Unlikely

by Fox, Sylvie

  The meeting lasted long into the night, but after a lot of discussion and some yelling, the first group won out. Though it was past three o’clock in the morning, Sophie stayed after most members left, meeting with leadership. They briefed her on the job of strike captain, and she left at four determined to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before her strike duties started at eight on Monday morning.

  She’d volunteered to captain a daily four hour shift rotating weekly between studios on the Westside, in Hollywood, and in the Valley. The union assigned her to Equia first. Some sleepless union volunteer delivered signs to her doorstep, and she put them in her back seat before she took off. After a trip to her favorite coffee shop for a triple shot pumpkin flavored cappuccino, she crawled down the 405 in her car and arrived at Equia’s gates at eight o’clock for her first picket line.

  Sophie led the small crowd in chanting the best protest she could create on the spot.

  For the first two hours, they yelled, “What do we want? Health care! When do we want it? Now!” The last two hours she switched to, “Put down your brushes! Pick up a sign!”

  They weren’t great, but that was why she wasn’t a writer. The Writer’s Guild slogans had been much better during their last strike.

  To some extent, the other unions were honoring their strike and not crossing the picket lines. The suits, however, were driving through as if she and her fellow strikers weren’t there at all. She’d stepped out of the line to chug another coffee someone had brought when a sleek Acura pulled up to the studio’s guard gate. Whether her stomach plummeted because she was thinking about their nights together or her shock that he would dare cross her line and think he could hop in her bed later, she didn’t know.

  Though the armed guard was advancing upon her—they weren’t allowed to interact with those crossing the picket line—she couldn’t help herself.

  The tinted window glided down silently, and a sunglass-wearing Ryan appeared. She saw his golden hair first, his obscured eyes next, then the sexy mouth.

  “Lady, you’re gonna have to move back,” the guard said, one hand on his baton, the other on his gun. His badge identified him as Sean O’Rourke, deputy chief of Equia security.

  “It’s okay, O’Rourke,” Ryan said to the guard. “I know her.”

  “You’re crossing the line?” she asked, incredulous.

  “It’s my job. I’ve got no choice,” he said bluntly. Then his demeanor softened. “I’m a lawyer, not studio management or a producer,” he explained. “How are you doing? You okay?”

  “I’m fine. I don’t think the strike will go on too long.” She gave him the same pat response she had given Selie and Holly. Truth was, she was scared she wouldn’t be able to hold out more than a month or two without seeking help from her family. She would hate to do that after all her years of self-sufficiency. Sophie glanced at the cars lining up behind him, honking their horns. “Well, if you’re going to go in, I guess you should go,” she said, resigned.

  He looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, the window slid up as soundlessly as it had come down, and his car moved through the gate.

  “Who’s that guy?” one of the picketers asked.

  “You friendly with the suits?” another said.

  “He’s a friend of a friend,” she lied. She knew she should tell the truth, but she had a reputation to maintain with her colleagues. It had taken her a long time to earn their trust after they discovered she wasn’t from a hardscrabble background. She had to work with these people every day on different sets. By admitting to a relationship with Ryan, they might think she was abandoning their cause.

  She was handing over her sign and debriefing the afternoon strike captain when her phone blared “Sexual Seduction.” Maybe a Bach concerto would be less jarring. She vowed to download a better ringtone when she got home.

  “Come to lunch with me.” Ryan said without preamble. It wasn’t a question. It was a command.

  She didn’t like dictators. “I’m tired. I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I have to go home and let Sasha out,” she told him.

  “I’ll meet you in twenty minutes at Craft,” he said, naming an upscale restaurant in Century City, before disconnecting the call.

  The…gall! The unmitigated gall! Sophie had half a mind not to show up. That would show him. She was determinedly driving along the San Diego freeway north toward the Valley when she found herself exiting at Santa Monica Boulevard. She pulled up to the restaurant on Constellation Boulevard and handed her keys and handed off her car to the man in the red vest and bowtie in exchange for a flimsy claim ticket.

  Damned car culture. It would serve her right if someone drove away with her car one day. She looked into the half-empty restaurant and spotted Ryan, his nimble thumbs flying across the Blackberry keys. Well maybe she hadn’t stood him up, but he would surely pay. She was ravenous and would happily have an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert on his tab.

  She pulled the brim on her baseball cap low and pushed her bug-eyed glasses all the way up her small nose, celebrity style. She ignored the exquisitely turned out patrons who sniffed at her t-shirt and shorts. Let them think she was a devil-may-care celeb. It was far better than having a fellow striker from nearby Fox studios recognize her as what she was—a traitor.

  Even with most of her face covered and her red-gold hair spilling helter-skelter from her baseball cap, she was enchanting.

  Remembering his manners, Ryan stood when she approached the table. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said as they both sat.

  She picked up the menu, pulling off her glasses to study the offering. “I didn’t plan to, but I thought I should explain to you why we’re on strike.”

  “Sophie, I know why you’re on strike. The same reason any union goes on strike: to get more from so-called ‘management,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers. “Whether the more is more money, more vacation time, or more health care doesn’t matter.”

  Her face grew red with barely suppressed indignation. He checked himself. Now would probably not be the time to mention that she looked sexy as hell or put her hand on his growing erection, though he would love to see her fierce eyes go soft and her jaw grow slack as he stroked the anger from her body.

  “Ryan, this is my livelihood. It does matter.” She began, her escalating voice unchecked. “Housing prices, gas prices, food prices, everything is astronomical here in L.A. My fellow union members are trying to raise kids in and around the city. Movie ticket prices go up, DVDs are selling like hotcakes, and cable is exploding. We deserve a cut of that pie. Without us, the show couldn’t go on. Have you ever seen an actor without make-up? With their hair scraped back in a greasy ponytail?”

  He nodded, though unadorned celebrities were not forefront in his thoughts. Her face, sans make up, with her hair naturally soft and curly, waking from sleep, flushed with passion beneath him, flashed in his mind. She looked just fine without makeup—just creamy skin and freckles.

  “Without us they couldn’t prance down the red carpet looking like a million bucks or do magazine spreads, much less high-definition close ups. They’d look like they do in those horrible tabloid photos.” She wrinkled her cute little nose in disgust. “Without us, it kind of ruins the fantasy.”

  He nodded again, trying to focus on what she said and not how kissable her lips looked. She paused when their server approached the table. He ordered a beet and goat cheese salad, then threw caution to the wind and got a steak. Sophie ordered several oysters to start and the twenty-nine dollar imported Hawaiian blue prawns.

  Ryan tried to listen as she talked about health care, pensions, and retirement and the future of unions in the world. He really, really tried. He was sure he caught some things she said in between her pursed lips slurping oysters like a pro, her tongue darting out to catch the Tabasco sauce that caught in the corner. She ate her shrimp with the same enthusiasm, butter and lemon dripping from her fingers. Before she could pick up a napkin, he g
ave into impulse and pulled her buttery index finger into his mouth, sucking the sweet liquid off slowly.

  Sophie pulled her finger back as if she’d been singed by fire. Her rapid breathing and budding nipples belied her words.

  “I can’t believe you did that. We’re having a serious discussion here.”

  If she were a cartoon character, steam would have been coming out of her ears.

  “But you’re really hot when you’re passionate about something,” he said honestly.

  “Are you thinking about sex right now?”

  He considered lying. It would probably be the best thing to do. Women wanted to talk, and men, well…talking about the union versus the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers was not what he’d wanted to do when he saw her that morning, nor was talking what he wanted to do while sitting across the table from her now. All that schooling wouldn’t go to waste. He chose evasion instead.

  “I think it’s a matter of the union deciding what’s most important and going for that,” he said instead of the other things he could have whispered into her ear.

  “You didn’t answer my other question,” she said accusingly.

  “I don’t think you want me to answer that right now.”

  There was a long pause before she picked up where she’d left off.

  “Ryan, I don’t think we should compromise. Look what’s happened to the other unions over the last few years. Once we give up one thing, who knows what else we’ll have to give up?”

  “Are they having problems getting workers to replace you?”

  Sophie shook her head in grudging acknowledgement of his point. “No.”

  “You know from firsthand experience how hard it is getting into one of the Hollywood unions. There are always going to be people who are willing to work for less, and you’re competing against them, not the studios.” In a far corner of his brain, he heard her, really he did, but her lips, still shiny with butter, were the focus of his gaze. She was still sexy when she passionately argued her union’s position, but he didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish. He did have to go back to work today, and he didn’t want to have to concentrate on work with a raging hard-on chafing against his fly. When the blood rushed down, it made focusing on the tasks that required his other head difficult.

  She finished off her shrimp and was eyeing the dessert menu when his phone vibrated against the table.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” she said. The buzzing persisted. “You have to get that.”

  It was the studio. The union had compromised on some of its demands and it was time to marshal their forces before they got back to the bargaining table. He hung up, and pushed his platinum card into the waiter’s hand.

  “I have to go. Things are really tense at work right now.”

  Sophie looked disappointed again. He hated that he put that look on her face. He liked the look of smug satisfaction she got after good sex much, much better. And he wanted to see a lot more if it.

  She put down the dessert menu, gathered up her tote bag sized purse, and plopped her sunglasses back on her pert little nose.

  “What’s up at Equia that’s keeping you there night and day?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice. He was thrilled that she took an interest in him as more than a convenient sex toy. He would like to share some of the burdens from work with her, but he cared too much, and desperately wanted to protect her from the ups and downs of the strike. He used attorney-client privilege as a false excuse again.

  “Nothing much I can talk about. We’re just negotiating some complicated deals right now and the studio bosses want everyone’s nose to the grindstone twenty-four hours a day until everything is hashed out. You know how complicated it can get when everybody wants everything yesterday.”

  She nodded in understanding. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around?”

  It broke his heart that he had shaken her confidence in him, again.

  When they got to the lobby, Ryan pulled her into a nook and took what he’d wanted all morning. He caught her by surprise, but then her lips opened for him. She tasted earthy, like his woman. He grabbed her ass, pulling her as close as their clothes would allow. She felt so good. He wanted to brand her, make her useless for anyone else. Embarrassed by his caveman thoughts and techniques, he pushed her away more abruptly than intended.

  “Sorry, I have to go.” He didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he needed to clear his head. The little head was doing all the thinking when they were together, and the little head hadn’t gone law school.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sophie was saved by the bell. The blaring of her phone rescued them from an embarrassing moment. She didn’t know what had gotten into Ryan, but he was acting weird. She stepped back into the lobby nook. “Private Number,” the caller ID read.

  The caller identified himself as Gregg Mackins, leader of the negotiating committee. Sophie was perplexed that someone so high up in the union would be calling her, a lowly strike captain. They agreed to meet for coffee in an hour or so near her house.

  She ordered decaffeinated chai when she arrived for her meeting. Any more fully loaded coffee and her hair would stand on end, without gel. Gregg had described himself as a forty-year-old pudge. A dead ringer for Jason Alexander lounged at a back table with two other men and a woman she’d never met before. Introductions made, she slipped into the booth with her drink.

  Gregg took the reins. “Sophie, first we want to thank you for agreeing to act as strike captain. You’re doing a great job at Equia,” he said, and following his lead the others fawned over her a few more minutes.

  She’d only led chants, carried signs, and picked up coffee—nothing earth shattering. Her natural suspicion kicked in. “Why are you guys blowing smoke up my ass?”

  Taken aback by her matter-of-fact question, guilty looks passed between Gregg and the others. He finally spoke. “We want you on NegCom.”

  “Why would you want me on the negotiating committee? I don’t have any particular knowledge or expertise that you guys wouldn’t have covered,” she said, getting more suspicious by the moment.

  One of the women spoke up impatiently. “We heard that your dad is Judge Harry Reid and your uncle is an ALJ with the NLRB, is that true?”

  Heat stole through Sophie’s face in frustration, not embarrassment. “Exactly. My dad is a federal judge and my uncle is an administrative law judge with the National Labor Relations Board. I’m just a makeup artist.”

  “Look, we want you there to help us intimidate them. We’re not asking you to assert some kind of influence over your family or anything unethical like that. We just want to spread this info around to throw the other side off during the meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Gregg spoke up. “The studios have asked us to come in with our best and final offer. We’re losing ground in these negotiations and need a little edge. Please. Say yes. Your opinion is as important as any other union member.”

  Sophie blew out a breath and sipped her cooling tea. Sometimes it seemed no matter what she did, she could not break away from her upbringing. After all she had done to break out, establish her own identity, be her own person, people still wanted that other Sophie Reid, the San Marino judge’s daughter.

  She stood, pulling her large bag with her. “Let me think about this. I’ll call you later, Gregg.”

  After a well-deserved nap, Sophie retreated to her artist’s studio. Since she’d met Ryan, she hadn’t spent much time painting. Now, with the weight of the world on her shoulders, she needed the stress outlet working with oils provided.

  She tuned the radio to a classical music station that wouldn’t steal her focus. Cool blue walls soothed her as she examined the unfinished painting on the easel. It was a self-portrait of sorts. The main woman in the portrait wasn’t reflective of her—it was anyone and everyone. Rather, each face in the hair of the painted woman reflected the range of emotions warring through her.

 
; Family, work, her relationships with men all informed the little Sophies. She added three faces today. The first exemplified the tension between her past and present. The second was a woman shouting, passionate about her cause. She dropped her brush, and her heart thumped several times before she was able to draw the face in her imagination. The last small face was how she imagined herself in the midst of a Ryan initiated orgasm.

  A knock on the door made her drop her brush again. Good thing she’d remembered the thick canvas drop cloth. The light knock sounded again. What in the hell? No one knew about the room back here, other than her realtor, and she knew that ball of energy wrapped in a gold blazer wouldn’t drop by unannounced.

  Covered in red, orange, and yellow paint, she pulled open the small door. Ryan stood there looking sexier than should be allowed, stubble shadowing his jaw.

  “How did you…” The question died on her lips. This wasn’t the playful man who teased her senses through lunch. Instead, the man who faced her looked like he needed comfort. As best she could, given her diminutive height, she pulled him into her arms, wrapping an arm around one broad shoulder, the other snaking around a lean waist. They stood like that for a long moment. Unwrapping herself, she said, “Go into the house. The back door is unlocked. Let me clean up my brushes and meet you in there.”

  Except for the dog’s nails clicking along the wood floor, the house was as quiet and dark as a tomb when she entered. Ryan hadn’t turned on the lights even though the sun had set while she was painting. If she hadn’t seen his car was still in the driveway, she’d have thought Ryan had been an apparition appearing through her sheer force of will.

  She smelled it before she saw it. Turning on a lamp, she noticed that Ryan must have brought over Indian take out. Mouthwatering garlic, ginger, and scents of curry permeated the dining room. The dog spun and jumped around the table looking a little too eager. She moved the food out of the pup’s reach and ventured to the bedroom. Ryan was fast asleep, fully clothed on top of the bedspread.