by Kate Stewart
He gestures toward the bottle on the counter as I take a sip of the wine.
“It’s Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru,” I say, swirling it around, “1990, and it’s also an invitation. I got a call from a man who’s opening a new bistro near the promenade and wants to use me for the pairing. He’s a Michelin star chef. It’s quite an offer.”
This gets his attention.
“You’re going back to work?”
I shrug. “It’s local, so why not?” I worked for years to get my reputation as a sommelier. The longer I stay absent, the less credible I am.
He pauses at the counter before he takes a sip of the wine and nods. “Good.”
“$16,000 a bottle, good?”
His eyes bulge and then narrow. “What asshole sends a $16,000 bottle of wine to a married woman?” He’s a little jealous which I find adorable. Even as one of the highest paid actors in Hollywood, Lucas would never pay that much for anything that isn’t an investment. It’s one of the reasons I love him. For a millionaire, he’s as cheap as they come. “I’m sure that’s not what he paid for it, you don’t just give a bottle like this away.”
Tension fills the silence.
“When do you start?”
He studies me, his expression unreadable. “We have the read through in three weeks.”
“You’re kidding.” He gazes at me, and I swallow hard. “How heavy is this?” Depending on schedule, Lucas usually has at least a month or more to prep. He reads my mind. “I won it by default. Will Hart had to drop out.”
I nod. “I know, I know. Okay. I’m with you. I’ll read it tonight.” He gives me a smile that for the first time in a week reaches his eyes. “Thanks, baby.”
Attempting to stay upbeat, I put a voice to it. “I think it will be good for both of us to be working, but I’ll be here for you for whatever you need.”
I’m not sure either of us believes it.
“Yeah, sure,” he says with a nod. “If that’s what you want.”
He reads the surprise on my face and frowns. “I’m not a fucking Neanderthal, babe. It’s been two years, and it’s been incredible having you with me, but I thought…” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
This time I’m frowning. “You thought what?”
“I thought you quit working so we could have a baby.”
“Wow,” I say, widening my eyes. “Now that’s caveman.”
“Is it?” he says, closing in on me. “Can’t exactly drink daily with a baby coming.” He towers above me at six foot two to my five-five. Looking up, I see the contempt I was looking for when I announced I wanted to go back to work.
“I quit working because I missed my husband. I wanted to be able to travel with you when you were filming. You know that. What is it with having a baby lately? We never even discussed it when I quit, and that’s all you’ve been talking about since Blake died. We’ll get there. What’s the rush?” The idea of a baby with Lucas is a dream, but something about his urgency to have one taints the thought. A baby is not a solution for anything.
“People die,” he speaks so casually it’s terrifying, “that’s the rush. If you died, I’d have a piece of you, and vice versa.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.” I trail him into the living room as he sips on the beer that I thought was water, that he’d retrieved from the fridge.
“Well, it’s true. I don’t want to be left, period, but if you do, I want that piece of you. I want to know that what we have is going to live on, at least through our kid. I don’t want to be left without anything.”
Stunned, I watch him. “Is that what you think? He left you without anything?”
He shakes his head with evident irritation. “This isn’t about Blake.”
I ball my fists. “It sure as hell is. You weren’t talking this way a week ago.”
“And life happened, and that’s how we evolve around it. We see things as they are, and we change things…adapt.”
“Adapting isn’t having a baby!” I’ve lost my patience, and my husband has lost his mind. I pace in front of him as he calmly sits on the couch and narrows his eyes on me.
“What’s your holdup? Even if you think I’m asking because of Blake, the baby isn’t coming overnight, it takes time,” he gestures toward me.
“So, you think there’s a time limit on grief?” I laugh sarcastically. “Are you hearing yourself? Okay, well I damn sure hope you’re over sixteen years with Blake in nine months because anything you say or do can mess our child up for life. And honestly, I’m not sure I want to take on that responsibility yet. I like being able to do and say what I want. Behaviors have to change or there are consequences. You know that firsthand.”
His retort cuts me in two. “Why? Because I came from white trash?”
Covering my mouth, I shake my head, my breaths coming fast. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
He shakes his head dismissively. “It’s the truth, Mila.”
“It’s not. That’s not who you are.”
I walk toward him slowly, a plea on my lips. “Please help me,” I ask. “Tell me what you need.”
I’m over the guessing, the analyzing. I need words to say, actions to take. I need a way to get to him, to be able to touch him without feeling like he’s going to crack, explode, or both. His silence confirms my suspicions. He doesn’t know himself, and he thinks work, a baby, and avoidance is the solution. To be someone else, to escape the gnawing questions. He can’t evade this, and he needs to know it.
“You aren’t ready,” I say finally. “You know you aren’t.”
“I need to get back to work,” he declares through the heavy air between us. His abrupt tone cuts our connection as he palms the edge of the couch, fingering the brass studs on the end of it. “And apparently you do too if we’re…if we’re not going to try for a family.” He’s hurt by my refusal to entertain it. For the sake of peace, I’m inclined to give in and agree, but that would make me a hypocrite. I want us both on more stable ground before we take on the task of parenting. He’s just been delivered the blow of his life. He needs time, whether he thinks so or not. Taking on another movie is just a way of prolonging it.
“He was sober,” I say softly. “There were no traces of anything in his system.”
He pauses with the beer halfway to his lips and then nods, avoiding my watchful gaze. “I know.”
Lucas
Sitting at the kitchen table as the sun creeps up over the horizon, I scroll through the latest story full of accusation. Two more women have come forward naming Blake as being present the night they were assaulted, yet no charges have been filed against him or anyone else. Reports of an investigation are underway, but so far, it’s just hearsay. The story is selling in the media in a major way especially since Blake died.
One of the women talking, a former co-star of us both, states it was the night of our very first wrap party and a sick foreboding washes over me. His name is there, in black and white, but it’s just a mention he attended the party. What’s unclear is why they would name Blake if he’s not being accused and not the other hundred or more other people that were present? The hardest part to take is that if they’re using Blake to garner attention, they’re tarnishing whatever reputation he has left in the process and he’s not here to defend himself. Wracking my brain, I stare at the brightening sky trying to remember the details of the Misfits wrap party.
Blake slides a line my way as he coats his teeth with the residue from the edge of his credit card. I’m not much of a fan of coke, but it’s been a grueling couple of weeks on set and tonight I’ve decided to partake. I need the pick-me-up to make it through the party. None of this seems real. Two years ago, we were slinging drinks at Queens and trying to believe in our collective dream, hoping for more. This was the more. And it was nothing to sneeze at. The product of our labor led to a global theater release. This flick had cult classic written all over it. Because Blake had some formal traini
ng, he’d spent some of his spare time trying to school me on techniques he’d picked up along the way, and I’d paid attention. By the time they snapped the first marker, I felt prepared. And from the feedback, it seemed like I delivered. Blake had brought his A game playing the lead vigilante to the group of delinquents, and he’d pulled it off in spades. I’d played one of his recruits. We’d auditioned for every gig, big and small, but our break came when we were spotted at the Skybar sipping overpriced drinks by a petite brunette, a casting director with a no-bullshit attitude, who was looking for two guys who fit the mold to piece together a new movie. We fit. After a few minutes of conversation, she produced her card and asked us to come in to read for her. The next day we’d made it our first phone call, and the rest was history. We gave everything we had to the movie in hopes it was the beginning of more. I was optimistic, but Blake had been burnt one too many times and had a healthy dose of hesitance in declaring anything. Though even he was having a hard time getting past the fact that it wasn’t a low budget film and the director had an extensive list of hits under his belt.
Leaning down on the porcelain counter, I sniff the line and wave my hand when Blake ushers more powder my way.
“I’m good,” I say, wiping the residue off the bathroom counter. We’re at one of the producer’s houses and I’m a bit creeped out with how at home some of these people are making themselves in a house so grand. “And this never happened.”
Blake eyes me curiously. “This your first time?”
“No, I did some with you last summer on the roof, remember? But it’s probably my last time. I’m good with coffee.”
He gives me his signature smirk. “Not really the same type of kick, bro.” Blake never has been one to miss an invite or a party, and I’m his opposing personality. Somehow, no matter how different we are, as friends we work. I’d never tell him this, but he’s like the big brother I never had. He’d been there to help me through the endless rejections and has taught me how to dust myself off. He plays off my drive while I soak in his experience. “You ever fucked on coke?”
Checking my reflection, I see a ring of white on my nostrils and the sight disgusts me. I decide this is definitely my last time. “No.”
He wipes the rest of the residue off the counter before checking his nose in the mirror. “Do yourself a favor and get it done.”
My lips turn up. “That good, huh?”
“See for yourself,” he says with a wink.
“We need to go. I don’t want to get spotted.”
He shakes his head as if I was the village idiot. “Relax, man. Half the people outside this door have a bag of something fun in their pocket.”
“I’ve just earned my first paycheck with more than two zeros on the end. I’m not wasting it on shit like this.”
“I get it, but this came specially from Steve, at no cost to us,” he assures me. Steve owns the bathroom we’re standing in along with the mansion attached to it.
“Steve bought this?”
Another chuckle from Blake lets me know just how naïve I still am when it comes to matters like these. It’s like the zip code itself gives you permission to do your worst. There have been so many times he’s saved my ass in the last few years. He’s kept me from being totally humiliated on several occasions, especially on set. No matter how well Maddie thought she’d prepared me, I had no clue how the process went. The first day of filming, I was lost. I knew so little about the production crew and their roles. I was sure back in Maddie’s day the process was a lot different, but I hadn’t done my homework when it came to filming, and I had Blake to thank for the Cliff Notes.
“Listen, I get that you don’t want to get your hands dirty. There’s nothing wrong with that, trust me. The more professional you are, the less likely you are to fall in the fuck-up category like me.”
I go to object, and he shakes his head. “I’m not judging, just as long as you do me the same solid. Let me play my way. And do yourself a favor,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “enjoy the dark side tonight.”
“No problem there,” I say as the rush hits me and my pulse starts to kick at superhuman speed.
Blake gazes at us in the mirror and claps my back. “We did it, man.”
The buzz helps elevate my shit-eating grin. “Yeah, we did.”
He opens the door and we head out into the party. Halfway down the gold carpeted hall, Blake’s name is called. I recognize the guy summoning him as one of the key grips. Blake lifts his chin up toward him and turns to me with dilated pupils. “Oh, man, this is some good shit. Enjoy your high. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“You sure? I can wait.”
“Yeah, have fun, I’ll catch up with you later.”
I nod, embracing the flow of temporary adrenaline as he saunters down the hall toward one of the bedrooms. When it opens, I can hear several people inside, mainly women, laughing. Blake has been blunt about his sex life, and I’ve been on the receiving end of many sleepless nights in our apartment when he brings more than one woman home, always offering to share, but it never felt natural to me. I’ve been making up for lost time, doing what I can to learn about the craft.
Though a little less than an hour later, I’m getting sucked off in a butler’s pantry by one of my co-stars. I know it’s not a good idea, but she assures me it’s all in good fun. And I have to agree with Blake, sex on coke is bliss.
“Fuck,” I damn near scream as she licks me from root to tip, pumping me in her hand. I’m painfully hard, and her giggle around my cock has me damn near jumping out of my skin. Shortly after she swallows two minutes of hard work, I leave with her and spend the whole night letting my powder-induced imagination take over.
The next morning, I meet Blake at our front door. He’s lost his keys and is sitting outside of it with his legs crossed and his head tilted back. He’s ghastly pale, and I can tell he’s coming down. “Blake,” I say softly as his eyes open, and he looks up to see me standing in front of him. He looks seconds away from death. “Jesus, man, are you okay?”
“Coming down with something.” He moves to get up and falls flat back on his ass, a strangled cry coming out of his throat. I move to lift him, and he shakes his head. “I got it.”
“Please tell me you didn’t drive.”
“Locked the keys in the car back at the mansion. I’ll need help with that…later.” I lift him to stand by throwing one of his arms around my neck, and he doesn’t try to fight me.
“Seriously man, you look like hell. Want me to take you somewhere?”
“No,” he says sharply before his eyes meet mine. He’s got a blown pupil.
“Does that hurt?”
“What?” he asks, confused.
“Your eye is fucked up.”
“Oh, yeah, it happens when I blow too hard.” His chuckle does everything but ease my worry.
“Look, if there’s somewhere—”
“Don’t judge,” he snaps, “‘lest ye be judged,’ or some shit like that.”
“All right, man, all right.”
“Lighten up and be a fucking teenager,” he says, running his knuckles over my scalp. “You’ve still got a few days left.”
“I’ll try.”
Eyes glazed he grins over at me as I drag him through our living room. “I’m going to take you to TCL and then we’re going to get piss drunk.”
“What’s TCL?”
“God, you’re clueless. It’s like having a kid brother,” he says, hugging my neck tighter while his head wobbles as if he’s lost control of his motor function. “We’re going to pick out our star plots, my man, have a five-star dinner on me, and then we’re going to call Gina Juice over to service your birthday needs.”
“Gina Juice?”
“You won’t be questioning that name the minute her lips land on your cock, bro.”
“I’ll pass,” I say, tossing him into his bed. “All right, man, need anything?”
“I’m good.” He nods repeatedly, a
nd I decide to leave his door open to keep an eye on him. I’m halfway out when he speaks again. “I have it on good authority that good things are coming our way.”
“Yeah?”
He swallows, keeping his head forward. “Yeah. Night, man.”
“Morning, Blake,” I say with a chuckle, slapping my palm on the frame of his door before I leave him.
I spent my twentieth birthday alone at a bar down the street from our apartment while Blake holed up in his bedroom for the next week. He claimed he had the flu. Thinking back, I didn’t hear him cough or sneeze once. We hadn’t bothered buying another TV since we pawned our last one, so the apartment was eerily quiet. I spent a lot of my time reading then, and I can still remember the tick of the black plastic clock above our kitchen sink. The minute he emerged from his bedroom freshly showered, he’d made good on his promise, and we dined like kings before strolling down the walk of fame and picking out a spot for our stars. I’d passed a second time on Gina Juice. That name alone had my balls shriveling. At the premieres and after parties, everything seemed fine. No one had issues. Smiles were wide. None of it made any sense.
I suppose I should be grateful I haven’t been mentioned in any of the tabloids other than the norm, but I can’t even bring myself to care. Tossing my tablet on the table, I lean back in my chair wracking my brain for any hint in past conversations, any clue as to what happened as Mila walks into the kitchen to start some coffee. I have industry relationships with two of the women who’ve come forward and mentioned his name, and I shoot off a text to my assistant, Nova, to set up meetings with either if they’ll see me. I’m resigned to figure out what in the hell Blake has to do with any of it before the press does.
Minutes of silence pass as Mila busies herself with her morning routine. It’s only when she sets some juice in front of me and runs her fingers through my hair that I relax a little. Catching my gaze, she gives me a hesitant look.