by Layne Harper
I like that. I need to remember those words. My show. My name. My brand. “What’s B-roll?”
He chuckles, but not in a demeaning way. “In a movie, it’s like a flashback scene or something similar that quickly gives the viewer important background. In what we do, it’s a little different. B-roll is filmed without sound. If you’re ever watching a show and there is a voice-over or music on top of footage, then that’s B-roll.” Lacing his hands, he leans forward resting his elbows on the table. “From what I understand, I think they’re going to set up a time-lapse camera to capture the transformation of the store, shoot some of the New Orleans sites, and probably find an alligator or two to add for local flare.”
So full that I can’t take another bite, I push my plate away. I’m quickly realizing I don’t know what I don’t know. “I’m curious why it’s important for you to supervise the B-roll footage. You won’t be in it, right?”
Vince taps the table as if he’s punctuating the statement. “Here’s why, MK. Nobody knows who the camera guy or the director is, but everyone knows Vince Asher. My show gets canceled or looks sloppy—guess whose neck is on the chopping block? Everyone associated with my show will move on to other jobs. It’s my reputation. It’s my name.”
All of a sudden, the food in my stomach doesn’t seem to be settling well. “I’m just blindly trusting Janet and Cindy and all their people that they will do a good job for me.”
He stands, gathering up all the trash on the table. “You’ve an agent and manager, right?”
“I just have a manager, Shannon. She took the pictures of us outside the store.”
He dumps everything in the big, red garbage can by the door and sits back down. “Right, but you have to have an agent. How did you get this gig?”
I probably overshare just how I went about turning my blog into a show.
Vince shakes his head. “You just might be the luckiest chick I’ve ever heard of. Want to get out of this restaurant, have a drink, and I’ll try to impart five years’ worth of knowledge in one evening?”
“Please.”
He offers me his hand, and I take it. His working-man’s touch instantly reminds me of Aaron’s hard, callused hands. I picture two long arms pushing a Pinocchio version of Aaron into a large metal door like they have in banks. Mentally turning the lock, I tell Aaron to stay in there. He’s not ruining my night with Vince.
We walk hand in hand next door to Eddy’s Bar. I greet Eddy and introduce him to Vince. As usual, Eddy is unimpressed and doesn’t bother making eye contact. All part of his charm. Vince orders an Abita Amber, and I yell for Eddy to make it two.
We take a table in the back. I say hello to the regulars who greet me also, but I don’t stop to visit. Vince is mine tonight, and I don’t want to share.
“This place is nice,” he says as he checks the bar out. It hasn’t changed a bit in all the years I’ve been coming here.
“It’s a great neighborhood dive. Not many tourists stop by, and we sorta have a family thing going on here.” I pause for a second spying Doctor Jared looking remarkably well sitting at a table with a pretty blonde about his age. “See that guy in the gold LSU shirt?”
“Yeah.” Vince nods.
“He’s the doctor who took care of me when I got this.” I point to my scar.
With a frown marring his features, he reaches across the table and traces it. “I thought this was a scratch.”
I can’t help but lean into his touch. “No. Some girls get fake boobs when they turn thirty. My plastic surgery was because I fell into the corner of my coffee table.” And it led to the end of what I thought was my happily-ever-after.
“MK.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.” He takes my hand, giving it a squeeze.
“It’s all good. Really.” I change the subject. “I’m ready to be educated about showbiz.”
I’m sad when Vince leans back in his chair and replaces my hand with his beer. I was hoping he could play professor while we touched. He spends the next thirty minutes sharing some great advice. While peeling the label on my bottle, I try to absorb every word that comes out of his mouth. “Can you be a mentor for me?”
“I don’t know about that.” He looks down at the floor, and I think he might be a tad embarrassed by my question.
“Sorry. That was probably too much to ask.” I stand, heading to the bar to order us another round. Why do I push? My whole life I’ve just assumed that everyone is like me—an open book. I hate it. You’d think by the age of thirty-one, I would have learned.
As I set the bottle in front of him, I apologize a second time.
He thanks me for the beer and then says, “You’re a smart, talented girl. You don’t need me, MK. I’m just a contractor. You and your show are going to far surpass what I can offer.”
That’s when I realize that the great Vince Asher, the contractor whose show I watch religiously, is intimidated by me.
We finish our beers and leave Eddy’s Bar. As we’re walking back to my place, he stops and points at a house. “Why does that home have Mardi Gras lights strung around their porch. It isn’t until February, right?”
“A lot of people keep theirs up year-round.” It’s funny how I just accept that this is a feature of my neighborhood, but how strange it is to a visitor.
“Isn’t it tacky? In my neighborhood, Christmas lights come down on December twenty-sixth.”
We start walking again. “No. I’m sure some people think they shouldn’t be lit when it’s not the season, but most of us just kinda accept it for it is. I think it would be boring to live in a place where all the houses look the same, and you can only decorate with lights Thanksgiving to Christmas.”
He stops and looks up at utility lines that pass over the street. “Did people purposely throw beads up there?”
“Sort of. Parades don’t come down this street. So yeah. Probably kids tossed them up there.”
We continue. “The person who owns this multi-million-dollar house.” He gestures at the large antebellum mansion near my place. “They don’t care that faded beads hang so close to their property?”
“You know when you move to the Garden District of New Orleans that there are no zoning laws. You must preserve the original architecture, but you could easily live next door to a crack house, and Mardi Gras decorations up all year round are just par for the course.”
We stop in front of my locked gate. After exchanging phone numbers, he brushes a gentle and sweet kiss on my cheek and tells me he’ll see me tomorrow. That’s when I go into the carriage house and fall into my bed convinced that this must be a fantastic dream that I never want to wake from.
Chapter Nine
Aaron
August
Carl Jacobs @Jacobsoverandout
Dear Baby Jesus @RealJohnnyKnite just got off the elevator in a speedo. #SureHeIsntGay
Sun, sun, sun, here comes the sun plays on repeat in my head as I cut through the water. At some point during the night, I remembered the conversation MK and I had about my high school swimming days. I also recalled how much I enjoyed swimming laps after she suggested it. Then the Monday happened, and everything good seemed to wilt and die.
The hotel has a lap pool so I’ve decided to give it a try. The concierge found me a swim cap, goggles, and a Speedo with the hotel name scrolled near my cock. I’m sure this is a story he’ll share over a beer with friends—the night he let a rock star into the lap pool after procuring swimming gear at four in the morning. My head lifts from the water, and I check the time. It’s close to five. I’ve been swimming for almost an hour. My muscles and tendons in my hand feel great—like nothing has ever been wrong.
My head goes back into the water, and I start the song again. Here comes the sun. What I soon realize is that just the Beatles song is playing. There’s no static or other noise. My head hasn’t been this quiet since the last time I made love to MK. That leads me to playing Pink Cadillac in my brain. I find that it slows my pace which is good because my muscl
es are fatigued. I don’t feel like I might die. Even the one line—the one that almost killed me—plays nicely without incident.
One more lap, and I can finish the song.
Slap! Something hits against my shoulder causing my feet to go to the bottom of the pool. As I stand up, a boot whizzes by my head. Yanking off the goggles, I yell, “What the fuck, Viva?”
A black, silk night gown is bunched just above her matching panties. Her dark brown hair is wild around her makeup-smeared face. She’s yelling at me in Spanish, and I’m only picking up a few words like bastardo, vete al carajo, and te odio. I took four years of Spanish in high school. Today, I couldn’t conjugate a verb to save Jude’s life, but the Spanish I learned playing bars around the Austin area will stick with me forever.
My mind turns as I’m trying to figure out why she’s so pissed. Pushing off from the coping, I stand and walk over to the stack of white hotel towels. She follows behind and hurls another boot in my direction. Where do they keep coming from?
“Stop it,” I yell. “What’s your problem?”
Mascara tears pour down her cheeks. “I love you, and you break up with me with a note when I surprise you.” Then, she reverts to Spanish.
She said she loved me? My forehead wrinkles. “How can you love me?” Wrapping the towel around my waist, I look at her as if I’ve never seen her before. “I have another woman’s name tattooed on my chest.”
Viva balls up her fist and hits me over my heart. I let her get one punch in because I deserve it. When she goes for the second, I grab her wrist, and then the other, as she swings with her left hand. I pull her against me as I stare into her blood-shot eyes. “Tell me why you think you love me.” My voice is not one that I recognize. It’s deep and troubled.
Her bottom lip trembles. “I thought we had something.”
My head turns. “Viva, we’ve only spent maybe a week together since we began dating months ago. I just don’t understand why you think we’re something more than what we were?” That nagging voice in my head reminds me that MK and I said we loved each other in less than two weeks.
“You’re a rock star. You’re supposed to be . . . what’s the word?” Her eyes travel to the ceiling and then back to mine.
“Difficult? Aloof?” I suggest.
“No.” Her head shakes back and forth causing some strands to slap me in the face. “A bastard.”
The alcohol is strong on her breath. “Go to bed. Sleep it off. We can talk more later, but I’m done for tonight.”
Letting her go, I bend, picking up my boot and notice the one in the pool along with my credit card. I grab the pole with a net attached to the end and fish my belongings out of the water.
As I turn to exit the pool area, Viva says in a small voice, “Can I have just one night to make you see how good we can be together?”
Turning around, I lean against the doorjamb, feeling much older than my thirty-eight years. “You’re a great woman, Viva. Don’t settle for a guy like me.” Then I say the words to her that MK said to me. “I’ll never be the man you deserve.” They just slip out of my mouth, and MK’s voice is so strong in my head that I swear she could be whispering in my ear: Give me the whole and complete man I deserve.
Feeling like the dick I am, I turn and walk out of the natatorium leaving her crying in her hands. There’s nothing I can do to console her. She’s upset over something that never existed—at least in my eyes.
Knocking on Sam’s door, I wait for her and Billy to finish whatever they’re up to. After standing there for a few minutes, I leave, assuming they’re already asleep.
From behind me, I hear, “What’s wrong with you?”
I stop, turn around, and say, “Need to talk.”
Her smile tells me she’s pleased that I asked. A Disturbed song blares in my head as I let us both into my room.
Collapsing on the couch, I pick up my guitar and begin playing Pink Cadillac. I think better with it in hand.
“So we don’t play it any longer in concert, yet you sit here shaking like a leaf and playing that song looking like a junkie trying to stay sober.” She crosses her legs and leans in like she’s the mind-fuck doctor, waiting for my response.
I start the song over. That’s when she snatches the guitar out of my hands, standing over me with her legs spread and hands on her hips like the dominatrix she likes to be.
Sighing, I sprawl out on the couch, freeing the words that are torturing my soul. “I’m still in love with MK.” The bile creeps up my throat, and I swallow hard, willing myself to calm the fuck down. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. It’s not nearly as therapeutic as I had hoped it would be. In fact, it’s so fucking scary I want to hide under a pillow.
The smile on Sam’s face is a told-you-so one that makes me want to tackle her and pin her arms down like I used to do when we were kids. “What’re you going to do about it?”
Using my elbow, I shield my face. “I don’t know. I’m sure she wants nothing to do with me. I’ve been an ass, but she gave up on me. She kicked me when I was down.” I peek one eye out. “You know how I value loyalty.”
The next thing I know, Sam is the one straddling my waist and pinning my arms above my head. Her eyes are dancing with happiness. “You’re such a dumb shit.”
“Hey,” I yell using my hips to buck her off.
“I’m so sick of you being miserable. Either get MK back or start doing coke again. Pick one because this morose bullshit has got to stop. It’s affecting the tour, and most of all, I miss my best friend.”
That makes me quit fighting her and smile. “I miss being happy.”
She sits back on my hips, yelps when her behind touches my wet towel, and climbs off. Standing over me she gets her joker smile. “Well, genius, there’s your answer. You were happy with MK, and you were happy doing coke. One makes Jude really damn angry and scared, and the other makes her giddy.”
“I bought coke tonight,” I admit in a solemn voice.
Sam drops to the floor and sits in a folded position. “How was it?”
I’m not sure I have the words to articulate what happened. “I swam instead.”
Her head cocks like a confused puppy. “What?”
“I got into the pool and swam laps like I did in high school.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t do coke. Then Viva found out I ended things, and she flipped her shit.”
“No more Viva?”
“Nope.” Sitting, I put my head in between my knees. “I haven’t told anyone this, but when MK ended things she told me to become the man she deserved.” I make eye contact with Sam. “And I basically used those words when I broke up with Viva.”
Swallowing, I continue, “It made me realize just how much I still love MK and how I’m not even close to being a decent partner. Hell, I can’t even love a supermodel who demanded nothing of me. She didn’t want me to be a better person. She was willing to take my mood swings and shitty personality.”
Sam crawls on the couch and kneads my shoulders. “You’re a good person. You’ve raised a phenomenal daughter who is down to earth, smart, and independent. And you managed to do that in this crazy un-real world we live in. You and MK had a fight—a spat. Billy and I’ve had plenty of them. But you don’t know how to fight with a lover so you got scared and ran. Maybe you should give MK a call.”
Just the thought of talking to her causes my stomach to revolt. No. I can’t do that. My shoulders tense under her palms, and I swallow hard. My head shakes. “No. No. I can’t call her.”
Standing, I pace back and forth behind the couch. “She might hang up on me. You should read her messages. She’s fucking livid, Sam. Like she’s not one for cussing, and she’s sent me texts where calls me lots of fucked-up words.”
“I’m sure she is. You stormed out. Left her hanging. Teased her with an album written about her and never contacted her again. If she didn’t want to cut your balls off and make them into a necklace, she wouldn’t be
the right woman for you.”
I stop pacing. “So you think if I give her a ring, she’ll answer?”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t.”
My arms fly up in frustration. “Then why are you setting me up for failure?” Women. They’ve got to be the most confusing creatures on the planet.
“You’re going to have to fight for her. You’re going to have to convince her that you still love her, and she should give you two another shot. She’s probably not going to be real pleased to hear from you. In fact, I bet it’s going to take a lot of groveling. You’re going to have to put your heart on the line, and you’re going to have to do things that you’d normally refuse to do because you have to prove to her you can be her partner.”
“How in the hell do I do that?”
Sam laughs. “It’s certainly not by writing her another album.”
Chapter Ten
MK
September
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
This is really happening! In LA meeting with my potential agent. Say a prayer I don’t make a fool out of myself.
Barbara Lloyd @SouthernStyleDishes
@NoPinkCaddy is a hack. Her dishes are no more Cajun than #PopeyesChicken. Visit my site instead.
Viva Valdez @VivaValdez
I hate men! #ThereIsAReasonICouldBeALesbian
“Welcome to LA,” Holden Grayson says as he extends his hand. He’s in his mid-thirties, slightly overweight, and has curly auburn hair with freckles sprinkled across his nose. There’s something about him that I found endearing when we chatted on the phone. He was warm and friendly. Maybe he could even be described as a bit goofy. He also seemed to be the opposite of the Los Angeles stereotype, which I hope is a good thing. He didn’t seem pretentious or feel a little show being filmed in New Orleans was beneath his firm.
The guy is supposed to be the best reality-star agent in the business. I think the only reason he took my call was because he’s Vince’s agent also, and Vince made the introduction.