Use Somebody, Copyright © Beck Anderson, 2016
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.
Copyright Act of 1976,
no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored
in a database or retrieval system,
without prior written permission of the publisher.
Omnific Publishing
2355 Westwood Blvd, Suite 506
Los Angeles, CA 90064
www.omnificpublishing.com
First Omnific eBook edition, October 2016
First Omnific trade paperback edition, October 2016
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Anderson, Beck.
Use Somebody / Beck Anderson – 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1-623422-08-0
1. Contemporary Romance — Fiction. 2. Movie Industry — Fiction.
3. Idaho— Fiction. 4. Fly Fishing — Fiction. I. Title
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Printed in the United States of America
To my Marcus. I am my best self when I’m with you.
The worst sound to hear in a private jet cruising at thirty-thousand feet is the rattle of two ice cubes in an empty Scotch glass.
Okay, the worst sound to hear in an airplane at that altitude might be one of the engines exploding into a million little pieces. Or the pilot shrieking in panic, that’s probably not a good sound to hear, either. Of course I’m not talking about cataclysmic noises. But I’m thirsty, and I’m irritable, so this is my state of mind at the moment.
I rattle the ice cubes together again. I look for the flight attendant. She looks in the other direction. On purpose. There are only two of us passengers on the plane, for crying out loud.
Andy looks over at me. “What has you so keyed up?”
I sigh. I’ve clearly annoyed Andrew Pettigrew, world-famous actor and my number-one client. That’s saying a lot, because the man is a saint, and the man has a toddler, and his patience is as deep as the ocean.
“I don’t know. I just want to get there,” I say, trying to focus on something besides the empty glass in my hand.
Andy doesn’t let it go. “Are you sure it’s not about Ashley?”
I scoff. “Definitely not. I’m done seeing her, anyway.”
“Why?”
“She has this weird, baby-fine hair.” I feel more annoyed now.
Andy shakes his head. “So? I can’t believe we’re talking about her hair.”
“So, I’m not dating anyone with hair like that. It’s finer than baby Quincy’s hair. She’ll probably be bald before she’s thirty.”
This comment does not sit well with Andy. He rolls his eyes. “You are not exactly knocking it out of the park on the hair business, Jeremy.”
“Shut it, Andy.” I self-consciously run a hand through my hair. For the record, Andy teases me about this because he knows it’s a sore spot. My hairline may have receded a bit, but that’s it. I promise, I’m not even close to a comb-over.
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, opens them, and points past me. “Just look out the window so I won’t be forced to throw you from the plane at thirty-thousand feet.”
I do as I’m told. I never follow directions. Never have. But my best client is also my best friend, and I’d like to keep it that way.
Does he know he’s my best friend? I think so. Yes. I’m pretty sure. I don’t fucking know. Yes.
My name is Jeremy King, and I am one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood.
I may or may not have a best friend. I may not have any friends past that at all.
Don’t feel sorry for me, or I will kick you in the balls.
This may be why I have no friends.
But let me tell you what I do have.
I own a Tesla Model S, white. I paid cash for Marlon Brando’s house in the Hollywood Hills. If you don’t know who he is, you are a dumb ass and should go look him up right now if I am supposed to put up with you for the rest of the story.
I’ll wait for you to put some of his movies in your cart on Amazon. You can watch them later.
I mean, really. He was the star of Streetcar Named Desire, for Christ’s sakes. A complete bad ass. Please don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him.
You should stop reading now, too, if you have any illusions that in finding any kind of love, I will change in some way and sprout a heart of gold. The only gold I have is on my wrist – Rolex Cosmograph Daytona, thank you very much.
I am a loyal friend. I take care of people who take care of me.
I am fierce, and I am the fiercest in my field. Do not cross me.
And I have everything I want.
Go away if you think I’m going to have one of those moments where I look out at the ocean and feel all hollow and run through the rain to knock on some chick’s door and profess my love to her.
I rep movie stars, but never once for a minute have I ever thought that life works the way movies do.
“You can stop pouting now, J,” Andy says. He must be speaking to me again.
“Pondering, not pouting. But if you say anything about my hair thinning again, I will cut you.” I loosen my tie and swallow the last of my Scotch.
“We’re on vacation. You need to lighten up.”
I wave a hand, dismissing the comment. “I’m never on vacation. I’m working from the field.”
“Cell service is shitty on the South Fork.”
“I can survive without it, don’t you worry.” I change the subject. If I don’t, I’ll break out in hives. “Anyway. How’s the fam? You talk to them before we left?”
“Kelly was putting Q down for a nap. She couldn’t talk very long. Hunter had a birthday party to go to, and apparently some older kid was going to pick him up and they were driving together to it. Kelly was worried about it. I told her not to.”
I shake the cubes in my glass one more time, hoping the flight attendant catches the hint. She just shoots me a glare and crosses her long legs the other way. Maybe I shouldn’t have made that crack about the mile-high club when we got on.
I look at Andy. “Kelly should be worried. A teenage driver she doesn’t know is a risk to Hunter, bro. Plus if she drives him she can check and see if the parents are home and that Hunter isn’t lying his ass off.”
Andy smiles at me. “That almost sounds like you care about the well-being of my step son, J. Nicely done.”
“Whatever. Did you read that script that I sent you?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t like the synopsis. Ghost of Al Capone and a modern-day accountant track down his hidden money? Rotten idea.”
“I don’t care if it sucks. Take the meeting to meet the director, Rye Burnsides. What you want is to take a pass on the weak script, but get in line for his next project, the one where he gets a decent script. This one’s going to die on the vine, anyway. The financing is looser than your grandma.”
“That is the weirdest metaphor I’ve heard from you yet.”
I change the subject again. “Take the meeting. And is this plane ever going to land? The river’s going to dry up before we get there at this rate. Or Todd’ll have drunk all the beer.”
“Thank for your consideration on that front, by the way. I love it when you drink in front of me.”
“You’re always welcome to go in another room.”
“You’re drinking right now. We’re on a plane. There is no other room.”
“Now I feel guilty. Jesus.” I set the glass down and stop trying to get a refill. But only because he’s my best/only friend.
“Exactly the point. I promise to smoke Cohibas with you, though.”
“You have to on the river—it’ll keep the mosquitoes away.”
“That’s Alaska. Idaho isn’t overrun. This fishing lodge is paradise, I swear to you. When Kelly took me and her dad there, it was like heaven on earth. Cool, not humid, not terribly buggy, and best of all, in the middle of nowhere. I went to the c-store at the crossroads almost every night to get doughnuts just because not a single person recognized me. It’s heaven. I’m not even kidding.”
The plane lurches to the right.
I clutch at my armrests. “I guess I’ll get to see heaven one way or another. I don’t like bumps like that when I’m flying.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Whatever. Let’s just get on the ground and get to the fishing and bonding and cigar smoking. It’s way overdue.”
Finally we put down in Idaho Falls, Idaho, of all God-forsaken places.
Andy seems pretty relaxed. A private plane means a private terminal, and no commotion.
Last summer Andy got married to Kelly. He’s got a kid. Quincy, a little girl. She’s cute if you like drool. He’s got kids, really, counting the two stepsons he’s got. He’s thirty-three, a year younger than me, and he’s a family man.
I don’t know if it’s to celebrate or what, but he planned this trip out, told us about it on the bachelor golf trip we took. Tucker, his bodyguard, and Todd, his childhood friend, are coming, too. They took a different flight in from the East Coast, so they’re waiting for us there already.
We’ll fish, hang out, chill. I’d say drink, but Andy’s been sober for more than three years now, so I’ll drink, but try not to be too blatant about it. No sense in pissing him off.
Todd I don’t like much, but Tucker’s a good guy. I can always fish farther down the river from Todd if he starts working on my last nerve.
Part of me freaks when I think about being this far away from the office for a full week, but I pay people to freak out for me, so some junior agent can do my bidding while I soak up a little peace and clean air.
I’ve got one deal cooking, but I think it’s not going to gel until I’m back. It’s with Amanda Walters, Andy’s old co-star, who just about blew all her chances of everything when she got mixed up in harassing Andy. But he forgave her, so I didn’t have to drop her as a client the second I signed her. And that stupidity never made the press, so she was able to save face. What jealous ex hires a paparazzo to slash a co-star’s tires, just ‘cause he’s banging somebody who’s not you, I don’t know, but that’s what Amanda did to Andy. I don’t know why anybody would obsess like that.
But I’m not a chick. So, there’s that.
But maybe it’s not a girl thing. It might just be a Hollywood thing. This business twists people’s brains. Any grey matter that might have helped a star make good decisions, LA fries it to a pulp. Quicker if you live there full time. Hell, if I went to twenty million auditions and heard how they didn’t like the bump in my nose (I have a great nose, that’s just a hypothetical) or that I needed bigger tits (obviously not me), I’d be warped, too.
Anyway, crazy Amanda might just get a very big deal and it might happen soon, but I don’t think it’s happening this week.
And I can always fly out early.
Andy and I pick up the rental car, and it’s a big Yukon beast of an SUV. We have a little ways to drive, east toward Jackson and Yellowstone.
I’d stay right in Jackson, if it were my trip, but I get it—Andy wants secluded. The South Fork of the Snake River in BFE, Idaho, definitely qualifies for secluded.
I’d just like a bar besides the one on the property, and I don’t know if either town nearby is worth the drive. Plus, from my experience, when a bunch of LA types show up in a cowboy bar, they get their asses kicked (Not me personally; okay, me personally. I’m not welcome in Amarillo, Texas, anymore. Long story.).
“Tell me again about this place,” I say.
We’re driving. Andy drives. He never gets to drive himself around, so he gets a kick out of it. I don’t give a shit.
He looks at me. “We have a whole house. Thirty feet from the river. There’s a lodge, a fly shop, a restaurant, a bar for Mr. Insensitive, world-class guides, brown trout and rainbow and Yellowstone cutthroat, and the fly hatch right now is crazy, which means we’ll be catching fish like you catch wannabe starlets at Coachella.”
I nod. “I like the idea of the house. I hate being forced to eat dinner in a little restaurant with a bunch of heart surgeons from San Jose or litigation lawyers from Chicago.”
“We might have to share the river with them, though. I might be a movie star, but I wasn’t movie star enough to rent the whole resort out. There’ll be other people there.”
“I don’t care, and I’m glad, by the way. I like you to keep some of that money—I may need to swindle you out of it at some point. When your career cools off, you know.”
Andy slams on the brakes. “Shit.”
“What? Jesus, you’re going to kill us.” Maybe I do mind that he’s driving. Not doing it very much may be making him suck at it. “Did you run something or someone over?”
“No, I think I missed the turn for the highway.”
I pick up my phone, prepared to navigate. “What exit was it supposed to be? What’s the GPS say?”
“Exit 311.”
“It’s not supposed to be very long from here. Like forty-five minutes. Are you sure you missed it?”
He squints his eyes for a minute in the growing dusk and then shakes his head. “Oh, no, there it is up ahead.”
“Do not get us lost. This is Donner Party territory.”
“No, it’s not. That’s California at the top of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the middle of a blizzard. We’re in Eastern Idaho in June. Cool it with the drama. The people around here are very nice.”
“Whatever you say. I don’t plan on meeting any of them anyway, so what do I care?”
Andy shoots an eyebrow up. “No plans to meet anyone? Say it ain’t so, Jeremy King of the horn dogs.”
“What girl would I meet when I’m landing a brown trout? Summerteeth, and though there may be an advantage to no teeth, it doesn’t outweigh having to look her in the eye in the morning.”
“I’m going to regret asking this. Summerteeth?”
“You know, she’s got some of her teeth.”
“Jesus Christ, Jeremy.” But then he laughs, so I’m happy.
We drive down the single-lane highway. The night’s getting darker and darker. I spot a couple elk on the right side of the road, but I don’t say anything to Andy. I don’t want him to freak out about them and drive off the side of the road.
One of my clients hit a moose driving up in Alaska and totaled his car. He damn near died. They have moose around here, too. I grip the door handle a little tighter and silently bless the rental car agency for the Yukon.
“Here it is. This is the loop. Hang on.” Andy brakes and makes a hard left.
I grab the dash and my door handle. “We’re going fishing, for Chrissakes. Can you not give me a heart attack? This is supposed to be relaxing.”
The lodge’s sign looms large in the headlights, and Andy pulls into the parking lot.
We get out. There are four other cars in the lot.
Andy looks left and right. “I don’t know which way our house is.”
“What’s Tucker driving?”
“Todd was supposed to text me, but he didn’t,” Andy says.
“Surprise, surprise.”
Andy raises an eyebrow, a caution. “Attitude.”
“Fine.”
“Just come in with me, and we’ll get up to speed.”
I tag along behind him. It’s not too late. I wonder how busy the check-in desk will be.
Here’s the weird thing about hanging out wit
h world-famous, impossibly good-looking, movie-star-of-the-decade Andy Pettigrew: I brace myself anytime we go anywhere in public.
It’s gotten to be a reflex, I swear. We walk through a doorway, and basically one of three things will happen:
1. They know he’s coming. Glass-shattering squealing ensues. Tucker has to save all of us from being crushed. I always wish I was wearing earplugs.
2. They don’t know he’s coming. Someone spots him, and everybody freaks out. Nine hundred people ask to take their picture with him. If we’re quick enough, we get out of wherever we are without the squealing.
3. Some miracle occurs, and we fly through whatever location it is as fast as we possibly can because how fucking lucky are we, no one has noticed him, so hurry the hell up and don’t push our luck.
It’s a weird thing, though. At first I had these jealous fits about it. You know, like, no one ever in the history of ever will make that big a deal over me.
Then I kind of figured out that most of us go through our lives with no one making a big deal if we walk into a room. Us normal people, we don’t cause a commotion.
Except I guess what I’d like to experience is when there is one person who does care when I walk in the room. One person who does make a big deal out of it when I arrive. One person whose face lights up. Some woman, when I walk in the room, her face will light up.
I’m still waiting on that one.
Andy waves me on. “Leave the bags. Let’s go check in.”
“Lead on.”
We enter through a door with antlers on it, and into a lobby with animal heads. Not a surprise, I guess. It is Idaho.
No squealing. Thank God.
There’s an old grandpa-type sitting in front of a fireplace, reading a newspaper. No fire, though, since it is June. It’s late, but the sun didn’t go down too long ago, so it’s not cold or anything. Andy always goes on and on about Boise and how light it stays in the summer. I never listen but I guess I get it. Long twilight is cool, more time to play.
Besides Grandpa, the lobby is empty. There are voices drifting from the restaurant and bar, but that’s it.
The front desk is deserted.
“Hello?” Andy stands there, and I can see his hand over the bell on the desk. His nice brain is going over the whole, “Ring it? Don’t ring it?” dilemma that nice people with nice brains do.
Use Somebody Page 1