Starlight (Peaches Monroe) (Volume 2) Paperback – September 2, 2013

by Mimi Strong

  Fierce.

  I bared my teeth in a growl. If I got through the day without any major malfunction, I was definitely, absolutely, positively, no doubt about it, getting a cupcake.

  For some reason, I thought I’d be on a stationary bike, not a real one, and not pedaling back and forth in front of a green screen. At least Dalton wasn’t there yet, so I got to practice my bike-riding in front of his stand-in guy, who looked nothing like Dalton, except for being the same height and skin color.

  That bothered me. I knew I was being silly, but why had they gotten a stand-in girl who looked so very much like me that my own mother might have been tricked, but couldn’t have found anyone Dalton-like for the other one? Were girls like me a dime a dozen? I felt cheap and used.

  I pulled Mitchell aside and told him as much, leaving the bicycle leaning up against a wall.

  He said, “I’m not quite following what you’re saying. Are you angry that your stand-in looks like you, or that Dalton’s doesn’t?”

  I could tell he was humoring me.

  “Whatever. I need some corn starch or baby powder, because my inner thighs are chafing already. Can I get some bike shorts to wear under the dress at least? And is that a men’s saddle on that thing? It’s too narrow for my pelvis, never mind my ass. Is the director trying to break me down?”

  “I’ll get you some shorts, and I’ll get another seat for the bike.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “Those are reasonable requests, and thank you for talking to me. It’s my job to take care of you, so you can do your job.”

  “Oh, honey, you’re good. You must deal with a lot of crazy.” I took a few breaths. “I don’t know what came over me, but I feel the demon spirits of crazy leaving my body right now. Honestly, the seat of the bike isn’t bad. A little adjustment to the angle and I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re being a good sport,” he said, which made me feel ridiculous for all the emotions I was having.

  Around us, the people with clipboards and headsets suddenly got big-eyed and quiet. Dalton Deangelo had just come out of hair and makeup.

  He waved my way. “Hey, Peaches. Surprise!”

  I walked across the studio toward him, caught his hand in mine, and kissed his cheek graciously. “Thank you for doing this,” I breathed, acting like it had been my idea all along.

  He seemed caught off guard. Good. Let him wonder, for a change.

  CHAPTER 23

  The male stand-in disappeared to go let light reflect off his surface elsewhere, and Dalton took his position near a lamp post with minimal instruction. I watched as he looked around at the lights and the camera, then made some tiny adjustments to his posture.

  I thought we’d do a couple practice runs, but one of the crew snapped the black and white marker board to coordinate video and sound, and we began shooting. I chose to wear the ivory dress, which was sheer enough to offer more than the suggestion I was also wearing a pair of hot pink bra and panties. I don’t know what kind of moron would leave the house looking like that, but my artistic input was of little interest to anyone, so I pulled the wide neck of the dress to one side to show the strap, and rocked the look.

  I had a microphone pack strapped to my back, and we had exactly one line of dialog each. Dalton was to say, “Hey,” and I was to bicycle by and say, “Hey, yourself.”

  Yes, the people creating the script for this commercial must have stayed up all night working on that gem. I know from watching Mad Men that there’s an award in advertising called a Clio, and these writers were clearly in the running for one of those golden boys. (Please note: sarcasm.)

  I shouldn’t be so hard on the script people, but, “Hey, yourself,” seemed like a shocking waste of my natural talent.

  So, when the time came, I decided to improvise.

  Dalton, standing by a lamp post: “Hey.”

  Me, trying not to run into him with the bicycle: “Hey, Mr. Sexy Pants.”

  The director, looking like he was about to poop in his hand and chuck it at me: “That’s fine, but loop around and we’ll try the line as written. Just to lock it down.”

  As instructed, I steered the bicycle in a circle, around all the equipment and people, and over several cords taped down with gaffer tape.

  I came up on Dalton so quickly, his line sounded more startled than sexy.

  Dalton: “Hey!”

  Me: “Wanna see my new tattoo?”

  The director, actually pulling down his pants to poop in his hand (okay, not really): “Try again!”

  I looped around, enjoying the sensation of riding a bicycle. It had been too long. I definitely had to get the old bike back on the road back in Beaverdale.

  Dalton: “Hello, beautiful.”

  Me: “You wish.”

  This made everyone in the warm studio laugh, which, as you might imagine, only encouraged me.

  The director threw his hands up, like he was asking God to grant him the serenity to not choke the shit out of everyone present.

  We kept going, take after take.

  Dalton: “What’s up, dream girl?”

  Me: “Boy, I’m your worst nightmare.”

  More laughter.

  Another loop.

  Dalton: “Excuse me, miss. Which way to the Eiffel Tower?”

  Me: Laughing too hard to respond, then asking Mitchell, “Are we in Paris?”

  Mitchell: “With the green screen, we can be anywhere.”

  Another loop.

  Dalton: “Hey.”

  Me: “Hey, yourself.” (Coy smile and eyelash batting.) Okay, so the scripted lines weren’t that bad after all.

  Dalton: “Peaches Monroe?”

  Me: “Sorry, no autographs today.”

  (Big laugh from the crew.)

  And so it went for the next hour. I must have burned at least one cupcake pedaling in all those circles, so I increased my promised reward to a total of two cupcakes.

  We switched to me in my underwear, and Mitchell discreetly powdered my inner thighs with something that smelled like peppermint.

  The bright lights were battling with the air conditioner and winning, so being in nothing but my underwear was refreshing. After a quick hair and makeup touch-up, while the stand-ins did their job for a set change, I was back pedaling in circles and flirting with Dalton.

  I’d had the opportunity to see him acting plenty, on my TV at home, but seeing him bring that intensity and energy out in person was impressive. I felt punchy toward the end of the session, but he was tireless.

  We broke for lunch, and I caught the director smiling, which scared me. I found Mitchell and asked, “If frowning is good, what does smiling mean?”

  “It means we’ll all go home an hour early. You were great, by the way.”

  “Dalton was great.” I peered around as we nudged in amongst the crew along the craft services table. They had big stacks of Ritz crackers, and I’d never wanted a Ritz cracker more, but I also wanted to talk to Dalton about how magnificent he was.

  “Where’s Dalton?” I asked.

  “He’s gone for the day,” Mitchell said. “That was a wrap on his part.”

  I loaded up my plate with crackers and slices of white cheese. “A wrap. Okay.” That meant he was gone—gone from my life. Our last words to each other would be for an underwear commercial. That sucked. Plus I still hadn’t figured out how he knew I was fleeing a security guard in Malibu on Friday morning.

  Across the room, someone laughed in a way that sounded like Keith’s laugh, and my skin went clammy as I realized I hadn’t thought about him once during the shoot. He’d asked me on the ride in if I wanted him to cancel his business plans for the day to keep me company for the shoot, and as I thought about his calm presence, I felt a pull, like there were magnets inside me, tuned to activate with thoughts about Keith.

  “Mitchell, can you be in love with two people at once?”

  “I’m gay.”

  “I live in a small town. I really don’t know all the gay stereotypes, so gi
ve me a hint.”

  “Yes, silly. There are different kinds of love. You can be in love with the way someone makes you feel, but that’s fleeting and dangerous. You can love someone for their good qualities, but that falls back into friendship, especially if they’re not good at kissing. And you can love someone because you don’t know how not to.”

  My mouth dropped open momentarily. When I recovered, I pulled him over to a corner and whispered, “The first one is how I feel about Dalton. He makes me feel like I’m going to fly apart, like stardust in a supernova. Then I met Keith, and he’s just an amazing guy, so supportive and sensitive. Maybe too sensitive, but he’s a fireball in bed, you know?”

  “And do you love either of these guys?”

  I put some cheese on a cracker and took a bite. Munching away, I said, “I like to keep my eyes open. Wide open. But you have to close your eyes to fall in love, I think.”

  He scratched his neck, looking thoughtful. “You close your eyes to kiss, so that makes sense.”

  “Keith’s going to Milan, and I’m going back to Washington, so it doesn’t matter how I feel.”

  “Don’t say that. In life, how you feel is probably the only thing that matters.”

  We stared at each other in silence for a thoughtful minute. Some crumbs fell from my mouth down into my food-catchers.

  I looked down, realizing I was standing in a room full of people, wearing nothing but my underwear.

  So much for keeping my damn eyes open.

  The second half of the day was less arduous. In fact, it was duller than sitting in the car while my mother ran her weekend errands. I was bored to the point where reading the fine print of my contract actually seemed fun and interesting.

  After the seventh read-through of the same issue of Vogue while other people adjusted lights, I begged Mitchell to tell me more dating horror stories.

  He told me about a blond guy named Trey who whipped his dick out while he was driving Mitchell home. This wouldn’t have been so shocking, except Trey was married to a woman friend of Mitchell’s, and he was a marriage counselor. After he was rebuffed by Mitchell, he claimed he had only unleashed Mr. Happy as a social experiment, just to see what might happen. Then he cried for twenty minutes, pulled over on the side of the freeway, no escape in sight.

  “That’s not very funny,” I said.

  “You wanted horror stories. Now you have to tell me one.”

  “I guess I could tell you about prom. You might not like me anymore after you hear the whole thing.”

  He nodded with approval. “You really know how to sell a story. Now tell.”

  I looked around at all the people standing around, looking annoyed and busy, moving lights and props. “Mitchell, are you really the assistant to the photographer, or is your job to babysit the models?”

  “Babysit is such a strong word. Tell me the story before I die of suspense.”

  We moved further away from the hive of activity around the four-poster bed on set, over to a leather sofa. It was one of those brown sofas with loose cushions and plenty of distress marks—a real man’s sofa. In fact, the sofa had reminded me of the story.

  I told Mitchell of how I’d turned down two invitations to my senior high school prom from perfectly-decent guys, because I’d been holding out hope Adrian Storm would come to his senses and finally realize I wasn’t just a girl, but the girl. Meanwhile, he’d been holding out hope that staring wistfully at Chantalle Hart would somehow lead to the two of them going to prom together, even though she’d been dating Kevin Spencer.

  With only three days left until the big day, I received a proposal from Kevin Spencer’s younger-by-ten-months brother, Jett Spencer. Despite the cool-ass name, Jett was by far the less desirable of the Spencer brothers, but he was about four-fifths better than going to prom solo and circle-dancing with the other solo girls, whose fathers were relieved and mothers were heartbroken.

  Jett made a strong case for himself. He’d brought to school a photograph of himself in the tuxedo he’d already taken the liberty of renting, and he showed me a printout of the corsage he would buy me, as well as details of where we would pose for professional photos between the dinner and the dance. He said he had an “average” face, and that when I went off to college after graduation, I could proudly display the photo of us at prom together, and make other guys jealous, because they’d assume he had a big dick.

  At this point in my and Jett’s conversation, which was in the cafeteria, I started to laugh, because I thought he was about to produce, from the folder on the table between us, proof of his dick size. To my relief, the next thing to come out was the receipt for a limousine rental.

  There are only two limousines in all of Beaverdale—one white, and one black, both with tinted windows and their own legends. He and his brother had rented the white one, which, to our knowledge, had never been vomited in.

  Jett got out of his chair, came around to my side of the table, and got down on one knee. He removed his thick-lensed glasses and said, “I’ll take these off for the photos. What do you say, Peaches? Will you be my prom date?”

  I looked up and noticed Adrian standing motionless with a tray of two cafeteria meals in his hands. (He started eating two lunches about mid-way through twelfth grade in an attempt to put some muscle on his skinny body.) He looked annoyed, which made me smile.

  Jett took my smile to mean yes, and did that thing where you pump the air with your fist. A bunch of people cheered, and he returned to his side of the table looking a full inch taller. I didn’t have the heart to say no after that, because he was a sweet guy, plus I wanted to ride in the good limo and make my mother cry happy tears.

  On prom night, the limo showed up at my house, and I posed for pictures on the front lawn with Jett, and with Chantalle, and then all four of us, including Jett’s brother Kevin. Chantalle pouted and said she hated me for having better cleavage, which I took as a compliment. I wore a blue dress with a sweetheart neckline, and I looked great… and yes, my mother did cry. My father sniffed a few times as well. Kyle came running out of the house with no pants on and peed on the bushes, as evidenced by three of the photographs taken that night. (I’ll be sure to bring those out with pride at his prom one day.)

  The whole evening started off perfect. I didn’t spill food on my dress, and I didn’t even say anything to embarrass myself. I guess I was partly distracted by the corset-style strapless bra I was wearing, and my constant fear of a wardrobe malfunction that did not happen.

  Jett was a dream date, always making sure I had a beverage, and dancing to all the songs I liked. At my suggestion, we went over and joined the circle of solo girls toward the end of the night, and Jett tore up the dance floor in his sharp tuxedo, to the delight of all the girls. He was getting so much attention from all of them, that I found myself getting envious. The way some of them were pawing him… you’d think they’d never seen a geek in a white tux jacket before.

  The night drew to a close, and we proceeded to the Spencer residence, where I had permission to stay until two o’clock in the morning. My parents had assumed the parental Spencers would be in the house, but they hadn’t actually asked, so I hadn’t needed to lie.

  As you may have guessed by the fact I’d given birth to a child already, I was no virgin. (I didn’t share with Mitchell the secret-baby-having details.) I wasn’t holding out anything for anyone, especially since Adrian never even showed up to the prom.

  To my absolute delight, Jett made a case for us having sex that night. I’d already decided hours earlier, but I did enjoy being in the role of the girl who wanted to be talked into it.

  We were sitting in his family’s recreation room, which had a pool table, two of those old stand-up video arcade games from the eighties, and a deluxe bar with a sink and a beer fridge. We were drinking beer from cans, poured into glasses. Jett had been quite particular about pouring the beer to get the right amount of foam.

  We sat next to each other on the sofa, our knees t
ouching. He said, “I feel like such a jerk, putting all this pressure on you. I feel like one of those guys in those videos we saw at school.”

  I laughed and sipped my beer, then wiped the foam off my upper lip. “No way. Those guys are all, ‘I saw you dancing like a dirty slut. I know you want it. I’m gonna give it to you.’”

  Jett laughed, but looked uncomfortable.

  I tipped up the glass and finished the beer. It was my second one since we’d gotten there. Chantalle and Kevin were upstairs. I had to be home in an hour.

  In a move I have to describe as possibly my classiest one to date, I stood up, kicked off my shoes, reached up under my pretty blue prom dress, and pulled my panties down and off. I rolled them up and stuck them in the toe of my shoe, then I sat back down in the corner of the sofa.

  “Jett, I have to be home in an hour. I can tell by the way you dance that you’re a sex machine, so why don’t you climb on and start rocking my world right now.”

  For a second, I thought he was going to run away. His face blanched, and he was already a pale guy. He took off his white jacket slowly and set it on the round, glass coffee table alongside the two empty beer glasses. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a condom packet, then leaned over and clicked off the halogen lamp standing beside the couch.

  I swung one leg up onto the couch, hiked my dress up, and prepared to be boarded. I heard some balloon-animal noises, and then Jett clambered up on me. After some fumbling around in the dark, he moaned.

  I pulled his head down to mine and kissed him. He moaned again, moving in a thrusting motion with his hips.

  What was I feeling in my pussy area? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  So I lay there for several minutes, which I can assure you feels like fucking eternity when you think something’s gone wrong with your vagina and it’s now completely numb.

  Mitchell interrupted my story at this point, waving his hand excitedly. “He was in your butt.”

  “Ew, no! I’d notice that. You’re so bad.”

  “He was rubbing in between your thighs.”