Auctioned to Him 4: His Addiction

by Charlotte Byrd

  I, of all people, had the misfortune to fall in love with her. Not the way millions of people around this country and the world has, no. I didn’t just fall for her beautiful green eyes and long lustrous hair, the color of dark cocoa. I didn’t fall for those perfect breasts and those quirky tattoos with inspiring quotes and butterflies and birds. Even though no matter how much you may not like tattoos, they do accentuate the curves of her body even more. And wow, do they look good when she’s naked. No. I didn’t fall for any of those things. Not at first. At first, I thought she was hot and that we’d go on a date, and that would be the end of it. I’ve dated other actresses in the past. I’m not a lightweight myself. I’ve graced the covers of Teen Beat for years (and anyone will tell you that it’s hard to land that sucker if you’re not hot in just the right way), and my agent just told me that I’m in the final round of competition for People’s Sexiest Man Alive. But that’s all beside the point. What is the point? The point is that Ariel and I weren’t just some publicity stunt. Yes, my agent introduced us, but after we went out a couple of times, I started to really fall for her. And she fell for me. We moved in together within the month. We spent all of our time, outside of work, together. I thought everything was perfect.

  And then…that happened.

  No, I can’t think about it. Not now. I walk around the patio. Los Angeles looms below me, stretching out in all directions as far as the eye can see. Far in the distance, the blueness of the Pacific Ocean calls for me. Even though I’ve been in this house for three months now, and paid the interior decorator a small fortune to get everything in each room just right, I’m still not entirely sure if the Hollywood Hills are for me. I love the rugged canyons and the way the houses are nestled onto the cliffs, but I want the ocean. I want to wake up and smell the salty air. I want to be able to jump on my surfboard at any moment, night or day. Especially on a day like this.

  I take a deep breath and exhale. Just like my personal trainer showed me. I bend over, spreading my arms and legs into a downward dog pose. I’m just starting out with yoga, but it has been quite an eye-opening experience. It has this effect of calming me down in times of stress. Today, unsurprisingly, my hamstrings feel tighter than before. I move my heels up, up, and down to stretch them out a bit. After a few deliberate attempts, they finally cooperate and land on the floor.

  I should stretch out, but instead I delve right into a hand stand. I put one of my legs onto the railing of the patio and form an L with my body. Then I lift them up to the sky, carefully balancing on my hands. There’s something about a handstand, which is totally liberating. It messes with my equilibrium and makes me feel invincible. And relaxed. When I finally step out of the hand stand, this one is no different. Relief sweeps through my body. Whatever leftover anger remained in my muscles, it drains away. Vanishes. Dissipates.

  I walk back inside to make myself a cup of coffee. After being upside down for a few minutes, the blood in my body seems to be flowing differently and my headache is starting to wane. Finally. On my way to the kitchen, I flip on my 50-inch smart TV and turn up the volume. I can’t remember what I was watching last night, but for some reason TMZ comes on. I hear Harvey Levin’s voice in the background. I never watch this show. Oh yeah, Ariel was here. She must’ve watched this channel last night. I start a cup of coffee on my Starbucks machine and watch the sudden jolts and cuts of TMZ. How can anyone watch this show without getting a headache? They cut back and forth between frames for absolutely no other reason but to make something look more exciting, when in reality it’s just some celebrity walking from Whole Foods back to their car.

  Just as my cup is about to finish brewing, I hear a familiar scene coming from the TV.

  “So, what do you think about your girlfriend, Ariel Chantal, walking out of Chateau Marmont with Ben Kingsolver?”

  “What?” I ask the paparazzi. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you know, she spent the night there with him. We have them on video going inside, laughing and holding hands, and then coming out early this morning. Also, holding hands.”

  I flip the television off. I hate the vulnerable look on my face. It has been playing on all the entertainment news channels. In a day, this has somehow became headline news. I guess no one ever saw what someone looks like when they discover that someone they care about is cheating on them. But that was it. The stupid photographer caught me completely off-guard. What made me really mad about it, and really disappointed in Ariel, is that she could’ve just told me. She didn’t have to lie about going away for the night. She could’ve just told me that she fell for her co-star, I mean who hasn’t been there, right? They work together. They spend all their time together. It’s only natural. Agh, I feel like such an idiot.

  Whatever Zen I achieved standing in a handstand has all disappeared. I’m back to feeling as shitty as I did last night when she was over here packing to move out. We were fighting and yelling, I don’t even know about what. I wasn’t asking her to stay. I just wanted an apology, and that’s something that she just flat out refused to give.

  I need a drink. I look at the time. It’s not even ten. No, I’m not drinking this early. I partied a lot in my early twenties, and this little incident with Ariel is not making me go back there. To that dark place. Last year, I did a movie where I played this tough, kick-ass know it all guy. He was pretty much an arrogant prick, but he did have an awesome line.

  “I don’t drink to feel better. I drink only to feel even better.”

  In other words, you should drink to celebrate something. Not to bring yourself out of a funk, because everyone who has ever gotten drunk when they were depressed knows that it doesn’t work. Ever since I read that line, I tried to apply that to my own life. And, for the most part, I’ve been pretty successful. But now, I really want a drink.

  While I sit on the couch with my cup of coffee, flipping through the channels and marveling at how there are like a million of them and yet there’s absolutely nothing on, my phone rings. I look at the number. It’s Josh, my agent.

  “Hey Finn. How are you? Are you sure you want to do this movie?” Josh asks. The “how are you” is purely rhetorical. He’s a busy guy. Even on his days off, he isn’t the kind for pleasantries.

  “Have you seen the news?” I ask. He’s not really a bad guy to talk to about problems, when you catch him in a good mood.

  “Yes, of course. But who cares? It makes you look vulnerable. Irresistible. Every woman loves a guy who’s had his heart broken.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “I wasn’t thinking that this whole thing with Ariel would have a positive effect on my career.”

  “Of course, it will. You’re not some jerk who dumped her for a hotter model. As if that’s possible. No, you’re a nice guy who got cheated on. Now, you are a shoe-in for that Sexiest Man Alive cover. You’re all over the news. People Magazine won’t be able to resist. They’ll sell out.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I mumble. I hate to admit it, but I sort of like that at least one positive thing is coming out of this.

  “Oh trust me,” Josh says, taking a sip of something. Probably Red Bull. He doesn’t seem to live on anything else. “But I want to talk to you about that little indie movie. Are you sure you want to do it?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been looking for something more serious, and I like the script a lot. It’s smart.”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad. But it has NO marketing budget. How the hell is it going to make any money?” Josh asks.

  “I think they’re going to do the festival circuit. So, if the critics like it…” I say. I don’t really know how else to justify it. Josh knows why I’m doing this. I want to be offered more serious roles.

  “It’s going to take up a month of your time,” he says.

  “Listen, I know you’re disappointed that I’m not doing that action movie with Mark Wahlberg, but this movie just feels right. I know that I can do more than crack jokes and play the same exact br
ash asshole all the time.”

  “Hot, brash asshole,” Josh corrects me.

  I know that I’m not going to fully convince him why I have to do this, but that’s okay. I’m doing it for me, not for him.

  Chapter 4 - Chloe

  Two weeks after our first meeting, I arrive on set. This is my first real set. They show me to the wardrobe trailer, which is filled with clothes that I’ve preselected for all the principal actors. It’s fall, so most of the colors are warm. I’ve organized them according to scene with today’s scenes at the front. There are three people in the scene – sixty-five year old patriarch, fifty-five year old matriarch and their famous son. I haven’t met any of the actors yet, but I have their basic sizes and measurements. I also picked out clothes in a couple of sizes smaller and bigger, just in case the clothes that I have here aren’t a great fit. I think I brought too much – I’ve been prepping for this day ever since I landed the job – but I want everything to go perfectly.

  We’re shooting the first scene at a real house in North Hollywood. It’s a little bungalow, which is set up in a French country style. I’m glad that I got here about an hour earlier than I should have, because I used the hour to prep and gather my thoughts. I can barely contain my excitement, and my thoughts are running a mile a minute. After all the clothes and accessories are just how I want them, in order of my preference, I walk outside and head to the craft table. Time to meet some people, I say to myself.

  The craft table is filled with bagels, donuts, cookies, a variety of fresh fruit and vegetables, including bananas, strawberries, sliced up oranges and grapefruits as well as bacon, scrambled eggs, and sliced cold cuts.

  “This looks delicious,” I say to the woman next to me.

  “Oh Chloe, you’re here already!” she says, turning around. I suddenly realize that it’s Barbara from the meeting.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you, Barbara,” I smile and we exchange hugs. Barbara is big woman in her early thirties. She has a beautiful face and disposition. Her smile is contagious.

  “Are you settling in okay?” she asks. I nod.

  “Yes, everything’s great. I have all the outfits set out. Just need the actors now.”

  “Perfect. Well, they should be arriving soon.”

  Barbara excuses herself and disappears into a sea of people buzzing around the set. I pour myself a glass of orange juice. I always crave something sweet when I’m nervous. Orange juice is at least somewhat healthy, right?

  I thought that the craft table would be a good place to make a friend, but everyone looks rushed and busy. I decide to head back to the wardrobe section and wait until someone comes to see me.

  Suddenly, my phone beeps. I pull it out of my pocket as I walk.

  Good luck on your first day! Lila texts.

  I smile. She can be quite self-centered, but she can also be super sweet. She knows how nervous I have been for this day. I’ve been worried about it ever since I got the job, and it was she who appeased my fears to a large degree. It was she who made me feel like everything’s going to be okay. Or at least, tried to make me feel that way.

  Thanks! I text back.

  And then, splat!

  For a second, I don’t know what’s happened.

  My phone crashes to the floor. I’m covered in orange juice.

  “What the hell?” some guy yells in my face. “This is a set. You can’t just walk and text and carry orange juice around with you and not look where you’re going.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologize. Though, I have my doubts that it’s really my fault.

  My white tank top and skinny jeans are completely wet. I look over at the guy. He’s dressed in a white button down shirt, and a very nice pair of grey slacks. Both are drenched in orange juice.

  “You should be. I’m just walking here and then this happens!”

  And then suddenly, I get upset. “Hey, I already told you that I was sorry, okay? And I am.”

  “Whatever,” he shakes his head and walks away.

  “Oh my God,” a girl who looks like she’s in college runs up to me. “Don’t you know who that is?”

  I’m blotting my tank top and jeans with napkins, all to no avail. Orange juice stains, badly. I need some club soda or baking soda or something, but I don’t know if I can get any here.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That guy you spilled orange juice on?”

  “What about him?” I ask without looking up.

  “That’s Finn Dalton. I can’t believe that Finn Dalton is here! What did he say to you?”

  I stare at her as if she had lost her mind. “I yelled at him,” I say after a beat. She walks away from me, shocked to her very core. I just shake my head. No, she’s wrong. That wasn’t Finn Dalton. That couldn’t be. Tim said he was getting someone famous for the main role, but not Finn Dalton famous. What the hell would he be doing shooting a movie this little? The script is great, of course, but the budget is like half a million. If Okay Magazine is right, Finn Dalton doesn’t get out of bed for less than $20 million. No, that was just some guy who looks like him. I don’t know much about him, but I know one thing for sure. He’s an asshole.

  I pick up my phone and head back to the wardrobe trailer. The screen is cracked – perfect! This day is not getting off to a good start. I slam the door behind myself and start to search through the clothes for something that I could wear today. The actors will be here any minute, and I need to look like a professional. The back of my head feels like someone is hitting it with a mallet. I let out a breath and realize that I’ve been holding my breath for some time.

  Breathe. Just breathe, I say to myself. It’s moments like this that make me wish that I actually went out and got that cliché tattoo, with the words ‘Just Breathe’ on my wrist. It’s funny how often you actually forget to do just that.

  Chapter 5 - Finn

  When I arrive on set for my first day of shooting, I immediately regret the decision of signing up for this thing. I’m already having a bad day. Ariel called early this morning in a fit, demanding that I drop everything and look for her Cartier diamond necklace. Apparently, she couldn’t find it anywhere, and it’s somehow my job to look for it.

  “I took it off at your house. I remember that precisely,” she hollered into the phone.

  I look around the bedroom and the bathroom. I check the dresser and the closet. It’s nowhere to be found.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. “I don’t see it.”

  “C’mon look harder! It costs over fifty grand.”

  “Well, I hope you had it insured. ‘Cause it’s not here.”

  “Fuck you!” she yelled.

  “Maybe you should call Chateau Marmont and check if maybe you left it there,” I said and hung up.

  This was not the way I wanted to start the day. As much as I try to put her out of my mind, I’m still fuming over the whole thing when I arrive in North Hollywood, and my mood does not improve when I see the set. The bungalow is fine enough, but the crafts table is rather small, and there are clearly not enough trailers to accommodate the entire crew.

  Tim shows me to my trailer.

  “Thank you so much again for joining our production,” he says over and over, nervously, cracking his knuckles. What an annoying habit!

  “Yeah, sure. I love the script,” I say. At least that part is true.

  I don’t bother to go into the trailer and instead head straight to the crafts table. I need some coffee and maybe a Greek yogurt in my system if I have any hope of getting a fresh start on the day.

  Bam! Splash!

  Before I realize what’s going on, some girl’s orange juice is all over my brand new Calvin Klein shirt and my grey Marc Jacobs slacks. Perfect. Just perfect.

  Her phone falls to the floor, and I’m sure that she was walking and texting.

  She starts to apologize profusely, but that just pisses me off more. I put on these clothes precisely so that I didn’t have to be fitted by ward
robe for some cheaper clothes that won’t work as well. I’m supposed to be a drunk asshole celebrity and, given the look of this place, I’m not really certain that they have it in their budget for $1000 pants and a $500 shirt. That’s probably how much the director’s getting paid.

  After she disappears, I debate whether I should go to my trailer and freshen up or just head straight to wardrobe and get them to find me something to wear.

  “Hello? Excuse me? Is this wardrobe?” I ask, knocking on the door of the trailer on the very end. Who’s bright idea it was to put wardrobe so far away from the rest of the set is beyond me, but whatever.

  “Yes, it is,” I hear a girl’s willowy voice coming from inside. “Come in, come in.”

  When I open the door and step inside, I see a girl looking away and wiping her eyes as much as she can to hide the fact that she was crying, but her eyes are bloodshot and her mouth is red around her lips. Sure signs of tears.

  Oh shit. It hits me. That’s her! That’s the girl who spilled the orange juice on me!

  “I’m sorry, I can come back later, if you want,” I say, hoping that she will just let me go.

  “No, no, I’m sorry. Please come in.”

  “Is the main wardrobe person here?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I’m pretending that I don’t know that she has been crying, but both of us know that I’m not doing a very good job of it.

  She looks straight at me with her piercing hazel eyes.

  “I am the wardrobe stylist,” she says furrowing her brow. Oh crap! I’m just making this worse and worse. She puts her hands on her hips. Her eyes are dry now and she does not look happy.

  “I’m so sorry,” I finally say. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”