by T. Torrest
“Oh, don’t Shakespeare me, buddy. You know exactly what you were doing in that theater.”
He cocked his head to the side, aiming those baby blues right into my eyes as he asked, “Trying to enjoy a movie with an old friend?”
I paused, my breath heaving, and stared at him, registering that his eyes were mysteriously tinged with what very well may have been confusion.
I suddenly realized that just because my heart had been beating out of my chest all evening didn’t mean that his was. Maybe he was innocently holding my hand. Maybe he was only being his funny, flirty self when he made those comments about “being bad” and “seducing” me. Maybe I’d only imagined our knee kiss.
Maybe I looked like an idiot right now.
I deflated, trying to calm down, kicking myself for berating him for my own frazzled nerves. I’d clearly worked myself up more than he had. It’s who he was. He couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t his fault if I couldn’t get a handle on my own response.
I swiped my hair behind my ear and crossed my arms. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry.”
He mirrored my pose, arched an eyebrow in my direction. “Hell of an apology, there, Lay.”
That made me laugh for real. I took a deep breath and turned back to him, processed his determined stance. “You’re right, you’re right. Okay, I’m sorry for yelling in your face. And for making you miss the end of your movie. I really am.” I reached out and untangled his crossed arms, wrapping both of mine around his good one. “Forgive me?”
I bit my lip and gave him the puppydog eyes, imploring him to go easy on me.
“Sweetheart, you keep looking at me like that, and I can forgive you almost anything.”
I let out a little chuckle, relieved to know he’d accepted my apology. He only ever called me ‘sweetheart’ to tease, when he was feeling playful.
So, okay. Let’s go play.
“How’d you like to get some pie?”
His lip curled, but before he could answer, a young couple walked out of the theater past us. We watched as the guy stopped his stride and tugged at the sleeve of his girlfriend. He turned back, looking at Trip, skeptical. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re not... Are you... that guy we just watched in that movie?”
Trip looked at me and I gave him a shrug.
“Actually, yeah, yes. Nice to meet you.” He offered an outstretched palm to Boyfriend for a handshake as Girlfriend started getting all wide-eyed and gaga. “Oh my God! You’re really him! You’re Trip Wiley.”
Boyfriend looked at her questionably, astonished that she knew his name, but said, “Dude. You were great! The movie was awesome! We already decided we’re coming back to see it again when it opens next week.”
Trip shot a look at me, both of us startled by this news. He responded, “Well, thank you, that’s... unexpect-”
“Hey! Can we get an autograph?” Girlfriend asked. She rummaged around in her purse and came up with a pen and a piece of paper, which she held out to him with shaky hands. I was completely flustered by this whole scene, but Trip managed to make it look like it was no big deal; sure, of course, no problem, it happens all the time. “Who do I make this out to?”
Some other people had started filing out of the theater by then, but they walked right by the four of us without a second glance. I overheard snippets of conversation from the exiting moviegoers, from the group of teenaged girls who were giggling, “What was his name?” to the two middle-aged women who were actually fanning themselves as they laughed and discussed that “gorgeous blond hunk”. If they only knew.
Trip finished his writing, and Brandi-with-an-i took her prize back from him, gazing at it as though she were in possession of the Holy Grail. I was watching the steady stream of people, thinking that we’d better get out of there before he got recognized again. Trip must have been thinking the same thing. He grabbed my hand and said, “Okay, Brandi, have a nice night.”
She gave him a dazed thank you, and Trip started walking backwards, offering, “No problem. And hey- Thanks for coming out to see the film.”
We got a few steps away, blending back in with the general populace again, when I heard Brandi yell, “Wait! Is that your girlfriend? Do you have a girlfriend?”
I shot a yikes look at Trip before checking over my shoulder to see what appeared to be a brewing argument between his two new friends. Brandi’s boyfriend probably didn’t appreciate his girlfriend throwing herself at another guy. Go figure.
Trip either was unaware, or had simply chosen to ignore his newest fan’s desperate questions, because the only commentary he offered about the encounter was, “I really gotta work on that parting line. ‘Thanks for coming out to see the film’? God, I sounded like an idiot.”
I laughed, still struck by what had just transpired back there outside the theater. “No you didn’t. You sounded humble. People like when famous people are humble. I thought you handled it great. Does that happen a lot?”
“Not really. Well, sometimes. But I expect it at premieres and stuff or whenever I’m at a Hollywood party or something. Not so much just living my life. You know, when I’m just being me and not... him.”
I couldn’t really appreciate the magnitude of that statement, because right then, I was just happy to be with whatever version of Trip was holding my hand.
Chapter 17
BEAUTIFUL CREATURES
I’d originally suggested going to Lindy’s for some of their famous cheesecake, even though I knew it was basically a tourist trap. But who cared? Trip was kind of a tourist, and it was one of those places out-of-towners liked to go. But he was a little uneasy about going to such a sightseeing landmark and being put on public display. After our encounter with the couple at the theater, he didn’t want to take the chance of being recognized again. Plus, with his ripped jeans and baseball hat, he’d felt he was underdressed. I thought that with a mug like his, no one in their right minds would even notice, must less flinch at the sight of him wearing even a Hefty bag out in public.
It was sad that he had to concern himself about such things, already sacrificing any sort of private life because of his chosen career. From what I’d been able to absorb from his newest movie, I figured the fame situation was only going to get worse. His role in Swayed was a star-making performance in a blockbuster movie. When it officially premiered the following week, there would hardly be a person left on the planet who didn’t know the name Trip Wiley.
But for the time being at least, we were able to sit in relative obscurity in a booth at some no-name eatery on 45th, polishing off the rest of our late-night snack. Seemed like old times, just sitting in a diner with Trip, as we licked the last remnants of whipped cream off our lips.
Off our own lips. Just wanted to be clear on that.
I’d had the Snickers pie, and Trip had opted for the apple. With vanilla ice cream. And a side order of cheese fries with gravy. And an egg cream, the last of which he slurped out of the bottom of his glass.
We’d stopped off at a liquor store on the way to the diner, and I saw the fifth of Jack Daniels make another appearance from under his jacket as he spiked his gazillionth Coke.
I watched him in amazement, wondering where he put it all. He’d commandeered the majority of our vat of popcorn during the movie, then proceeded to down a junk-food feast of epic proportions at the diner. “You better watch it, Chester. You’re gonna get fat and then no one’ll ever hire you again.”
He leaned back in his seat, patting his hands across his taut belly. “Impossible. I am a study in superior genetics.”
Yep. That he was.
“Besides,” he continued, “I have to take advantage of the food while I’m here. California cuisine is not great.”
I scrunched up my nose in agreement, even though I’d never been out there myself. But I knew we had great food here and I just figured he knew it, too. I mean, come on. Disco Fries? Yum.
He’d lived in a bunch of different places in his life, but he told me it was only when he was back in
Jersey or New York that he found himself checking off a list of things he needed to eat while he was here. Then he shot one of his trademarked smirks in my direction, and in another lifetime, I would have registered the look on his face as suggesting I was the next thing on the list.
“And hell,” he added, “DeNiro packed on sixty pounds for Raging Bull, and it won him an Oscar.”
That made me chuckle. “His acting won him the Oscar. Not his fat.”
Trip unabashedly popped the top button of his jeans, trying to relieve some of the pressure. I caught a sliver of skin just above his waistband. And crap. I felt my stomach flip.
Trip countered, “Don’t be so sure about that. Yes, he was amazing in that role, but Hollywood people can’t comprehend the thought of deliberately messing up their looks.”
He’d said that last part with disgust (and with more than a bit of slur to his speech), his contempt not hidden for the very people he was forced to schmooze on a daily basis. But he’d just begun the tirade.
“I mean, look at Cameron Diaz. She explodes onto the screen in The Mask, this beautiful blonde young thing. Instant stardom based mostly on her great looks and the sexy role she played. I’m not trying to take anything away from her talent, mind you. She’s a pretty decent actress to begin with. But then she goes and does Being John Malkovich last year. Did you see it?”
“No. Should I?”
“Yeah. No. Well, maybe. You might like it. Anyway, she does this Malkovich film, without makeup, frizzy hair, just completely au naturale, and suddenly, she’s being lauded as a great actress.” He took a swig of his Jack and Coke to continue. “Again. Not taking anything away from her performance. She did a good job. But the point is, the majority of that role required nothing more than for her to show up to the set every day looking “ugly”. Everyone in the industry just about fell all over themselves to shower praise on her for her bravery.”
I’d considered that it does take a certain amount of bravery to break the standard mold of Hollywood glam. But I got where he was going with his rant. Just in case I hadn’t grasped what he was trying to say, he punctuated, “I mean, it shouldn’t be like that. It should just be about the actual performance an actor puts out there. That’s it. But it doesn’t work that way.”
I gave him an “oh really” look.
“What? What’s that face?”
I pointed out the obvious. “Trip, come on. You think if you didn’t look... well, like you look, that you’d be enjoying the kind of career you’ve got going for yourself right now? You think it would have happened as quickly if you looked like, well, John Malkovich, for example?”
He rested his forearms against the table and focused his sole attention on me. “What exactly is it that you’re trying to say?”
The bite in his voice didn’t register until after I’d already answered, “Well, look at you! Dammit, Trip. You’re gorgeous!”
I’d meant it as a compliment, but the icy look he shot my way turned me to stone. “You can’t be serious. Layla, for fuck’s sake, tell me you’re not serious right now!” He slammed a fist down on the table, making the dishes and silverware rattle and causing a few heads to turn. He leaned forward ominously and practically spat out through clenched teeth, “Do you have any fucking idea how hard I work? I bust my ass every day, every minute trying to do the best job I can! And you think I’m lacking? You just sat through one of my movies and that’s what you took away from it? This?!” He made a circular motion around his face with his index finger, and that’s when I realized what I had said.
I stammered at an apology, but he was already on his feet, tossing out too many bills onto the table before grabbing his jacket and storming out the door.
I sat, stunned, taking a moment to recover from the death stare and raging tirade he’d just aimed at me. I’d never been witness to either before, and if I didn’t know him as well as I did, his barely controlled malice might have even scared me. I knew he posed me no personal harm, but I didn’t know who that guy was in the body of my old friend Trip, turning those sweet blue eyes cold, angry at the world and speaking in a voice that wasn’t his.
It took an extra minute before my body remembered how to move as I exited the booth and met him outside. He was sitting at the curb near a pile of black garbage bags on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette. Considering the basis for our little misunderstanding, I shouldn’t have been standing there thinking about how hot he looked while dragging on his Marlboro. But he did, so I did.
He took a long pull off his cig, and I watched the tension drain from his body on the exhale. I gave out a shaky breath myself.
“So you smoke now?”
He was calm, almost shy, as he returned, “No. My character does. It kinda sucked me in. I’m quitting once we’re done filming.” He stood and pulled a box out of his jacket pocket. “Want one?”
I’d never been a regular smoker, but I’d been known to indulge in the occasional ciggie every now and again. I slipped one from his offered pack and he lit it, cupping the end around the flame with his free hand, his fingertips grazing my chin.
I took a drag, only spurting out a small cough and wincing at the taste on the first pull. Then it was like riding a bike to continue smoking the rest of it.
“I think you misunderstood me in there,” I started in, gesturing to the diner behind us. “I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I took it the way I did.” His expression was sheepish, his tone placating. “I wasn’t yelling at you.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
He aimed hopeful eyes in my direction, embarrassed by his outburst. “I’m really sorry, Lay. There’s no excuse for my behavior.”
There wasn’t. Except maybe all those drinks he’d consumed over the course of the evening. But I knew Trip was genuinely ashamed of himself, and it was time to let the poor guy off the hook. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to call you gorgeous.”
Trip opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he registered what I’d just said. We stood there staring at each other for a moment, until finally, he burst out laughing and I joined him, relieved to have broken the tension.
We recovered from our chuckling, and I got serious to add quietly, “I’d like to think I know you well enough that I can get away with saying that. You know that’s not all I think of you.”
His expression softened as he replied, “I know. It’s fine, coming from you. I forget that that’s a compliment in other parts of the world.” He took a long pull off his cigarette with lips that were just made for smoking and swiped a hand through his unruly hair.
Hell, cancer be damned. The move was so James Dean and he looked freaking hot.
I will remind you that I’d just been given permission to think that.
“Out there,” he went on, pointing to California as if it were around the corner, “it’s all anyone cares about. Appearance is like a religion to those people.”
By “those people”, I knew he was referring to the Powers That Be; the studio heads, directors, and casting agents he was forced to cater to, kiss a bit of ass, and smile through their show-pony appraisal. It had to be maddening to have to act so compliant about something so shallow, so exhausting to have to go through that just to get a job. A job not solely based on his abilities or talent or work ethic, but whether or not he looked the part.
Even with that aggravation, I still thought that he’d developed a rather short fuse. “But even still. Why are we fighting? This isn’t us.”
I shivered at having used the word us. The implication that there was actually any sort of us to refer to. Our past us had been pretty great, but I didn’t know if I had any basis to compare who we were with the people we had turned into. I didn’t quite know what this present version of us was.
“Don’t you know?” he asked softly, and I was momentarily staggered at the thought that he’d read my mind, until I realized I had asked him a question out loud.
He looked at me then, pure longing in his eyes... eyes which were travelling the length of me slowly, from the tip of my head right down to the pink nailpolish on my toes, before gliding back up to rest on my face. I actually felt the look along my body as though it were a physical touch, my skin tingling with the caress of his idle review. “When you want something you can’t have, it can get... frustrating.”
I’ll bet.
I made myself meet his eyes, despite the obvious peril, and saw the panty-dropping smirk he was aiming full-force at me. I tried to convince myself we weren’t actually doing anything wrong even though said panties had pretty much melted clean off my body and disintegrated into thin air.
“So, you’re frustrated?” I asked.
“Very.”
He continued devouring me with his lazy grin, his sensual tone, and his smoldering blue eyes. Obviously, he was unsatisfied about more than just a decent movie role.
“Yeah. Me too.”
Our eyes locked, each of us burning for the other, wanting so badly to bridge the gap, but waiting for the other one to make the first move. I could have had him right then, could have crooked my finger in his direction or taken half a step toward his beautifully obliging form and had him respond accordingly. And had I received any sort of invitation from him, I would have done the same.
But neither one of us took that chance.
Fact was, we were both promised to other people. No matter how much I thought the underwear model was wrong for him, no matter how peeved I was at Devin at that moment, no matter how much history Trip and I had between us... we both knew damn well the difference between right and wrong.
Sharing some memories? Fine. Flirting just a little? No problem. I’d already written off our kiss at the hotel as an involuntary reaction. A habit. Like smoking. A sense-memory long forgotten, brought back to the surface once we found ourselves in the same room together after so many years. Cigs were made to be sucked into my lungs; Trip’s mouth was made to suck my lips.
Both were equally as dangerous to my heart.