most people take the golf carts, but I’m from New York, and honestly, I miss the walking. California people drive too much. Johnny doesn’t argue with me, as he’s coming up with any way to stay active every second of every day.
It’s kind of annoying. He’ll just stop what he’s doing, even if he’s in the middle of a sentence, pull off his shirt, and start doing push ups. I’m not stupid: I know he doesn’t need to take off his shirt to do push ups-he’s doing that just to make me stare.
Which I do.
“Have you ever watched MMA?” He casually tries to make conversation.
“I’ve seen bits and pieces at bars, but I’m not an avid follower.”
We walk a few more steps in silence, before he begins to illuminate me, very passionately, I might add. I quickly ask if it’s something I really need to know, to which he replies, “yes.”
He explains to me that there are three fundamental aspects to MMA fighting: Brazilian Jiu-jitsu, Wrestling, and Shoot-Boxing. He tells me that he’s boxed before, and wrestled in high school, but Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, is pretty new to him.
“So you’ve wrestled and you were a marine? You have quite a bit in common with this character.”
Johnny stops quickly and looks at me. “How did you know I was a marine?”
Awesome. Good going, Caroline. I can’t very well tell him that I was up until four in the morning stalking his IMDB page.
“I must have heard that somewhere.”
He eyes me suspiciously, as I’m an absolutely terrible liar. “Interesting.”
“Oh look, we’re at the gym.” I awkwardly announce to try and rapidly change the subject.
Johnny then explains to me that Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, or BJJ, is a form of martial arts that focuses on finding weak spots on your opponent to incapacitate them. It’s main lesson is that it doesn’t matter who is bigger or who is smaller: by using the proper techniques, leverage, and getting the fight to the ground as fast as possible, a weaker person has a very good chance of winning.
“Now to show you how it’s done.” He winks at me as he takes off his shirt, again, and jumps into the ring with his trainer.
Okay, now here’s the issue; I hate him so much, but the man is freaking beautiful. I don’t know how they expect him to get any bigger over the next four and a half months, because right now, he is practically a God. His hair is a light brown and he wears it a little longer so it falls into his face. It also has streaks of blonde, as if he spends his days surfing. Actually, I wouldn’t doubt that information if it were presented to me as a fact. The boy could totally be a surfer. He has these dark brown irises that practically fade into his pupils. It’s actually startling when you first see it in person, but once you know what to expect, it’s positively hypnotizing. His face is cleanly speckled with a bit of stubble, which just makes him seem like the manliest man ever.
And, if that weren’t enough, for heaven’s sake, Johnny Braylock has an accent.
What is it with accents? Why are they so sexy? I don’t get it. I honestly can’t watch British television because I can’t stand the way they talk, and yet this man opens his mouth and basically vomits Welsh on me, and I feel my stomach twist and twirl and my heart begin to race.
Yet, I can’t stand him.
When Keith said he heard Johnny was a dick and I proudly defended him, I spoke way too soon. Keith was right. Everyone Keith talked to was right. Johnny is a dick.
That really sucks, by the way. Imagine having a childhood crush, someone who you admire and fantasize about, who’s poster you fall asleep staring at ever night, and then imagine he’s a complete jerk who doesn’t want his peach to have fuzz on it.
“Then do you want a nectarine?” I speak in as monotone a voice as possible.
“No, I want a peach without all this fuzzy stuff.”
“Right, so a nectarine.” Again, I’m sardonic.
“A peach, Caroline. A peach. Just not this kind of peach.”
“Because you want a nectarine.”
He throws his arms out to the sides as if I have just made up the whole
family of pitted fruits. “What the hell is a nectarine?”
And there it is: my childhood crush doesn’t even know what a nectarine is. But, he yells at me with that Welsh accent with those long vowels and that single rolled “r” and I can’t hate him. I just can’t.
And then I hate him because I can’t hate him, but then I can’t hate him because I hate him because I can’t hate him… and do you see why I’m going absolutely insane?
And now he’s using his muscles. Why is he making me watch this?
I cringe as he’s thrown to the ground by his trainer and put in a chokehold, but then, he bucks his hips up and twists, landing himself on top of his trainer, and sliding from his hold. He puts him in a type of joint lock where he swings his legs up so he’s perpendicular to his trainer’s body. He pins him down by the back of his knees, one on his neck and the other on his chest, then takes his arm and pulls up to his own neck, trapping him.
It’s really fascinating to watch, although I really have no idea what’s going on. He then takes him through a couple other joint locks: a wrist lock, a leg lock, and a spinal lock.
The spinal lock is… interesting. Johnny’s trainer spoons him from behind and wraps his legs around his hips. He then holds his neck and twists in a way that brings Johnny’s spine past its normal range of motion. I give a quick yelp, purely instinctual, as I watch Johnny’s face contort from the pain.
“Why are you putting yourself through all of this? It doesn’t seem like fun at all.” I yell over the sound of the water from his shower.
“Fun? Of course it’s fun. It’s exhilarating.” I hear the water cease, and I turn my head as I hold out the towel for him.
He laughs at me, as this is now the third time he’s forced me to sit outside of the shower, waiting for him to clean himself, and it’s the third time I have closed my eyes when the water turned off.
“You know I don’t mind if you look.”
“Eww!” I shout as if I’m a pre-teen girl on the playground who is deathly afraid of cooties.
“We’re going to be spending almost five months together, Caroline. It’s only probable that at some point you’re going to see me naked.”
What? Is this some sort of concealed attempt to hit on me?
“I’m not sleeping with you, Johnny.” I quickly blurt out without taking a second to think.
“I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me, Caroline. I’m just saying that you have free reign to my trailer, and I’m quite sure at some point I’m going to be naked when you walk in.”
“Just… just try to keep your clothes on.” I continue to shake the towel at him, hoping he’ll take it so I can stop squeezing my eyes shut.
“I’m not making any promises.” He walks in front of me and lifts my chin up. I blink my eyes open, elated to see that he has wrapped the towel around himself.
I walk through his evening schedule with him, as he stands in front of me half-naked. I’m smart enough to know he’s doing it on purpose: he likes to see me squirm. I’m keeping myself in check, and making sure I don’t fall weak to his ways.
After all, I have a job to do…and he’s still a dick.
After the director yells, “cut” and checks the footage, we’re told that the day is wrapped. I’m so happy about this, as my feet are killing me, and the only thing I can think of is soaking in a hot bath full of Epsom salt. I walk back to Johnny’s trailer and open the door for him, readying his space for his evening ritual.
He’s a little weird like that. All his personal belongings, everything he brought from home that day, need to be laid out on the table alongside his back pack so he can see exactly what he’s taking back home and what he’s leaving in his trailer. I also prepare a protein shake for him with one cup of fat-free milk, one scoop chocolate whey protein, one packet of hot chocolate mix, and one-half cup of low-fat cottage cheese.
I have no interest in protein shakes, but this one is actually really good. I mean, come on, hot chocolate mix? Yes, please!
And the last thing I have to make sure of is that his bike is sitting by the entrance to the trailer. Let me clarify: it’s not a motorcycle; it’s an actual bicycle. As I said: every minute that he’s not on set, he’s working out.
Again, woof.
“What do you think, Caroline? A little heavy on the hot chocolate mix?” I can’t do anything right by the man.
“I don’t know why you think that question should be aimed at me. I will always say it needs more hot chocolate mix.” I laugh it off, trying desperately to not let him bother me, as my day is so close to being over.
“Next time, let’s add a little less.”
I should just agree and move on, but that’s not in my nature. “Okay, that’s all well and good, but the recipe calls for one packet of the mix. If I use less, then I’m wasting part of the packet, and then I’m not sure I can keep the measurement the same every time, as I’m just attempting to hold back part of the mix that’s in the little paper packet.”
He nods to me, I’m sure having not at all listened to my little rant, puts his things in his back pack, and turns to walk out of the door. “You’ll figure it out.”
Then he walks out. My blood is boiling. I can feel my legs begin to shake from the absolute rage the man brings out in me.
I finally calm myself down and step out of his trailer.
“Let’s grab a drink.”
I scream, which is ridiculous, but I wasn’t expecting him to be there, and he startled the crap out of me.
“Not tonight, Johnny.” And by that, I mean: Not ever.
“It wasn’t a question, Caroline.”
Oh gosh, not this again. “No, I am off the clock. I am going to go home, I’m going to soak in a bath for at least two hours, and I’m not going to think of you at all.”
“You’re going to think of me.” He winks.
“That’s where you’re wrong, sir. I’m not going to think of you for one single second.”
“Well, you will, because we’re getting a drink.” He takes a step closer to me, making sure I’m aware of his power.
I fight. He fights. I’m snarky. He’s snarky. I laugh. He laughs.
I lose. He wins.
I guess I’m saving the Epsom salt bath for another lifetime.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“She’ll have another Gin and Tonic and I’ll have my regular.” Johnny lightly grabs the cocktail waitress’ wrist.
“No, no, no!” I slur out, but it’s no use. She’s not looking at me. I might as well not even be there.
“You were telling me about your boyfriend.” Johnny leans forward on his elbows.
But I wasn’t. I hadn’t brought up Nick at all. I know what he is doing, he is baiting me.
“I was not telling you about my boyfriend.”
“You were about to.”
That freaking accent…his freaking smile…his freaking whiter-than-white teeth…What am I suppose to do with all that.
The waitress sets our drinks down. I attempt to refuse it, but to no avail. He already ordered it.
I stare at the glass, telling myself that although he ordered it, I don’t need to drink it. I feel bad because it’s sitting there and I don’t want it to be a waste.
I mean, there are thirsty kids in Africa, right?
Wait, that’s not how that works.
Whatever… I take a sip.
“Nick is… well, he’s interesting.”
“So you are telling me about your boyfriend?”
I coyly look to the ceiling, and then shrug my shoulders. “I guess I am.”
We talk about the normal things: what he does, how we met, why he didn’t come to L.A. with me… all things that make me really frustrated after a few drinks.
“He just…” I put my head in my hands. “He doesn’t get me.”
I take another sip of my drink as I find myself in the drunk stage of contemplating my life. This is never a good stage, at least for me. I think about all the time I’ve wasted
trying to get to the point I’m currently at, and for what? What have I really accomplished?
I’ve written a few articles for a comedy site and a silly little short that barely left my Facebook page. That’s really it. I can’t claim pride for anything my name is attached to.
Wow, I’m no fun right now. I need to go home.
“I need to go home.” I quickly down the rest of my drink and set the empty glass as far away as my hand will reach.
“You’re not going home.” His hand is on top of mine.
I allow it.
“Why aren’t you drunk?” I turn my head at him.
My inhibitions are completely gone, as I reach back across the table and instead grab his drink. I put the glass to my lips and take a sip.
What the hell?
“This is soda water.”
“Yup.” Johnny nods as a smile appears on his face.
“I thought we were going out for a drink.” I’m angry now. I feel as though I’ve been played.
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