by CD Reiss
“What? We were reminiscing.”
We exited the bathroom. I had to admit, I liked Lucy. She was consistent, and she cared for Michael. She acted like a prudish, middle-aged woman, which must have once made Michael feel secure. If anything bad happened between us, she didn’t need to like me as much as make him safe.
“Right this way, Mister Greydon,” Deanna said with a sweep of her hand.
“Don’t talk to Gene,” Michael whispered as we walked down the hall.
No one bothered him, took pictures, or asked for his autograph. It was as if, amongst these people, he was home.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I just fired him.”
I read his lips more than I could hear him. I stopped. “Why? Not because of me?”
He walked backward so he could face me, glancing around to see who was within earshot. “I hired him to be a dick because I couldn’t be. He did his job for ten years. I’m done with it. I’m a big boy. I can be my own dick.”
I bit my lips to keep from laughing, but I had never been good at that. The laugh burst out as if someone had let the air out of a balloon. He stopped walking and let me stride right into him, where he held me for a second as we laughed together. The big guy in the red tie and Deanna held the swinging doors open. Michael and I stepped into the dim, flat light.
“We’re leaving after the second reel,” he whispered to me.
“Why?”
“You know what it’s like to look at yourself ten times bigger than you are? There’s nothing more uncomfortable.”
I looked at my normal-sized date and saw exactly how uncomfortable it would be. “All right.”
A man in a tuxedo leaned into Deanna, who whispered something. Then he led us to seats at center front with a sign on them, printed on copy paper and tied around the backs with a red ribbon.
GREYDON +1
Michael shook hands and made a joke or two with the couple behind us, then he took my hand and led me into the aisle. He knew everyone and had a smile and a joke for all of them. When we finally got to our seats, he let me sit first. He adjusted his cuffs.
“You seem nervous,” I whispered.
He put his arm around the chair and pulled me close enough to feel his lips move against me. “We’re going to the party because it’s in my contract, then I’m going to take you home and own you. You’re going to be up all night.”
My face got hot again. I wanted him to stop talking like that, and I didn’t want it to ever end.
Andrea Rodenstein, the director, jumped up to the front of the auditorium. She introduced herself to applause, thanked her crew and agent, then named the cast with thanks. When his name was called, Michael stood, waved, and sat back down before they’d finished the ovation. It was loud and long, and someone in the back of the room chanted, “Oscar! Oscar! Oscar!”
Michael turned in his seat and pointed toward the back of the room then put his finger to his lips, asking for silence. Brad stood and chanted even louder. Britt stood and, like a bunch of fans with their faces painted the team colors, got half the room chanting before it died down in a thunder of applause.
“Does that always happen?” I asked once Rodenstein got the crowd under control enough to continue.
He shrugged. “Brad. What can I say?”
“He’s a good friend.”
“Yeah.”
The lights dimmed, and the movie started. Within the first few frames, I knew why Brad and everyone had chanted. The above-the-line cast and crew, as well as the executives from marketing and finance, had seen the movie already, and they knew what was now all over the screen.
Michael’s work in Big Girls was the performance of a lifetime. The sweet man sitting one seat over, his palm over the back of my hand, scared the living hell out of me. He became a volatile abuser, capable of spurts of violence and passion, with no in between, and Claire Contreras, the actress playing his wife, became the focal point of his every emotion, even when she wasn’t in the scene. I was terrified for her and engaged completely. Michael tapped my hand after about fifteen minutes.
“Come on.”
“But I…” I pointed at the screen.
He sat back, and I felt him tense up. He wasn’t even looking at the screen. I tapped his knee, and he looked at me from behind his hand.
I cocked my thumb and mouthed, “Ready?”
We slipped out the Exit door in the back. Michael knew everyone in the lobby and accepted congratulations and compliments. My purse vibrated, which I was capable of ignoring unless I got it in my head that it could be Tom in trouble.
Which got into my head because of Jake and Foo. They knew Tom, so seeing as Michael was walking and talking, shaking hands and air kissing while he made his way down the hall, I checked my phone.
I was hit face first with a black-and-white of young Laine on her knees, doe-eyed, looking at the naked man above her with her mouth open.
—Wanna hear from you girlie girl—
My surroundings closed in on me. The laughter, the noise from the indoor parking lot, the dog pack waiting for our exit, shouting names and clicking, was far away. I became a soft, slimy animal in a tight shell of shame and fear.
—What do you want Jake?—
“Laine?” It was Tom with his camera, still monochrome, still schlubbing along even when he was getting the shot. But his camera wasn’t in front of his face; it was at his side. “Shut it off.”
Had he heard from Jake? I was sure he had. He wasn’t just telling me to stop looking at my phone in front of paparazzi. He’d never give me a lesson in poise. He put his camera up when Britt and Brad appeared.
Another buzz from my phone, and another picture came in with a message.
—We miss you, sweet angel. I’m trying to not upload these pictures all over but my hand’s getting itchy—
I put it away.
“You all right?” Michael asked, hand on my lower back again, lips close enough to my ear to touch it.
“Yeah.” I turned my head to face him, and he was just perfect with his scent of cinnamon. Even in the gross parking lot, he made everything beautiful. Even with the bruise under his eye that he’d gotten for me. Would he throw himself in danger again? Would he have to? “Just sick of this thing buzzing all the time.”
“We’ll get you a blocking service.”
A blocking service? That must be what he had, where he had a short list and no one else got through. How was I supposed to get tips like that?
But of course, that was the point. There would be no more tips. They’d already dried up, along with my hope of forgetting my past. Maybe I should just block everyone but Michael, Tom, and Phoebe. Jake especially. Double block him. But then, God knew what he’d do with those pictures.
The driver opened the limo door, and Michael took my hand. It must have been shaking from seeing the pictures because he looked at me tenderly, as if he wanted to protect me from the paps and the flashing lights. But that wasn’t it. As much as the exposure made me uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to those pictures.
I got into the back of the limo, and the door shut behind Michael. He sat across from me, a point of calm against the chaos outside. The sounds were shut out, the clicking, the shouting, the car engines. Paps leaned into the window to get a shot of us.
Except Tom, who leaned into the window, camera down, fingers to his ear, and lips moving. Call me tomorrow.
I gave him a thumbs-up as the limo drove away.
“I’m sorry, Laine,” Michael said. “It’s always like this, but I’m used to it. I wasn’t thinking. I should have given you more time.”
“It’s all right.”
“I wanted to show you off.”
Me. He wanted to show me off to his movie star friends. He gathered my hands and pulled me into his lap. I straddled him, my hands on his cheeks. His eyes were honest and open. I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve the guy I’d wanted in high school who’d gone off to make something of himself whil
e I stayed home and let myself be used.
“I want to be honest,” I said as he kissed me. It was hard to concentrate with his hands running up and down my back and his lips on my throat. “I have things.” Things? “I don’t want you to think I’m something I’m not.”
“You’re a woman, right? All woman parts? I’m not going to get your dress off and find stuff I can’t use?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Is there anyone else? Boyfriend? Husband? Late-night booty call? Because that’s a deal-breaker.”
“No one. It’s been a long time.”
“How long?” he asked into the curve of my throat.
“Almost a year.”
He pulled away from me, and my longing pulled taut in the space that divided us.
“Why?” he asked.
I’d become attached to the idea of him, and I didn’t want to let it go. Not yet. I was sure the whole thing would go down in flames, but God, I didn’t want it to be that night.
At the same time, I knew I could wiggle out of answering by repeating that the right guy hadn’t come along, stuff hadn’t worked out, nothing was wrong anywhere in my world.
But I couldn’t lie to him again.
“I don’t trust men or anyone,” I said so low I could barely hear it. “I have a past.”
“I know. It was at your door yesterday. We all have a past. So I’ll ask you again. Is everything in the past? That’s all I want to know.”
“Yes.” Was that the truth? With Jake sending me evidence of my wrongdoings as we spoke, was it really all in the past?
“I know you had a hard time,” he said. “If it’s that, I don’t care. I mean, I care, but it won’t stop me from having you tonight. Or probably any other night. If that guy bugs you again, we’ll deal with it. Okay?”
I nodded. He didn’t know what he was agreeing to, and I owed him explanations on top of explanations, but I couldn’t. I’d ruin everything for him as well as me.
“Okay,” I said, half kissing him.
He shifted against me, and I felt his body under his clothes, the hard curves of muscle and the sweet intention in the press of his hips.
“I want you to trust me,” he said into my cheek.
“I do, and it scares the hell out of me.”
The car stopped. Flashes blinked through the window. Those lenses hadn’t been bought and sold. Those were my people. I’d been on the other side of the rope, watching the line of limos and half done catching the first car door open before I was tracking who was in the next. I knew they were talking about where Michael and I were, and a couple of the guys had noted the license plate. They didn’t share the information though. They’d just make sure they were in the front of the pack when our door opened, acting calm and collected until they got a good spot, then they would be all elbows and inertia.
I sat back and straightened my skirt.
Michael put his hand up the outside of my thigh, touching up to the lace tops of my stockings. “I like these.”
“Good, because I wore them for you.”
His reaction was pure instinct, as if I’d pared down his intentions into their most basic. “Okay,” he said, brushing his fingertips inside my knees. “We go outside, you stand and look gorgeous, we go in, stay as long as we have to, and I’ll take you out back. Got it?”
“Got it.”
The car crept toward the front of the line.
“Ever hike Griffith Park at night?” I said. “There are mountain lions, for real.”
He ran his hands up my legs, past where the stockings ended. “We should go.”
“What about your contract?” My back straightened as his fingertips brushed my crotch. My panties would have to get wrung out over the sink.
“Tomorrow night.”
We kissed in the promise of a tomorrow and a next day, twisted until he was on top of me. He pushed my bag out of the way, and it spilled on the floor in a spray of lipstick, cards, money, and phone.
Which was lit with an incoming message.
Which was a photo.
Of me.
In black and white.
On my hands and knees.
Naked but for socks.
I reached for it too quickly, breaking our rhythm.
Why wasn’t I slick and sneaky? I could barrel through anything. I owned the space around me, except when I didn’t. Except when the one thing I didn’t want Michael to ever see was on the floor of our limo and he was on top of me, reaching for my phone to help me.
I pushed him off me and snapped the phone from his hand.
“Laine…”
“Don’t you know you shouldn’t look at someone else’s phone?”
I wanted to curl up and die. I wanted to hope he hadn’t seen it. I wanted it to be three seconds ago, when I could have put the bag down carefully, or half an hour ago when I could have shut off the phone, or three days ago when I could have called Jake and ended this, or ten years ago.
I couldn’t breathe. The space between us was suffocating. He was silent. That was bad. If he hadn’t seen it, he would have just put his hands back up my skirt. I pulled it down and readjusted myself.
“What just happened? What was that?” he asked.
“Can we forget it? You can just drop me home.” I couldn’t look at him, so I couldn’t detect what he was feeling. I wanted to look up and see him, but partly, I was afraid I’d see disgust and disappointment, and partly, I didn’t feel worthy of being in anyone’s sight.
He slid his hand over mine, brushing my fingers and lodging his in between them, just as he’d done on our last day at the bleachers, before he told me he was leaving.
I snapped my hand away. “I’ll take a cab.”
He grabbed my jaw and turned my face toward his. “Talk to me.”
The limo crept forward, and the blue light from outside moved across his face in a hard line. He didn’t scare me. His hardness actually soothed me. But I didn’t want to be soothed. I didn’t want to be comforted. It made me weak and needy. I bit back a hitched breath.
“I can’t,” I croaked.
He reached behind me and hit a button with his fist. “Gali?”
“Yes, sir?” came the driver’s voice.
“Drive around the block until I say stop or we run out of gas.”
“Yes, sir.”
The car broke out of the line, and the paparazzi got small in the distance. I stared out the window, clutching my phone in my lap. I imagined opening the door at a red light and running. Running forever, cutting turns across lawns, leaping over cars, my butt sliding over the hoods, hopping fences, and climbing a ladder to the top, the top, the top of anything.
Michael reached for the phone, but I held it.
“Just tell me,” he said.
I shook my head. Cleared my throat. Drew my fingers under my eyes to catch the tears before they fell. “Listen, this was fun. I like you. You’re a better guy than I deserve, as anyone will tell you. Probably you should go back to the party. People are expecting you. I’ll go home, and we can just remember this very fondly. Okay? Can we do that?”
“Was that you in the picture?”
I looked down, turning the now-dark phone in my hand. “No. That girl is about sixteen. She’s a…” I swallowed. Breathed. “She feels alone all the time, and she’s young and immature, so she’s not okay with it. So a little bump in the road, and she gets with a guy. And this guy? He’s a sleaze, but he makes her feel taken care of. He gives her a roof over her head and a kind of family. He protects her, and he doesn’t let her take any of the drugs he sells. But he…”
Breathe.
Breathe.
“He lets his friends fuck her. He uses her to make deals, and just… if they’re all bored and drinking, they’ll just use her for fun. She lets this happen for over a year, because if nothing else, she feels safe. It doesn’t matter who fucks her as long as he knows, and he’s watching over it, and he says it’s okay. Because he took care of me.”
I hitched a little when I said “me” instead of “her.” Pretending she was someone else was a useless ruse. I was a whore and worthless and the owner of nothing but my shame.
“Why now?”
“Pictures of me around, in the paper, on the internet. He was reminded, and I’m sure he thinks I’m rich now.”
“And this is the guy from the hallway?”
I couldn’t look at him, but I imagined he was turned off and just getting the facts straight.
“No,” I said.
“Jake? Jake the Pillow Snake?”
“It doesn’t matter. But yes. He was the son of the family I was with before the Hatches. Before Breakfront. He was twenty, maybe twenty-one when I ran away from Orry and Mildred, ran back to him. Right after you left.”
“That’s statutory rape, Laine.”
I turned to him as if I wanted to bite him. I recognized the viper Lucy spoke about in the first two words out of my mouth. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I consented to everything, and don't you take that away from me. Fine world you live in, where my life was illegal. Cute. Real cute.”
It was a low blow, playing the foster child card. But Michael would not be shamed by his privilege.
“He’s peddling child pornography? Posting those? And you consented to that?”
“I have to go.” I went for the door handle despite the fact the car was still moving.
“Stop!” He held the handle. “Just stop. You’re giving me whiplash.”
I pushed him away. “I don’t need you to take care of me! I don’t need anyone to take care of me. Do you hear me? I can take care of myself!”
“Okay, I got it. You’re capable. You know what you’re doing. You’re a fine, upstanding whirlwind of ambition. Then why are you shutting down? Why are you hiding? Why are you trying to get out of a moving car?”
“I’m trying to not hurt you.”
“Hurt me? You’re fucking killing me,” he shouted, face tight in the moving lamplight. “I see this picture of you, and you’re in pain, I can see that, and you tell me this story, and it hurts to hear it. And now you’re running away because you think I’m looking to get away from you. You’re trying to do me a favor because… what do you think of me?”
“I think you’re normal. Just cop to it—”