Hollywood Dirt

by Alessandra Torre

  CHAPTER 33

  I walked into a heated discussion, Mama and Ben facing off across the dining table, the topic of conversation—apparently—gay marriage. Ben was of the opinion, obviously, that it was A-Okay, and Mama… well… Mama’s from the South. If a marriage doesn’t have a penis, virginal vagina, and a preacher, it doesn’t count. I, myself, am of the opinion that two people should be able to do what they want, assuming that action doesn’t hurt anyone else. I walked to the couch and decided not to voice my opinion, should the wrath of anyone turn to me.

  “Ben.” He ignored me, talking fast, his fingers counting off a list of inalienable rights.

  “Ben!” This time, his head popped toward me. “That asshole is waiting for you outside.”

  “Summer!” Mama chided.

  “Now?” Ben asked, moving to the door. “Did you—”

  “No,” I interrupted.

  “Did she what?” Mama asked.

  I groaned, Ben gasped at my idiocy, and from outside there was the long blare of a horn. Ben waved a goodbye and scampered for the door. I closed my eyes and felt the couch sink next to me. Opening one eye, I saw my mother, her head settling back on the couch pillow, mimicking my pose.

  “Bad day?” she asked quietly after a long moment of rest.

  I could only nod.

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a long stretch of silence, and I pulled at my sweaty T-shirt. It had been too hot on that porch, with both the bathing suit and shirt on.

  “What do you want for dinner?”

  “I was going to put that Stouffer’s lasagna in. Give it a try. Carla says it tastes homemade.”

  Mama sighed. “We already out of that cabbage and sausage?”

  “Yeah. Ben and I ate that for lunch.”

  She didn’t say anything else for a while. I guess the idea of pre-created and frozen lasagna appealed to Mama about as much as it appealed to me.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “He’s very handsome.” The repetition didn’t make the observation any less obvious.

  “I know, Mama.”

  We didn’t say anything else, and I drifted off to sleep there on the couch, waking once when she covered me with a blanket and a second time when the kitchen timer went off, the room smelling of cheese and meat sauce.

  The lasagna ended up not being half bad. After eating, we stuck our dishes in the sink and moved out to the porch, a pint of strawberry ice cream passed between us, the porch light off to deter mosquitoes, the summer heat leaving us alone for a brief moment.

  Mama went in first, kissing me on the cheek and patting my shoulder. I stayed out, my feet gently pushing against the porch, rocking the chair. It was a gamble, turning down the role that Cole Masten had offered. A hundred thousand dollars was more than I would ever have the opportunity to earn. But it wasn’t the money that had been the issue. It had been the respect. Cole Masten had no respect for me, for this town, for our way of life. I could smell it on his skin, read it on his handsome face, in the tone of his voice.

  When I stood up, the ice cream pint empty in hand, I stretched, my back popping, my eyes to the north, to the Kirklands’ big, two-story home with one light on upstairs. Soon, Cole Masten would be there. Ben had gotten him a room at the Raine House for four or five nights, until the Kirklands were able to get out and let Cole in. It’d be odd to have him just a quarter-mile away. To see him come and go. For him to see my comings and goings. Not that he’d be watching.

  I turned to the door and decided not to second-guess my decision any more. It was done. As we said in these parts, that egg had been laid. It couldn’t be put back in the chicken now.

  CHAPTER 34

  “She’s an idiot.” Cole hit the steering with his hand, then reached for the shift knob, correcting himself when he realized he wasn’t in his car. Instead, he gunned the gas, the Taurus barely changing speed.

  “Careful,” Ben cautioned. “Cops are everywhere in town.”

  Cole ignored him, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “An idiot,” he repeated. This was a disaster. He wondered how far out Don’s flight was. Wished for Justin for the tenth time. Justin would have had a backup plan, Don’s flight itinerary, a dinner reservation set, the wait staff already prepped for Cole’s arrival. As if on cue, his stomach growled.

  “You eaten?” Ben asked.

  “No.” He should have eaten on the flight. Scarfed down one of the three options that the leggy blonde waitress had proposed. She’d wanted him. All but fucked him with her eyes. But he’d felt DeLuca’s eyes on him, definitely heard the warning that the man had voiced as soon as the blonde had waltzed into the back, her hand trailing across his shoulder. “Don’t even think about,” DeLuca had barked. “Three months,” he’d said. “Give me three months, then you can screw porn stars into oblivion.”

  Three months. Crazy to think that this might all be over by then. A lifetime together so easily torn apart and broken down into line items and billable hours. He had nodded at DeLuca like it was nothing.

  “There’s a restaurant right next door to the bed and breakfast. We can grab something to eat there.”

  “A bed and breakfast? That’s where I’m staying?” He glanced over at Ben.

  “Just temporarily,” Ben hurried. “It’s the nicest place in town. The Kirk—the home we have reserved for you will be available at the end of the week. We just weren’t expecting you this early.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said shortly. “Me either.” He slowed, turning down the street Ben pointed out. Before them, Quincy stretched out, in all her beauty, the lights of Main Street twinkling at them through the dusk.

  A thousand miles west and three thousand miles above Oklahoma, Don Waschoniz sipped a Crown and Coke and shifted in his seat, his overactive bladder making its presence known. He reclined his seat a little and closed his eyes, determined to get a little sleep before landing.

  CHAPTER 35

  A quarter past eleven o’clock that night, my phone rang. I muted the television, and picked up my cell. “It’s late,” I whispered at Ben.

  “I know, but I know how anal you are about calling before I come.”

  “Before you—” I yanked back the covers. “When? Why? I swear to—” I stopped talking, catching a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. My face was pink, my eyes alive, body tense with anticipation. I stopped my death threat. “Talk,” I finally spit out, and my voice sounded the way it should: irritated and in control.

  The background of the call changed, and there was suddenly static and road noise. “Summer,” Cole Masten’s voice spoke, arrogance and order in every syllable. “I’m picking up Don Waschoniz, The Fortune Bottle’s director, in twenty minutes from this pisshole you call an airport. Then we’re headed to you. Meet us outside in thirty. If you can sell him on your sweet demeanor, then you can have the role and name your damn price. If not, then tell me now, and we’ll set up auditions on every corner of Quincy, and you can watch the excitement from your front porch. It’s up to you, babe.”

  “Five hundred thousand.” Any posturing had left my voice, and it was just him and me, with only the road noise between us, as I waited for his response. “That’s what I want, and I’ll do it.”

  The engine noise faded, the roll of tires still keeping me informed of their progress. “Fine,” Cole said, his voice sharp. “Five hundred thousand.”

  Ben was suddenly back, his voice hushed. “Bye, Summer.”

  I hung up the phone and stared across the bedroom at my reflection. Then I lay back against the bed and silently screamed my excitement to a quiet and empty room.

  Five. Hundred. Thousand. I was terrified to say the giant sum aloud, my earlier bluff called in his quiet steps off my porch. But I had won. He had taken it, and I was in. Assuming the director liked me. I sat up with a jerk. This fight still hadn’t been won. Not yet.

  I pushed o
ff the bed and stood.

  CHAPTER 36

  By the time they picked up Don Waschoniz (ten minutes late), gauged his mood (irritable), got him convenience store coffee because this town didn’t have a Starbucks (big mistake), Cole’s stress was at an all-time high, centered mostly on the enigma that was Summer Jenkins. She had accepted the role, but would Don like her? And would her attitude scare off the director?

  He glanced away from the road, at his cell. He had insisted on driving, had informed Ben that he’d be, from that point on, the one to drive. He was sick of being ferried around like a delicate star. And here, in the country, real sweat actually damp against his shirt, he was beginning to remember what it felt like to be an actual man, not just Hollywood’s version of one.

  They rounded a curve, and the headlights picked up deer eyes—ten or more sets of them. He cursed and applied the brakes. The car skidded to a stop, and Ben’s hand braced against the dash in an unnecessary, dramatic fashion.

  Cole looked out the window, at the dark stretch of nothing before him. He realized, as a baby deer bounded over the ditch and across the field, that he hadn’t thought of Nadia in hours. Refreshing.

  He looked back at the road. Waited for one last slowpoke, and then gunned the car into drive, their turn just up ahead.

  When she opened the door, the scent of apples wafted out. Apples and cinnamon and sugar. Cole stood before her, blocking the doorway from the other men, and inhaled. “Is that...?”

  “Apple cobbler,” she said with a smile. A smile. A second knock to the unstable foundation on which he stood. “I didn’t have time to make pie. I hope it’s all right.” She moved to the side, and he stepped in, turning to see her greet Ben with a hug and shake Don Waschoniz’s hand. A smile. First time he’d seen a natural one of those cross her face. It was a beautiful look on her, her cheeks flushed, hair down. She had on jean shorts with a flannel long-sleeve shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the shirt’s first three buttons undone, showing a hint of cleavage. Her feet were bare on the sparkling linoleum floor, and he glanced around the house. It was perfect—every couch cushion in perfect place, a lit candle on the dining room table, the countertops wiped clean, one dish atop the oven, covered in a white embroidered cloth. His stomach growled, and he stepped closer, lifting the edge of the cloth. A wisp of heat floated over his face, and his stomach growled in response. He felt a pang of something, deep inside, a hole he hadn’t known existed, and he dropped the cloth, stepping away, turning back to the small living space. A home, that was what this was. Had he ever had one? The nineteen thousand square foot mansion in Malibu, the New York apartment where he and Nadia had fucked like rabbits, the house in Hawaii… all shells. Empty shells of sex and ambition. He felt her move toward him, felt a soft touch of her hand. “I invited the boys to the porch,” she said. “Would you like to join them? I’ll cut some cobbler and serve it out there.”

  “The porch?” He didn’t want to leave this space, felt rooted on this cheap floor, by the warmth of the dessert, his legs sluggish to move.

  She misunderstood. “I lit a citronella candle out there. The bugs will stay away.” Her voice was so different, so gentle and sweet. Is that what a half a million bought him? A sexified Betty Crocker?

  He jabbed to see what lay beneath the skin. “I don’t really like cobbler.” He let disdain drip into the word, and his heart warmed when her eyes sharpened.

  “You’ll eat it and like it, Mr. Masten,” she said in an entirely new version of sweet, one with dark fingers that ran along his skin and dug into the weak spots. He grinned and leaned forward, putting his mouth against her ear, watching her stiffen at the movement. “Ah… there’s my girl.” Another thing she didn’t like. She put her hand on his chest and pushed, and he didn’t yield, instead covering her hand with his.

  She yanked back the hand like it was burned. Stepped back and turned away, to the fridge, opening it and reaching down, his eyes catching on the arch of her back, the long stretch of her legs.

  “Coming?” Don Waschoniz’s voice came from behind him.

  “Yeah,” Cole muttered and didn’t look back, didn’t watch her straighten, didn’t hear the door to the freezer as it was yanked open, the vanilla bean ice cream pulled out.

  Don and Ben took rockers, and Cole sat on the top step, his back to the door. He didn’t want to see her come out, didn’t want to see the cozy house framing her. He felt unsteady, like everything he had known, everything he’d had control of, was unraveling. He needed something to be constant, needed something to be in order.

  “She seems nice,” Don Waschoniz spoke from behind him, and he turned his head enough to see the man in his peripheral vision. Nice. Not the word he’d originally had in mind to describe Summer Jenkins.

  “She’s an incredible cook,” Ben said. “Her—”

  “We don’t care about her cooking, Ben,” Cole interrupted tersely.

  “Don’t be a dick,” Don said easily. “We’re about to eat some of it, and I haven’t eaten since the Houston airport.”

  Cole stood, the change in position necessary since this was apparently going to be a Hollywood jerk-off session. He leaned against the porch column and stared out, the flickering candle casting everyone’s face in a pale orange hue. “What’s taking her so long?” he grumbled. They didn’t need to be fed. They needed Don to look at her face, listen to her talk, see her from different angles and heights. She needed to be the bitchy woman he had met six hours ago, not this other person. She stepped onto the porch, two plates in hand, and he turned his venom on her. “We’re short on time, Summer.”

  She glared at him and turned to the two men, passing them each a plate. “Sorry to stick y’all out here, but Mama’s sleeping. She has to be up early, and I thought this could give us a place to talk.” She turned to Cole. “Would you like a plate? Inside you mentioned not liking cobbler…” She blinked wide, innocent eyes at him, and he wanted to, right then, grab her shoulders, and push her against the wall. Put his mouth on her sassy one and—Jesus. He stepped back and almost fell down the steps.

  “No,” he snapped, and she smiled again. Her smiles were blood in the water, his demise the closely lurking shark. He looked away, and she sat down in the free seat.

  “Summer,” Don spoke through a mouthful of food. “Can you stand over here? Where I can see you? It’s important that I see your face.”

  “Certainly.” She moved past him, and he smelled a scent other than pie. Vanilla maybe. She took a position like Cole’s, against a different post, her new spot squarely in front of him, and he shifted. Looked away and wondered how long this whole thing would take. Maybe this was a mistake. Five hundred thousand on a nobody? It was ten percent of what Price had committed to, but still… it was too much for this girl. Don Waschoniz leaned forward, set his plate on the ground, and stood.

  “The character we are looking for is a thirty-one year old divorced woman. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Turn your head to the left. Say something.”

  “Like what?” She giggled, and he saw a dimple pop up in her cheek. Jesus. How close did Waschoniz need to stand? He was practically touching her, his hands now moving aside her hair to peer at her neck. That didn’t matter; no one was asking fuckin’ Kristin Stewart to see her neck. “The brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” she drawled, and he laughed.

  “No. Tell me about the cobbler. Tell me how you make it.”

  “Cobbler?” She laughed again and Don crouched down, looking up at her. “Well… I would have made pie. Pie, in this area, is much more popular. But pie takes a good hour longer than cobbler and so—” Every time she said ‘pie’—the word more Southern than the others—a pulse jumped in Cole’s dick.

  “Look at me now. Follow me when I move.” Don stepped toward Cole, and her eyes went that way, a breath of time stalling when her eyes met his, before they were back on Don, and she was speaking again.

  “—so I pulled out what I had in the
fridge. Cobbler is pretty basic.” She blushed, and he heard a soft exhale on Don’s part. “It’s really just apples, which I had. Honeycrisp or Granny Smith are the best, but these are Pippin apples. So… uh… apples, sugar, lemon juice, uh… butter, of course, and flour, cinnamon, some ground nutmeg and vanilla extract. I’d already done that prep, I was going to put apples on our pancakes in the morning.” Every word out of her mouth was freakin’ silk, and Cole would have bet a thousand bucks, right then, that even Ben had a hard on. Forget The Fortune Bottle. This woman could have a career in food porn.

  Don stood on a chair and motioned her closer. “I need to see some fire in you, Summer. Can you get angry for me? Give me some edge, some attitude?” Her mouth parted, and Cole stilled, watching, waiting for the moment that she turned her head to him. But she didn’t. She just looked up at him, and Cole tensed when he heard her speak. “Why do you need to know what goes into my apple cobbler, Mr. Waschoniz? Is my homemade dessert too good for you?” She pulled at his shirt, and the director stumbled off the chair, his eyes on her, her face strong and words quick, each vowel a stab out at Don. Even Cole, standing three safe feet away, felt violated. “Don’t come into my house and insult my cooking. Not if you want to walk out of here with both testicles and that pretty California smile intact. I will poison your tea and—”

  “Okay, okay.” Don laughed, stepping back, a little unsteady on his feet, his hand reaching back and grabbing the rocking chair for support. “You can do scary. I get it.”

  Summer laughed, and the tension on the porch lifted, carried off by a chorus of crickets and frog calls. Cole turned his head and listened. If it was a clip, he’d tell the sound director to turn down the audio, would tell him that nature’s soundtrack wasn’t that loud. But here, on the ground, it was. Incredible.

  “Hey City Boy,” Summer called out, her hand holding open the door, the other two men already inside. “You coming?”