Yacht Girl

by Alison Claire Grey

  Twenty-Four

  Meg had been a bit miffed when Dee hung up on her so suddenly, but that was typical of her sister. Dee couldn’t hold her attention on anything very long, even a conversation she’d initiated, apparently.

  Meg sighed and headed back into the office. She’d taken the call out on the pool deck, so she could have an excuse to check on some young men visiting from Valdosta who were trying to build a beer bong that went from the third floor down to the first.

  It was not quite five o’clock in the afternoon in Panama City Beach. Meg had spent most of the day putting out fires. Three families had checked into their rooms and immediately wanted to check out after not being impressed with the accommodations.

  This happened a lot. The Siesta hadn’t been renovated since it was built in 1957. The furniture had changed, but not since the mid-eighties. Their website, which was still hosted on an old Geocities web address, didn’t really lie about the location so much as make it very difficult to see what the rooms looked like since her father mostly stuck to showing off the beaches the motel existed on instead of the less-than-stellar sleeping quarters.

  “That’s why people are here aren’t they?” her father would say when she reminded him that the motel badly needed to be upgraded. “It just encourages them to go outside and enjoy the Gulf!”

  Truth was, there wasn’t a ton of money to spend on the place. It was why Meg tried not to get too attached to it if she could help it. Surely Dad would sell it soon. It was just a huge money pit of an abode, three stories of moldy rooms and leaking shower faucets. It barely passed inspection every year, and Meg had a hunch it only passed at all because of her father’s friendship with Mack Gentry.

  It sat on prime real estate and would sell quickly. Dad could retire on the windfall and focus on his tupelo honey dreams while Meg went in whatever direction she wanted, whether that meant finishing school or doing something entirely different.

  Meg and Dee never understood why Dad hadn’t sold it the second their grandparents died. Lord knows they could have used the money after their mother had cleaned them out when she left town with her new boyfriend.

  But Robert Beckett had seen The Siesta as their opportunity to build something for themselves. And he liked people. You had to, Meg supposed, to put up with everything her father put up with.

  Since Dee left, Meg’s life had become mundane. Dee had always had something on her mind, some sort of plan or idea for them to hold onto. They never worked out, but it was always a fun ride.

  Meg was the shyer of the two. She hadn’t spoken until she was four years old, worrying her parents who assumed she must have something wrong with her. Dee on the other hand hadn’t shut up since the day she was born.

  Meg wasn’t as beautiful as Dee, but she was still stunning. Meg’s beauty was understated. She wasn’t curvy like Dee and her hair wasn’t as glossy, but Meg— like her sister— had the face of an angel. She was athletic with naturally curly auburn hair that she kept in a messy bun on top of her head most days.

  Still, next to Dee she tended to be easily forgotten, which was what she preferred.

  Just as long as Dee never forgot her.

  The girls had been best friends since the beginning. They fought sometimes, but it was rare, and Meg never tired of being around her sister. Dee was special, and everyone knew that, which made Meg special for being her sister.

  On days like today, Meg wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have gone with Dee to California. But that thought only lasted for a second. As much as Meg loved her sister, she loved her father even more. She could never leave him. He’d never said it, but he needed at least one of them to stay. They were all he had.

  Meg spent her days focused on the motel and saving up money to visit her sister. She didn’t see a lot of their friends. She hadn’t realized, or maybe just didn’t want to, that most of their friends were really Dee’s friends who didn’t mind Meg so much. People were starting to get married off now. In the Florida panhandle that’s all that’s left to do once high school is over, unless you’re somehow lucky enough to get into one of the state schools.

  Meg never had any sort of serious boyfriend, so marriage and kids were never on her mind. She hoped, eventually, Dad would sell the motel and they’d move close to Dee. In the end that’s all Meg wanted.

  She just had to bide her time for now. Dee needed space to thrive and become who she was meant to be— even if that meant Meg had to wait.

  The one-person Meg did see semi-frequently was their friend Ryan Kidson. Ryan had grown up with them in Apalachicola and had moved to Panama City Beach the same time they did when his mother— who was a teacher— transferred schools.

  Ryan was part owner of a pool cleaning business now, the other part owned by his father. Ryan had taken Dee to prom and been a left fielder for their high school baseball team. Meg had always assumed he’d marry her sister one of these days. But Dee would laugh it off every time Meg mentioned it.

  “Ryan Kidson will never leave Panama City,” Dee said. “So that alone means we’ll never get married. I’d rather die. Just because people date doesn’t mean they’re destined to be together forever, Meg.”

  Meg never understood why Dee was so eager to leave the panhandle. It was familiar and easy and full of everything they’d ever loved.

  But Dee had always longed for something intangible. Nothing was enough for Dee, there was a void there, something none of them could understand, a place in her that even Meg couldn’t reach.

  So, Ryan Kidson had gone off to Florida State and by the time he came back, Dee was making her plans for California.

  Meg wouldn’t have told Ryan this, but Dee hadn’t mentioned his name once in the four years he’d been gone.

  Still, it was nice to see him sometimes. He was single, which didn’t make a lot of sense, being a handsome business owner these days.

  Maybe he was waiting for Dee too.

  It seemed they all were, in some way.

  Twenty-Five

  Dee drove around in LA traffic for an hour. She’d finally gotten a text back from one of the waitresses- Dom’s had been busted for hiring people to work in the kitchen who weren’t legal to work. They’d been raided that morning and shut down by Immigration Enforcement. The Board of Health piggybacked the raid with a surprise inspection the restaurant failed.

  Dee wasn’t sure what to think. She was angry for all of them now— thanks to a greedy owner, none of them had jobs.

  Either way, it meant the restaurant was closed for the foreseeable future. Which meant Dee was indefinitely unemployed. Rent was due in two weeks. How the hell would she come up with $900 by then? Plus, half of the other bills?

  Dee laughed maniacally behind the wheel of the LeBaron. It was better than crying. She was stuck on the 101. In the distance she could see the infamous Hollywood sign, a site that she’d romanticized months ago, but now one that made her raise two fingers in the air as she screamed, so tired of this life she’d chosen.

  She’d never expected anything to be given to her. Or maybe she had and hadn’t realized it. There was no use in being angry at LA for not being what she dreamed it would be. If nothing else, she was livid with herself for being so damn stupid.

  Clearly, she’d have to go back home to Florida. Maybe she’d come back one day, maybe she wouldn’t. Right now, Dee didn’t give a lick. She wanted a drink. Even if it was fifteen bucks.

  Teddy’s was a bar inside The Hollywood Roosevelt, across the street from the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

  Dee had gone to the theater when she’d first arrived in LA; had put her size ten feet inside the very worn and tiny high heel footprints of Marilyn Monroe and her neighbor Jane Russell. They’d been in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes together; a movie Dee had watched half a dozen times.

  She’d walked across the crowded sidewalk to put her hands where Meryl Streep’s had been just a decade before. It felt like it was good luck in some way. Dee was sure she wasn’t the only
aspiring actress who had done this. She wouldn’t be the last. She stopped to read every star; admired every set of prints. She made a list in her head of where she’d like hers to be someday.

  Dee missed that version of herself, the one who thought everything was still possible.

  This time, she ignored the crowd at the theater and the salespeople who gathered around her attempting to convince her to take a double decker bus to tour the stars’ homes and went straight to the bar.

  She’d heard Rachel talk about Teddy’s, how it was where very important people went to discuss whatever they discussed, and Dee had wanted to check it out for months. It had been around since the golden age of Hollywood and Dee could scarcely imagine what the dark wood paneled walls would say if they could talk.

  A jazz band played as she entered, music that set the scene but didn’t distract. The beautiful people were scattered around the lounge, but it wasn’t crowded yet, it had just opened. The crowds would come much later, around ten Dee supposed, long after she planned on being there.

  The hostess was an Amazonian goddess— a good six feet tall in her heels, with jet black hair cut into a pageboy bob with feathered bangs. She was made of sleek muscle under flawless bronze skin. She was icy, like most of the women had to be in this town, any hint of warmth might allow someone to think they were open to conversation, and after living in LA for even a couple of months women were very tired of empty chatter that went nowhere.

  Dee was seated in a plush, crushed velvet chair close to the band. She ordered a Manhattan, something that she’d never had before, but that sounded incredibly sophisticated. The cocktail waitress brought it to her on a sterling silver tray. As soon as Dee took a sip, she regretted her choice— it was much too strong.

  It was also expensive, so she nursed it the best she could and allowed her eyes to wander around the bar.

  She tried not to make eye contact with anyone, particularly men. The predatory men in this town could take the smallest gesture and make it into something completely different.

  She focused her attention on the décor. She was puzzled by the vast number of antlers hanging from the walls. It was an odd reminder of home, where plenty of her friends and their fathers had been hunters, killing deer and duck and hanging their taxidermized heads and bodies in the living rooms of their double-wide trailers with pride.

  “I know, I don’t get it either.”

  Dee’s attention snapped back to the present. A man had joined her at the next seat over. He was incredibly handsome, one of the better-looking men she’d ever seen here or anywhere else.

  “Don’t get what?” she asked as she attempted to take another sip of her cocktail, the burn of the whisky making her cheeks flush.

  “All the antlers.” He motioned around them. “Like, we get it. Teddy Roosevelt. He liked to kill shit. It’s dated, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t,” Dee replied. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to a model or actor. They never wanted to talk about anything other than themselves. It was a bore. Dee didn’t have it in her to pretend to be enthralled with anybody’s latest audition story, no matter how square their jaw or broad their shoulders.

  To her surprise, he laughed. It was a lovely one too, with a low timbre that rattled her.

  Whoever he was, he was incredibly sexy.

  “Of course,” he held up both hands. “Forgive me for my lousy intro, I didn’t know how else to talk to you. Or if you were waiting for someone. But you don’t seem to be waiting for anyone, you haven’t glanced at the entrance even once.”

  “I’m not waiting for anyone,” she sighed, placing her glass on the leather studded table in front of them. “I just needed a drink.”

  “Don’t we all,” he said, motioning for the waitress to come take his order. “Would you like another one? Something that you actually like?”

  Dee looked at him for a long moment, deciding if she should accept.

  “Sure,” she shrugged. “Something… sweeter.”

  He ordered them both whisky sours and then turned his attention back to her.

  “You’re an actress,” he said, leaning back. There was a confidence to him, unlike many of the men who had approached Dee since she’d lived here. They were always nervous, waiting for her to reject them, ready with a reason for why she shouldn’t. Men in LA were obsessed with convincing everyone they mattered.

  This man didn’t seem to care what she thought either way.

  “Hardly.” She knew she sounded bitter. She was. “Right now, I’m an unemployed hostess. On my way out of town.”

  He leaned forward now, a concerned expression marking his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’re sure? You’re ready to give up?”

  “I’m definitely sure,” Dee lied.

  The waitress was back with their drinks. She leaned over the guy, seductively, attempting to get his attention with her ample cleavage, but his eyes never left Dee’s.

  “How long did you last?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink, the ice cubes clattering against the inside of his glass. Dee followed, and this time she liked the taste. It was very good, and it relaxed her immediately— she felt her shoulders slacken.

  “Almost seven months,” she admitted. “It’s pathetic. I was in way over my head. I never even did anything. I was too busy just figuring out how to survive. I can do that much easier back in Florida.”

  “That’s where you’re from?”

  “Yep,” Dee said, taking another long swallow of her drink. “And where I’ll live the rest of my life. Full of regrets.”

  “What would have to change?” he leaned closer to her again. She had never been around someone so beautiful. It was a word she’d never been able to use for a man until this one had shown up.

  “Too much,” she almost whispered. A tear slid down her cheek, which she quickly brushed away, hoping he hadn’t noticed. She was embarrassed. What was wrong with her? She didn’t get emotional, not even from drinking.

  But being in this beautiful place with this gorgeous man, knowing it was all going to end soon; it was too much to bear.

  “I don’t know you of course,” he replied, leaning back again. “But you’re absolutely without a doubt one of the most striking women I’ve ever seen. It’s what made me come over here. And I’m sure you’ve heard that all of your life, right? You’re the most beautiful girl in any room back in Florida. But to be the most beautiful girl in the room here? In LA? Well, now that’s something very few people can say. You’re the big gorgeous fish in the big pond.”

  Dee had been told this before, and never taken it seriously. Of course, men would say that to her, they’d say anything to get her to come home with them or talk to them.

  But this man was different. He didn’t say it in a way that was persuasive or in a way that made her feel like he wanted anything from her at all. It wasn’t a sales pitch.

  He said it like it was simply a fact. And a shame.

  “Who are you?” she asked as she finished the rest of her whisky sour. “I mean, where did you come from?”

  He grinned. “It’s about time you asked.” He stood up and offered her his hand.

  She took it and stood with him. As ridiculous as it sounded, it felt like everything around them froze. The band, the people, none of it was moving.

  Nothing mattered but this twinkling, fateful minute in time.

  “They call me Rooster,” he finally said. “Rooster McCoy.”

  Twenty-Six

  It wasn’t his real name of course. His real name was Alistair, legally Alistair III, after his father and grandfather. Rooster was a nickname from his childhood. He had a brother they called Ranger (His real name was Preston) and a sister they called Boo. (Her real name was Gwendolyn, and her nickname was the one that never stuck. Once she became a teenager, people just called her Gwen).

  Everyone knew them, of course. Rooster had never known what it was like to be anonymous.

  The McCoy family after all, were Hollywood royalt
y. They owned the BDE Network among other things, one of which included part ownership of the Dodgers.

  Dee didn’t know any of this at first.

  It’s why he’d fallen for her so fast, according to the Vanity Fair interview they did together a year later.

  “I loved that she had no idea who she was talking to that night,” he told the journalist interviewing Delilah Goodacre. “I wasn’t used to that. It was appealing.”

  Dee hadn’t gone home with him that night. As charming as he was, she knew better than to make it that easy for him.

  They’d gone to a hotdog stand instead, down the street. The booze was the only thing in her stomach, and she needed something to soak it up.

  “Can we walk?” she asked as he led her by the hand out of Teddy’s and through the lobby of The Hollywood Roosevelt. Cameras flashed in their faces, and yet Dee still didn’t get the hint that she was with someone important.

  “It’s over a mile away,” he laughed. “Walk? Wow.”

  He’d valeted his car, he said. He’d drive. Dee was hesitant.

  “I don’t even know you,” she explained. “You could be a murderer. A very hot serial killer even.”

  He stared at her, stunned. “That’s a first for me. No one has ever accused me of that before.”

  The valet pulled up in a Mercedes SL-Class. Rooster handed the guy a twenty-dollar bill and then looked over at Dee.

  “So, are you coming or what?”

  There would be many times in her life where Dee would look back on this instant and desperately wish she’d made a different choice than the one she did.

  “Mustard and relish, please,” she’d asked the man at Pink’s Hotdog stand on La Brea Avenue. Pink’s, per usual, was much more crowded than the bar had been.

  “Same for me,” Rooster told the man as he handed him a twenty. “Keep the change.”