The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  Evie gave him a withering look. “Don’t patronize me. It’s meant to be about bisexuality. I thought you guys liked that. I thought you wanted someone different. What about all that stuff about needing a host with a ‘bloody personality’?”

  Kelly frowned.

  Too late Evie realized that was what Evie had heard, not Chloe. “Evie may have mentioned that. My roommate.”

  “We do want the bisexual stuff,” Kelly said. “It’s just . . . not in the first episode.”

  “So this is a different story,” Evie said. “More heteronormative bullshit.”

  Kelly crouched down next to her. “I’m on your side, Chloe. But if we come out of the gates with that sort of story, we’ll turn people off. We become niche, when we want to be broad.” His tone of voice suggested he was letting her in on a very important secret. “This way, we get the viewers in, establish trust, build an audience. Then we can push boundaries. I promise.”

  Evie regarded her producer doubtfully. “Are you at least going to interview queer people for the on-the-street footage?”

  “Sure.” Kelly nodded. “Absolutely. If we find them, definitely.”

  “If you find them? This is New York—”

  “Mate, any more holdups chew into the ‘Feminist Action Hero’ shoot this arvo,” Kelly said.

  “Kelly?” Rich called. “Can we keep moving?”

  Kelly looked back at Evie. “Are we good?”

  This was shitty, and she couldn’t tell if Kelly was lying to her or not. “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, mate.” Kelly squeezed Evie’s shoulder. “Let’s not let Marcello’s hard work go to waste. You look gorgeous.”

  A smile crept to Evie’s lips. She shook it away. “No, I don’t.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Kelly leaned toward her ear. His breath smelled like coffee and cigarettes. “I can see what she sees in you.” He nodded at the studio entrance. Sitting on a small desk was a huge bouquet of flowers. “They just came for you. Looks like you really made an impression on Velma Wolff, Chloe.”

  Kelly drifted back behind the camera. Evie didn’t even see him leave. The bouquet was enormous, a gorgeous garden of lilies and roses and hydrangeas. And it was from Velma Wolff. It was all she could do to keep from bolting across the studio floor to see if there was a card. Every nerve ending prickled and pulsed. Velma Wolff had sent her flowers.

  “Ready to go again?” Rich called.

  Evie looked back at the teleprompter. An enormous grin plastered her face, summoning the dimples she knew looked absolutely adorable. “Ready.”

  32.

  After finally nailing the Dream-Girl-Ignoring-the-Hotness-That-Is-Tristan moment, it was lunchtime. Krista had loitered around Tristan’s enormous silver trailer for ten full minutes before she screwed up the courage to knock. She coughed a little from the woodsy-smelling smoke, blinking into the semidarkness. “Hello?”

  Tristan sat cross-legged on a white leather couch, hands placed serenely on his knees. He opened his eyes. “Lenka.”

  “Sorry.” Krista hovered in the darkened doorway. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “That’s okay.” Tristan stood and stretched. “Come on in.”

  A burst of adrenaline whizzed through her veins. She. Was. In. Tristan’s. Trailer. And it was all because of the Pretty. Krista Kumar had no business being in a former-pop-slash-current-movie-star’s inner sanctum. But Lenka Penka? She did.

  “I just got back from a meditation retreat in Phuket.” Tristan opened a kitchen cabinet, fished out a glass, and switched on the faucet. “It’s incredible how noisy our minds can be, without us even noticing.”

  “Totally, I hate that.” Krista’s eyes raked over everything, trying to absorb as many details at once. Kitchenette, with a sink, two-burner stove, minifridge, and microwave. The white couch sat flush against one wall. A Formica-topped table jutted out next to it, with a couple of chairs under it. On the other side of where she was standing was a narrow door, open to reveal the corner of a toilet and shower stall. Beyond that, another door. Presumably, the bedroom. She’d be able to get a good look at that later.

  Something was nestled in bubble wrap on the kitchen bench. A gold statue of a little man with a bald head. A trophy. Tween King! Lifetime Achievement Award was etched across the base. She’d seen him accept it live on MTV. “Oh my god,” she said, and reached for it.

  “Hey!” He grabbed her wrist, her fingertips inches from the tiny bald man.

  Krista flinched, yanking her hand back.

  “Lenka.” Tristan gathered himself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just—” He made his lips into a circle, like he was searching for the right way to phrase something. “That’s not a trophy. Anymore. It’s more like a talisman. It’s something that Umsa blessed for me.” In response to Krista’s look of confusion, he added, “Umsa is my spiritual adviser.”

  “Your . . . what?”

  “My guru. Mentor. No, like a . . . guide, I guess.” Tristan sighed. “It’s complicated. Maybe one day, I’ll explain it to you. But for now . . . please don’t touch it.”

  “Oh.” Krista pouted. “All right.”

  Tristan positioned himself between her and the statue. “So, Lenka. What can I do for you?”

  “I thought we could go over some of our scenes. Maybe then I won’t suck so badly,” she added, with a rueful yet sexy smile.

  Tristan took a deep breath though his nose and half closed his eyes, evidently deaf to Krista’s self-deprecation. “I’m feeling that. Sure, why not?” He picked up a script that was lying on the table.

  Krista took a seat in the middle of the sofa. Tristan sat at the far end of it. “Okay, so the carnival scene,” he said, flipping his script open. “I’m really feeling this is when Zach is starting to see Dream Girl in a different light. What do you think?”

  What Krista thought was that Tristan was not acting like someone digging her neon-bright Open for Business vibes. “Hey, let’s free ourselves from these.” Krista plucked Tristan’s script from his hands and tossed it aside. “I find them way too prescriptive. I use a method that’s much more . . . primal.”

  Her costar shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “I work from—” Krista’s gaze landed on her sandals. Her leopard-print sandals. “Animal metaphors.” The idea came lightning quick, energizing her further still. Performing Lenka for Tristan was a thousand times easier than performing Dream Girl for Greg. “Like in this scene, I’m a lioness and you’re the lion.”

  Tristan nodded, eyes alive with interest. “Yeah. Yeah, I like it. Primal. Intense. Should we give it a go?”

  “Yes!” Krista jumped to her feet. “Okay, I’ll start here. You go over there.” She pointed to the far end of the trailer.

  “Awesome!” Tristan bounded over. “Hands and knees? On the ground?”

  “Yep.” Krista nodded. That’d be better for her cleavage. “You have to commit, okay?”

  He nodded, face serious. “Absolutely, Lenka.”

  Tristan closed his eyes. Krista suppressed a grin. Then she drew herself inward. I am lioness, she told herself, queen of the Serengeti. Tristan is my mate: my strong lion-y mate. She arched her back and wiggled her butt. When she refocused, Tristan was staring at her, forehead lowered, eyes blazing. An electric thrill zipped through her.

  Tristan let out a low rawr.

  Krista responded in turn.

  He crawled one step toward her.

  She stayed where she was.

  He crawled a little more. His eyes didn’t leave her. She could almost hear a hollow, rhythmic drumbeat as he approached her, building in intensity. Their eyes were locked. The air was charged.

  And in that moment, she was a lioness and he was a lion, their fur golden and coarse, rippling over their muscular bodies, paws enormous, teeth sharp, eyes a brilliant tawny gold.

  He came closer. She felt a pull toward him, immediate and elemental. It was basic instinct, it was an indecent proposal. />
  He snarled.

  She snarled.

  He sat back on his haunches, ready to strike, ready to take her, and she wanted him to, she needed him to. He roared, about to kiss her, about to devour her—

  Krista’s head dove forward, expecting to find Tristan’s mouth, but instead: air. Tristan had popped to his feet. “Whoa,” he breathed. “I really felt that.”

  Disappointment sliced through her, quick as a paper cut. But surprisingly, what she felt more powerfully was . . . satisfaction. Creative clarity. The flush of success that washed through her was as warm, as vindicating, as applause. “Me too,” Krista admitted. “I really felt like a lion just then.”

  “If we can tap into that on camera, that’ll give Dream Girl and Zach serious chemistry.” He grinned at her, amazed. “Awesome technique, Lenka.”

  “Thanks.” Krista grinned back.

  Tristan checked the time on his phone. “Okay, I have to get to set, but when I get back, let’s try the hot dog scene. Maybe we can be monkeys.”

  Krista nodded. “Totally! Yes!”

  Tristan put one hand on her shoulder and squeezed. For one wild second, she thought he was going to pull her toward him, plant his mouth on hers. But instead Tristan just smiled at her and bounded out of the trailer.

  Knees weak, Krista sank to the sofa, a quivering mess of happy. It was happening. They had chemistry. Just like Dream Girl and Zach did. Krista closed her eyes. She imagined Tristan’s mouth on hers, kissing her softly, sweetly, hands tangled in her hair. He was in a crisp, dark tux, while she was wearing a long white dress. And it was Krista, not Lenka, kissing Tristan back . . .

  Krista’s eyes flew open.

  That was a wedding fantasy. Unbidden. She thumped the side of her head with her palm. Tristan wasn’t going to fall in love with Lenka Penka. And he certainly wasn’t going to fall in love with Krista Kumar: he wasn’t even going to meet her.

  Krista drew in a deep breath and sighed. Time to start waiting around again. Maybe there’d be more cupcakes in craft services. But when she glimpsed the ordinary, unspecial world bustling outside Tristan’s trailer, she paused. The Pretty was her passport into this trailer. And it wasn’t going to last forever. And part of being an engaged, forward-thinking adult was saying yes to things, to grabbing life by the coattails and hanging on. And Tristan hadn’t told her to leave: not explicitly.

  Quietly, Krista pulled the trailer door shut.

  33.

  Her key entered his lock with deceptive ease. She hadn’t wanted it. “For emergencies,” Mark had said, pressing the piece of metal with its bronze teeth into her palm. His breath was tangy with whiskey; liquid courage for a bold offer. “Just in case.”

  Willow had never used it. Until now. All things considered, it felt like it should be harder to use. But the key slid into place like a knife slicing through silk.

  She stood in the doorway, absorbing the quiet. From here, the chatter of Tenth Street was muffled into an almost imperceptible soundtrack. Afternoon light snuck in through the half-open blinds.

  Mark’s apartment.

  She knew he wasn’t here, a fact she’d double-checked minutes earlier in the foyer. She’d called his work and been told Mr. Salzburg was in a meeting until 5 p.m.

  So she was alone.

  She closed the door behind her. The lock clicked slowly, soft as a kiss. Her heart was racing, at odds with the quiet familiarity that spread out before her: a bachelor pad in still life.

  Neat. Clean. Unassuming.

  Just like Mark.

  Just like her boyfriend, Mark.

  She drifted forward, fingertips flitting over the back of the sofa, the edge of a lamp. The contents of his fridge were predictably sparse: a six-pack of Sierra Nevada, soggy Chinese takeout, a jar of sad-looking pickles. The dishes were done, dry in the rack. A plate, a bowl, a water glass. Nothing surprising.

  Do I want to be surprised?

  The black bag full of camera gear was under Mark’s bed. A postproduction company had sent it to her father as a gift: he’d given it to her, and she’d given it to Mark. Her real camera was at home, of course, and thus, off-limits. She was avoiding Matteo and Claire.

  Unzipping the bag, she found the camera, lenses, even a little tripod. Mark wouldn’t notice its absence. But that wasn’t all. She was after . . . something else.

  She toed a towel on the bathroom floor, still a little damp. She flushed the toilet. The sudden rush of water sounded almost musical. Back in the living room, she looked through the mail that had accumulated on the side table next to the door. A Time Warner bill, pre-approved credit cards from Citibank, a flyer for Barry’s Bootcamp.

  And then . . . something.

  Her heartbeat, which had settled, complacent, picked up again. Underneath the pile of mail was a beer coaster. Thick, round cardboard, emblazoned with a logo, website, and street address. It was dotted with red. Like splashes of blood. Or red wine.

  It was a coaster for Lenny’s.

  She flipped it over. On the back was a sketch. Simply done, probably with one of the mechanical pencils Mark always carried with him.

  It was a girl, with impossibly large eyes, an impossibly long neck, and impossibly sweet lips.

  Caroline.

  Her chest was rising and falling now, the initial shock becoming something else, something infectious and terminal spreading throughout her body. When she realized it was probably from last night, when she sat with Mark drinking three glasses of shiraz, the feeling spread from her chest and into her limbs, filling her head with a dull roar, a horrible, wonderful feeling, as if she were the coaster: absorbing everything, staining, growing heavy.

  Be unsafe.

  And then she was moving.

  Rushing to unzip the bag still on Mark’s bed, fit the lenses, set up the tripod. Hurrying, so she wouldn’t miss it.

  She didn’t.

  Because when Meredith opened an email less than an hour later, the curator’s chest constricted. The email contained no words, only twelve black-and-white portraits. Caroline, face a perfect lake of misery. Caroline, a single tear streaking down her cheek. Caroline, lips parted in a silent sob.

  It was the agony of youth, the ecstasy of beauty, and as those words formed in Meredith’s mind, she knew she had something. Really had something.

  Meredith’s email back to Willow was just a single word.

  “Brilliant.”

  34.

  The thrill of hanging out in Tristan McKell’s trailer refused to dissipate. Even though it reminded her of a not-that-amazing hotel room, it had an aura. Krista could feel it. Plus, when Tristan came back they could pretend to be monkeys, animals that had a refreshingly liberal attitude toward sex.

  She tucked her legs underneath her, snuggling into the sofa, letting herself relax. Her imagination sashayed to Tristan’s face, his perfect, slightly stubbly face. Strong shoulders that looked good in a suit, and there he is, smiling eagerly, standing under an arch of red roses, holding out a ring with a rock the size of a golf ball . . . Krista started, jerking her eyes open. No, she instructed herself. Not a wedding. Sex. Just. Sex.

  She closed her eyes again, determined to keep it dirty. She pictured Tristan, throwing her onto a king-sized bed, then ripping off his pants as smoothly as a stripper. Tristan, pulling her toward him with pro-athlete arms. A warm ripple swished through her body, its final flourish ending in her clit. She slid her fingers under the band of her underwear. She could masturbate. In Tristan’s trailer. So naughty. Such a turn-on.

  Tristan, glorious as a god, taking her from behind. Tristan, face enveloped by her pussy as she rode his mouth like a prizewinning jockey. Tristan, hog-tied and helpless and loving every second of it. Tristan, Tristan, Tristan!

  She was barely conscious of reaching for the Tween King trophy. Horniness was a hot veil, culminating in a driving urge to be penetrated by anything. She groaned as the smooth gold head slipped inside her. The size was perfect and Tristan was back in her fantasi
es, in crystal-clear focus and surround sound. Tristan, making it rain as she swung around a pole in a trashy stripper’s outfit; Tristan, tying her up and spanking her like a naughty schoolgirl; Tristan, on top of her, biceps rippling as he thrust into her, again and again and again, about to come, close to climax, nearly there, yes, yes, yes—

  “Jesus!”

  A male voice—not from her fantasy. Krista’s eyes flew open.

  Damian and a girl PA stood in his trailer’s open doorway. The duo were rooted to the spot, twin expressions summed up simply as What the fuck?

  “Shit.” Krista pulled the trophy out from between her legs, sweaty, still delirious.

  The female PA gasped. Damian made a choking noise.

  “I was just . . . waiting for Tristan to come back.” Krista struggled to pull her underwear back up, her skirt back down.

  When Damian spoke, his words were slow and disbelieving. “You fucked Tristan’s Tween King trophy.”

  Krista glanced down at the trophy-slash-dildo in her hand, glistening gently in the overhead light. “Yeah. But it totally made the first move.” She chuckled lamely.

  No one else laughed. The PAs exchanged a horrified glance. In a squeaky voice, Damian said, “Lenka, why don’t you come with me? We need you out of here.”

  “I’ll wash it,” Krista offered, but Damian raised his palm in immediate protest.

  “Just, oh god, just give it to me.”

  Krista handed it over.

  She followed the two PAs away from Tristan’s trailer, head bowed.

  Those had not been the actions of a forward-thinking adult who was saying yes to life.

  They had been the actions of someone who was literally insane.

  35.

  Deciding what to wear for an actual date with Velma Wolff caused Evie to have a minor mental breakdown. Her bedroom floor was a sea of discarded options. Of course, nothing could happen with Velma. Like, really happen. Chloe was an impostor. A spy. A double agent with a limited life span. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t excited. And curious. Could she, Evie Selby, hold her own on a date with a celebrity?