by Suzie Nelson
“Did you like her dress?” Sasha asked abruptly.
“Excuse me, sir?” Bruce asked as he drove.
“That woman who bumped into me. Her dress. The yellow one. Did you like it?”
Bruce had long since stopped being surprised by his employers wandering train of thought and surprising questions. “Personally, I thought it was a bit too loud, sir,” he replied honestly. Sasha liked it when you were honest. He had enough people pandering to him as it was.
Sasha nodded. “I know. But that’s what I liked about it. She didn’t give a shit. I liked that.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t just her legs you liked, sir?” Bruce asked with just the slightest hint of a smile.
Sasha chuckled but shook his head. “Not to toot my own horn here, Bruce, I see a lot of very nice legs on a pretty regular basis. Seeing a woman pull off an outfit like that is much more interesting.”
“If you say so, sir. Then again, I speak as a man who only sees very nice legs from afar.”
Sasha laughed again. “Fair enough,” he said and went back to staring out the window. He’d also liked how she hadn’t been overwhelmed by his presence. Flustered, certainly – he smiled to remember her ‘Same to you’ slip up – but she hadn’t started fawning all over him the way most people did. It had been as refreshing as her outfit. Briefly, he wondered what her name was.
To be honest, her forthrightness reminded him a bit of his mother. He chuckled to himself. Freud would have a field day with that, he was sure. But his mother had been the same: she’d never cared what people thought of her; she’d never bowed down to anyone or apologized.
“You are what you are, Sasha,” she’d always tell him, pushing his blond bangs off his forehead. “If other people have a problem with that, then it’s their problem. Not yours. Don’t ever apologize for what you are.”
And he never had.
Sasha sighed. He still missed his mother. She’d always been his best friend. His father, an American soldier, had met her while he was on leave in Europe and had fallen in love with her wheat-blond hair, enormous black eyes and her long, slender legs. It probably helped that she hadn’t been able to speak a word of English at the time. Her Russian had sounded lilting and romantic to him.
He brought her back to America with him but, as soon as she learned English and started speaking her mind, the charm wore off. Not to mention, he hadn’t bargained on a child. He’d wanted a silent, malleable Russian bride who would be eternally grateful for him for bringing her to the United States. What he got was a smart, sarcastic woman who didn’t appreciate him drinking away their grocery money and would beat him with the broom handle if he smacked their only son.
“The little shit had it coming!” Sasha’s father would roar.
His mother always stood her ground, gripping the broom – or the rolling pin, of the frying pan – tightly in her delicate fingers. “He is only a child, you brute. That’s how childs are! You should know! You act like one!”
“Well, if I’m so childish then why’d you go and have another one then, huh?” he hollered at her, raising his fists.
“Because you must to stick your stupid drunken cock in me without condom, that’s why!” she screamed back, standing in front of Sasha to make sure his father couldn’t reach him. She never let her hazy grasp of English grammar get in the way of making her thoughts known.
Eventually, his father, the weaker of the two, had simply drifted out of their life. In the beginning, he began by taking longer and longer overseas postings, leaving Sasha and his mother behind in California. Then, one day, when Sasha was ten, he simply didn’t come back. Sasha’s mother, who was working as a cleaning lady for several movie stars by that time, didn’t seem to care that her husband had simply vanished. Without a word to anyone, she moved them off the Army base and into a tiny bungalow in the sweltering center of Los Angeles. From then on, Sasha and his mother had been on their own.
It had been his mother that had got him his first acting gig as an extra in a period drama about the French king Louis XIV. He’d been one of several court children that were supposed to loll around in the background of a royal picnic. But there had been horses and Sasha had gotten bored playing with the other kids who were all fighting over whose costume was better. So he went to hang out with the horses.
One of his mother’s clients was a waning Western movie star and every few months the guy would take them both with him when he went out to his ranch in Nebraska. His mother had always told Sasha that it was because the actor liked her cooking so much. Though, of course, looking back with an adult’s understanding, Sasha now suspected they had been sleeping together. At any rate, that was where Sasha had discovered his love of horses. He’d been put to work helping in the stables and, in return, was allowed to take the horses out.
It wasn’t until the director spotted the fourteen-year-old cantering through the back of a scene that anyone noticed he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
“Cut!” the director yelled, standing up from behind the camera. “Where the hell is the child-minder? Why didn’t someone tell me we had a kid that could do stunts?”
In the end, Sasha ended up with a scene to himself as the camera slowly panned away from the star-crossed lovers, rising up and back to look out over the picnic and catching sight of Sasha, riding away from it towards the horizon. Apparently, it was supposed to symbolize the main characters’ love or something. Sasha hadn’t paid much attention to the explanation. He’d just been happy to ride the horse.
Most people had no idea he’d been in that film, but that had been the beginning of his rise to fame. His mother had been so proud of him when he began to work as a stuntman in children’s films. She’d cried when he got his first speaking role. And seeing her pride had been Sasha’s favorite part.
Sasha liked acting and stunt work. He liked traveling to different locations around the world, constantly meeting new people – not to mention new, beautiful women. He liked never having to worry about money. But, most of all, he liked making his mother proud. His hard-working mother who had always fought for him, protected him, and been in his corner – he felt like he could finally pay her back for everything she’d done for him.
Then, just as he was making a name for himself as a leading man, she was diagnosed with a terminal illness.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Pollock,” the doctor said, shaking his balding head and cleaning his wire-frame glasses on his white doctor’s coat, “but there’s nothing we can do. The tumor is too big.”
Sasha turned away from the man and pressed his forehead to the cool glass of his mother’s hospital room, looking in at her frail, sleeping form. He felt tears sting his eyes, but he was a good actor. He wasn’t about to cry in public. Not here. Not now.
Three months later, the day before his twenty-fourth birthday, she’d died. That day he did cry in public. He held her skeletal hand in both of his and laid his head on her emaciated chest and sobbed, not caring who saw. But the doctors and nurses attending his mother were discreet and no photos of that day had ever been leaked to the press.
Ever since then, Sasha had felt as if he were floating through life. He became more and more famous and made more and more money. More and more women fell all over themselves to sleep with him. But he was just going through the motions. He bought big houses on the French Riviera, in New York, L.A., even one in Thailand. He had his ranch and his beloved horses; horses that he’d imported from around the world - from Saudi Arabia to Slovenia, to Iceland. He had his getaway in the Oregon wilderness, his yacht, his fishing boat, his fleet of expensive cars. Bruce. He even had his own Russian cleaning lady: a spry old babushka who kept the marble floors of his L.A. home gleaming (and with whom he had definitely never slept).
But his mother had always been the person who challenged him; who questioned his actions, his decisions; who pushed him to do better and make himself a better person. Above all, she was the one who made hi
m laugh.
Now, no matter how many of his beautiful co-stars he brought to his expensive homes for the night – no matter how many cleaning ladies and bodyguards he hired - he was always alone.
Sasha sighed and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted.
Only as they drove up the long, curving stone drive to Sasha’s L.A. mansion, did the movie star open his eyes again. He needed to go over the script for his latest film once more. Shooting started tomorrow.
“Bruce,” he called as they got out of the car, “would you mind bringing me one of your impeccable cortados in the upstairs study? I’m going to do some reading before bed.”
Bruce nodded. Sasha didn’t like to keep a lot of staff on hand and Bruce ended up playing something between bodyguard, butler, barista, and best friend. He didn’t mind. He liked the freedom Sasha gave him. He liked Sasha himself, if he was honest.
Bruce saw Sasha comfortably installed in the study and went to prepare the coffee. While he personally couldn’t drink coffee after five in the afternoon if he wanted to sleep that night, Bruce knew that his employer loved a coffee in the evening as he wrapped up his day. As he waited for the espresso to drip into the small white porcelain cup, he opened a cupboard and pulled out a few of Sasha’s favorite cookies: dark chocolate and candied ginger. Popping one into his own mouth, Bruce savored the melt of the bittersweet chocolate and the zing of the ginger. It seemed fitting to him that these were Sasha’s favorites. They were a lot like him in many ways.
Placing two cookies on another plain white saucer, he carried both up to Sasha.
“Ah, thank you,” said Sasha, leaning back in his captain’s chair and smiling as Bruce entered the study and placed the saucers on his long wooden desk.
Bruce could always tell when Sasha wasn’t keen on doing his readings, so he dawdled, tidying this and that in the warm, dark room. The pungent smell of leather from the two chairs filled the room, mixing with the spicy scent of the beeswax polish the housekeeper used on the floors.
The study was narrow, one wall entirely taken up with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with scripts, novels, history books and first editions of Russian poetry, which Sasha collected with an intensity bordering on obsession. There were a few feet of dark wooden floorboards, covered with a rusty red woolen rug from Mexico, and then Sasha’s enormous desk with its green lamp and piles of papers and one, solitary computer. The computer was hooked up to speakers that hidden in the highest, darkest corners of the bookshelf and constantly filled the room with instrumental music from around the world – none of which Bruce had ever been able to identify. At the far end of the room was oxblood leather wingback armchair, a mahogany side table with a potted fern, and a narrow window with a view of the dark, twinkling Pacific far below them. Sasha loved that room and so did Bruce.
“How is the script progressing?” Bruce asked as he put away the books that lay in piles on the floor. He was the only person other than Sasha who understood Sasha’s filing system.
Sasha shrugged, sipping his coffee with closed eyes. “They’ve made some pretty substantial changes this time. I don’t know that it’s made it better.”
“I thought you were really looking forward to this movie?” Bruce asked.
“I was. I am,” he corrected himself. “But, really, I signed on because most of the shooting will be done up in Oregon and Washington. I just want to get there already.”
“Ah,” said Bruce.
Sasha flipped through the script again, frowning, “Though Mack’s usually a pretty understanding guy. I’ll ask him about some of these dialogue changes on the day off and see if I can convince him to cut some of the more clichéd stuff,” he said, referring to the director.
“Remind me, sir, what’s the movie about again?”
Sasha smiled. “An international spy that infiltrates a group of eco-warriors trying to save some old growth forest up north, one of whom is a nuclear physicist he’s supposed to kidnap.”
“Let me guess, the physicist is a beautiful woman, they fall in love, and he ends up supporting the activists’ cause against his former employers.”
Sasha laughed, nodding, “Something like that.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy to be running around in the woods.”
“You know me too well, Bruce,” said Sasha. “Which reminds me, Tansy just sent me the itinerary. We fly to Oregon in two days. What would I do without her?”
“Excellent. I’ll start packing,” Bruce smiled and finally left his employer to his work.
Like Bruce, Tansy was one of Sasha’s few permanent staff members. She was his personal assistant and had been with them for two years now. Bruce suspected Sasha that had only hired her for her long legs and exotic good looks, but it turned out that Tansy was a no-nonsense woman who had made it very clear from the get-go that she wasn’t interested in sleeping with Sasha. Men, it seemed, were not her thing. And just as well, thought Bruce. It had made her relationship with Sasha all the stronger. There weren’t many women who could work so closely with Sasha and not be just a little bit tempted. And Sasha always knew how to play that to his advantage. But not with Tansy.
Chapter 3
When Claire and Angie finally made it back to Angie’s place that night, they were both more than a little drunk.
“Stay here tonight,” Angie said as they staggered out of the taxi. “We can watch romantic comedies and paint our nails or something.”
Claire laughed. “Honey, if we try to paint out nails in this state we’ll have nail polish all the way down to our knees.”
Angie giggled. “Okay, fair. But still. You should stay. We can go for brunch tomorrow and skype Odette. It’ll be just like old times,” she pleaded, making enormous puppy eyes at Claire.
Claire sighed, “Okay, okay, I surrender. I just can’t take those eyes. You’re dangerous, Angie.”
Angie slung an arm around her best friend and laughed, “Yep. I always did know just how to lure you in.”
“Oooh,” Claire said as they waved to the night guard in the lobby. “I have the perfect plan.”
He smiled as they stumbled into the elevator, “Have a good night, ladies,” he called.
“He totally thinks we’re about to go do it,” said Claire as she leaned against the elevator’s mirrored walls.
“Wha-at?” Angie replied. “Ew. That’s, like, incestuous. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Claire. You know I think you’re gorgeous, but you’re basically family.”
Claire giggled, looking up at her taller friend. “Right? It would be like the Olsen twins sleeping together or something. Except way better looking, obviously. But no, did you see the way he was looking at us? Definitely thought we were about to get it on.”
“Oh my God, what if he thinks we’re a couple?” Angie asked. “I might be the building lesbian and not even know it!”
Claire snorted with laughter. “Nah, babe, the ginger from 3D is totally the building lesbian. Trust me.”
“How would you know? You met her that one time in the lobby for, like, thirty seconds,” Angie crossed her arms.
“Yeah, and then I met her that weekend at Tommy’s and we made out in the coat check,” said Claire, referring to her favorite bar.
“Seriously?” Angie gaped at her friend. “Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?”
Claire shrugged. “I forgot. And she wasn’t really very good. Though I was considering going home with her just so I could surprise you in the morning for brunch. But Josh was still around then and he never really did appreciate my surprises.”
That was true. Josh had always been jealous of Claire and Angie’s relationship. It didn’t help that Claire had a habit of just turning up unannounced with a bottle of wine for an impromptu hang out – a habit she and Angie had developed when they lived in the same college dorm, while Josh had lived across campus in an all-men residence.
“He used to think we were sleeping together too,” Angie ad
mitted. She’d never told Claire that he had accused her of cheating on him with Claire.
“What?” Claire rounded on her friend, looking outraged. “That little fucking cocksucker! How dare he! Ugh, I bet he fucking fantasized about it.”
“Nah, he used to get really mad and accuse me of cheating. He said I spent too much time with you and I needed to rethink my priorities.”
Claire kicked the elevator door with the polished toe of her shoe. “Well, he had that right at least. You needed to dump his pathetic ass. What a loser.”
She sighed, “I can see why you never told me that, though. I’d have given him a bloody nose.”
Angie nodded. “Yep, that’d be why,” she smiled. “But hey, now he’s gone and I’m free and we can spend as much time together as we want without worrying about hurting some idiot’s feelings.”