by Marie Garner
“Oh, we’re taking it to a 911 now? Do tell.”
“Listen, I promise you will get the whole damn story if you will get your ass down to Sunset Pizza now. If not, I will be forced to call Bradley and tell him you thought he was amazing and you want another chance.” Raquel gasped, surprised Brea would stoop that low. Bradley was Raquel’s quasi-stalker; he had become so obsessed with her she had to change her number and call the cops on him. Brea would never tell Bradley that stuff about Raquel, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and right now Raquel was her only option. There was no way in Hell she was going back in there and having Greg give her a ride home. He’d probably try to get her to play Chutes and Ladders.
“Be there in ten.”
“Hey, girl, your mama let you date?” Brea shook her head at Raquel’s attempt at a joke. Leave it to Raquel to make an entrance. Raquel leaned back in her seat smiling, glasses over her eyes with her hair in a messy bun, white tee and jeans. Even in something so casual, she looked like a million bucks. Brea could easily see why she had men falling at her feet because something as innocuous as rescuing a friend from a horrible date could potentially lead to a pickup. Deciding to play along with her earlier pass, Brea leaned into the open window and crossed her arms.
“I don’t know.” She pretended to consider it. “You’re awfully cute, but you don’t seem to have the right equipment.” Raquel threw her head back and laughed, flipping the unlock switch.
“Get your ass in here. Geeky Greg must have been pretty bad if you threatened me with a stalker.” Raquel had an interesting habit of giving people nicknames she believed fit their personality.
Brea threw herself in the car. “You have no idea.”
Raquel drove off, not taking her eyes off the road while she questioned Brea. “So, inquiring minds want to know…when did you know all was not well in Gregsville?”
“The minute I realized he was jumping up and down over an old copy of Mad Libs.”
Raquel peered at her over the tops of her sunglasses. “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Did you say Mad Libs?”
“Yes! And the paper was yellow, which means he found it from years ago and still decided to use it. He told me he had a surprise for me earlier, and you know I love a good surprise.”
“Who doesn’t?” Raquel murmured. Brea turned toward her in the seat to continue the story.
“So, he is jumping up and down with this book, and when I was finally able to grab it I realized what it was.”
Raquel snorted. “So, how long did you play Mad Libs?”
“Too damn long. I think an hour, maybe more. The evening’s starting to blend together into this jumble of shit I wish I could take back.”
“So, after your tantalizing game of Mad Libs…”
“We went to dinner.”
Raquel looked at her like she was crazy. “Why in the hell would you go to dinner with him after that? Mad Libs is a hard line.” Years before, the girls had decided there were hard lines they wouldn’t cross while dating, their set of rules which outlined their level of morality and situations they wouldn’t tolerate.
Brea held her arms up in surrender. “It was not! We’ve never had a situation like this before. I had to improvise.”
“It’s going on the list.” Raquel jabbed her finger to emphasize her point.
“Fine, fine, put it on the damn list. Can I finish my story now?” Raquel always got off-topic, which was equally frustrating and amusing.
“We digressed, carry on.”
“Thank you,” Brea answered primly. “So as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, we went to dinner at Sunset Pizza where he proceeded to bore me with details about the stock market and order us both a Hawaiian pizza.”
Raquel scrunched her nose. “Pineapple? And stocks?”
Brea threw up her hands. “That’s what I said. But wait, it gets better.”
“If it gets much better it’s going to make me want to date him.”
“Well, hold on, because Greg told me he didn’t know if he was going to pay for dinner.”
“The fuck?”
“Yeah, apparently since I didn’t put out last time, he didn’t want to invest in me this time and still get the same return.”
“Asshole. That only works if you’re a prostitute.”
“Needless to say, Greg and I had a long conversation about the fact he’s an asshole, and I won’t be calling him again.”
Raquel pumped her fist in the air. “Go you. I would say I’m sorry I was a bit of a bitch when I needled you earlier about needing a ride, but it would be a lie.”
Brea rolled her eyes. “Of course you’re not. Why do you think I love you so?”
“It’s a curse, but I bear it willingly. Besides, I know why you really went out with Greg in the first place, even if you refuse to say.” Brea squirmed, not comfortable with Raquel’s change in topic.
“Whatever.” She tried to play her off. Raquel arched her eyebrow as though to say she wasn’t convinced.
“Well, if I’m wrong, explain to me what part Lance Holder has in your willingness to give Grego a second chance, after you clearly didn’t want to following the first date.”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly.
“The witness doth lie.”
“Will you stop? Lance has absolutely nothing to do with my date tonight!”
“Uh-huh. Is that why you made sure to mention it when he was standing within earshot, and cut me off when I started to point out Greg’s faults?”
“No,” Brea said. Raquel waited patiently, her line already cast for her fish to take the bait. “Okay, so he may have had a little bit, and I do mean little bit, to do with the date tonight.”
“What is the deal with you guys? I didn’t think you really knew each other.” Brea sighed, knowing she was going to have to tell her everything.
“We didn’t, not until the press conference. But when I went to say something after they made the assumption about us being together he grabbed my leg and squeezed.”
“Uhhh, a little foreplay under the table. But you already told us this part; tell me something I don’t know.”
“Shut up, it wasn’t like that. But after it happened, we got into this big argument after the press conference, then again at the promo party, and then this morning at the studio.”
“So, you guys have just been one ball of sexual tension.” Leave it to Raquel to break it down to the heart of the problem.
“Something like that. But I’m not having sex with him,” she stated emphatically.
“Why the hell not? Let’s see. He’s gorgeous, good personality, you’re both single and clearly attracted to each other. So, tell me again why he’s a bad idea?”
“Because he’s dangerous and doesn’t fit my image.”
“Give me a damn break. The only one who thinks you fit that image is the media, who flaunts it.”
“I have a responsibility to my fans.” Brea tried to defend her position.
“You have a responsibility to yourself. And if Lance can do it for you, I say you need to go all in.” She shook her head and turned into a parking lot. Brea expected to be dropped off at home, so she was a bit surprised to see her pulling into one of their favorite bars with Clare standing by the door waving.
She turned to Raquel. “What are you doing?”
“Being your wingman. You clearly need a drink and Clare needs to know the deets, so I called her.” Raquel was always one to make sure they all knew each other’s business.
“I tried to call her first,” Brea mumbled.
“Then it’s a good thing you got me.” Raquel waved back at Clare. “Hey, girl!” she greeted Clare as she climbed from her car.
“Raquel promised me a story.” Clare hugged Brea when she walked up to greet her.
“Raquel lied.”
Raquel shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I got some trivia for you, Clare. What do sex, Mad Libs, Brea, Lance, Geeky Greg, pineapple pizza,
911, and prostitutes have in common?” Clare considered the two, Raquel looking cheeky and Brea looking a little sick.
Clare bit the inside of her lips to keep from smiling. “That depends. How many guesses do I get?” Raquel lost it, leaning over and holding her sides while she laughed uncontrollably.
“I need a damn drink.” Brea slung the door open, Raquel and Clare following behind her laughing.
“What time do you want to meet tonight?” Lance Holder, the bane of Brea’s existence, asked her with that telltale grin on his face. She had done her best to avoid him the last couple of days, dodging questions about her date the following morning and only staying on set with him when they were working. Shooting was stressful; you could feel the tension in the air, and Jonah was snapping at them because they kept forgetting their lines or their blocking. Everyone was on edge, and it felt like if anything else happened it would blow. Jonah finally brought them in his office yesterday for a serious conversation, something both veteran actors knew would happen eventually.
“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Jonah asked once everyone was seated around his desk. Brea folded her hands in her lap and played with her fingers so she wouldn’t have to look at him and answer the question. “Brea, look at me,” Jonah said sternly, letting her know she couldn’t avoid him forever.
“Jonah, I don’t know what is wrong with us…” she started. He held up his hand to cut her off.
“You’ve clearly misunderstood what I am asking. I don’t give a shit what is going on with you two personally; none of my damn business, if you ask me. What I care about is the fact I have to do ten takes instead of five, or that everyone is tiptoeing around you two because you look like you’re going to blow! Work it the hell out! Quickly! Because you don’t want to know what the hell will happen to you two if you continue to affect my set!” Lance and Brea looked at each other, silent communication as to whether they wanted to say something. Lance simply shrugged, acquiescing Jonah had a point.
“And that shit right there is what I am talking about!” Jonah jabbed his finger at the two of them. “I need to see more of that, but instead I have two kindergarteners fighting over the last cupcake. Stop trying to one-up each other and work your shit out!” Jonah stood during his tirade, so he was leaning over the desk trying to look intimidating, but it was hard to do when you looked like Winnie the Pooh. “That clear?”
“Crystal,” Lance replied. Jonah stormed out, slamming the door when he left, making Brea jump. “Damn.” She saw Lance rubbing his hands down his face.
“What do you want to do?” She wanted to get his opinion, since it was both their necks on the line. She had no doubt Jonah would keep complaining until he got what he wanted. Ever heard the saying ‘the squeaky wheel gets the grease’? Well, Jonah wasn’t just a regular squeak; he was the high-pitched annoying kind, which forced you to deal with him or go mad in the process.
“Dinner.” Brea cocked her head to the side; surely she hadn’t heard him right.
“Are you out of your mind? I can barely get along with you as it is, and now you want me to spend a couple of hours in your presence.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile, which she loathed, because he was constantly making remarks or gestures which told her he was getting to her and they would be together in a matter of time. He was probably right, but Brea saw herself as the last survivor trying to hold onto the fort after a long siege. She wasn’t going to wave the white flag and give up, regardless of how pleasurable it may be.
“Hear me out. We both know what we’re doing isn’t working. Now, I have my own ideas on that, but since you don’t want to discuss that aspect of our relationship—”
“I don’t,” she interrupted.
He stared at her. “I know. But we need to be able to be in each other’s presence without killing each other or jumping each other, so I figure a good way to start is dinner. That way, we can talk, as friends,” he emphasized, “and work together without Jonah throwing another hissy fit.”
“Is that your only idea?” It wasn’t a bad one, and it probably would help clear the air, but she didn’t know if being alone with him was the best thing right now.
“It’s either that or sex. Which do you prefer?” Brea knew which one she wanted the pick, knew that they were inevitably headed toward sex despite her protestations, but wanted to take him down a notch.
“Dinner it is.”
That had been yesterday and after some wrangling, they had decided to have dinner the next night at Brea’s house. Both figured it was best not to be seen by the media, and she wanted to be on home turf when they talked.
“Seven o’clock okay with you?” She asked.
He nodded in the affirmative. “Just text me your address. Do you need me to bring anything? Whipped cream? Chains? Handcuffs?” She glared at him.
“Kidding.” He held his hands and backed up slowly because she definitely looked like she wanted to punch him.
“Just be there at seven.”
Brea checked her reflection one more time in the mirror, her printed, sleeveless tank top and ripped jeans giving just the right amount of ‘I may have changed, but it wasn’t to impress you’ she was striving to achieve. She refused to think about the fact she had showered, waxed, re-curled her hair, and put on more makeup for a man she swore she wasn’t trying to impress. The steaks were marinated; all they had to do was throw them on the grill. The potatoes were in the oven and the salad was prepped. All she needed was her guest, who was currently running about fifteen minutes late. She hated when people weren’t punctual; it was just bad taste.
Speak of the devil, she mused when her doorbell rang. She waited a minute—didn’t want him to think she was that eager for him to arrive—and finally answered after the second ring. He stood on the other side of the door, face red and sweaty, breathing heavily and clutching a drooping bouquet of wildflowers.
“What the hell happened to you?” Her irritation at his late arrival was forgotten; the man had clearly been through some things.
“You have no fucking idea. I was in the florist buying you some flowers. Here you go.” He thrust the bouquet at Brea, who opened her arms quickly to receive it. She couldn’t resist the smell of the sensual blooms and thanked him.
“You’re welcome,” he said as though it was an afterthought. “So, I had just stepped out of the florist and this girl recognizes me.” Brea didn’t know what the problem was; he had to be recognized all the time. Just looking at his signature leather jacket and aviators tucked into a light-green button-down shirt, she thought he would have been a fool to think no one would notice him. He must have read the questions in her eyes because he went on to explain. “This was a high school cheerleader who just happened to be on a class trip to Hollywood with the rest of her squad. I got mauled!”
She patted his cheek. “Aww…did the big, bad actor get in trouble with some cheerleaders?”
“These were not normal cheerleaders,” he began as he followed her into the house. She turned around and walked backward while talking to him.
“What the hell is a normal cheerleader?”
“The kind that bring cheer! These…girls…were ruthless. They started screaming and jumping up all around me.” He looked so befuddled, like he didn’t know what to do around a bunch of fangirls. That explained why he was late, but not why he looked like he had run a marathon.
“But why are you so hot and sweaty?”
He ran his hand through his hair, whether in frustration or to tame it she couldn’t be sure, but the result was a spiky mess which looked like he just had sex. That made her think of bed, and she didn’t need to think about that with him.
“One of them jumped on me.” Her eyes widened, knowing what was probably coming next. “And then another one jumped on me, and all of a sudden I’m at the bottom of the cheer pyramid trying to fight my way to the top.” She chuckled, picturing this sexy man at the bottom of a pile of hormone-driven, teenage girls. He was clearly not amused
by her enjoyment.
“It’s not funny.” He pouted. “Once I finally untangled myself, which felt like forever with all those girls all over me, I had to run five blocks to get away from them.”
“Five blocks?”
“Yes! It was horrible! I had to hide behind a dumpster, and after waiting for about ten minutes I hailed a cab and came here.”
“You hailed a cab here?” She moved to the window and pulled back the curtain, searching for his car.
“Yeah, how else was I supposed to get here? The cheer machine was camped out by my car, and there was no way in Hell I was going through that again.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “So, now you need a ride back to your car?”
He prowled toward her, crowding her against the window. “If you don’t mind. If not, I can always call someone else to come get me.”
“Depends on what I get out of the deal.” He stepped back, certain he had misunderstood her.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” She ran her finger down his shirt. “You’ve been messing with me for about two weeks now. You think I’m going to just let you get something for nothing?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, which drew Lance’s eyes to the breasts she had unwittingly pushed upward.
He ran his finger lightly across her chest, leaving goose bumps in his wake. “Oh, I got something for you.”
She batted his hand away. “Not that something. I want payment.”
He narrowed his eyes, not sure if he trusted her. Smart guy, Brea thought, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. “I thought you were supposed to be the nice one. And what kind of payment we talking?”
She perked up at the thought of Lance being at her mercy. They both knew he could call a cab or any number of friends to come get him, but he was enjoying their game of cat and mouse as much as she was. She was sure she was going to let him catch her, it was just a matter of time, but he didn’t need to know that. It would just give him a big head, and his ego was healthy enough already.