Say You Love Her

by Z. L. Arkadie

  She grimaces like an angry but sexy wild animal. “You wanted to find someone here, didn’t you?”

  There’s an edge to my chuckle. “No. I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “That implies that I knew you’d be in there fucking my friend and the director of our movie.”

  “Why did you come over here in the first place?”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  I glare into her electric blue eyes. “Because I wanted to fuck you,” I say, hoping it makes her feel cheap.

  But Monroe makes a bold move and massages my dick. “If that’s all you wanted, then you can stay and Shane can go.”

  She smells like papaya and sex. She’s working me good, and I want her to get me off.

  “Stop,” I say, my voice feeble.

  She shakes her head. “Uh-uh.”

  She unzips my pants to rub me off skin on skin. I smash my mouth onto her parted lips. She tastes so damn good.

  “Monroe, what the hell are you doing?” Shane shouts from the other side of the bridge.

  I’m this close to spraying her hand before I come to my goddamn senses and pull away from her.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, out of breath.

  Her lips are still looking for mine. “No, Charlie. I can tell him to leave.”

  “It’s too late.” I zip my dick back into my pants. “See you Monday!” I back away from her and get the hell to my car.

  Bad shit runs through my mind as I drive away. Monroe has me all hot and bothered, but I still want to finish with Daisy. “Shit.” I’m right back at square one.

  I drive down the hill to The W in Westwood since I can use a few rounds of something strong to drink. I give the valet an extra hundred to park my Ferrari in a safe spot. Once inside, I take the one empty seat at the bar.

  “A Rusty Nail?” the bartender asks. He knows me and what I like. I’m real bad at remembering names, but I recognize his face. Maggie says I can’t remember names because I’m commitment-phobic. I don’t know how the two equate. She never explains, and I never ask her to elaborate since she’s the pot calling the kettle black. I give her and Vincent Adams a solid two weeks before she starts finding dumb shit wrong with him.

  “Get me a whiskey straight. No ice,” I say. It’s Friday night, and I’m hopping on the bullet train to hammered city.

  There are plenty of girls out, the kind you usually find in these parts, “aspiring” actresses and models, not the real kind. A lot of them are sizing me up, including the one who just pulled up next to me. I’m not interested in her. She reminds me too much of Andy, Annie, or whatever the fuck her name was. I search in the opposite direction, looking for another easy lay.

  I size up a raven-haired woman with brown eyes and tan skin. She reminds me of Pocahontas, the cartoon version. She’s as frail as hell, so she must be an actress. She’s at the edge of the bar, standing with another woman. They must’ve come together. I wave at Pocahontas. She beams and looks away shyly.

  “Should I put it on your tab?” the bartender asks.

  I look away from Pocahontas to ask him, “Hey, what’s your name again?”

  “Donnie.”

  Got it, Donnie. “Yeah,” I say, determined not to forget it from this point on. I’m no commitment-phobe.

  I turn my gaze back on the raven-haired woman. She’s still grinning. I smirk. I’ve caught the fish, and now it’s time to reel her in.

  Her name is Lilia or Lila or Lake. It takes two martinis, made by Donnie, and a little bit of telling her how beautiful she is to get her to join me, and then a constant flow of whiskey in the “Extreme Wow Suite.”

  We go slowly at first. I peel off her tiny dress. I unclip her bra in the front, right between her apple-sized tits. I taste those tits, biting the stiff nipple and sucking it until my dick hardens. She quivers. I push her down on the bed because she’s wet and soft and ready for it. Lila is panting and twisting her body.

  “Please hurry,” she whines.

  I snatch my shirt off, take one of the condoms out of my wallet, rip it open, drop my pants, and slide it on. I want this. I want to fuck Laila and not Daisy. I close my eyes and spread myself on top of her and give her what she’s been begging for. I fill her up, and she lets out a high-pitched gasp. Her warmth and moisture engulf my dick. She’s not that tight but tight enough.

  By Saturday morning, I don’t need a vision of Daisy to keep me in the moment with what’s her name. I order breakfast from room service and plenty of bourbon, gin, and whiskey to last until Monday morning.

  “So, Charlie, what do you do for a living?” Lila spoons cottage cheese in her mouth. She’s having a cup of fruit, a quarter cup of cottage cheese, and a cup of green tea for breakfast.

  “I’m making a movie.” I break a blueberry scone in half, take a bite out of one, and offer her the other half. “Want a taste?”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m trying to take weight off, not put it on.”

  I snort. There’s no use in telling her that she’d be sexier a little heavier. It’ll just fall on deaf ears.

  “Are you a director?” she asks.

  “Financer.”

  “Financer of what?”

  “Movies.” Well, a movie.

  She perks up. “Oh!”

  “Yeah, oh.”

  That’s all it takes for her to spread her legs and ask if I want to eat anything else. I have a rule. I don’t eat pussy unless I’m in a relationship or if it’s Monroe—or Daisy. Instead I tear another condom out of the package. I choose to fuck her instead.

  By Sunday night I’m certain that her name is Lydia. She waitresses at one of the nearby chain restaurants, and she skipped her shift to stay here with me.

  “I kind of love you,” she confesses while lying naked across the bed.

  I slump in a chair, gripping a bottle of bourbon. She doesn’t turn me on anymore. “Don’t,” I mutter.

  “It’s too late.” She flips onto her back and gazes at the ceiling. “So are they still auditioning for the movie you’re making?”

  Suddenly I’m experiencing every ounce of the deprivation that landed me in a hotel suite with a chick I’ll never see again after this weekend. I think about Monroe and Shane together. All I needed was for her to be home alone when I showed up. Or at least boning the UPS guy or the mailman instead of Shane.

  “I might have a part for you,” I say, thinking about waltzing into tomorrow’s meeting with Pocahontas on my arm. Drunk, I slam the empty bottle on the tabletop and go to the living room to lock my wallet and keys in the safe. But I rip one more condom off the roll before heading back to the bedroom.

  “Are you fucking with me?” she asks when I return. My brand new erection is pointing at her face.

  “I will be in about five seconds,” I say, smirking.

  She crawls across the bed and takes hold of my dick. I know what’s coming next. “You better not be screwing with me,” she says before sinking her mouth onto my dick.

  “Oh shit,” I whisper as she licks me like an ice cream cone. I whimper when she takes me in so deep that I’m hitting the back of her throat. It fucking pays to be making a movie in this town.

  Chapter 2

  A Change of Direction

  It’s Monday morning. The production meeting is scheduled for ten a.m. I streak down the streets of L.A. in the Ferrari on my way to the studio lot in Culver City. I have Lila or Linda in the car with me. I arrive fifteen minutes late. Lila latches on to my arm. She wobbles all the way to the trailer as if she were still intoxicated from our weekend of excessive sex and strong libations.

  Lily trips up the short steps and giggles as I grab her by the hips to steady her. We stumble the rest of the way into the meeting, causing a ruckus. Monroe scowls at the sex-stained girl. The look of scorn on her face is satisfying. Mission accomplished.

  I tell what’s-her-name to take a seat in the back
of the room. I recognize every face except the one sitting next to the empty chair that’s been reserved for me. Funny. Her lips, and the shape of her eyes and face, are familiar.

  I sit down. “How are you?”

  She smiles slightly. “Fine thank, you.”

  I regret that I smell like I’ve been drinking and fucking all weekend. The stranger is beautiful. Her eyes and skin are cinnamon brown. I’m consumed by whatever the hell energy it is she’s emitting.

  “You’re late, Chuck,” Monroe says from the power seat at the head of the table.

  “L.A. traffic,” I say and turn back to steal another glance at the stranger.

  Monroe points a hand at her. “So, you brought in another story editor?” she asks.

  “I hired you?” I ask the beautiful woman, surprised.

  “Yes, I’m Angelina.”

  It takes a moment for her name to ring a bell. “You’re Daisy’s sister?”

  “Um, yes. Belmont contacted you last week. He told you I was a story editor. Mary, your assistant, messengered me the book and the script. I read both, and I have notes and revisions.” She sounded like she was asking a question instead of explaining how she ended up here.

  I expect Monroe to flip her lid after hearing the word “revisions,” but she doesn’t. Suddenly it dawns on me that she’s too clever to offend Daisy’s sister without knowing much about her. She’s been kissing Daisy’s mother, Heloise Krantz’s, ass and then there’s famed composer Jacques Blanchard, Daisy’s father. Monroe doesn’t want to offend the offspring of either one of them. All I know about Angelina is that she’s five years younger than Daisy, and the product of an affair Jacques had with Madame Josephine Beauchamp, a renowned Creole jazz singer from New Orleans. I remember telling Jack that Monroe’s rewrite of the script was comically bad. That was when he mentioned that Angelina had been a story editor for three major films and is supposed to be pretty good. I forgot that I asked him to have her contact Pearl Colby, the producer.

  “We’ll talk about this after we’re done here,” Monroe says.

  I shrug in agreement.

  Monroe goes right into a discussion about me signing off on the new script by the end of the day because we start shooting on the Universal lot next Tuesday.

  Pearl’s plump face twists into a severe scowl. “You pushed production up a week when we haven’t even finalized the fucking script that you changed. Did you know about this, Charlie?”

  I open my mouth, tongue-tied. The answer is no.

  “And,” Monroe says, challenging her.

  “And we might have to add cast—”

  “We won’t,” Monroe interjects.

  “Reschedule locations—”

  “We won’t have to.”

  “Revise budgets—”

  “I say we just go with the very first script and—”

  “Forget it,” I say, noticing how Angelina is tapping the butt of her pencil nervously against a marked-up page inside of her notebook. “Angelina’s been hired to fix the script, so that’s what she’s going to do.”

  Monroe huffs and rolls her eyes. “I still think my last draft is fine. It reflects the book. The last time I checked, I was number two on the NYT best-sellers list.”

  “Hey, I’m only putting my money on the script that Angelina fixes.”

  “That’s perfect. You can fund that script, and we can just make my movie with mine.”

  I snort and shrug indifferently. “Sounds fine to me as long as your script has nothing to do with your book, which I own the film rights for.”

  She grits her teeth. “I could just take your ass to court.”

  I remain cool, calm, and composed. “Haven’t we been here already?”

  There’s a release of collective sighs. Everyone’s tired of the bickering.

  “It doesn’t need to be fixed, Charlie,” she roars in a last-ditch effort to get her way. “Isn’t that right, Shane?”

  Shane’s eyes expand like a deer’s trapped in headlights. “Uh,” he says. He looks at me, probably hoping I’ll pull him out of this tough spot.

  “It needs to be fixed,” Angelina says in a small voice. In one fell swoop all eyes are on her. She looks down bashfully. “But like Charles said, we can fix it.”

  “Charlie,” I say.

  I gaze at her as she nods. “Okay, Charlie.” She cuts her eyes to Pearl. “And I’ve also read the original script. I’ve figured out a way to keep the essential elements intact so you can stay on your production schedule.”

  Pearl grunts in relief and says, “I’m happy to hear it.”

  I wonder what Angelina’s thinking when she shifts her gaze away from my face and stares at Monroe, who, along with everyone else in the room, had observed our brief eye-lock. Something is going on between us. It’s still pulsing through me. What in the hell is it?

  “Fine, we’ll go over the script after this meeting like I already said,” Monroe says snippily. “Now let’s discuss Mandy Hill. She’s finally agreed to play Clara Richardson.”

  “Hell no,” I say. “What the hell happened to Jennifer Woodson?”

  “She backed out,” Pearl replies, glaring at Monroe as though it was her fault.

  Monroe sighs loudly as she rolls her eyes. “Mandy already knows the lines, so don’t make a big deal out of this, Charlie.”

  “How can she know the lines when I warned you that under no circumstances do I want Mandy Hill involved in this movie?”

  “Is this how we’re going to conduct business from now until we wrap? This shit has gotten old, and we’ve only just started,” Pearl grumbles.

  I jab a finger in Monroe’s direction. “She’s the one who’s making this hard,” I say.

  “I’m not the only one who’s making things hard for you, Charlie Lord.” Monroe points at Pocahontas. I’d forgotten she was in the room. “Who is she, and why is she here?”

  “Who, Lydia?” I ask, wondering what the hell she has to do with making things hard for me.

  Lydia blinks, offended. “My name is Lilac!” she yells at me. “And I’m an actress. Charlie invited me to the meeting, as an actress.” She throws that last part in just as a reminder. She’s seeking restitution for blowing off her job in order to keep me company all weekend long, which was her decision, not mine.

  “Yes, I know he invited you. But why?” Monroe is being harsh.

  I jump to my feet. The time has come for Lilac to go home. “Keep talking movie stuff. I’ll be back,” I say as I lead her out of the trailer. She’s kind of reluctant to leave but follows anyway.

  “What the fuck is going on, Charlie?” she yells as soon as we’re outside. “You promised me a part!”

  “Actually, I didn’t promise you anything. I said maybe there’s a part. But you blew it when you opened your mouth.”

  “I didn’t say anything wrong.”

  “You spoke. That was wrong. You should’ve let me handle it. If you hadn’t noticed, shit was already strenuous in there.”

  She grits her teeth. “You didn’t remember my name. And is the bitchy bitch your girlfriend?”

  I ignore the question and take her by the hand. “Let’s go. I’ll call you a cab.”

  She snatches her hand back and whacks me across the face. “Fuck you, you lying asshole!”

  I didn’t see that coming, but I take it because not only is she a girl and I don’t hit chicks but I deserve it.

  She stomps toward the front gates. Her tiny heels beat the pavement. I hate that I’m relieved to see her go. Maggie calls me a scoundrel every now and then, and that’s exactly what I feel like.

  I lean against the trailer, watching Lilac until she’s out of sight. I’m bummed. I need a cigarette, but I haven’t smoked in three years. Plus, it’s hard to bum cigarettes in LA. Smoking is a dying habit in this city since you can hardly find a place to do it legally. Instead I take some deep breaths. Spring air in L.A. smells and tastes like mud. I can feel an old familiar friend waking up inside of me. I don’t kno
w who the hell he is, but he doesn’t want to be here. He hates meetings and power struggles over shit that doesn’t matter. He wants to ask Angelina if she wants to get out of here, take her home, and fuck until he knows a lot more about her than he does now. He hasn’t felt this way about a girl since he first saw Daisy. I shake my head. I can’t let my old friend rule my dick and my brain anymore. So I push him back into his hiding place. After another long breath, I’m in the right frame of mind and ready to rejoin the meeting.

  I’m back in my seat. Angelina turns in my direction. We lock eyes for a fraction of a second. It’s satisfying to know that she acknowledges my return. Pearl is confirming the line items for the budget.

  “All we need is a final script so that we can plan the rest of the shooting schedule.”

  “Then Angelina and I will get it finalized,” Monroe says, which surprises the hell out of me.

  I raise my hand. “What am I, chopped liver? I’m working with Angelina on the script. However, you can join us.”

  Monroe sighs. “Whatever.”

  I swear she’s possessed by Maggie, or maybe it’s the other way around.

  The meeting ends. Only the three of us remain in the room. Being alone with Angelina and Monroe makes me nervous. Monroe takes off her sweater. She’s wearing a tight tank top. She brushes a pile of her hair to one side of her shoulder. Angelina has on tight black stretchy pants and a plaid shirt. I’m getting an idea of what’s under her clothes as she unpacks her copy of the script, a notebook, and a laptop from her bag. She doesn’t notice the way Monroe is watching me. Monroe is still in foreplay mode. I’m not sure if I’m with her. Angelina powers on her laptop and asks us to hover. She points out weak “beats” and “plot points” and “character action.” She asks Monroe what she meant to say. Monroe answers. Angelina rewrites the scene right there on the spot. Surprisingly, Monroe doesn’t fight her on even one point. Despite behaving like the queen bee, she really cares about how this movie turns out. Thirty-five pages in, at the end of act one, Angelina tilts her head and asks Monroe, “This story isn’t true, is it?”