by Deanna Roy
“I’m Andy,” the boy said, and extended an elbow.
“You have time to escort me?” I asked.
“Of course. I have to pass through and collect empties anyway.”
I took his arm and he led me out of the kitchen and back to the hall. This time we turned left and wound our way through the house.
“No wonder I got lost!” I said.
“Someone should have taken you back,” he said.
We arrived at a sunroom decked with white wicker furniture with bright blue cushions. Tucked in a far corner, a couple sipped from wine glasses and kissed. Judging from the age discrepancy and the blond perfection of the stacked girl, she was probably an actress moving in on someone she thought could get her a part.
It happened. It wasn’t as common as people believed, but young new arrivals to Hollywood still felt that was how the movie business worked.
In reality, it was a lot of who you knew. The casting agents were as critical as anybody. Directors and producers didn’t always get who they wanted. The A-list stars were often attached to a project before it even got funded. And nobody would risk a twenty-million-dollar production budget on someone untested just because she banged them in a back room. It was ludicrous.
“Here you go,” Andy said, reaching to open a back door.
The noise hit me, loud chatter and glass clinking and a band playing a passable rendition of “Tell Me Something Good,” not that anybody could compare to Rufus.
Andy let go of my arm and picked up a tray full of dishes from a stand tucked into a dark corner. “Enjoy yourself,” he said.
I stood rooted to the ground, taking it all in. I had been to a fair number of parties like this, often in big houses, sometimes in hotels, but the spring weather had only recently turned nice enough again for backyard parties.
Round tables surrounding the pool were full of people. In the middle of each red tablecloth was a centerpiece that matched the set of the movie, a dinosaur flick that hadn’t worked for me but was probably going to be very popular.
A few heaters had been set up and I stepped close to one. It wasn’t really cold, but my dress was pretty bare and I didn’t have a wrap.
A waiter passed with a tray full of wine and I snagged a glass of red. I wouldn’t drink much. I had to stay sharp in case I met Mr. Right Now. I had to make sure he was single. And heterosexual. Getting turned down on camera might be a bit more than my poor bruised ego could take tomorrow morning, being suddenly without a boyfriend and potentially going viral on social media.
I knew going into this gig that this moment would come. Now I just had to endure it.
My eyes lit through the crowd, trying to spot anyone I knew well enough to approach to chat up. I felt exposed standing here alone. Although, if someone made a move on me, that might make things easier.
I spotted Tellmund, a friend of Frankie’s. He was in his sixties and had aged beautifully, tall and silver haired and broad shouldered. He was definitely not a candidate for breaking my fast, but he probably was in the potential boss category.
I headed for him, but stopped when I spotted a guy leaning against the stage, one elbow up on the platform. Nobody was dancing, at least not yet. This band wasn’t drawing a crowd.
The man was watching the band play and drumming his hands on the edge of the stage. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. He was crazy tanned, and the way his arm muscles moved as he tapped mesmerized me to the core.
I figured he must be part of the band, maybe a friend or someone who loaded equipment. The members of the group itself were very different, dressed like a ’70s cover band in vests and colored sunglasses.
But this guy? He was glorious. Dark short-cropped hair. A killer jaw. His chest was nicely sculpted by the T-shirt, and the jeans were a miracle on his butt.
A definite candidate.
I couldn’t make my move yet, as Frankie hadn’t introduced me to anybody, and I had to work my contacts while I had them. I turned back to head for Tellmund, but he was gone. Across the yard, I spotted one weaselly looking guy dressed in black, holding a camera with a ridiculously long lens. He caught me looking and aimed at me.
I shot him a smile, knowing that I wasn’t anything he could sell. Without Frankie in the image, I was nothing. Well, until I wrapped myself around some other noteworthy guy. Then those images would be a hot commodity.
That thought brought me back to the man by the stage. I watched him carefully to see how he took in the singers, if he was actually a boyfriend of one of them, and not going to be interested in me.
At that moment, he turned and looked out at the crowd, and our eyes met.
Holy shit.
He drank in my green dress and pink dreadlocks. His eyebrows shot up when I gave him a shy smile.
I brought my wine to my lips. I hadn’t gotten to act this way in ages, so it was fun to shift my body a little, keeping his attention, and watch him over the rim of the glass.
I sensed the click, click, click of the camera even though I couldn’t hear or see it. I’d learned from my time with Frankie to sharpen my awareness of being photographed.
Good. They could make a little spread about when Frankie’s tart spotted “The Man.”
He didn’t waver, watching me openly. I felt a little heat rising in me. This would be a piece of cake, really, but I couldn’t let him approach me just yet. So I lowered my glass, sent him one more sultry look, and turned to head back into the house.
Hopefully he wouldn’t follow. It wasn’t time yet!
I hurried through the sunroom, the couple still locked together at the end, and back through the house. I couldn’t interrupt Frankie. But I had to avoid that boy until I knew I should approach him. The photographer was on to me already. And I still didn’t have any industry introductions I could really use for a job.
Damn, this party had already gotten complicated.
Chapter 6: Chance
Whoa. Who was that girl?
The party was full of women, polished and perfect and snooty in how they appraised me, like they were looking for something, and I wasn’t it.
But not this one.
She seemed nervous, a little lost. Her green dress was as fancy as anyone’s here, but that hair. I didn’t know anybody with pink dreadlocks. She couldn’t be an actress expecting to get many parts, unless the hair was for something she was doing right now.
It was wicked gorgeous. I’d never seen anyone like her.
She took off after we made eye contact, which made me think she belonged to somebody with a jealous streak. Probably best if I didn’t make any moves. I wasn’t invited to this shindig, and I didn’t want to get thrown out.
The boys took a break and we chilled out behind the van, within sight of the party but far enough that we weren’t noticed. Paul brought a bottle of wine back and scrounged up some plastic cups. Apparently Paul didn’t look trustworthy enough for the caterer to turn over any actual glass. Probably a good call.
Paul stretched out on the lawn. “So many dames at this gig,” he said. “But I feel like somebody’s going to break my fingers if I so much as look at one.”
The others grunted in agreement. I sat back against the van, thinking of the girl I saw.
Paul nudged me with his boot. “Country boy’s gone all spacey on us.”
I knocked his foot aside. “Been an interesting night.”
The keyboardist dumped wine into his cup. “Damn straight. Although we could be a boom box for all anybody’s noticed us.”
Paul examined a blade of grass with outrageous intensity. “It’s money at the end of the day,” he said.
“Is this all you guys do?” I asked. “Your full-time deal?”
“Nah,” Paul said. “I work at an electronics store.” He pointed at the drummer. “Jazz there sacks groceries.”
“I change oil,” said the bass guitarist. “It’s something.”
“You do anything?” Paul asked me. “Other than thumb rides?”
&n
bsp; “I used to,” I said. “But it was killing me, pouring concrete all day. So I left.”
“Nobody got in your way?” Jazz asked, passing me a cup.
I took one even though I had no intention of drinking. “Nope.”
“My old lady would kick my ass if I took off,” Jazz said.
I wasn’t sure if he meant a wife, a girlfriend, or his mom, but I didn’t ask.
“No old lady in my life,” I said, and knew it applied all the way around. I hadn’t left a soul who meant anything to me. Not anymore.
Something about that girl made me think she would understand that. Maybe it was the hair. Or how out of place she seemed to feel, looking around like she didn’t have a friend in the world.
Of course, she was here. Maybe she had some sugar daddy who kept her in fancy dresses. The role didn’t fit her, though, not the way she was standing there, unsure if she belonged.
She’d looked at me, though. That was for certain. Maybe she had somebody. Maybe she didn’t. I shouldn’t really go searching for her. I might not stay in LA any length of time. Messing with some movie star’s girl might cause trouble for the band.
But despite what my head was telling me, my butt got off the ground anyway. “Gonna stretch my legs.”
Jazz hooted. “Like hell you are. I saw you making eyes at somebody.”
Damn, I was more obvious than I thought.
“Don’t go getting us thrown out of the gig,” Paul said, then laughed. “We can do that all on our own.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I’ve never been one to cause trouble.” Not anymore, at least.
“That makes one of us,” Jazz said.
The party didn’t seem any different from when we left it, despite the lack of a band. I ditched the wine on a table.
Piped-in music filled in the background behind the buzz of conversation. Must be hidden speakers in the trees. Paul was sort of right. The band being onstage didn’t seem to matter. They were all in their own little worlds.
The tables at the center were packed, and clusters of animated people talked with exaggerated gestures, like they were game show hosts. I could see from the body language that everybody had too much to say and not enough patience to hear anybody else.
That pink-haired girl was different, though, and I searched for her. I couldn’t see past the edge of the crowd, so I hightailed it to the stage and climbed up, examining a guitar as if I needed to adjust something.
Now that I was above everyone, I could easily scan the whole space. Her pink hair was easy to spot from here. She had her hand on some geezer in a sharp suit. He had to be three times her age. My stomach clenched. Maybe she was his daughter or something.
I looked her way a couple more times, trying not to stare. Another guy came up, short, bald, but friendlier than the other. He draped his arm around her and pulled her in with familiarity.
So she did have someone.
I shook it off. She was just a random girl. By this time tomorrow, she’d be lost in all the memories of faces and places I’d taken in these past months.
The Fender felt good. I wanted to crank out a solo, something dark and brooding, but this wasn’t my gig. I set it back in its stand and couldn’t help myself, but took one more look into the crowd.
My heart revved up when I saw she was watching me. Her eyes flitted to the guy next to her. He understood or something, as suddenly he was looking at me too. Then he nodded.
I had the weirdest feeling he was giving her some sort of approval. Maybe this was one of those polyamory deals, open relationships. I’d never known anybody like that. Doing somebody else on the sly, sure. Seemed like everybody cheated eventually.
But we were in Cali now. Maybe anything goes. Living large. I figured for one night anyway, it didn’t matter. Nobody’d managed to last any longer than that for me. I doubted Little Miss Pink was going to be any different.
But she was heading this way.
Chapter 7: Jenny
My stomach quivered as I headed toward the stage. Frankie had introduced me to two really strong prospects for a job. I was grateful. If one of them worked out, I could still be part of the business.
Now I just had to make a move on a new man very publicly.
This boy fit all the bills. Sexy. Handsome. Interested.
He was also not connected to any of Frankie’s movies, so there wouldn’t be any drama as they went into release.
He was, in a word, the perfect score.
The band was winding down a song as I moved through the crowd. The O-Maker, as I had come to think of him while I waited on the go-ahead from Frankie, moved in and out of my vision as I passed through people.
But he was watching me head toward him.
Waiting.
I took my time, wondering if any cameras were close enough to catch me when I got there. I didn’t sense any. I couldn’t sneak away with this guy and sneak back. We had to be noticed. Captured. Shared.
My stomach fluttered again.
The rest of the band climbed up on the stage. The lead singer shouted at the crowd, his voice distorted enough that I couldn’t quite understand him. Some tepid clapping followed.
They lacked something. Charisma. Presence. I wasn’t sure. There were people here who could have assessed that, but I didn’t care. The O-Maker had everything I was looking for.
Except he was gone again.
I stayed in the middle of the ambivalent crowd, listening to them play a song I’d never heard. Once again, it was passable. I scanned the crowd for the boy, although I wasn’t tall enough to see very far.
Frustrated, I pushed past a linebacker-sized actor and saw my target hopping up on the stage. I slowed down. Was he going to sing?
The guy in purple shades motioned him over.
My guy walked over to the mike. “Hello, I’m Chance, and Paul here has kindly invited this Tennessee boy up to do a number.”
Chance.
His name was Chance.
“Yeah!” Paul bellowed. He lifted his guitar strap over his head and handed it to Chance.
I made it to the base of the stage, where the crowd had left a gap, the party goers uninterested. I wondered if my boy choice was going to get their attention, or if he would be terrible.
I was rooting for him.
Chance turned to the other band members and nodded his head. The drummer slammed into a driving beat, and Chance spun to the mike, looking out at the crowd. He hadn’t noticed me up so close, practically at his feet.
“This is a song I think a lot of you will recognize, a little ditty called ‘Let the Good Times Roll.’”
The band crashed into the opening licks, and when Chance started singing, I wanted to laugh out loud with giddiness. His voice was pure magic, deep and edgy.
He moved across the stage like a fury, all energy and muscle. I was so close I could feel the wood floor shifting under his feet. His fingers squeezed the guitar in a steady grip. I was mesmerized by every movement. I could already see how his skilled hands would work on me.
I was hooked.
The band wasn’t quite on, as if they hadn’t rehearsed this one much, but Chance made up for it. The crowd began to turn to look at the stage, moving along to the beat, taking a ride on Chance’s fluid vocals.
I felt myself start to unfurl, to loosen up inside. This would be fine. He’d come off the stage. He’d see me. The attention would be directed at us long enough to make the point. And the way the focus was shifting to this hot sensation, it would be logical that I fell for him. People here would get it.
Headline: Blues-singing rock god seduces movie director’s girl at party.
The song rollicked along for another chorus, then Chance brought them to a strong stop with a motion of his hand.
That’s when he saw me.
He froze a second, as if he couldn’t believe I was so close after he’d searched for me for so long. His smile spread to a wide grin. I’m sure my panties would have gone flying, if I’d been
wearing any.
“Thank you,” he said to the crowd, which was actually showing some enthusiasm now. But he kept his eyes on me.
I thought the lead singer would take back over, but Chance turned and stepped close to the bass guitarist, asking him something. The guy nodded, and Chance turned back to the mike. “We’re gonna bring it down for a second. So grab your woman, if you’ve got one, because this one is for all of you lovely ladies here tonight.”
He looked down at me a second, and I was close enough to see his hesitation, as if maybe this wasn’t a good idea. But his gaze went back to the crowd and he seemed satisfied as a few people drew closer together.
The drummer clicked out a simple count, and when Chance played the opening line, I felt my knees go liquid. That song. Whoa, that song. Behind me, I felt the crowd pause, attention trained on this man, as if they were ready to give this guy a chance.
Chance.
He closed his eyes as he prepared for that first line. My breath held. Hell of a standard he was about to compete against. A whole blues legacy.
But here he was.
He belted it out, and my emotion surged so hard, I realized I was seriously a goner after a single phrase. I just let it wash over me.
When a man loves a woman…
Chance opened his eyes then, looking at me. I ignored how it was silly to think he was singing anything to me. It was just a song. A romantic song. We hadn’t even met.
But it felt like it was for me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was so earnest. So intense. His voice was spot on, gravelly in just the right way.
My breathing sped up. I clutched the stage like I might fall if I let go. And falling was something I didn’t do, not ever.
I tore my gaze from him to see what was going on behind me. People were closing in and the party focus had shifted. They were listening, hugging the stage. Some of the other women had pushed to the front. Women more beautiful than me, famous, recognizable.
