The Vow

by Denene Millner

  The next day I wasn’t sure if I should return to the mailroom but I took my seat back in the cubicle. When Brian came in he asked me to get Ben Stiller on the phone and didn’t mention my notes. In fact, he never mentioned them and never formally hired me. I just kept showing up, and after two weeks my paycheck reflected a marginal increase, so I assumed I was hired and dug in.

  Brian was a player and I was learning from one of the best. For four years I worked around the clock for him, and when he was tapped to run a studio, I got promoted to agent with Brian’s recommendation. And when they divided up his roster, I was given a couple of names to get me started. The rest I hustled and built up on my own. And now with Cassidy positioned to win an Academy Award, I’m a shoo-in to make partner.

  I FLIP THE LIGHTS on in my office and am greeted by the sight of a foot-high pile of scripts by the side of my desk with typed notes from my assistant, Adriene Madison. Good, at least she’s gone through everything so I can skim her notes and pick out the best ones to possibly pursue before the Monday status meeting with department heads.

  As I sit down I reach for the silver picture frame on my desk and remove the old picture of me, Amaya, Elise, and Viv flashing our sorority sign back in the day and replace it with one of all of us from the wedding reception to remind me of our Vow.

  Adriene pokes her head in the door to say good morning. Girlfriend’s got the Beyoncé long blond weave look going on today. This woman must blow half her paycheck on hair extensions. Sometimes the colors and style choices make me cringe. But who can blame her? Southern California is the weave capital of the world with the highest per capita horsehair usage in the country. I have to give it to her, though; whether she’s sporting a jet-black, chin-length bob or a fiery red pixie cut, girlfriend’s hair is laid.

  And she’s also the best assistant. Her instincts are on point, and, most important, girlfriend has my back. That’s something worth its weight in gold in this piranha-eat-piranha office that isn’t exactly a case study in compliance for the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. She helps me stay sharp with my main competition for partner, Steven Banks, who is always looking to exploit any weakness. The nephew of one of TA’s most powerful partners, Hunter Banks, Steven is a major prick. He’d started in the mailroom with me and raised a big stink when Brian put me to work on his desk. A few weeks later, one of the other assistants was let go for “stealing office supplies” and Steven was put on his desk. Soon he was promoted to agent and given a roster of strong talent, including the new “It” girl, Kimberly Springfield, Cassidy’s Oscar competition.

  “Hey, Adriene,” I say as I scan my emails.

  “Hi yourself,” she says as she walks into my office and plops down in the chair in front of my desk.

  “Thanks for pulling together notes on the scripts that came in while I was away.”

  “No prob.”

  “Please put Garrett’s name on the VIP list for the Bruckheimer premiere and make a dinner reservation for us tonight at Koi.”

  “You the boss.”

  THE DAY GOES BY quickly. Adriene pokes her head in to tell me it’s time to go. I touch up my makeup and then rake a comb through my shoulder-length flip. Thank goodness I have my weekly hair appointment with Walter tomorrow because as Adriene had noted earlier in the day, my “do is just about through.”

  I’m in no mood for the Bruckheimer blow-’em-up shoot ’em-dead movie tonight, but one of my hot young actors, twenty-year-old Jared Greenway, has his first major part in this flick. It’s a good role for him. Jared dies in the movie, but he dashes through enough frames with his shirt open so that we’re sure to start receiving more movie offers, maybe a guest spot on Will & Grace, a Gap commercial, a TRL appearance…

  Just as I pull out of the garage, I see Amaya’s name on the screen of my cell.

  “Check your BlackBerry,” she says when I pick up. “I forwarded you a copy of a new Industrywhispers.com email.”

  “You know I don’t read that nonsense, Amaya,” I say impatiently.

  “I know, diva, that’s why lucky for you I read it for you. There’s an item listed in the Hot Water section that sounds like it might be about you.”

  “Thanks, I’ll check it out.” I promise to hit her back, and pull the car over to read.

  HOT WATER!!!!!

  What agent on the go-go was spotted tap dancing like somethingout of “All That Jazz” during a tense breakfast meeting at a swanky-and-swell BH hotel trying to keep her superstar client from bailing? This agent better snag some golden glory for her star’s recent “death-defying” performance to keep her happy…

  Great, there’s no way no one knows that’s not me. All That Jazz was Cassidy’s first major movie and death-defying performance refers to her character in Emma beating cancer. I act like I don’t read this stuff but everyone in town reads it. Maybe the partners are above reading internet gossip. No such luck. A new message pops up on my screen.

  TO: Gordon, Trista

  FROM: Banks, Hunter

  RE: FW: Industrywhispers. com Buzz Report

  See below. Hope there’s no truth to this bit in Industrywhispers. com…

  HB

  I toss the BlackBerry back into my bag and speed out of the parking lot, sure that Steven was only too glad to share this news with his uncle.

  WHEN I GET TO the theater I see Jared’s limo making its way to the hot spot in front of the red carpet. There’s a swarm of teenage girls packed into bleacher seating behind the press and photographers’ bullpen. Viv is jockeying for position in the front row next to Access Hollywood’s Shaun Robinson. Viv knows TV trumps print on the red carpet, so she’s staked out a prime spot next to Shaun so that when stars complete their Access interview she can grab them and get a few quotes. Good. This is the perfect storm for Jared to arrive in. They go bananas as soon as he steps out of the limo. He’s brought his mom, publicist Sloane Sedgewick, and the homely fiancée, Heather, who looks like she made the shapeless dress she’s wearing herself. Is that rayon? Poor girl. Unfortunately for her, “married Jared” isn’t as marketable as “single bad-boy Jared.” I suspect that Sloane will send Heather back to the cornfields before Game Over makes it to DVD.

  As the five of us make our way down the red carpet, Sloane chooses which reporter Jared should speak with. She wields her power discriminatingly, her icy-blue eyes casting daggers at reporters who have written negative stories about her clients. I know Sloane’s had it out for Viv ever since she ran an exclusive interview with the Salvadoran hotel maid who claims she’s having the child of one of Sloane’s biggest clients, so I know I’ll have to step in. Just as we’re about to pass, I loop my arm through Jared’s and take him over to Shaun and give Viv a wink to indicate she should get ready to speak with him next. Sloane glares at me while tapping one of her razor-sharp Jimmy Choo heels impatiently. I feign innocence.

  As I continue to scan the non–red carpet crowd, I see Garrett. He’s hard to miss. A “pretty muthafucka,” as Amaya likes to call him, he’s tall with toasted cinnamon-color skin, a close crop of dark curls, muscular build and piercing brown eyes. He carries himself with the unmistakable manner of someone who’s used to going anywhere and being in charge. Too sexy. The guard at the door must have thought so, too, because when she can’t seem to find his name on the guest list, he smiles with a row of perfect teeth, leans in to whisper something in her ear that makes her laugh, and she waves him inside.

  I smile in anticipation of our dinner tonight and then rejoin my group as they make their way into the theater. It’s showtime.

  AS I APPROACH Garrett after the premiere ends, he’s talking to another handsome black man wearing dark blue jeans and a tight black V-neck sweater.

  “Trista, baby,” he says in my ear as he kisses me on the cheek. I get a little tingle in my stomach, feeling his arms around me.

  “Garrett, so good to see you,” I say just as our lips meet for a quick kiss. We must have embraced for a moment too long. The stran
ger clears his throat.

  “My fault,” Garrett says, pulling away from me. “Trista, this is my boy Mike. We go way back.”

  “Hi, Mike,” I say as I reach to accept his outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” he says with a smile full of perfect white teeth and one sexy dimple. Viv’s a sucker for chocolate skin and a great smile. I wonder if he’s single. I casually glance down at his left hand but can’t see if he’s wearing a wedding band.

  “Mike’s wife, Tamika Taylor, was a makeup artist on Game Over. We ran into each other inside,” says Garrett.

  “Oh, that’s great,” I say, trying not to show that I’m bummed to hear he’s married. Sorry, Viv.

  “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Mike says, smiling again. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Garrett playfully punches his friend on the shoulder as if Mike has said something he shouldn’t. I half-smile back and put my arm through Garrett’s.

  We chat a bit more before Mike says he has to go find his wife so they can head over to the premiere party. Garrett and I walk over to his black Range Rover.

  “So, what did you think of the movie?” I ask as he steers the truck into traffic.

  “I think when we get to Koi we’re going to celebrate your hit movie and new star with a bottle of wine,” he says, reaching for my hand and stroking my fingers. The good thing about dating a man like Garrett is that he can appreciate the challenges of my job but he’s established enough that he doesn’t need to use me for connections.

  “Yeah, I’m excited for Jared,” I say leaning in to stroke his arm. “This project should really be good for his career. I spoke to a lot of producers tonight that want to talk about creating vehicles for him. The partners should be pleased.”

  “This will help when it comes time to be considered for partner.” As Garrett talks about what other things I need to do to position myself I think about how wonderful it feels to be with someone who supports my ambition and isn’t threatened by my success.

  “Those are all great points, Garrett,” I say as I lean over and kiss him on the neck. “But that’s enough about business, honey. Tell me how much you missed me.”

  “I did miss you, Trista,” he says huskily as he brings my hand up to his lips and kisses it softly. “Hey, what do you think about skipping dinner?”

  “You’re not hungry?” I ask.

  “Not for food.” He grins and places his hand on my thigh. We make it to his house in the Hollywood Hills in twenty minutes. I walk around the sunken living room and take in the breathtaking view of the city while he gets us some wine.

  “So are you at least going to still feed me tonight?” I say jokingly as I take the glass of merlot from him.

  “Of course I am,” he says, pulling me down next to him on the black leather sofa. “I just thought we could start with dessert.” Garrett takes the glass from my hand and puts it down on the coffee table and then kisses me. My whole body begins to warm up. The tingle that was in my stomach earlier begins to move lower. I pull his face close to mine and slip my tongue into his waiting mouth. I lean back on the sofa, pulling him down on top of me. He slips one hand underneath my shirt and uses the other to work his way along my thigh and up my leather skirt.

  As he kisses my neck I pull his shirt from out of his pants and begin to unbutton it. He sits up slightly, takes his shirt off and then lifts mine over my head. When he lies down again on top of me, the cool skin of his chest feels warm, sensual. He slips his hand between us and unhooks the clasp on my bra in one fluid motion. Then he begins massaging my left breast with one hand and kissing the other one, sucking on my nipples lightly.

  “You like that?” he asks huskily in my ear.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say and arch my back. “Please, don’t stop.” He pushes my skirt up and begins to grind his hips into mine on the sofa, hitting just the right spot. He rains kisses down the length of my body, and when he arrives at my panties he throws one leg over his shoulder and slips his tongue inside and begins to lick me softly. I sigh and close my eyes in anticipation of what’s about to happen. As I begin to lower my panties to give him easier access to my goodies, he moves back up to my neck. Damn, is he done? Don’t tell me he’s one of those brothers that doesn’t put in the work, head down south for two seconds, licking around here and there.

  I am too heated to not get mine tonight, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. I push against his shoulders and we roll over until I’m straddling him. Reaching down between my legs, I loosen his belt, pull it through the loops, and then toss it across the room. Then I unbutton his pants and stand over him to pull them, along with his boxers, down his legs. When I look up between his legs I nearly lose my breath. Brotherman is working with some serious equipment. Perhaps all is not lost. Damn, he looks good enough to eat.

  Before I finish what I’ve started, I reach for my handbag and pull out a condom and slip it on him. Then I lower myself slowly. He moans with appreciation.

  “You like that?” I ask him teasingly as I lean down and lick his earlobe.

  “Oh, yeah, I like it,” he says as he grabs my hips and pushes into me. Bracing one of my arms against the shoulder of the couch, I close my eyes, rotate my hips, and move slowly up and down until I get into a nice rhythm. One of his hands squeezes my breast as I slip one of my hands between my legs and begin to rock back and forth. As I feel my body start to pulsate I quicken my pace. We climax together and then collapse against each other on the sofa.

  “So, can a sister get something to eat now?” I ask playfully.

  “Baby, after that you can get anything you want,” he says as he laughs.

  5

  AMAYA

  No, I’m sorry, Amaya isn’t home right now. Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to give her your message as soon as she returns from her trip… ‘The All American Collection Agency, 888-797-0000, twenty-four hours a day’—got it. You have a nice day now.”

  If I receive one more phone call from these damn collection agencies, I’m going to scream. Every single day at the same ungodly hour the phone rings, and it’s always the same ol’ shit. Give me a break! Don’t they think that if I had the money to pay them off, I would have done it by now? Jesus. I’m not sadomasochistic, just broke. The worst part is, I don’t even know how things have gotten this bad. Okay, yes I do. As a matter of fact, I’m sitting on one of the reasons right now. My Le Corbusier chaise longe was simply a must-have according to Elle Décor, and who am I to argue with the experts? I just wish that damn Dead Straight check would hurry the hell up.

  I don’t know how much longer I can do this. It’s been a month since my audition for the lead role in the new Soular Son film, The Black Crusader, and I still haven’t heard squat. Normally, I refuse to stress over anything (my L.A. hair stylist says worry makes my hair brittle), but this one has kept me up the past couple of nights. For the first time I wasn’t called in for the token black girl role—the maid, the nanny, the neck-twizzling angry best friend, or even the crack ho. This character has integrity, a career, a purpose—shoot, she even has a last name. This role has the potential to rocket-launch my name right up there next to Halle. Okay, more like under, but still. I hate Hollywood.

  The phone rings and I don’t want to answer it, but it could be Clarence with news about the part, and I’m going to be too through with myself for missing the call. I can guarantee he’ll leave a vague message with instructions to call back as soon as possible instead of simply saying whether or not I landed the part.

  “Hell-lo?” I finally answer in my most seductive voice.

  “And just who may I ask do you got the extra-sexy voice going for this early in the morning?” playfully teases Viv.

  “Oh, hey, girl,” I say, disappointed. “Why didn’t your number pop up?”

  “Just the latest tactic in the celeb wars,” she explains. “We can call out of the office without the newspaper’s name popping up and giving us away.”

 
; “True…”

  “Anyway, it’s been three weeks since anyone has even heard a peep from you and all I get is, ‘Oh, hey’?” she questions with her signature Vivian-is-the-mama tone of voice.

  “Shoot, you’re lucky I even answered the phone,” I retort. “You know how I feel about folks calling me from blocked numbers!”

  “Well, excuse me, sunshine,” she responds.

  “My bad,” I apologize flatly. “I’ve just been a little distracted.”

  “Distracted? That doesn’t sound like our everyday knucklehead Negro problem. Let me guess—still no word on the part, huh?”

  “Nope. Not a peep,” I respond despondently.

  “Hmmm, that’s weird. It shouldn’t take this long,” she muses.

  “Honestly, I really don’t feel like talking about it,” I try to answer diplomatically.

  “Okay, but I still think…” she insists.

  “So, how’s my little man doing in school?” I interject, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from my career.

  “Humph, acting just as grown as you and Trista have him thinking he is,” she answers, switching gears easily to her favorite subject in the entire world.

  “Wait a minute, what happened?”

  “Chile, apparently when he’s not bouncing off of the furniture and breaking down the walls in my house, Corey is breaking little hearts in his class,” she laughs.

  “Shut up!”

  “Girl, yeah. He had two little girls fighting during recess over who was going to be his girlfriend,” she giggles. “By the time the recess monitor arrived, the poor things were in tears and ya boy was talking about why can’t they all be his girlfriends!”

  “Oh my goodness,” I laugh for the first time in days.