by Cecilia Tan
“Intriguing thought. What makes you say that?”
“Well, for example, the rom-com that Blue Star released last year, Evergreen Summer?”
“Yes? I thought that was a pretty good film.”
“It was. And it was marketed toward the female audience, right?”
“Yes, of course, all romantic comedies are.”
“Okay, if that’s true, then why in the big sex scene do we get treated to long loving pans of the camera over Jolene Hingham’s bare legs and back and shoulders, but all we see of Charlie Cameron’s body is a shadowy shot of his saggy boxer shorts?”
“Well, that was the director’s artistic decision. I would never presume we should interfere at that level,” Meyers said, pointing his chin into his own chest and steepling his fingers as if marshaling his defenses. “Perhaps the camera was much kinder to Jolene’s figure than to Cameron’s.”
“If that’s so, then shouldn’t we be casting male leads in so-called women’s films who are attractive to women? Who look good on camera in their sex scenes? Or, for pete’s sake, use a body double if Charlie Cameron needs to lay off the doughnuts or is some kind of prude.”
Meyers looked surprised. “That might have been a body double for Jolene for all I know.”
“Which is my point. You had a male director make a sex scene that is sexy to the men watching. Not to the women the movie is supposedly for.”
“That’s quite a good scene, though; mentioned often in the reviews as to how tastefully done it was.”
“By male reviewers,” I pointed out. “Of course they find it tasteful if the woman is the one artfully displayed for their eye.”
“Whereas they would have called it pornographic if the scene had shown any more.” Meyers sat up, putting his feet flat on the floor and trying to close the discussion. “I’m sorry, Ricki, but this—”
Demand my due. “You haven’t even heard my idea yet.”
“If your idea is to put more male nude scenes in our films I’m afraid you’ve been watching too much porn on the Internet.”
“My idea is not to put more male nudes in!” What had Sakura said? Act like there was a crown on my head. I raised an eyebrow and put an imperious edge in my tone. “You haven’t even given me a chance to tell you the idea yet. All you’ve done is argue with me.”
He let out a long breath, his gaze flickering toward the closed door. “All right. Two minutes. Only because it’s you asking.”
It was working! Any other underling would have been tossed out at that point. “In the meeting, people were saying Polly Girl had screened terribly and they were baffled as to why.”
“It isn’t because we showed too much female skin,” he said.
“No. But it is, I believe, because instead of a movie that is supposedly for women, aimed at women, we ended up with a movie that caters to the men who wrote it and directed it. The impression I got from the marketing campaign was that, frankly, it’s misogynist crap.”
“Misogynist is a very strong word to throw around, Ricki.”
I let him have that point, jokingly adding, “Hey, you hire an Ivy Leaguer, you’re going to get some Ivy League words,” and he smiled. Good. Time to hit him with the actual point. “But here’s the thing. You want to compete for women’s dollars? You have to at least make the thing look like it might be relevant to them. Just because something has a love story and some emotions in it, or more than one female character, doesn’t make it a ‘women’s movie.’ I can give you a very long list of Hollywood flops with female leads and I can tell you every time it wasn’t that ‘movies about female characters don’t sell.’ It was that these movies were made by men for men and utterly failed to interest the female audience.”
“Like what?”
“Like the Mariah Carey movie Glitter. She was at the peak of her fame, yet it flopped. Why?”
He tapped his fingers on the desk. “You didn’t ask to speak to me privately so you could harangue me about films we didn’t even make.”
“No. I’m here to harangue you about the films we’re going to make.” Here we go. Time to sell him on my dream. “I want to start a new development initiative focused on women’s films. That is a huge cash chunk we’re leaving on the table if all we concentrate on is the teenage boy market.”
“And how do you propose we keep these films from having the same problems as every other arm of Blue Star?”
“Put a woman in charge of the development team, first of all.” Crown on my head, crown on my head, I thought.
“Aha.” He nodded like he had suspected something like that was coming. “Well, Ricki, I’ll take it under advisement.”
“You’ll be wanting this, then.” I pulled out the sheaf of papers I’d carried with me to the meeting. “That’s a blueprint for structuring the team and a proposed budget.”
He took the papers and put them in the middle of his desk, glancing briefly through the first two pages before he stood to dismiss me. “Well, you certainly did your homework.”
That MBA had to be good for something, I thought, but instead of saying it, I smiled in what I hoped was an appreciative way. I stood, too. “Thanks for your time, David. I know you’re crazy-busy.”
“You’re quite welcome, Ricki. You’ve given me some food for thought. Let’s talk about this again next week? You can leave the door open on your way out.”
I gave him another smile and then sailed out the door thinking, at last, I’m getting somewhere.
And once again ran practically smack into Grant, who appeared to be on his way into a meeting with Meyers. “Ricki. So good to run into you.”
Ha. “Grant.” I moved to go around him.
He put a hand on my arm. “I haven’t seen very much of you outside of meetings. And I, um, just wanted to apologize for my conduct a couple of weeks ago. I was on a medication; I didn’t realize it reacted so strongly with alcohol! But that’s no excuse for what an ass I made of myself. I especially apologize if I embarrassed you in front of your guests.”
After all that had happened that night, Grant falling down drunk now seemed barely worth remembering. Here we were two weeks later and I wondered what had spurred him to bother to say anything about it now. “Apology accepted, Grant. Now if you’ll exc—”
His hand on my arm pulled at me, though. “Just quickly. Sorry. I know you’re in a rush. I wanted to clear it up before … you know.”
You know? I blinked at him blankly. What on earth was he talking about?
“Oh, ha-ha, I know, shouldn’t mention it, but Saturday is coming up quickly.”
Oh. The BDSM party. I tried to keep my face completely neutral. Who invited him? Gwen? Or Schmitt? It had to be Schmitt. My stomach sank even as my slow-lit anger fuse began to burn. Did he really not know this was a completely inappropriate place to mention it? Utterly against club rules.
Maybe he didn’t know yet. “This is a highly inappropriate forum for such a discussion,” I said, my eyes sliding to look at where his hand was still holding my arm. Full-on lizard eye.
He pulled his hand back as if my skin had suddenly become burning hot. “Oh, ah, of course, but you know I didn’t mention anything unmentionable!” He grinned smugly, gave me a smarmy “gotcha” salute, and beat a hasty retreat.
It almost wasn’t fair to think “what an ass” when Grant Randolph wasn’t really any worse than most of the men in the industry, but I thought it anyway. What. An. Ass. I went directly to my office, which was small but private, and texted Paul. Did Schmitt ever send an agenda?
No. He still wants a private meeting. But I gave him your terms and he brushed me off.
I tamped down my annoyance. Tell him he can have a phone meeting with me tonight, while I’m on my way home.
Will do!
The exclamation point at the end of Paul’s texts always seemed chipper, like him. I wished I could bring him to the office with me, but that would be weird. He was my employee, not Blue Star’s.
Just like it wo
uld be weird for me to be chauffeur-driven to and from the office when I wasn’t at that level yet. I might be Hollywood “royalty” but I could do without the coach and footmen. I drove myself to prove some kind of a point.
I debated what exactly that point was when, that evening, I was stuck in traffic on the way home. As I crept along, I hoped it wouldn’t hurt my chances of keeping cool with Schmitt. When his call came through, my whole car rang. I loved that. It felt like something out of a science fiction movie whenever a phone call came through the car stereo. I had controls on the steering wheel for answering and hanging up the phone, as well as voice commands.
Schmitt’s voice was more condescending than ever in stereo. “Rickanna, I’m so glad to have this chance to talk with you.”
“Schmitt, sorry to cut right to the chase, but the reason I need to talk to you is named Grant Randolph.”
“I’m under the impression you’re quite familiar with Mr. Randolph?”
“You bet I am, which is why I am trying to find out who invited him to The Governor’s Club this Saturday.”
“And you think it was me? I don’t much like the tone you’re taking, young lady.”
“And don’t you ‘young lady’ me, Schmitt. I’m not five. Or even fifteen. I’m in charge of membership.”
He cleared his throat and the subwoofer in the car made the floor vibrate. “Well, this brings me to the subject I wanted to broach with you. Speaking quite sincerely, my dear, I’m well aware of your discomfort over the position which has been thrust on you. I hesitated to bring this up at our initial meeting over the will’s terms, but now that I see your reluctance, I would like to mention that there is ample leeway in the wording for you and your sister to remain titular heads of the club, but leave its administration to a member, such as myself.”
I gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to muster an answer. Was that a good idea? Wasn’t that what I wanted? I didn’t really want to be running a BDSM club …
But that meant giving Schmitt the power to invite total strangers to come have wild sex in my home. Yeah … no. Not if he was going to invite asshats like Grant Randolph.
I didn’t think it would gain me much traction with Schmitt to use the word asshats, though. “Well, thank you for your offer, but of course I should talk it over with Gwen first.”
“Oh, of course, of course.”
“After all, maybe I’ll feel differently once I get the first party out of the way. Perhaps some of my reluctance is simply nerves.”
“Perfectly understandable, my dear. Don’t hesitate to call on me for anything you need to make the evening go more smoothly. Anything at all.”
“Will do!” I said, trying to sound chipper rather than anxious. Traffic looked like it was breaking free for a little while and I tried to focus my full attention on the road.
AXEL
Life is not fair. That much I know. But did it have to be so freakin’ lopsided sometimes? I know everyone thinks rock stars are knee-deep in horny groupies 24-7, but the truth of the matter is that most of the time the opportunity isn’t there. On the road sometimes there simply isn’t the time, or you can’t get the privacy, or whatever, even when there are copious willing participants. Or you’re worried the girls are underage. Or various other things that might stop a man from acting on temptation, at least when that man is me.
But in the weeks since that limo ride with Ricki, I had plenty of opportunities. I wasn’t just knee-deep, I was waist-deep in fans with the tide still rising thanks to all the exposure the awards ceremony—and subsequent talk show appearances—gave me. For the press junket I was solo a lot of the time, in hotels, with ample time to spare. So why didn’t “America’s new heartthrob” (according to USA Today) enjoy the spoils of my fame?
Because Ricki Hamilton, that’s why. Other women ceased to interest me, even for a quick fuck. They kept throwing themselves at me, though. I found myself flirting reflexively, keeping up my public front, but Ricki was all I could think about.
Maybe it was the way she brushed me off, but I wanted to prove to her I wasn’t just a man-slut. But that made me think how? If I convinced her we should get together, I knew the magnetic sexual chemistry we had would kick in—but that could backfire. It might only prove to her I was easy.
I’ve never been a prude. I’ve always been happy to have sex whenever a partner wanted it. I’ve always enjoyed giving pleasure.
I wanted to give Ricki Hamilton all the pleasure she could stand. My fingers tingled with the memory of her nipples wrinkling under them. And deep in my gut, loneliness ached. I wanted her to believe me, to believe that my feelings weren’t just because I got off on bossing pretty girls around. She didn’t understand, not at all, that if what I wanted was willing “sex slaves,” I could have that on speed dial. But it wasn’t them I wanted; it was Ricki herself. I’d felt something in that stupid limousine, something I really hadn’t expected. I felt like I never wanted to let her out of my sight, and now that I’d been two weeks without her I wanted to claw my eyes out when I was alone. I tried assuaging my longing by Googling her, but seeing her photos online only made the longing worse so I’d shut that down pretty quickly. I was sure that, deep down, she felt more for me than she would admit, too. I’d felt a connection with her. It wasn’t just “chemistry”; we clicked. Obviously she struggled with it. She’d given me the cold shoulder, put up her walls, but then let me shave her bare and make her come three more times … before shutting me out again. I knew when I got past those walls I had reached the real Ricki. Why wouldn’t she let me in again? Was the only way in to dominate my way in?
Hm. Or would the backlash be even worse the next time I tried? I didn’t know.
Meanwhile, my heart was writing lyrics about broken hearts and broken dreams. With a few raunchy numbers thrown in. Most of it was going to end up in the trash bin but I’d learned I couldn’t judge whether an idea for a song was good until Mal and I sat down and worked out the music. So I wrote scraps of lyrics and choruses and cringed at how, on paper, the words always looked like bad high school poetry. It took a lot more than a clever lyric to make a song good.
Fortunately Christina agreed Los Angeles should be our base for the foreseeable future. Our record label would be setting up the studio time with a producer for us to record the next album at an all-digital facility in Van Nuys in a couple of months, and the search was on for a suitable place to rehearse and work on new material. Mal already had a condo in Santa Monica.
I flew into LAX after two weeks of appearances and promo work and he picked me up in a new cherry-red Alfa Romeo 4C. Which meant that once we were sitting in traffic I had to say, “What’s the point of a sports car that can go two hundred miles an hour in a city like this?”
Which earned me a dark glare from Mal. Of course that was Mal’s reaction to a lot of things.
But he was a good listener. Especially when I had my head up my ass.
“Help me figure out what to say to Ricki Hamilton,” I said, as we inched forward.
“The heiress?” Mal had been raised mostly in England and when he said a word like heiress it came out extra long.
“Yeah.”
“There are two Hamilton sisters, I seem to recall. Do you mean the blond one or the dark-haired one?”
“The dark-haired one.”
Mal grunted in approval at this fact and kept his eyes on the road.
“The one I kidnapped,” I added.
“Making sure that was who you meant.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “Your eyes followed her all around that party.”
“Well, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“I think perhaps you’re conflating your euphoria over the Grammy with the effect Ms. Hamilton has on you.”
“What are you, Mr. Spock?” “Give it a rest, Mal. There’s an amazing chemistry between us. Intense and fantastic.”
“Are you telling me you did something more that night than just drive to her house af
ter making off with her from the ceremony?”
Ah. Confession time. “Yeah. I fucked her brains out on the way.”
“And?” He glanced at me, then back at the road. “You’ve fucked a lot of brains out of a lot of women in the time I’ve known you.”
I didn’t feel judged by Mal’s statement: it was simply a fact. He easily matched me when it came to number of sexual conquests. In fact Mal undoubtedly had tallied more sex partners than I did because he never did the same girl twice. I did, however, feel like I needed to defend Ricki’s honor. “Yes, but this one’s different.”
“Because she’s an heiress?”
“Because she’s gorgeous, she’s smart, she’s amazing, and I know if she’d just give me a chance—”
“A chance to do what? She’s out of your league, Axel.”
I was surprised by his negative attitude. Mal is never sunshine and light but I thought he’d be more supportive. “Which league is that? I don’t recall being assigned to leagues.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. It’s like commoners and royalty.”
“I’m not asking her to marry me and extend the royal line, for fuck’s sake. I just want a date.”
Mal snorted. “It wouldn’t be you who—oh, never mind. Tell me what’s amazing about her.”
I guess Googling her had been a little helpful. “Ivy League smart, fresh out of business school, already a big donor to charities—”
“Like I said. Out of your league.” Mal gave a sharp honk to a car in front of us and I saw the driver guiltily drop his cell phone. “Her credentials can’t possibly be why you’re so stuck on her, though.”
“They can’t?”
“No, because you’ve never given a bloody thought to any of that before.” Now his frown looked concerned. “You didn’t get her pregnant or something like that? Are you being blackmailed?”
“No! It was only two weeks ago. Seriously, Mal, I’m just … just …”
“Completely obsessed with her, I see.”