Bootycall

by J. D. Hawkins

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad state of things to me.”

  “Maybe. But for the duration of this movie, I want you to do a full-on job and live a half-assed life. And I think you do too, in a way.”

  I rub my face and look out the window. Why is it that all the smart guys in Hollywood try to psychoanalyze me?

  “Frankly, I don’t even know why you hired me if you were watching the movies I’ve been doing lately.”

  “I didn’t.”

  My face drops for a moment. “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t hire you based on those movies, God no! You were fucking awful in most of them! Anything pre-five years ago is a stinker. You were sleepwalking through those roles.”

  “Christ. Well break it to me gently, why don’t you?”

  “Dylan, I hired you because of the stuff you were doing away from the movies.”

  I raise an eyebrow, wondering where he’s going with this.

  “That interview you did, for that comedy with the redhead,” he continues, leaning forward as his voice gets even more excited, “where that guy was asking you dumb questions, and you just get more and more prickly, this deadly quality coming into your eyes. Until eventually your face is just killing this poor guy, it’s just a face, not moving at all, but it’s so powerful, so projected, it just pops off the screen.”

  “Well he had it coming to him.”

  “Then there was that clip online, where the photographer is following you, and you just snap,” Christopher clicks his fingers, a big smile on his face, “turn around, and it’s like you’re twice the size, every muscle in your body poised and ready to knock this guy’s lights out, but instead you talk calmly, with this pitch in your voice that’s just so menacing. That’s something no actor I can think of right now can manage.”

  “It wasn’t acting.”

  “Of course. And neither is what you’ll be doing on this set, if we keep you in check.”

  I look at this guy for a few moments, studying the childish excitement in his eyes. Combined with the intelligence of what he’s saying, there’s no doubt that this guy has something about him – a touch of genius, or madness. I find myself smiling a little, partly because I’m more than a little impressed, and partly because there’s something in that deal which kind of throws his plan off – Gemma. If Christopher is worried I’ll blow off a lot of steam without her, then he has no idea how much I intend to blow with her.

  We sit and chat for a while longer, getting into the details of the script and the plot. Christopher can barely say anything without offering some new perspective on it, without presenting a handful of new ways to approach things. Once we’ve both had enough, I make an excuse and leave, stepping out of the office and onto the lot.

  “He’s in there with Christopher now. Probably asking for time off already.”

  “I’m telling you man, record everything. This will be one of those movie flops so big they make documentaries about it.”

  I freeze mid-step, feeling my blood boil. But something keeps me standing there listening, like when you see a nasty car wreck on the side of the freeway and you can’t tear your eyes away from it.

  “Dude, Christopher is really playing with fire. He can have any actor on the planet, any single one, and instead he wants the one guy that can ruin a movie before it’s even wrapped.”

  “Can, dude, it’s just a matter of time. We’ve got a pool going with a few of the guys on what’s gonna happen first. Fighting on the lot and getting fired for being late are on top, but my money’s on him just getting drunk and improvising all the scenes. Guy’s a fucking notorious alcoholic. A real fucking mess. Ever since—”

  I’ve heard enough. I step around the corner, fists tight at my sides, and look to where the voices are coming from, but there’s just a mass of random crewmembers moving around doing their jobs with laser focus. I suppose they heard me, assumed I was about to explode, and hid. It’s probably for the best, or else that gambling pool would be over already.

  All of the good feeling I had from talking with Christopher dissipates into the air like so much smoke. My blood is still running hot, and I march over to my trailer, desperate to get away from all these fucking assholes that I’ve spent most of my life trying to get away from.

  When I get inside I slam the door and start pacing up and down so hard the trailer is rocking slightly.

  Do these people really think I need them? Do they really think I give a shit about their boring-ass movies enough to put up with this shit?

  What do these people know about me? About my past? These boring fucks with their tiny lives untainted by sorrow and darkness. These idiotic, simple-minded morons who just tick over day after day hoping that nobody notices them, hoping that they’ll survive just long enough to find another rock they can hide under. The closest they ever come to greatness is pointing at someone like me, someone who aimed for the top and made it, and trying to bring them down.

  I may be a fucking actor, and I may have more money than a decent person would know what to do with, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what loss is. It doesn’t mean I don’t deal with pain every single day.

  Memories start flooding back. I try to suppress them, to blur the images, to soften the sharp hurt they cause in my chest, but it’s impossible. It’s stronger than I am – the only thing that I can’t fight. Too real to ignore, too emotional to reason with, too much a part of me to run away from.

  My eyes cloud over with tears and a red mist of anger. My fists clench, the muscles in my back tighten. I search for something to help me release the searing, wound-like pain, and grab at an empty bottle of beer. I throw it against the wall of my trailer, gaining a split-second of respite from the memories that are trying to drag me back into the torment and depression. I stop pacing, staring at the tiny shards of glass that glitter on the floor of my trailer, then I grab my keys, yank the door open, and step outside.

  “Hey, Dylan?” an assistant director calls out, a walkie talkie in one hand, a clipboard in the other, and an expression on his face that says ‘we need you now.’

  “Fuck off,” I snarl as I stalk away.

  My bike is at the other end of the lot, parked by the storage carts loaded with props, pieces of the set, and random junk that could prove useful in a scene. I march towards the motorcycle with my eyes down, lest anybody sees the twisted hatred and anger in my face. My hand grips the keys so hard they feel like they’re piercing my flesh, the cutting sensation giving me something to focus on that doesn’t hurt as much as the ghosts that are parading on the edge of my thoughts.

  I don’t need to block out the shouts and calls from the crewmembers as I walk, as the rapid thumping of my blood fills my ears, punctuated only by my heavy breathing as I try to regain some sense of peace and calm.

  I’m within a few yards of my bike, sitting there poised and beautiful like a ticket away from all this shit, when Gemma jumps in front of me.

  She looks as beautiful as the last time I saw her, and for a brief moment I let the perfect lines of her face take me away from the darkness inside of me. The elegant curve of her neck as it sweeps into those amazing breasts balming my thoughts with all the sexual promises they make of pleasure.

  But it’s only for a moment, and then the demons are back. I walk past her easily and take a few more steps toward my bike, but she jumps in front of me again a second later.

  “Where the fuck are you going, Dylan?!”

  “Away.”

  “Oh no you’re not! The assistant director needs you to—”

  I sweep her aside again and step over my bike, settling into the seat that fits me as warmly and invitingly as a good pussy.

  “Stop it!” Gemma says, standing in front of the bike, her hands gripping the handlebars. “You’re not going anywhere, Dylan!”

  “This is not the time to play your games, Gemma. Step aside.”

  “This is not a fucking game!”

  “No, this isn’t a game. I�
��m the fucking star. The lead actor of this movie. I’ll go where the fuck I want. You’re the babysitter who has to report to a boss at the end of the day. Now is not the time.”

  I put the keys in the ignition and fire up the satisfying roar of the engine.

  “Just the babysitter?” she says, her pert face doing anger as easily as it does pleasure. “Well in case you hadn’t noticed, ‘Mr. Star,’ you’re the fucking baby. And the way you’re acting right now is pretty fucking childish!”

  I rev the engine suddenly, causing it to reach a deafening thunder. It’s usually enough to make most people jump, but not Gemma. She doesn’t even flinch.

  “I’m the only reason you got hired for this movie, Dylan. Nobody trusts you to stay out of trouble, and if I hadn’t told people I could keep you in check then you’d be jerking off at home still while I do my actual job.”

  “I’m sick of hearing this shit, Gemma. I’m getting out of here.”

  Gemma’s eyes harden. We glare at each other like it’s high noon and we’re waiting for the first draw.

  “Not without me you’re not,” she says, darting over quickly to the prop cart where she pulls out black helmet. Within seconds she’s pulled it over her head and is easing herself behind me. Her hands grip me tightly, angrily, fearfully. Fingers pressing against my ribs.

  Ok. If she wants a ride, then she’ll get one.

  Chapter 7

  Gemma

  As soon as I wrap myself around Dylan’s back, nestling myself on the back of the bike, he knows he’s got me. It’s payback time for him, and I don’t need to see the front of his face to know that he’s grinning from ear to ear.

  What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

  What I didn’t realize is how scary it actually feels, now that I’m tucked in tightly behind him and literally holding on for my life.

  When the bike revs loudly and shoots out of the parking lot, I feel more like I’ve just tied myself to a rampaging animal than sat passenger on a motorcycle. I squeeze my arms even harder around Dylan’s frustratingly large and hard torso and start praying.

  Dylan doesn’t let up. He leans into corners so hard that I feel like I can taste the asphalt, brakes so suddenly that I feel like my eyeballs are gonna pop, and when he starts going really fast I feel like I stuck my head out of an airplane.

  Pretty soon we’re racing down the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu, but even the beauty of the ocean on one side, and the hills on the other, isn’t enough to distract me from the fact that I just strapped myself to a madman with one and a half thousand CCs between his legs – the most destructive place a man can have power.

  Eventually, I get used to the sweeping corners and the sensation that we’re on the edge of control enough to shout.

  “How fast are we going?”

  “About fifty,” Dylan calls back.

  “Are you sure?”

  He clarifies, “About fifty over the limit.”

  “Fuck!”

  After about twenty more minutes of some of the most reckless riding I’ve ever seen in my life, Dylan pulls in at some small bar set on one of the hills in a small alcove. There’s a long row of bikes that are similar to Dylan’s, and the rough wood of the walls along with the dangerous-looking men standing around outside make it seem like the kind of bar a girl like me should not be at.

  Nevertheless, I quickly get off the bike and step in front of Dylan as he gets off, my legs shaking. When he turns to me, I punch him on the shoulder as hard as I can.

  “Are you fucking crazy? You could have got us killed!”

  Dylan laughs and rubs his shoulder a little, though I know it didn’t hurt. It would take a pickaxe to hurt muscles that tight.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it? I thought you were a rollercoaster kind of girl, Gemma.”

  “That was not a rollercoaster. That was a stupid, maniacal thing to do.”

  “Ok, maybe,” Dylan nods, before stepping towards me, reaching his arms out to clasp my shoulders. “But tell me this – how sexy do you feel right now? You feel alive, right?”

  I can’t deny the rush of adrenaline pumping through me, but it’s not making me feel grateful. Instead of answering Dylan, I whack both of his arms away and step back. Casting another look at the bar I realize there’s another problem right now.

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “This is Neptune’s Net biker bar. Best fried fish around. How about we go inside, I buy you a basket, and you let me make it up to you?”

  Before I can answer, Dylan’s walking off towards the entrance. I look at the bike, then at the long road we’ve just travelled down, sigh deeply, and follow the man that’s becoming a giant pain in my ass.

  I check my phone and find a couple of messages from the assistant director and some of the crew, asking where I – or more specifically, Dylan – went. Complete with some not-so-friendly reminders that we should be on the set about now.

  I consider texting back some excuse about us grabbing lunch and returning soon, but stop myself – it’s the first day, and I’m not about to start making excuses already. I’ll just have to get Dylan back as soon as possible, then explain in person what happened. Maybe I can say I wasn’t sure about how the lunch breaks work – which is kind of true. Either way, the sooner I get Dylan back, the better.

  When I enter the bar Dylan’s already sitting next to the window. He turns to look at me for a second before returning his gaze out the window towards either his bike or the ocean. Probably his bike. I stalk over to the table.

  “Dylan, we have to get back to the set. Now!”

  “But I’ve just ordered,” he says, as calm as anything.

  “It’s the first day!” I say, loud enough to make everyone in the bar look at me. “We can’t just disappear like this!”

  Dylan breaks into a smile that’s so small I know it’s meant for himself and not me.

  “Relax, Gemma. Everybody’s got to eat. It’s a lunch break. What? Is that too ‘wild’ for you now?”

  I press my fingers against my temples, and breathe deeply. I can feel the start of a headache coming on, as if I’ve been bashing my head against a brick wall – although even that would probably be easier than reasoning with Dylan.

  I slump into a chair opposite him, check my watch, and look around nervously until the food arrives, every second feeling like an eternity.

  When the crisp, golden fish and cross-cut fries arrive at our table, I realize how hungry I am and manage to push the sense of impending doom aside.

  “I didn’t order beers,” Dylan says, sliding a soda toward me in between bites, “figured you’d get in trouble for drinking on the job.”

  I glare at him for a second before getting back to my food, eating quickly so that we can get back as soon as possible.

  “You know, the last time I had a babysitter was when I was ten. It was my first kiss.”

  I ignore his attempt at a joke (though maybe it’s not a joke at all) and scowl. “Please just eat up so we can get the hell out of here,” I say, quickly returning to my food.

  “How do you even get a job like this?” he asks. “I mean, do you like ordering me around? Spying on me wherever I go?”

  “What I like is keeping things in order and keeping them running smoothly,” I grind out.

  Dylan shakes his head. “I never understood people who like playing by the rules.”

  I throw my knife and fork down, glaring at Dylan with irritation tickling my body along every single limb.

  Dylan smiles as he chews, then puts his food down.

  “You are one buttoned-up little bundle of nerves, aren’t you?” he says.

  I breathe deeply.

  “And you’re a fucking mess of poor character traits,” I hiss.

  Dylan jerks back like I hit him.

  “Ouch!” he says, laughing and grabbing his soda. “I can’t argue with that though.”

  I pick up my knife and fork again
and try to continue eating, but my mind is now stuck on one thought – which I’m noticing as a pattern whenever I’m around Dylan. I look up from my food and see that he’s still looking at me.

  “I don’t get you, Dylan. I really don’t,” I say, with a sigh. “You’ve got everything right now. This movie could be awesome. All you have to do is fucking show up on time and do what you’re good at. It’s your chance to prove everybody wrong, to show that you’ve still got it. Instead you seem determined to screw up every chance life gives you. What is it? Why are you pushing back so hard? We’ve haven’t even officially begun shooting and you’ve already tried to fuck me in your trailer and then run away without telling anyone.”

  Dylan’s smile disappears as I talk, and I notice the other side of him take over, the one with the thousand-yard stare and the face of someone with too many secrets he can’t forget.

  “I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”

  “But you want to, don’t you? Otherwise you’d be on a beach somewhere – God knows you have enough money. Instead you’re acting again – or saying you will, at least.”

  Dylan gazes out of the window for a moment, like he can’t bear to look at the kind of person who would ask that question.

  “I need to use the restroom,” he says. I watch him stand up and step past me and towards the bathroom at the back. I debate standing outside the door of the men’s room in case he might be up to no good in there, but I know treating him like a rebellious teenager I can’t even trust to take a piss would only make things worse between us.

  Instead I look down at my food, wondering what the hell is going on with Dylan for the fiftieth time since I’ve met him. Everything he does seems to contradict the last thing. He goes from teasingly humorous to pent-up anger in seconds. Being around him is like living somewhere the weather changes three times a day. You have no idea why, can’t prepare for it, and it ends up making you feel like a mess.

  I slowly try and force myself to eat a little more but I’m so completely in my head now that my body feels numb. I look around the bar at leather-clad bikers drinking nonchalantly, a few girls chatting away. I turn back to my food. They seemed to leave me alone when they noticed Dylan, but I’m not going to push my luck.