by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
“Great to have you here, Kate. Everybody, my wife says the book is great. It’s called The Last Rancher, and it’s in bookstores now. We will be right back with a performance from Trax!”
As the fade-out music cues up, a producer shoos me over to the adjacent love seat, prepping me for what will happen after Trax’s performance. There will be some gabbing, which Hal may or may not involve me in, then they will cut for a commercial, after which I will be done. The crew preps for the megastar’s performance, running from backstage to the set, scurrying to check everyone’s makeup, and finally, escorting Trax out.
“Here to perform the latest single off of his number one album, please welcome Trax!”
A roar surges from the crowd, making it clear this is the reason they came, and I suddenly feel lucky they didn’t run me out of the building. He’s an amazing performer, although different from the man who was biting his lip and grinning at me backstage. This guy is what I had heard about: pissed off and raging. The song seems to be about setting a cheating girlfriend out by the curb on trash day, or more specifically, putting her in a trash bag out by the curb. Jesus. Some good old misogyny, anyone?
The song ends quickly, and the applause and hollering turn almost deafening in the small space as Trax acknowledges the crowd and moves away from the performance area. Before sitting down, he offers his hand to me, and when his fingers trail against the inside of my palm, it feels like heated silk on my skin. I swallow tightly and pull my hand back a bit more quickly than necessary.
When he finally takes his seat, it feels like we’re all meeting at a surreal cocktail party. The crowd settles down to a murmur, waiting for Trax to speak, like devoted followers in his musical cult. Hal lets out a loud exhale.
“Trax, great to have you here. You really are a hell of a performer!” The crowd noise kicks in again, yelling and hollering in agreement. “I know that you’ve been busy, getting ready for your tour. Are you ready to hit the road again or is it going to be all work and no play?”
The women in the audience let out high-pitched squeals at the mention of him “playing,” and I have to restrain myself from another perfunctory eye roll. I sit stock-straight instead, like a good guest, listening intently to the dialogue, hoping they won’t ask me about my taste in music or, frankly, anything about pop culture. Talk about looking like an übergeek in 3.2 seconds.
Trax waits for the giddy shrieks of the audience to subside before answering. “The road is always work. But, yeah, I’m ready. I mean, I’m not packed or anything.”
Why a reference to packing would elicit another round of hollering, I really can’t understand. He probably doesn’t even pack his own suitcases. I picture a slew of sexy blondes in French maid costumes sauntering around his house doing mundane things like packing for him and looking sultry while they unload the dishwasher.
“There’s been a lot of press lately about that, you not wanting to live at the pace you have been for the past few years. Why the change?”
“I just got tired of living out of a damn suitcase. I finally bought a house, so now I have somewhere to go home to. I can write from there and my family is nearby. I haven’t had a real home for five years, and now that I have one, I’d like to actually be there, you know?”
Propping his arm up on the side of the chair, Trax rests his chin on his fist. Oh God. Forearms. His arms are toned without being bulky, and I can see some of the smaller muscles flexing as he talks.
“Do you worry about losing your edge? Getting too comfortable, not being at the top of the charts anymore?”
Trax shrugs his shoulders. “I think about it, but I’m starting to figure out there’s more to life than selling records.”
“I admire that, I really do. But you still have your critics, calling you a poor role model. What about that?” Hal turns his tone toward seriousness, bordering on intense. As intense as it gets on a show with a laugh track and a house band.
“I stopped trying to explain myself a long time ago.” Trax shakes his head. “I figure people like that need to have someone to hate on, and right now it’s me.”
Before the conversation turns even deeper, or we stray into something ghastly like politics or world affairs, Hal angles his head to face me, taking me away from ogling those arms.
“Kate, you two seem about as opposite as people can get. Are you a fan?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was just sitting here politely, laughing on cue, minding my own business. Should I mention the fact that I couldn’t remember his name? Before I can fully decide my next move, Trax looks straight at me with a sly smile, which makes it even harder to think clearly. Since I don’t have much to lose anyway—the people in the audience have probably forgotten that I’m even here—I blurt out the first thing I can think of.
“Honestly, I knew he was someone superfamous when he walked into the greenroom, but I couldn’t remember his name to save my soul. I had to ask your producer who he was.” I smile apologetically and Trax grabs his chest in an exasperated fashion, pretending to be aghast at my stupidity.
“Get out! I know Montana is quiet, but you do have television, right? Stan, did she really ask you what his name is? Really?” Hal leans back in his chair to see the producer. Stan nods his head and smiles. “So, well, what’s your impression of this guy?”
I know he’s baiting me because he wants some sort of a sound bite. I hesitate, trying to decide quickly whether to say what I’m really thinking.
“Well . . .”
“What? I’m dying to know what a woman who uses the word ‘matriarch’ thinks of this guy.” Hal juts his thumb in Trax’s direction and presses on with a grin.
Trax turns to face me again, cocking his head to the side and waiting intently. Calculating my answer, I consider and deliberate over the next few seconds, then just say it.
“I mean, it’s pretty obvious, but he’s terribly attractive.” The crowd goes nuts, the women squealing again, the men whistling and hollering. I look out at them, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly, and grin. When I turn back, Trax is looking at me, and that’s when it happens.
Everything goes eerily quiet in my head, except a high-pitched buzzing sound in my ears. Trax locks his eyes with mine, mischief dancing there, then pulls his mouth into a delicious smirk. His lips, which are suddenly the center of my focus, pucker a bit together, just enough to taunt me. My heart starts to beat too fast and a long forgotten kind of tension begins brewing deep in my belly. I catch my breath, but remain completely incapable of anything beyond staring back at him like an idiot.
“Well!” The sharp sound of Hal’s bemused voice breaks the heavy weight of our illicit staring contest and he leans back into his chair with a shit-eating grin covering his face, surely imagining how spectacularly entertaining my quote will sound on the promo teasers they will inevitably broadcast. “Trax, looks like you have a new fan.”
Trax finally shifts his gaze from mine, then turns toward Hal and shrugs his shoulders with a small grin.
“Hold on!” Hal beams. “Could it be? Is Trax blushing? You have to be kidding me! Women throw themselves at you all the time; they flash you, propose to you, and you’re blushing now?”
The crowd begins hollering again, louder it seems. I lean forward to see for myself, and sure enough, his cheeks are rosy. I can’t help wondering what Stephen will think when he watches it. If he thought I was good on cable access, he will be wetting himself over this. He loves this kind of shit.
“Yeah, I guess.” Trax gestures in my direction. “But I think she could give me a run for my money, you know?” He looks down at his hands for a split second, grinning, and then shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair.
“Well, Kate, you may need security to escort you out!” The crowd yells, and Hal continues, “Enough of that, we’ve got to go to commercial. We will be right back with another performance from Trax!”
Thankfully, I’m dragged quickly from the stage while they set up the next performance segment.
But I’m exhilarated, feeling like I actually lived up to Stephen’s expectations for once. I even enjoyed watching a real star squirm for a while, instead of looking polished and perfect with his canned answers and smooth hair. And, yes, I’ll admit it, the guy who was sitting next to me is crazy sexy. In an angry, intimidating, eat-you-alive-with-those-eyes kind of way. I shake my head at the acknowledgment of it, feeling like a traitor to my feminist ideals, finding a man of his reputation attractive.
Before I can make an inspired dash for the nearest exit, the production team grabs me and sits me down to autograph a pile of books for giveaways. I finish them as quickly as possible, employing a hurried scrawl technique that makes my signature look more like a series of indecipherable loops than anything else. Perhaps I’m being dramatic, but I want to clear the room before Trax comes back. To avoid him, his pretty eyes, Simon, or anyone else that might make me uncomfortable. While I’m certain that Trax engages in sexy stares and banter with women every day and probably isn’t one bit rattled by our brief interaction, as my postshow high begins wearing off I’m starting to second-guess my boldness onstage, and would prefer to scurry away before looking too foolish.
Bent over at the waist in the corner, I’m trying to shove my things into my bag quickly without forgetting anything when the familiar bellows of Simon and company roll through the room. I immediately stand up straight, fully aware that my ass was just on prominent display when they walked in, and then smooth my skirt, facing the wall to compose myself before turning around. Once I tame my breathing and commit to looking cool and collected, I turn to walk determinedly toward the door. Inconveniently, they are blocking the doorway, clustering in the way of my only exit.
Trax is in the center, of course, blatantly watching me walk toward them. His chin tilts downward a bit, so he’s forced to look up through his eyelashes at me, which makes his gaze almost predatory. I’m suddenly self-conscious, and every sensation against my skin as I walk is nearly unbearable. The way my nipples harden under my sweater, the skin on my belly rubbing against the cashmere, and even the way my skirt grazes against the backs of my thighs, are all too much.
When I get to the doorway, I have to stop and clear my throat so someone will make a path for me to leave. Simon and another guy back away to make room, both silent, and avert their eyes for a second. I have the distinct feeling our little onstage display has tagged me as Trax’s plaything and I’m now off-limits to the rest of them. Trax remains right next to the doorjamb, leaning against it, still staring at me.
“It was nice to meet you.” I smile, but can’t fully return his gaze. It was easier onstage, when my head was buzzing, drowning out everything but the two of us.
“Yeah. See ya later.” He gives a tiny head nod, puckers his tasty lips together again, and smirks. I turn my body away just slightly so I can edge through the doorway without the slightest chance of brushing against any part of him. As I make my way out, I swear I can feel him eyeing my ass as I walk down the hall.
Of course, I can’t look back to be sure. Either way, it would ruin it. If he is looking, it will be a dead giveaway that I want him to stare at my ass. If he isn’t, I’ll be completely disappointed.
I find my breath again in the elevator, although my heart is still beating too hard and all I want to do is ride back up to the green room, grab his hand, and find an empty closet somewhere so that he can put those lips on me.
Shit. It’s official. I’m completely hard up.
Instead, I wander back to the hotel, draw a bath, and soak in jasmine-scented bubbles until my fingers turn pruney. Later, wrapped in a hotel robe, I order chocolate cake from room service for dinner and watch Roman Holiday on TV. I polish off the cake and finish watching the movie in the darkened room, nestling under the covers. Warm, sleepy, and alone.
4
In the morning I wake completely rested, the kind that comes from falling soundly asleep with your limbs stretched every which way in a bed far too big for one person. The fact that I’m a day closer to going home doesn’t hurt, either. I crave the quiet of my house, the clean air of rural Montana, and a sunrise unobscured by skyscrapers. Once there, I may even crack open my laptop to start drafting something new. Maybe it’s the ever-present ambition of all the aspiring creative types in LA getting to me, but just before I fell asleep last night, there were new characters talking to me. And as every writer knows, when characters start talking, you start listening. I don’t know where they belong yet, or what they need from me to tell their story, but it’s enough to listen for now.
In the apparent spirit of eavesdropping on conversations in my head, my phone rings and seeing on the display that it’s Stephen, I consider the possibility the man has somehow tapped my brain like the NSA. Perhaps he can hear my creative side brewing and, God love him, he probably already has plans to exploit it.
“Good morning, Stephen.”
With zero effort put toward the opening pleasantries most of us rely on, Stephen launches in. “How did the show go? Did you do anything redneck or regrettable?”
“I’m deeply offended. It was fine, nothing interesting to report. You know, same old, same old. Smile, laugh, act interested. Blah, blah, blah.”
Gleefully, I wait for Stephen’s inevitable freak-out, trying to act smooth and wanting him to believe I had been a disaster. While trying not to think about Trax, who is the only interesting thing to report, but who also possibly qualifies under the regrettable column.
“Oh God, you didn’t act all intellectual, did you?”
“I did use the word ‘matriarch.’ Is that bad?”
“Great. Fucking great. Instead of sexing it up a little, while acting witty but provocatively coy, you’re telling me that my angst-ridden, country-fried little client did a brainy belly flop on national television.”
“Did I say any of that?”
“I think ‘matriarch’ says it all. I’ll call you after it airs. We’ll decide then how to address your descent into the bargain book bin.”
Stephen hangs up loudly and I relish every bit of it, despite how his slamming the phone down makes my ear hurt.
Once I sufficiently rile Stephen up into an unnecessary tizzy and tackle a monotonous run on one of the hotel treadmills, the rest of the day opens up before me. Without a better idea in mind, I buy an expensive bikini and suntan oil in the hotel boutique and spend a few hours out by the pool, a fruity drink in one hand and a trashy magazine in the other. Despite the idle luxury of the experience, I can only stand it so long before boredom gets the best of me, so I make my way back up to my room. If I’m lucky, there will be another fat piece of chocolate cake and a classic movie in my future. We had Audrey Hepburn last night, so maybe it will be Katharine Hepburn tonight. The Philadelphia Story would pair perfectly with cake.
Just as I toss my bikini top off to enjoy a warm shower, the phone rings. Figuring it’s Stephen again, intent on giving me another ration of grief about using the word “matriarch,” I answer and launch in without glancing at the display.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day, Stephen. What exactly would ‘sexing it up while being witty and provocatively coy’ even look like? Did you expect me to spend the entire interview batting my eyelashes at Hal Abrahms and dragging my finger seductively across his desktop? I can dole out the snarky witticisms, but you should have given me some tips on the sexing-it-up part.”
There is nothing but silence. Which isn’t good, because Stephen doesn’t do silent. He does everything but silent. Slowly, I pull the phone away from my ear and peek at the display.
Definitely not Stephen.
There is a brief, low-pitched chuckle from the caller. “I don’t know, I think you nailed the sexing-it-up part. Mostly because of those shoes and that skirt you were wearing.”
Oh, crap. Male voice, unrecognizable but oddly familiar.
“Fuck if I know what provocatively coy is supposed to look like, but that wink-smile thing you do is probably pretty damn close.”
No. Just, please . . . no.
Silence again, until the man I’m hoping isn’t who I think he is snorts a more pronounced laugh. “You still there, Kate?”
I actually consider saying no. No, I’m not here. In fact, I just crawled under the bed so I might cringe in complete privacy. Instead, I mumble a small affirmation. As much as I probably don’t want to know, I stammer quietly, “Who is this?”
“It’s Trax. Well, my real name is Trevor. Trevor Jenkins.”
Dammit all to everything. For the first time ever, I wish it were Stephen, calling me to grumble complaints or demand my firstborn or condescend my country roots. I don’t care, I would take any of the above over the reality of a sexing-it-up discussion with Trax. Or, apparently, Trevor.
“Hi.” I reach over to find a shirt, covering up my bare breasts, as if he can see me through the phone. “Why are you calling me? How did you get my phone number?”
“I called my manager, he called your agent, your agent gave him your number, and my manager gave it to me.”
Of course. How very Hollywood. Stephen is probably unquestioningly agreeable to handing my phone number out to a complete stranger. It’s comforting to know I can count on him to pimp me out in any conceivable way that suits him.
“I’m calling to see if you want to go to dinner tonight. With me.”
I raise my eyebrows and hesitate, thinking this must be some passive-aggressive punishment Stephen has concocted. I furrow my eyebrows together, perplexed.
“If you’re busy, that’s cool, I just figured . . . well, I thought it would be nice . . . or something.” His voice wavers and trails off at the end until there is only silence. I realize I haven’t said anything since I asked how he got my phone number. I’ve only been breathing heavily into the phone like a wacko. I know I should say something but this strange turn of events has sideswiped me. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I can hear Trevor clear his throat, and despite the bravado he possesses onstage, nervousness tinges his voice now. Since we both need a little reprieve, I relent to the awkwardness and decide to say yes. A girl has to eat, after all.