Hearts Unleashed

by Julia Dumont

  “I made this piece to please only myself. I tried to make my own thoughts on love and relationships and human bondage manifest, custom-made for this spectacular living space overlooking a downtown that is an unrecovered time capsule of another age. And my neighbors and I are trying to help drag it into the 21st century.”

  Cynthia liked him. He reminded her of Pete. But when it came down to it, she liked Pete more. Plus, she kept thinking about Ava. Where was she? Was she mingling? Was this entire enterprise a total bust? She wasn’t here for herself. And somehow, weirdly, she could see Timothy and Ava together.

  “Timothy,” she said, “have you met Ava yet?”

  “No, not really. I saw her across the deck earlier.”

  “Because,” she said, “I don’t know…I think maybe you should.”

  “But I thought I was in the middle of meeting you,” said Timothy.

  “Yeah, well, yes, that’s true, you were. I like you and I’m flattered. But I’ve already got one musician. I think I do anyway. In any case, I’m not in the market for another one at the moment.”

  She called Ava.

  “Cynthia?”

  “Yup. What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m with an old friend and a new friend. Just talking. About you.”

  “Oh, God, don’t tell me. Max and who else? Oh, Ava, I’m so sorry…I should have told you that I know him. And warned you about him. I also have a history with Jack. I’m so embarrassed at how incestuous this night has become. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. Max is just a friend. And we’re only saying good things about you. Lolita’s here too.”

  “Oh. Well. Good. I guess?”

  “Yeah,” said Ava. “It is good. She’s marvelous. I do wish I could have met someone tonight, but I’m in a good place. Maybe next time. I’m getting the distinct feeling that these two are wanting some alone time.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Cynthia, “they do seem to be craving alone time a lot lately. But listen, I do have someone I’d like you to meet.” Cynthia was getting the tingling feeling she got when her intuition was firing on all cylinders. “I’ve got a good feeling about this. I think you should come to my cabin.”

  She looked at Timothy. “This might be crazy, but I like you both so much.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I’m no billionaire.”

  “Yeah, I know, but that might be a good thing. See you later.”

  She stepped out onto the deck. The cold breeze hit her face. It was invigorating. She hadn’t felt at all sleepy before, but suddenly she was a hundred times more awake. She climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck, looking for someone. She found him.

  “Ahoy, Captain,” she said.

  “Ditto, Captain,” said Captain Winslow.

  Chapter 33

  Ava knocked on the door and it opened. “I’m Timothy,” he said.

  “I’m Ava.”

  “I know. Hi. Come in. Okay, this is awkward. Welcome to your yacht. I’m pretending to be hospitable when you’re the only generous host around here. Do you want a drink or something? I know I do. “

  Ava smiled. She liked him already. “To tell you the truth, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything all night. Such a weird night, you know? Are you hungry at all?”

  “I’m always hungry,” he said.

  “Good,” she replied, calling Sutherland on speed dial. “I love hungry people. And thirsty people. Sutherland, hi, can you bring us something? Surprise us. Something light. But good. And two of everything. Oh, Sutherland, you know me too well. Yes, champagne, please, yes, obviously. Thanks.”

  “So,” said Ava, “tell me about yourself.”

  Chapter 34

  Jack was still stalking his prey. He, unlike Max, had been less hesitant about barging in on people and knocking on locked doors. The way in which he was received was, again, a stunning demonstration of the special treatment accorded the rich and famous.

  He walked in on Charlotte Nordine, the thirty-year-old ex-ballet dancer and choreographer, while she was rather energetically making love to Philip Corso, the graffiti artist-turned fashion mogul. He was wearing only cowboy boots. She, only a yellow balloon animal of indeterminate species adorning her head like a crown in some kind of X-rated kingdom on a sick and twisted kid’s show.

  When the door flew open she whipped her head around in fear to see who was intruding, but when she saw who it was, she smiled.

  “If I’m having a dream,” she said, “don’t wake me.”

  Philip was similarly undeterred. “I. Have. A. Script,” he said, pumping slowly, rhythmically. “I’d. Like. You. To. Read.”

  “Not tonight,” said Jack, walking in, and checking the bathroom and under the bed with the precision of a military man. “Okay, well, I’m looking for someone, so I’ve gotta get going,” said Jack, heading for the door.

  “Well. Don’t. Be. A. Stranger,” said Carlotta, the word “stranger” morphing into a cat-like howl.

  The next door was locked, so Jack just pounded on it without a split second of hesitation. This was an emergency. In fact, while he was pounding he said, “Open up, this is an unbelieveable emergency!”

  Mikal Zedonia, super-hunk surfer and cellist, came to the door with a panicked look in his eye and a full erection. He was wearing a black lace bra, but backwards.

  “What, did we hit an iceberg or something? Are we going down?” Which was ironic because he had been going down on the beautiful young redhead, Tia Barlow, the special counsel to the mayor of San Diego.

  She crawled out from under the blanket.

  “No,” said Jack, scanning the room, “Someone’s gone missing…I’m looking for him. Guy named Max. I’m, you know, worried about him. Have you seen him?”

  “Max was here a while ago,” said Tia, “but he left. He was looking for someone too.”

  Jack’s anger rose and he finished his search quickly before heading out.

  “Wait,” said Tia, grabbing a Que Sera Sarong pen and paper. “Could I have your autograph? I loved you in The Long Way Down.”

  This stopped Jack in his tracks. Nobody liked that movie. “You loved me in The Long Way Down? I directed that too, you know.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said, “I have it on Blu-ray. I’ve watched it like fifty times.”

  “Really,” said Jack, signing the piece of paper. “Maybe I could get your name and number?”

  Tia giggled and obliged, but Mikal got up, grabbed the paper and crumpled it up, so Jack left empty handed.

  He moved farther along the deck and put his ear to another door. He heard something. He tried the doorknob. It opened.

  There was Lolita, sitting up in bed, watching a George Clooney movie on TV, a mountain of covers pulled up around her…only her head and lovely bare shoulders visible. The comforter was undulating slightly. It was obvious to Jack Stone that she was pleasuring herself to George Clooney. Jack Stone hated George Clooney. Something about a stolen girlfriend, a lost movie role, and overall career envy. Lolita had heard about it from Cynthia.

  “Jack!” she said with a huge smile, pulling out one hand to wave. The comforter continued to move rhythmically.

  “Hi,” he said, looking away, then looking back. “So, how…how…have you…” Jack seemed to recognize Lolita, but clearly had no idea why. “…how have you, you know, been?” Even though Lolita was indirectly responsible for Jack getting involved with Second Acts and subsequently Cynthia, technically they had never met. His dog, Scarlett O’Hara, had fraternized with her dogs at the shop…one thing led to another, word of mouth, etc., etc., and Jack ended up contacting Cynthia, and the rest is history. Or at least hysteria. Lolita had also witnessed Jack in all his massive dick-swinging glory at the Sternberg party, when, not all but certainly quite a few of his toxic chickens came home to roost and proceeded to lay an avalanche of rotten-egg life lessons upon him, which he seemed to have learned absolutely nothing from. And to top it off, of course, her dog Wilfredo
had made a meal out of his right thigh, which was incredibly entertaining for everyone except him. But she had no idea if he’d even noticed her. She didn’t take it personally. Hard to concentrate on girl watching when you’re naked and gushing blood in front of dozens of stunned guests. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun with him now.

  “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” she said. “Nothing really new since last we…well, you know…met.” It was the dirtiest pronunciation of the word “met” that Jack had ever heard. Max appreciated it too and he was having trouble containing his laughter under the covers, which were moving a little faster now.

  “Okay…” Jack said nervously, eyes darting around the room, simultaneously trying to remember how he knew her and how he could get to know her, since she was gorgeous, after all, and obviously in the mood for something. “Well, I’m looking for a guy named Max. Do you know him? Have you seen him?”

  The covers stopped. “You mean Cynthia’s Max?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, more focused, “that’s the one.”

  “I mean, I’ve never met him,” she said, dreamily. “But she’s told me a lot about him and I hope to someday.”

  Jack’s blood began to boil. “Why? What’s so great about this Max freak?”

  “Well, for one thing,” she said, “he has the reputation around town of being better in the sack than just about anyone.” She paused for a second to release a high-pitched squeal. “But I don’t have any direct experience, you know, with him, in, you know, that area.”

  “So,” he said, steaming, “you haven’t seen Max.”

  “Oh, Max?” she asked, like she was reconsidering the question. “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen Max. But he’s a dog…an Irish Wolfhound. Wait; is that the Max you’re looking for? Why didn’t you say so?”

  He stared at her like she was a total moron. “No, no…Hey, wait a minute. Weren’t you at Steven Sternberg’s place? Wasn’t it your evil little dog that attacked me?”

  “Evil little dog? Steven Sternberg? The big movie director? No, no, I would definitely remember that. I heard about it. That was something. Wow, I heard he bit you right in the…are you okay down there?”

  “No, he only bit my leg. I’m totally fine.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve heard rumors that, you know, you’re not as, how should I put it, substantial down there as you used to be.”

  “What? No, untrue! Where did you hear these rumors?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. I think I read it somewhere or saw it on TV or something. Extra! Maybe? They had photos and everything. Did you have to have reconstructive surgery?”

  “No! It was just my damn leg!” Jack was beginning to lose it.

  “Just your damn leg? That’s what you call it to overcompensate for your loss? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. They can work miracles with grafting nowadays. But, no, I wasn’t there. You might be thinking of my twin sister, Lolita. I’m Lila.”

  Lolita was breathing heavily now. She was on the verge of climax.

  Jack was breathing heavily now. He was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  “Listen. If you come across that Max guy will you let me know?”

  “Are you talking about the dog now, because, like I said, I don’t know Max, the man.”

  “Please stop talking!” snarled Jack. He looked at the TV again, shaking his head. “Clooney.” He picked up the remote and clicked off the TV, Clooney blipping into darkness. Jack quickly exited, sure that this “Lila” person was totally insane. And totally disgusted by her taste in men.

  Max Ramsey immediately popped up from under the covers, twisted his neck until it cracked, and laughed. Then he climbed aboard Lolita and lunged dick-first for Lolita’s little pink Vespa. She let out such a piercing squeal that Jack stopped and looked back, listening for a moment through the wall.

  “Fucking Clooney,” he snarled.

  He tried the next door.

  Locked. God damn it. He pounded like hell until the door opened.

  There stood Paloma, partially dressed, with all the best parts showing.

  “What is it, Jack?” she cried, ready to fight.

  “Paloma? Oh, thank God, it’s good to see you. Have you seen that Max Ramsey guy, Cynthia’s brother? He’s here on the boat somewhere…have you seen him?”

  But before Paloma could answer, Seamus emerged from the bathroom. “Max Ramsey?” he asked. “Wait, you’re Jack Stone? What the hell is Jack Stone doing here? You know Jack Stone?”

  “The real question is, what are you doing here?” asked Jack, leaning in close to Seamus.

  “Calm down, Jack,” said Paloma, pecking him on the cheek. “This is Seamus, my boyfriend. Seamus…my mother was Jack’s assistant for years…”

  “That’s true,” said Jack. “But I’m also…”

  Paloma interrupted again.

  “We met in Mexico when he was working on a movie and I came along with my mom. I must have been, I don’t know sixteen?”

  “No,” said Jack, “you were not sixteen!”

  “You’re right,” she replied. “More like fourteen.”

  This shut Jack up.

  “Jack’s like an uncle to me. Or a grandpa. I guess tonight he’s more like a cranky grandpa.”

  He was pretty sure Paloma had been twenty-one at the time, but he realized he was far from certain.

  “Well,” said Seamus, “it’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stone. I have a screenplay you might be interested in.”

  “Well…” said Jack.

  “He’d love to read it, wouldn’t you, Jack,” said Paloma.

  “Well…” mumbled Jack.

  “That’s fantastic!” said Seamus. “I’ve got it in my duffle bag. I’m confused about one thing, though.”

  Paloma and Jack froze for a beat, then Seamus continued: “The Long Way Home. What the hell happened there?”

  Jack walked out without saying a word.

  Seamus looked at Paloma without saying anything for a moment. Paloma laughed a little, then laughed a little more. But Seamus wasn’t laughing.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Paloma. I have a question for you too.” He opened his wallet, took out the little piece of paper, and held it up. “Tell me the truth, are all these Jacks——the ones with the hearts drawn so lovingly around them——are all these Jacks Jack Stone, by any chance?”

  Paloma’s mouth fell open in an expression of surprise and horror. But then she laughed a little again.

  “I cannot tell a lie,” she said. “Yes, all five of those Jacks with all five of those hearts are indeed Jack Stone.”

  “That’s kinda what I thought,” he said.

  “But that is a very old piece of paper. Ancient.”

  “That’s kinda what I thought too,” he said.

  “But…but…” she hesitated, not wanting to say the next part, but wanting to also. “I was still seeing him until very recently. I’d wanted to stop for a long time. But I didn’t until just a few days ago.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. So why did you stop?”

  “Well, because I met someone.”

  “But you know that’s totally insane, right?” asked Seamus. “Completely bonkers. Unfathomable. It can’t be possible that one of the biggest movie stars on the planet is out on the poop deck with dashed hopes while an Irish nobody with a pile of unpublished stories and a resume that fits on a single line of his cabbie license and less than a dollar to his name is in here with someone like you. You cannot be serious. Why would I believe you? Why?”

  She looked at him. She loved his face. She loved his voice. She loved his touch. She loved how he’d held up the stupid piece of paper with those stupid hearts. She even loved that he’d asked why. Because she knew why.

  She had been thinking about something Cynthia had said: It’s all about finding the right characters for the right story.

  “Seamus. It’s because you are part of my story and I am part of yours. Jack Stone
isn’t. He’s like one of those elements you force into a scenario in a ham-fisted way because for some terribly misguided, totally stupid reason, you think it deserves to be an integral part of things. And for a while anyway it feels like the story won’t work without it. But then, after a few revisions, other more authentic things emerge, and that first thing seems phonier…less relevant.”

  Seamus interrupted: “But you still keep hanging onto it, because you can’t quite picture the story without it. Then one day you realize you can’t get where you want to go because you keep bumping into it, like it’s an extra couch, a huge ugly couch covered in faux fur, right in the middle of your living room. It’s a eyesore monstrosity that you obviously need to throw out, but it somehow seems heartless when you first think about that because it’s been around for so long, you’re accustomed to its utter ugliness, that’s your very own disgusting couch, so how can you just heave it into a dumpster or something?”

  Paloma: “And then comes mold and mildew and mice and possums and roaches and then one day a family of rats moves into the couch and you finally say enough. So into the dumpster it goes, and then all the way to the dump. Maybe even onto one of those garbage barges floating aimlessly at sea.”

  Seamus: “You don’t need it. You won’t miss it. You won’t miss the fading stench of what used to be part of your story.”

  Paloma: “You’ve found something else. You’ve found someone else whose story makes your story better.”