Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  “Yeah, I suppose it could feel a little mundane to do the same work day in and day out.” I cross one leg toward Camden and rest my cheek on the back of the couch. “Hey,” I start with a little nudge to his shoulder. “I’m actually working on a script that tackles a lot of those themes. You know, what’s really underneath Hollywood—”

  “Crap,” Camden interrupts, draining his wine glass. I laugh.

  “Well, yes. Sort of. But it goes much deeper than that. See, I really want my characters to not only find out about this twisted world feeding Hollywood, I want them to believe they can change it and—”

  “That’s cool. I like the idea of showing that this town is actually a shit show,” he says before motioning to a waiter to bring him another drink. “You should definitely keep writing. In fact, I’ll even take a look at it if you want.”

  “Really?” I ask, floored. Just what I need. Someone who has made it in this business to give me notes. “That would be amazing! I mean, that would be . . . are you sure? Do you have time?”

  “Sure, shoot me an email,” he says distractedly. I want to remind him I don’t have his email address, but he suddenly takes my glass from my hand and stretches across my body to place it on the end table next to me. As he goes to lean back, he stops to gently push a stray “beach wave” behind my ear.

  “Your hair smells nice,” he murmurs. “Like apples.” I suddenly don’t remember what we were talking about. I’m also finding it hard to focus on his face, but I can tell it’s coming closer to mine.

  Camden lifts my chin up and kisses me. I wind my fingers in his curls, and again eagerly pull him closer to me. A little too eagerly, as our foreheads bump.

  “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” I bring my hand up to his forehead but he intercepts it, and kisses my fingers.

  “Never better,” he says, placing my hand against his hard chest. And then his lips are warm over mine again. His reaches for my hips and I let him pull me into his lap. His hands are strong and steady as they work their way down my dress. He pauses to splay his fingers at my lower back, and my grip on his shirt front tightens. I don’t care that we’re making out in front of hundreds of people. It all feels so good. His lips on mine, my hair surrounding us like a curtain . . .

  The room is spinning around me—when it doesn’t stop, I realize that Camden’s not the only reason I’m dizzy. I’m what one would most definitely call “tispy.”

  Okay, fine: drunk.

  I pull back a bit to get some air. Camden follows to kiss again, but a vibration against my leg startles us both.

  “That’s not me,” he slurs. It hits me that he’s as drunk as I am. No. Drunker. How did he get so drunk when he had the same amount of booze as I did? Unless I missed him throwing back shots or something . . .

  I realize he might have been drinking before he drove me, which does not sit well with me. At all. But I choose not to bring it up because my phone is still buzzing.

  I pull it out of my purse. My phone is lit up with text messages, mostly from Elise.

  So? How did it go?

  Hey, text me when you can! Can’t wait to hear what happened?

  Dani! I’ve called you twice. Where are you?

  Call me now.

  Stop partying and report back . . . stat!

  Hellooooo?!?! ARE YOU DEAD?

  Seriously, I’m worried. Just text that you’re alive.

  My chest tightens with guilt and I quickly tap out a text to Elise.

  Hey. I’m fine. Sorry to scare you. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  The only other text message is from my mom.

  Hi sweetie! We love you and hope your first few days have gone well! Let us know how your script is going!

  I suddenly notice the time on my phone. Three a.m.! Have I really been with Camden for that long? I read my mom’s text over again: your script. The script that I didn’t even work on tonight.

  I push myself out of Camden’s lap, “Sorry, I need to go. Sleepy, lots of work, friend worried,” I clumsily explain. Camden looks too drunk to protest, but I think he says something about giving me a ride home. I hope he’s not serious, considering he’s trashed.

  “I’ll call a cab,” I say, straightening my skin-tight purple dress, hoping I look decent—realizing I probably do not.

  As I wait outside the house for a taxi to pick me up, a chilling wind blows through my hair causing my exposed back to break out in goose bumps. I can’t believe I just made out with my boss’s boss. And in public! As I stand there shivering, getting more and more sober by the second, a creeping sensation worms through me: loneliness.

  I’ve only been in this town for three days, and I’m already losing myself. I look down at my wrist, at the tiny tattoo I got on a whim three days before I left the Midwest. It’s the coordinates to my hometown in tiny block numbers, as if someone typed them across my inner wrist. I had been feeling sentimental that day about leaving home and facing the unknown, and I thought the tattoo would be a good way to remind myself where I came from. So I would never lose my way.

  But right now, I can barely make out the numbers etched on my wrist through the blur of tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

  Rules of a Hangover

  If you have to throw up, just do it. Don’t fight it. The sooner it happens, the better.

  Sleep as much as you can for as long as you can. Sleep is really the only cure.

  Once you’re ready to eat, it’d better be greasy. Arby’s or Taco Bell is best. Or both!

  If you can stand it, throw on as many layers as possible and jump on the treadmill. Sweat it out.

  Never drink again.

  Chapter Ten

  “You look like shit,” Imogen says as she passes me carrying a stack of stakes. I don’t have a witty response or comeback, so I just grunt back.

  My hangover bitch-slapped me in the face this morning, and it’s a miracle I made it to work on time. Sure, I can’t remember if I put my shirt on inside out or not, and I definitely smell like I bypassed deodorant, but I made it. Barely.

  I only saw Camden once this morning, but he was at the other end of the hallway talking to Lexi and Rachel, a guest star playing a member of an ancient Transylvanian band of vampire slayers. Then he had to leave with most of the cast to film at another soundstage, so I’m stuck watching Lexi shoot wearing nothing but a sports bra and daisy dukes.

  “I need water with a straw,” she yells out, wiggling her fingers in the air. Even though she doesn’t even say my name, I know she means me. I deliver the water, and she waves me away like I’m a fart she needs to clear out of the air.

  Water. I’ve been throwing back water every six minutes (seriously, I timed it). For some reason, no matter how much H2O I put into my system, my tongue remains thick and heavy in my mouth. And dry as cotton. Then there’s the pounding headache and constant churning in my stomach whenever I smell something from the catering table. Yeah, I’m not exactly a ray of sunshine.

  But thinking about what happened with Camden last night makes me feel something different, besides the crippling hangover.

  Loneliness and public snogging aside, I feel grown up. Before Camden, most of my romantic involvements happened in my scripts, on the page. I did have the three-week boyfriends in college, the ones who were usually around long enough just to get some action—or in one case, just to use my new editing software after a half-hearted attempt to pizza and beer me. That’s the college equivalent of wine and dine.

  So instead, my characters got to enjoy tangled sheets and intimate moments that left them breathless. Not me. I was left with clumsy fingers working bra straps and frat boys who didn’t know women needed longer than thirty seconds to have an orgasm. But last night, with Camden . . . he made me feel sexy. He made me feel like I was someone who could be desired. I’m in a new town, and I’m a new woman, and Camden saw that. I felt it in the sensation that came from his hands, his lips, his breath on my neck.

  But I’m still not sure how he�
��ll react upon seeing me. Half of me just wants to gauge his reaction. Does he think that last night was a mistake? Does he even remember it? The other half of me wants to avoid the awkward morning-after crap. I should focus on my work instead of worrying about what Camden thinks.

  But in only a few short days, Camden has already shown me so much. It’s magical.

  I’m not ready to lose that yet. I can already see us curled up on the couch in his office, going over my script. We would read the lines out loud, and he would laugh in all the right places. He would tell me how good it was, that he wants to produce it. I would throw my arms around him and kiss him, pushing him back against the couch and thanking him for believing in me.

  Back up, Dani. You guys aren’t picking out two-bedroom apartments yet.

  But “yet” is a nice word to add to that thought. If only my pounding headache allowed me to think of words longer than three letters.

  “Here, intern,” Lexi says, basically throwing her now empty bottle of water at me. I jump and avoid eye contact, like she actually has the mind-reading abilities her character has and can tell that I’m daydreaming about Camden. I got her coffee order right this morning, and she’s since dialed back her level of bitchiness from 10 to 8.5, but she’s still an Ice Queen. To me, anyway. A majority of the time, she only communicates with me using hand gestures. And the most pathetic thing is that I’ve learned them all, and now she doesn’t have to talk to me. But that’s fine by me—the less I have to hear her grating voice, the better.

  I watch Lexi take her place in front of the cameras for her next scene, where she’s supposed to walk in on her best friend slumped over on the ground, bleeding. It’s all very dramatic. Except the only footage we’re shooting right now is Lexi walking into the room. That’s it.

  I have to watch Lexi open a door and gasp over and over again until Lowell decides they got the right shot. It’s mind numbing to watch.

  “They all looked the same to me,” I whisper to Imogen as we both help the crew move positions to shoot from behind Lexi. I’m praying under my breath that I don’t trip—moving positions is like a perfectly choreographed dance that must be done quickly and without mistakes. Cameras have to be moved to the opposite side of the scene, which means the whole setting has to be flipped. The faster we do it, the less likely actors and extras will wander off.

  Imogen just shrugs and continues coiling power cords at rapid speed, clearly not wanting to be distracted from her work. My fuzzy hangover brain must be missing her “Do Not Disturb” signals, because I talk again.

  “I mean, how many different ways are there to gasp? Two, three tops?”

  “I’m sorry you think our TV show is so beneath you,” she snaps back.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. She doesn’t respond.

  We work silently and diligently until lunch, which is perfect timing because my stomach has suddenly decided that it doesn’t want to hurl up its contents at the mere mention of food anymore. I’m actually hungry.

  My phone buzzes as I walk toward the picnic tables where most of the crew eats lunch together. It’s Elise.

  Hey you! I’m stopping by to see tate for a bit . . . do you have time to have lunch around one when I’m done (rhmyes!!)

  I almost correct her misspelling of the word “rhymes,” but instead I text back that I can eat with her for about thirty minutes since my lunch hour is from 12:30 to 1:30. She sends me back about fourteen smiley faces so I assume that means she’s okay with that.

  I meet Elise at a stage farther back on the lot so we can eat without Tate or anyone else seeing us. Everyone is on break, so the farther we are from the action, the better. When I see Elise looking perfect in her bright yellow maxi dress and funky side braid, I almost want to throw up out of pity. For myself.

  I’ve been thinking about vomit way too much today.

  “Dani!” she squeals before throwing her arms around me. “You look great.”

  I pull back and narrow my eyes at her. “Elise, my hair is greasy and smells like smoke. I think this shirt is inside out. I haven’t had the energy to glance down and check. And the only makeup I have on is whatever didn’t end up smudged on my pillow when I collapsed into bed last night.”

  That came off crankier than I wanted, but I’m too tired to take it back. Elise doesn’t seem to care and she motions for us to sit. When she pulls out a sandwich for me and some Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi (my favorite), I soften.

  “I’m sorry for the bitchiness, Elise. I’m so hungover.”

  “It’s okay. We’ve all been there.”

  “Have we? Because I made out with Camden last night,” I blurt out. I shove my sandwich into my mouth before I say something else I don’t want people to know.

  “Camden . . . the showrunner? Head honcho?!” Elise asks, clearly astonished. I choke down my bite of sandwich and nod.

  “Yeah, he took me to another party after the party—an after party?—and we got drunk and . . . yeah, tongue city.”

  “Nice! Way to go, girl! He’s totally hot.”

  “Well, yeah. But I want him to see me as a serious worker who cares about her career. I don’t want to be another dumb California transplant who can’t keep her pants on.”

  Elise stops chewing. “Did you keep your pants on?”

  “Elise! Yes, I did. Nothing came off. Except for maybe my dignity,” I grumble.

  “Oh, please. Guys don’t notice dignity. Have you seen him today?”

  “Yeah, I waved at him as he was walking toward another set. He nodded back. It was totally hot,” I say sarcastically. “I think I’m going to do less drinking and kissing and more work.”

  I don’t mention to Elise that a huge part of me wants it to be the other way around regarding kissing and working, but I chalk it up to the post-hook-up high that’s still ringing throughout my entire body.

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Elise says with a shrug. “Okay, so speaking of work . . .”

  Elise starts talking about her morning spent auditioning for one- and two-line parts on some pilots. I gratefully suck down two cans of Diet Pepsi while I listen to her horror stories about the casting agents and reading for a whole room full of tired and bored producers.

  “It’s actually terrifying. I’m just another pretty blonde in the capital of pretty blonde nation. I’m feeling a little . . . I dunno . . .”

  “Deflated?”

  “I guess. I just feel off today.”

  “Well, this will cheer you up. Tate was totally honest about having a girlfriend last night. Homeboy wasn’t paying attention to anybody else,” I tell her proudly. That seems to lift her spirits, and I even see a smile start to form on her lips.

  “How did the rules of seduction go? Did they work?”

  I made a face and shook my head.

  “I was very terrible using those rules. I don’t think I did it right.”

  “How did you screw up those simple rules?” Elise asks, laughing a bit. “Did he flirt with you?”

  “Nope,” I happily report. Now that I did my job, I’m anxious to debrief Elise so I can focus on getting my script done and sending it to Camden.

  “Did he talk about me?” Elise continues. I nod.

  “Yeah, sort of. I didn’t talk to him that long. He obviously had more important people to get to.”

  “Really?” she says, narrowing her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Was he being a dick to you?”

  “No, I just mean he blew me off a little. It’s fine. All celebrities are cocky anyway, so it’s nothing new.”

  As soon as it slips out of my mouth, I realize my mistake.

  “You think he’s cocky? What does that mean?” Elise demands, leaning in. “You think he’s a player, don’t you? You’re just not telling me because you don’t want my feelings to get hurt, right?”

  “No, honestly, he was perfectly nice and he’s probably a really great guy,” I backpedal.

  “That’s what people told me about Keith!” Elise pra
ctically wails.

  “Keith? How did we get from Tate to Keith?”

  Elise drops her head into her hands. “I might have stalked Keith on Facebook today.”

  “Elise, no! You’re still friends with him on there? You gotta get rid of your online ties with that dude!”

  “I know. It’s just something I do when I’m feeling down and I want to feel downer. I want to take a trip down memory lane. It’s weird. I know I shouldn’t be doing it, but for some reason it makes me feel better and worse. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. I get it. Exes have that power. “Like a laxative to a bulimic.”

  “Ew.” Elise scrunches up her nose. “But yeah. It’s sick! I know it is. Anyway, his status used to say ‘single,’ but now his relationship status isn’t there! It’s hidden or something. That probably means he’s in one.”

  “So? You guys broke up ages ago.”

  “Dani,” Elise begs.

  I swallow back a Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi burp and try and look optimistic. “Look, Elise. Forget about him. He’s a cheating, lying dick. And he doesn’t deserve you. You’re with Tate now. Who’s great. Remember? Great Tate? You can call him that from now on if you want. It’s all yours. You’re welcome.”

  Elise laughs at my lame joke. But then she lets out a startled cry and points behind me. I whip my head around and see a blonde head of hair walking down the street, right to us.

  Tate. In another eight seconds he’ll be able to see his girlfriend having lunch with the new intern, and he’ll have some questions. Questions that I can’t make up answers to on the spot. I’m a terrible liar unless I have at least ten minutes to prepare. Elise obviously knows this and is panicking.

  “It’s Tate! He can’t see us together! Duck!” Elise whispers.

  She slides under the picnic table and motions wildly for me to join her. I’m moving much too slowly for her liking (that pesky hangover), so she jerks me down violently and then peers in Tate’s direction for a couple moments.