The first chapter for your reading pleasure of my first contemporary romance. Now available in both digital and paperback!
There are certain inalienable truths that guide my life. The first, and one I am most grateful for is that I don’t commute. Living in New York City I am afforded the luxury of having my office be ten feet from my bedroom. I write what most people like, fantasy genre with sloppy sex. It’s what I’m good at.
Second, I am clumsy. I have no ability to stand in a set place without falling. I actually fell standing still one time. I was at a gallery show with people I didn’t know. My literary agent made me go. I had on beautiful black and red Louboutin’s, talking with the artist about his inspiration, trying to eat a piece of sushi without getting it on my dress. I managed to shift just so slightly on the five inches between me and the Earth and down I went. Without any elegance I landed on the floor; sadly, the sushi managed to fall with more grace than I did. I have fallen down the stairs, into walls, into furniture, even while walking up the stairs. Heaven forbid someone throw a dog in front of me, I’d fall on it too.
The last truth, the one I most regret, is that I live with the knowledge that I’m an evil person. At least, that’s what the voices in my head say. I am the cause of horrific events. The guilt of one action, one bad decision, weighs on me daily; minute by minute there is no escape from its searing pain. It is all consuming. Flashes of desperate moments rush my mind at the oddest of times. The horrors replay and touch my dreams. I cannot move past that Death is a bitch and she has taken a great deal from me.
But Karma, being generous, has balanced out the bitch. Another benefit of writing is that it releases the voices in my head, onto paper rather than onto the populous streets of NYC with a knife and a bad attitude. I couldn’t imagine the horror that would roam Stephen King’s world if he didn’t have such an escape outlet.
At twenty-eight I have four books that have topped the New York Times Best Seller list. The third one Hollywood wanted and they paid gobs of money for it thanks to the negotiating skills of my agent, Anne, the only person in NYC I trust. I’ve seen the hack jobs Hollywood has done in the past to great books, shredding through authors works, taking a good story and vomiting it out in record time to make money. I didn’t want that for my book. I managed to keep a creative influence over the script and the casting; it was the most I could hope for my agent said.
This is what has led me to Hollywood. An expensive dinner, that I don’t have to pay for, at seven with the director, the producers and the potential actors and actresses at some fancy-schmancy restaurant I had seen on TMZ a few times.
I’m ready to leave the hotel room by six. I bought a new dress for the occasion, turquoise and body-loving ending just above the knee. My boobs are the main show the dress offers, but in a conservative way. It has short sleeves that end just above the elbows. I’m thin but not Hollywood thin. I hate my skin. I am pale, which seems to be a joke among the few people who know me. I don’t tan, I don’t even spray tan and as a result I am the palest of pale. Snow White has nothing on me. My only coloring is the endless freckles. I am the Achilles of freckles. I look as if my mother held me by my ankles over the River Freckles and dipped me in. I have a stream of freckles across my face that work their way along my body disproportionately so that I have only a few on my legs. Freckles are only cute on five year old girls.
I have light hazel eyes, a pert little nose and my dark brown hair is a hot mess with a mind of its own. My hair is naturally curly and thick but not the fun kind of curly, it’s the hard to work with kind of curly. If I wear my hair short it knots itself into corkscrews which stick out in every direction as if I’ve stuck my finger in an electrical socket. To keep the horrors of the eighteenth century hairstyles at bay I wear my dark hair long. Most days I wear it in the ‘Katniss’ style, one long braid down the back. It hangs to just past mid-back and can be contained nicely. On special occasions I break out the flat iron and spend two hours trying to manage it down into a glorious curtain of mahogany. On even specialer occasions I’ll take chunks of hair twist it around my fingers and let the ringlets abound. This was not such a night for the wilds of ringlets so the flat iron is called to duty.
With my hair flat, my nerves on edge and only four inch heels on this time I’m off to the restaurant for the appropriated time. The restaurant is a façade of glass and steel, very modern and kind of cool. It’s a good place to be seen acting as if you really don’t care to be seen. If a restaurant could be stuck-up this would be a prime example.
A valet opens the cab door and I step out. Paparazzi take a look and continue talking amongst themselves. I smile to myself. I’m glad I don’t rate with them. Another valet opens the restaurant door for me. The restaurant is split from the entryway into two sides; to the left is the open floor plan of cozy tables and stark white linens. I square my shoulders and walk to the blonde hostess. She eye fucks me for a second then smiles, “How may I help you?”
“I’m with the Breckanger party. Are they here yet?” Todd Breckanger, Hollywood’s go-to guy. He is the equivalent of finding a leprechaun at the end of the movie rainbow, everything he touches is gold and he will be my producer for the movie.
“Mr. Breckanger’s assistant called and said they’ll be about thirty minutes late. Mr. Dash has arrived as well,” she smiles almost dreamily when she mentions his name, “he’s in the bar. May I show you?” I nod. Thirty minutes, what am I going to do for thirty minutes?
I follow the hostess to the right and enter the bar. Gone are the linens. The tables are smaller; the chairs huskier. A few flat screens, hung on the walls, are strategically placed for entertainment purposes. At the rear is the bar which expands across the room with taller chairs that mimic the weightiness of the others. And there he is, sitting with his back to me. My heart skips a beat as I follow the hostess through the maze of tables and people to the bar.
“Mr. Dash,” she says sweetly, “Another member of your party, sir.”
My eyes follow the genuine smile she gives him. He nods and looks from her to me. I had seen his movies and knew what to expect but he is more in every way.
Ethan Dash, an all American man from somewhere in Pennsylvania I found out from my research. I’d spent countless hours over the last few weeks researching everyone I would meet tonight, everyone who might have a hand in how my work will be interpreted onto the big screen. He is a little older than me at thirty-one, broad shoulders, lean waist. His hair is the color of wheat, pushed to the side as if the wheat is waving in the wind. He has never played a role in a drama, yet the films he has starred in totaled almost a billion dollars in receipts. He smiles at me and I suddenly know why so many people go to the movies to see him. He is handsome in a button-up navy shirt and dark gray linen pants. He offers me the seat beside him, “You must be the writer.” I nod, aware that I cannot form words yet. He sets his beer down and offers his hand in greeting. His touch is warm before I blink myself awake.
“Yes, I’m Lauren Radford, the writer.” I scoot up onto the seat beside him and turn my attention to much needed alcohol. The bartender stops for a moment and I order, “I’ll have a glass of Riesling, house is fine.” He pours me a glass and I ask, “Do you have any nuts?” There’s a stifled laugh from beside me and a smirk from the bartender. I look at Mr. America disapprovingly and proclaim, “I haven’t eaten all day. I’m gonna faint if I don’t eat something now.” Between traveling and doing my hair the day was shot.
“A woman who eats, that’s not something I thought I’d see in Hollywood.” Ethan raises his beer bottle slightly, “Cheers.” I take a long pull from my wine. Tasty…a little too tasty. I think I’ll have another as soon as this one’s finished.
I take a minute to follow his stare to the TV set behind the bar. It’s a pro game and I let slip, “The Falcons are good this year. No one would’ve expected that.”
Ethan eyes me critically, “You like football?”
“I love college ball, the pros are OK.” Another chug of wine, a handful of nuts to ease my pain. “My favorite team is Alabama,” I smile, “Roll Tide.” I can’t figure out why I’m so chatty but continue, “I like all sports. Just not cricket, I can’t figure out the rules.” His smile returns, I must amuse him.
There’s an obnoxious roar from behind me so I turn to look, and groan. Cole Arrington, GOD in human form, has arrived. Ethan jumps from his chair and bear-hugs the other man for a moment. I yearn to be in the middle of that man-sandwich. Cole is the superhero type that one of the casting agents wants. He’s Australian, heavily accented, long sandy blonde hair and built like a brick wall with the look of a surfer. He’s a little taller than Ethan and better dressed, if that’s possible, in a dark suit, white shirt and no tie.
“This is the writer Lauren,” Ethan says.
I scoot from the chair and offer my hand to Cole. He clasps it a little too enthusiastically with a friendly hello. I manage a greeting before returning to my seat. They’re loud together, talking of things that have passed, of things that have come to be and I remember they’d made a movie together a few years ago. From what I found online, Cole’s happily married to one of the most beautiful women in the world. Literally, she was Miss Universe a few years ago. They have a beautiful little boy and another on the way. Cole orders a beer from the bartender and the men focus on the game.
The voices in my head resurface and remind me that I don’t like new people or new places and I begin to feel the crawl of lunacy around my neck again. The sudden anxiety is intense. My heart is racing. I don’t fit in here. I don’t fit in anywhere. I shouldn’t have left New York a voice says from deep inside me. The others agree.
I gulp the last of the wine and take a bill from my clutch. I agree with the voices, I’ve made a mistake. I need to leave. I slide off of the chair and turn to go. The guys will never know I’ve left; they’re focused on the game. I can call Anne from the hotel and tell her to tweak the contract. The studio can have full rights to it. I’m out of my league.
I grip my bag harder. As soon as my heels touch the floor I step away. I’m just able to stop in time, finding a mass of masculinity behind me. The last of the actors has arrived and I think my mouth hits the floor.
“Whoa,” escapes my lips and he smiles. It’s a smile that caresses his smoky blue eyes. The Swedish import. I’d rented every movie that had his name in it over the last month and saw his talent along with his abs of steel. He started in small roles and has moved up to larger supporting roles. My movie will be his chance at a leading role.
I knew what to expect but seeing him in person takes my breath away. He’s very tall and lean but all muscle. His short, recently trimmed hair is dirty blonde and he’s every bit a Nordic deity. I need to congratulate his parents on having sex at the precise moment for his conception.
He’s wearing a gray three piece suit, (do men wear three piece suits anymore?), with a sharp white shirt and a dark purple tie. He is disarmingly beautiful but in ways the other men aren’t with his clean-shaven rugged jawline, sculptured lips and a straight nose that I suddenly want to plant a kiss on.
“Going somewhere?” he asks as if he knows my inside joke and I make a noncommittal sound offering my hand. I can’t be rude. Not to him. Taking his hand I feel the shockwave of his warm touch all the way to my hoochie. “I’m Willem Rysberg, please, call me Will,” he says then leans forward and kisses my cheek. I rise slightly to meet his touch. I swear even my breasts perk up and pay attention. My eyes close slightly and he smells, my eyes flash open, he smells wonderfully like home and my senses come alive.
Home…home…home.
It’s been so long since I’ve smelled the aroma of home, my real home. I flush with heat instantly at the spot where his lips touched. Fortunately, my freckles act like camouflage.
“Lauren,” I manage to get out as our hands fall apart. He’s thirty-five, so said his online bio and from the gossip sites I’ve learned he’s a player. Different women, different cities, countries. He is a globe-trotting horn-bag. He probably keeps the condom makers in business all by himself. A voice taunts deep from within, wondering about restaurant sex with him. Would he be willing? I could sit on the chair behind me…that would give me some height. He could unzip those pants and we could get down to business. Caught in my own sexual dilemma I don’t even notice as the hostess approaches.
“Pardon me,” she announces with great ease. I hate her instantly. “Your party has arrived. If you’ll follow me,” she turns to lead the way. Cole and Ethan grab their beers and follow. I am intensely aware of my being with Willem walking behind me. Am I standing up straight? Are there any road hazards in my path? Am I going to fall? How does my butt look in this dress from behind? I can’t keep my thoughts organized and press my fingers to a sore spot on my temple. I need medication or another glass of wine.
Sitting at a large round table with a delicate white linen cloth over it near the rear of the restaurant I have my back to the wall looking out at the main room. This way no one can sneak up from behind and surprise me.
The actresses have arrived, nearly all at one time. Overwhelming. I keep reminding myself that I knew this would be difficult. I knew I would be surrounded by beautiful people and that my self-esteem would take a hit. I just didn’t realize how painful that would be.
They are striking and I’m as green as my dress with envy. Their bodies are killer, with clothes made to drape over every surgically enhanced curve. Their hair and makeup have been done by professionals. Nothing has been left to chance. I am reminded of ancient lore of the three sirens and their seductive songs. I sigh and place my napkin in my lap.
Todd is to my left and Willem has taken the seat to my right. As I am pale, Todd is tan. He needs to take a break from the tanner; I’m a little worried for him. His dark hair is marked with streaks of gray. Thick eyebrows sit like caterpillars over his brown eyes and his nose has the look of being broken more than one time. His teeth seem exceptionally white against the tan and I’m momentarily caught in the daze. I silently vow not to tan. He’s talkative and energetic. I like him immediately.
I am introduced to each of the others but I’m already sitting so I give a simple wave as we go around the table. The director, Josh Wheaton; he’s young for a director, kind of geeky looking with super short brown hair and dark-rimmed Harry Potter glasses resting on his face, is seated next to Todd and they talk of everything but my movie. Todd’s co-producer is Nicole Jackson; she’s half his age with beautiful light brown skin and does a great deal of work based on how much her phone pings during our introduction. She says she’s glad to meet me and I’m sure she’s just glad to meet the money my movie will make her.
I nod to the actors having met them already. Ethan, the movie brawler. Cole, the movie superhero. The ladies are next as we go around the table. Three in a row, all dark haired beauties, all just barely over twenty-one: Holly, Kate and Maria. I view them as a scientist would view specimens in a petri dish. I have my own vision of my female character, do they conform? Or do I need to conform to them? Suddenly I ask, “The female character has short hair, are you going to cut yours?”
They each look from one to the other and Kate says, “I would, for the role.”
I lean back slightly in my chair and stiffen to ramrod straight. She’s given me a line, that as an actor, she would do whatever was necessary for the role. I could have asked her if she’d be willing to take it up the ass and I would have gotten the same response. Maria mumbles something about wigs and good lightening, no one would know. Huh? I would know. And I shut up.
Willem sits next to me, he’s relaxed and easy-going, and everything I am not. I glance up and take in his splendor. He weakens my resolve to run. Sitting next to him, smelling so good like a woodsy outdoorsman who bathed in spice, my determination is fading fast.
I sit and watch as the waiter takes our orders; the ladies will have salads. A variety: one with spinach, one with only lettuce. Only lettuce? How boring. Kate breaks the trend and orders grilled chicken on her salad. My shoulders slump, I feel fat. I order a small steak and some golden fried potatoes and green veggies for good measure. Ethan catches my eye and winks, making a face from across the table, reminding me of what he said earlier, that women in Hollywood don’t eat.
Josh takes a minute from Todd’s attention and asks me, “Lauren, I’d love to know how you came up with the story?” I set down my second glass of wine. Everyone is looking at me. I hate being the center of attention.
“It was a dream,” which sounds so much better than one of the voices in my mind kept reminding me of a particular idea and wouldn’t give up on it until it was written down. “I think I dreamt about it for three or four nights in a row then starting writing out the story.”
Maria adds, “I love that you put a love story in the middle of an invasion. It was so romantic, him saving her from the ocean.”
“Thank you,” what else can I say? “They say write what you know,” I shrug.
“You know about invasions?” Ethan laughs.
“No, I had to research that part. I know about fear.” And everyone gets quiet for a long minute. Awkward.
Willem leans close, his voice is rather low as the others begin to talk amongst themselves, “My mom loves your books. She’s the one who told me to try for the role.”
“I’m glad she likes them. I can sign a book for her if you want.” He leans back with an enigmatic smile. I think he’s accepted my book offer. I don’t know why but I keep talking, “Let her know I have another book coming out next year, in the spring. I finished it last month. It’s at the editor’s right now.”
Todd looks at me, under his paternalistic scrutiny I shrink, “I’d like a first copy too. I want to keep the studio’s options open on your books, if the movie does well.” They’re judging potential movie sales based on my book sales. Even if half the people who bought my book go to the theatre, they’ll have a blockbuster. I know it, Anne knows, that’s why she was able to get so much money for the rights. She wants me here, wants me watching over the creative process. She’s as protective of my book as I am, and I love her dearly for it. For her…and the Nordic deity, I guess I’ll stay.
There’s chitchat and banter and lots of giggling from the young ladies. The guys are talking of sports and families and everyone is so friendly. I can’t decide if it’s genuine friendly or phony friendly. I smile a few times, trying to keep up with all of the different conversations. This is what it must be like to have a family. To sit around a table and eat and enjoy each other’s company, talk of the old days and what is to come. I rub the sore spot that appears again at my temple as Holly asks, “Will, are you Swedish, or you know, is your old family from Sweden?”
He smiles and answers, “I am Swedish, I grew up in Stockholm.”
“Jag växte upp I Stockholm också,” I blurt out in Swedish. My fork drops to my plate with a loud rattling clank and my hand covers my mouth. I grew up in Stockholm also. Willem looks at me as if I’m glowing like a light bulb. I haven’t spoken a word of Swedish in eleven years. Eleven years. I could never tell any of them what happened. Fear, I know about fear. I look to Willem and can’t gauge his reaction.
Asked…to…leave.
I can’t be near him when he reminds me of home, a place I can’t return to.
“You speak Swedish?” Kate asks in wonder as Holly asks, “Are you Swedish too?” The table stops talking and focuses on me.
I shake my head and revert to using English only, “No, I just lived there when I was a kid.” I pick up my fork again and try to refocus on my food but I’ve lost my appetite. My fucking hand is shaking. The fork is trembling like we’re having an earthquake. I hope no one notices. All of the voices in my head are screaming at me for the stupid mistake. I can’t keep the voices at the table apart from the ones in my head as everyone talks/screams at once. “Excuse me,” I say as I stand. I have to leave, I need some air.
The alley is nice, for an alley. There are lots of alleys in NYC and it’s kind of homey standing in the dark while the activity of the busy restaurant passes me by. I can hear the commotion but am not a participant. The waiter propped open the door for me so I’m not five feet from the inside but it’s enough to get away. The night air is calming the angry voices.
I’m pushing a stone across the concrete with the toe of my shoe when he asks me, “Are you coming back in?” Looking up I see some emotion, like measured apprehension, on Willem’s face. “You can’t let them know they get to you, if that’s what’s wrong.” No accent, not even a hint. He’s spent a lot of time speaking English.
I shrug and walk to him, “I’m okay. I just needed some air.” He steps aside and I brush past him. A gentle hand on my shoulder and my body shocks awake again. His firm hand slides along my back, resting on my hip as we walk side by side back towards the main room. His touch is warming and comfortable. I can forgive his whoreness.
He leans in and says, “Hollywood is all about pretending, or acting, as some say.” He smiles for me and my insides melt into goo. “Remember as a kid when you pretended to have fun with your family on holiday or you pretended to eat your dinner so you could watch TV, same thing here. Just pretend you’re having fun.”
I ask one word, “Why?”
He replies, “Because these people are going to spend nearly a hundred million dollars to make a film based on your imagination, give them your time and attention.” He presses a light kiss to my dark hair before leaning away. We arrive at the table and he pulls out my chair for me. I sit down and smile at the group. There is an apology for wasted time and everyone is cheerful again.
There are certain inalienable truths that guide my life. The first, and one I am most grateful for is that I don’t commute. Living in New York City I am afforded the luxury of having my office be ten feet from my bedroom. I write what most people like, fantasy genre with sloppy sex. It’s what I’m good at.
Second, I am clumsy. I have no ability to stand in a set place without falling. I actually fell standing still one time. I was at a gallery show with people I didn’t know. My literary agent made me go. I had on beautiful black and red Louboutin’s, talking with the artist about his inspiration, trying to eat a piece of sushi without getting it on my dress. I managed to shift just so slightly on the five inches between me and the Earth and down I went. Without any elegance I landed on the floor; sadly, the sushi managed to fall with more grace than I did. I have fallen down the stairs, into walls, into furniture, even while walking up the stairs. Heaven forbid someone throw a dog in front of me, I’d fall on it too.
The last truth, the one I most regret, is that I live with the knowledge that I’m an evil person. At least, that’s what the voices in my head say. I am the cause of horrific events. The guilt of one action, one bad decision, weighs on me daily; minute by minute there is no escape from its searing pain. It is all consuming. Flashes of desperate moments rush my mind at the oddest of times. The horrors replay and touch my dreams. I cannot move past that Death is a bitch and she has taken a great deal from me.
But Karma, being generous, has balanced out the bitch. Another benefit of writing is that it releases the voices in my head, onto paper rather than onto the populous streets of NYC with a knife and a bad attitude. I couldn’t imagine the horror that would roam Stephen King’s world if he didn’t have such an escape outlet.
At twenty-eight I have four books that have topped the New York Times Best Seller list. The third one Hollywood wanted and they paid gobs of money for it thanks to the negotiating skills of my agent, Anne, the only person in NYC I trust. I’ve seen the hack jobs Hollywood has done in the past to great books, shredding through authors works, taking a good story and vomiting it out in record time to make money. I didn’t want that for my book. I managed to keep a creative influence over the script and the casting; it was the most I could hope for my agent said.
This is what has led me to Hollywood. An expensive dinner, that I don’t have to pay for, at seven with the director, the producers and the potential actors and actresses at some fancy-schmancy restaurant I had seen on TMZ a few times.
I’m ready to leave the hotel room by six. I bought a new dress for the occasion, turquoise and body-loving ending just above the knee. My boobs are the main show the dress offers, but in a conservative way. It has short sleeves that end just above the elbows. I’m thin but not Hollywood thin. I hate my skin. I am pale, which seems to be a joke among the few people who know me. I don’t tan, I don’t even spray tan and as a result I am the palest of pale. Snow White has nothing on me. My only coloring is the endless freckles. I am the Achilles of freckles. I look as if my mother held me by my ankles over the River Freckles and dipped me in. I have a stream of freckles across my face that work their way along my body disproportionately so that I have only a few on my legs. Freckles are only cute on five year old girls.
I have light hazel eyes, a pert little nose and my dark brown hair is a hot mess with a mind of its own. My hair is naturally curly and thick but not the fun kind of curly, it’s the hard to work with kind of curly. If I wear my hair short it knots itself into corkscrews which stick out in every direction as if I’ve stuck my finger in an electrical socket. To keep the horrors of the eighteenth century hairstyles at bay I wear my dark hair long. Most days I wear it in the ‘Katniss’ style, one long braid down the back. It hangs to just past mid-back and can be contained nicely. On special occasions I break out the flat iron and spend two hours trying to manage it down into a glorious curtain of mahogany. On even specialer occasions I’ll take chunks of hair twist it around my fingers and let the ringlets abound. This was not such a night for the wilds of ringlets so the flat iron is called to duty.
With my hair flat, my nerves on edge and only four inch heels on this time I’m off to the restaurant for the appropriated time. The restaurant is a façade of glass and steel, very modern and kind of cool. It’s a good place to be seen acting as if you really don’t care to be seen. If a restaurant could be stuck-up this would be a prime example.
A valet opens the cab door and I step out. Paparazzi take a look and continue talking amongst themselves. I smile to myself. I’m glad I don’t rate with them. Another valet opens the restaurant door for me. The restaurant is split from the entryway into two sides; to the left is the open floor plan of cozy tables and stark white linens. I square my shoulders and walk to the blonde hostess. She eye fucks me for a second then smiles, “How may I help you?”
“I’m with the Breckanger party. Are they here yet?” Todd Breckanger, Hollywood’s go-to guy. He is the equivalent of finding a leprechaun at the end of the movie rainbow, everything he touches is gold and he will be my producer for the movie.
“Mr. Breckanger’s assistant called and said they’ll be about thirty minutes late. Mr. Dash has arrived as well,” she smiles almost dreamily when she mentions his name, “he’s in the bar. May I show you?” I nod. Thirty minutes, what am I going to do for thirty minutes?
I follow the hostess to the right and enter the bar. Gone are the linens. The tables are smaller; the chairs huskier. A few flat screens, hung on the walls, are strategically placed for entertainment purposes. At the rear is the bar which expands across the room with taller chairs that mimic the weightiness of the others. And there he is, sitting with his back to me. My heart skips a beat as I follow the hostess through the maze of tables and people to the bar.
“Mr. Dash,” she says sweetly, “Another member of your party, sir.”
My eyes follow the genuine smile she gives him. He nods and looks from her to me. I had seen his movies and knew what to expect but he is more in every way.
Ethan Dash, an all American man from somewhere in Pennsylvania I found out from my research. I’d spent countless hours over the last few weeks researching everyone I would meet tonight, everyone who might have a hand in how my work will be interpreted onto the big screen. He is a little older than me at thirty-one, broad shoulders, lean waist. His hair is the color of wheat, pushed to the side as if the wheat is waving in the wind. He has never played a role in a drama, yet the films he has starred in totaled almost a billion dollars in receipts. He smiles at me and I suddenly know why so many people go to the movies to see him. He is handsome in a button-up navy shirt and dark gray linen pants. He offers me the seat beside him, “You must be the writer.” I nod, aware that I cannot form words yet. He sets his beer down and offers his hand in greeting. His touch is warm before I blink myself awake.
“Yes, I’m Lauren Radford, the writer.” I scoot up onto the seat beside him and turn my attention to much needed alcohol. The bartender stops for a moment and I order, “I’ll have a glass of Riesling, house is fine.” He pours me a glass and I ask, “Do you have any nuts?” There’s a stifled laugh from beside me and a smirk from the bartender. I look at Mr. America disapprovingly and proclaim, “I haven’t eaten all day. I’m gonna faint if I don’t eat something now.” Between traveling and doing my hair the day was shot.
“A woman who eats, that’s not something I thought I’d see in Hollywood.” Ethan raises his beer bottle slightly, “Cheers.” I take a long pull from my wine. Tasty…a little too tasty. I think I’ll have another as soon as this one’s finished.
I take a minute to follow his stare to the TV set behind the bar. It’s a pro game and I let slip, “The Falcons are good this year. No one would’ve expected that.”
Ethan eyes me critically, “You like football?”
“I love college ball, the pros are OK.” Another chug of wine, a handful of nuts to ease my pain. “My favorite team is Alabama,” I smile, “Roll Tide.” I can’t figure out why I’m so chatty but continue, “I like all sports. Just not cricket, I can’t figure out the rules.” His smile returns, I must amuse him.
There’s an obnoxious roar from behind me so I turn to look, and groan. Cole Arrington, GOD in human form, has arrived. Ethan jumps from his chair and bear-hugs the other man for a moment. I yearn to be in the middle of that man-sandwich. Cole is the superhero type that one of the casting agents wants. He’s Australian, heavily accented, long sandy blonde hair and built like a brick wall with the look of a surfer. He’s a little taller than Ethan and better dressed, if that’s possible, in a dark suit, white shirt and no tie.
“This is the writer Lauren,” Ethan says.
I scoot from the chair and offer my hand to Cole. He clasps it a little too enthusiastically with a friendly hello. I manage a greeting before returning to my seat. They’re loud together, talking of things that have passed, of things that have come to be and I remember they’d made a movie together a few years ago. From what I found online, Cole’s happily married to one of the most beautiful women in the world. Literally, she was Miss Universe a few years ago. They have a beautiful little boy and another on the way. Cole orders a beer from the bartender and the men focus on the game.
The voices in my head resurface and remind me that I don’t like new people or new places and I begin to feel the crawl of lunacy around my neck again. The sudden anxiety is intense. My heart is racing. I don’t fit in here. I don’t fit in anywhere. I shouldn’t have left New York a voice says from deep inside me. The others agree.
I gulp the last of the wine and take a bill from my clutch. I agree with the voices, I’ve made a mistake. I need to leave. I slide off of the chair and turn to go. The guys will never know I’ve left; they’re focused on the game. I can call Anne from the hotel and tell her to tweak the contract. The studio can have full rights to it. I’m out of my league.
I grip my bag harder. As soon as my heels touch the floor I step away. I’m just able to stop in time, finding a mass of masculinity behind me. The last of the actors has arrived and I think my mouth hits the floor.
“Whoa,” escapes my lips and he smiles. It’s a smile that caresses his smoky blue eyes. The Swedish import. I’d rented every movie that had his name in it over the last month and saw his talent along with his abs of steel. He started in small roles and has moved up to larger supporting roles. My movie will be his chance at a leading role.
I knew what to expect but seeing him in person takes my breath away. He’s very tall and lean but all muscle. His short, recently trimmed hair is dirty blonde and he’s every bit a Nordic deity. I need to congratulate his parents on having sex at the precise moment for his conception.
He’s wearing a gray three piece suit, (do men wear three piece suits anymore?), with a sharp white shirt and a dark purple tie. He is disarmingly beautiful but in ways the other men aren’t with his clean-shaven rugged jawline, sculptured lips and a straight nose that I suddenly want to plant a kiss on.
“Going somewhere?” he asks as if he knows my inside joke and I make a noncommittal sound offering my hand. I can’t be rude. Not to him. Taking his hand I feel the shockwave of his warm touch all the way to my hoochie. “I’m Willem Rysberg, please, call me Will,” he says then leans forward and kisses my cheek. I rise slightly to meet his touch. I swear even my breasts perk up and pay attention. My eyes close slightly and he smells, my eyes flash open, he smells wonderfully like home and my senses come alive.
Home…home…home.
It’s been so long since I’ve smelled the aroma of home, my real home. I flush with heat instantly at the spot where his lips touched. Fortunately, my freckles act like camouflage.
“Lauren,” I manage to get out as our hands fall apart. He’s thirty-five, so said his online bio and from the gossip sites I’ve learned he’s a player. Different women, different cities, countries. He is a globe-trotting horn-bag. He probably keeps the condom makers in business all by himself. A voice taunts deep from within, wondering about restaurant sex with him. Would he be willing? I could sit on the chair behind me…that would give me some height. He could unzip those pants and we could get down to business. Caught in my own sexual dilemma I don’t even notice as the hostess approaches.
“Pardon me,” she announces with great ease. I hate her instantly. “Your party has arrived. If you’ll follow me,” she turns to lead the way. Cole and Ethan grab their beers and follow. I am intensely aware of my being with Willem walking behind me. Am I standing up straight? Are there any road hazards in my path? Am I going to fall? How does my butt look in this dress from behind? I can’t keep my thoughts organized and press my fingers to a sore spot on my temple. I need medication or another glass of wine.
Sitting at a large round table with a delicate white linen cloth over it near the rear of the restaurant I have my back to the wall looking out at the main room. This way no one can sneak up from behind and surprise me.
The actresses have arrived, nearly all at one time. Overwhelming. I keep reminding myself that I knew this would be difficult. I knew I would be surrounded by beautiful people and that my self-esteem would take a hit. I just didn’t realize how painful that would be.
They are striking and I’m as green as my dress with envy. Their bodies are killer, with clothes made to drape over every surgically enhanced curve. Their hair and makeup have been done by professionals. Nothing has been left to chance. I am reminded of ancient lore of the three sirens and their seductive songs. I sigh and place my napkin in my lap.
Todd is to my left and Willem has taken the seat to my right. As I am pale, Todd is tan. He needs to take a break from the tanner; I’m a little worried for him. His dark hair is marked with streaks of gray. Thick eyebrows sit like caterpillars over his brown eyes and his nose has the look of being broken more than one time. His teeth seem exceptionally white against the tan and I’m momentarily caught in the daze. I silently vow not to tan. He’s talkative and energetic. I like him immediately.
I am introduced to each of the others but I’m already sitting so I give a simple wave as we go around the table. The director, Josh Wheaton; he’s young for a director, kind of geeky looking with super short brown hair and dark-rimmed Harry Potter glasses resting on his face, is seated next to Todd and they talk of everything but my movie. Todd’s co-producer is Nicole Jackson; she’s half his age with beautiful light brown skin and does a great deal of work based on how much her phone pings during our introduction. She says she’s glad to meet me and I’m sure she’s just glad to meet the money my movie will make her.
I nod to the actors having met them already. Ethan, the movie brawler. Cole, the movie superhero. The ladies are next as we go around the table. Three in a row, all dark haired beauties, all just barely over twenty-one: Holly, Kate and Maria. I view them as a scientist would view specimens in a petri dish. I have my own vision of my female character, do they conform? Or do I need to conform to them? Suddenly I ask, “The female character has short hair, are you going to cut yours?”
They each look from one to the other and Kate says, “I would, for the role.”
I lean back slightly in my chair and stiffen to ramrod straight. She’s given me a line, that as an actor, she would do whatever was necessary for the role. I could have asked her if she’d be willing to take it up the ass and I would have gotten the same response. Maria mumbles something about wigs and good lightening, no one would know. Huh? I would know. And I shut up.
Willem sits next to me, he’s relaxed and easy-going, and everything I am not. I glance up and take in his splendor. He weakens my resolve to run. Sitting next to him, smelling so good like a woodsy outdoorsman who bathed in spice, my determination is fading fast.
I sit and watch as the waiter takes our orders; the ladies will have salads. A variety: one with spinach, one with only lettuce. Only lettuce? How boring. Kate breaks the trend and orders grilled chicken on her salad. My shoulders slump, I feel fat. I order a small steak and some golden fried potatoes and green veggies for good measure. Ethan catches my eye and winks, making a face from across the table, reminding me of what he said earlier, that women in Hollywood don’t eat.
Josh takes a minute from Todd’s attention and asks me, “Lauren, I’d love to know how you came up with the story?” I set down my second glass of wine. Everyone is looking at me. I hate being the center of attention.
“It was a dream,” which sounds so much better than one of the voices in my mind kept reminding me of a particular idea and wouldn’t give up on it until it was written down. “I think I dreamt about it for three or four nights in a row then starting writing out the story.”
Maria adds, “I love that you put a love story in the middle of an invasion. It was so romantic, him saving her from the ocean.”
“Thank you,” what else can I say? “They say write what you know,” I shrug.
“You know about invasions?” Ethan laughs.
“No, I had to research that part. I know about fear.” And everyone gets quiet for a long minute. Awkward.
Willem leans close, his voice is rather low as the others begin to talk amongst themselves, “My mom loves your books. She’s the one who told me to try for the role.”
“I’m glad she likes them. I can sign a book for her if you want.” He leans back with an enigmatic smile. I think he’s accepted my book offer. I don’t know why but I keep talking, “Let her know I have another book coming out next year, in the spring. I finished it last month. It’s at the editor’s right now.”
Todd looks at me, under his paternalistic scrutiny I shrink, “I’d like a first copy too. I want to keep the studio’s options open on your books, if the movie does well.” They’re judging potential movie sales based on my book sales. Even if half the people who bought my book go to the theatre, they’ll have a blockbuster. I know it, Anne knows, that’s why she was able to get so much money for the rights. She wants me here, wants me watching over the creative process. She’s as protective of my book as I am, and I love her dearly for it. For her…and the Nordic deity, I guess I’ll stay.
There’s chitchat and banter and lots of giggling from the young ladies. The guys are talking of sports and families and everyone is so friendly. I can’t decide if it’s genuine friendly or phony friendly. I smile a few times, trying to keep up with all of the different conversations. This is what it must be like to have a family. To sit around a table and eat and enjoy each other’s company, talk of the old days and what is to come. I rub the sore spot that appears again at my temple as Holly asks, “Will, are you Swedish, or you know, is your old family from Sweden?”
He smiles and answers, “I am Swedish, I grew up in Stockholm.”
“Jag växte upp I Stockholm också,” I blurt out in Swedish. My fork drops to my plate with a loud rattling clank and my hand covers my mouth. I grew up in Stockholm also. Willem looks at me as if I’m glowing like a light bulb. I haven’t spoken a word of Swedish in eleven years. Eleven years. I could never tell any of them what happened. Fear, I know about fear. I look to Willem and can’t gauge his reaction.
Asked…to…leave.
I can’t be near him when he reminds me of home, a place I can’t return to.
“You speak Swedish?” Kate asks in wonder as Holly asks, “Are you Swedish too?” The table stops talking and focuses on me.
I shake my head and revert to using English only, “No, I just lived there when I was a kid.” I pick up my fork again and try to refocus on my food but I’ve lost my appetite. My fucking hand is shaking. The fork is trembling like we’re having an earthquake. I hope no one notices. All of the voices in my head are screaming at me for the stupid mistake. I can’t keep the voices at the table apart from the ones in my head as everyone talks/screams at once. “Excuse me,” I say as I stand. I have to leave, I need some air.
The alley is nice, for an alley. There are lots of alleys in NYC and it’s kind of homey standing in the dark while the activity of the busy restaurant passes me by. I can hear the commotion but am not a participant. The waiter propped open the door for me so I’m not five feet from the inside but it’s enough to get away. The night air is calming the angry voices.
I’m pushing a stone across the concrete with the toe of my shoe when he asks me, “Are you coming back in?” Looking up I see some emotion, like measured apprehension, on Willem’s face. “You can’t let them know they get to you, if that’s what’s wrong.” No accent, not even a hint. He’s spent a lot of time speaking English.
I shrug and walk to him, “I’m okay. I just needed some air.” He steps aside and I brush past him. A gentle hand on my shoulder and my body shocks awake again. His firm hand slides along my back, resting on my hip as we walk side by side back towards the main room. His touch is warming and comfortable. I can forgive his whoreness.
He leans in and says, “Hollywood is all about pretending, or acting, as some say.” He smiles for me and my insides melt into goo. “Remember as a kid when you pretended to have fun with your family on holiday or you pretended to eat your dinner so you could watch TV, same thing here. Just pretend you’re having fun.”
I ask one word, “Why?”
He replies, “Because these people are going to spend nearly a hundred million dollars to make a film based on your imagination, give them your time and attention.” He presses a light kiss to my dark hair before leaning away. We arrive at the table and he pulls out my chair for me. I sit down and smile at the group. There is an apology for wasted time and everyone is cheerful again.