Confessions of a Bad Boy Page 4

  “You still house-hunting?” Kyle says, after a big gulp of beer.

  “A little. Truth is, I’ve already got my eyes on one place. It’s kind of an inside secret that it’s going up for sale soon – nobody really knows. I’m biding my time – and my cash flow.”

  “Is it impressive?”

  “‘Impressive’ doesn’t even do the bathroom justice. The place is fucking amazing. Seriously, you’ve got to see it, it’ll blow your mind. Some hotshot architect - Jax something – designed it. So there’s gonna be a rush for it as soon as news that it’s up for sale goes out. I’ll probably lose out on it to some asshole actor who won’t even live in it, but I’ll pull every trick I can to make it mine if I have to.”

  “For a guy who hates the idea of settling down as much as you to talk like that, it must be nice,” Kyle laughs, draining his beer and reaching for his suitcase.

  “A place like that is too good to waste on only one woman. Are you leaving already?”

  “Yeah,” Kyle says, pulling out a bill and tossing it onto the table. “I’ll let you know when I get back.”

  We clasp hands.

  “Do that,” I say, “and make some free time while you’re at it. We gotta shoot some hoops or something.”

  “Right on.” Kyle nods. “And…er…”

  “Talk to Jessie. Yeah, don’t worry. I will.”

  Kyle winks, points at me, then drags his luggage out of the bar. I watch him go, a weird sensation of melancholy passing through me. The bar’s still virtually empty, except for a couple of old dudes grumbling at the sports highlights on the TV in the corner.

  For a moment I remember the night Jessie and I hooked up. It’s a weird memory, one I’ve pushed to the back of my mind, one that needs a little effort to bring to the fore. I think about how much Kyle trusts me, and how much that trust would turn to pointed hatred if he knew what we’d done.

  “Another?”

  I look up and see the bartender picking up the empty bottles from the table.

  “No thanks. I just lost my buzz.”

  3

  Nate

  I heard all the jokes about talent agents my first year of doing the job – after that, it was just variations on a theme. Everyone thinks it’s easy, and I lost my appetite for explaining why it isn’t a long time ago. One minute you’re the only buffer between the biggest egos this side of historical dictatorships, the next you’re in the position of crushing dreams. The talent expects you to be a leader, a parent, a confessional, and a teacher all at once. You’re the first guy people look for when they come to L.A. hoping to make it, the only guy blamed when they’re struggling, and the last guy to get any credit when they succeed.

  I’m not saying talent agents aren’t assholes – I’m saying there’s a good reason we are.

  Thankless as it is, though, I’m one of the best. I can spot talent from a mile away, can turn busboys into A-listers, and turkeys into blockbusters. I’m the guy directors call when they run out of casting ideas, the lifeline my actors tap when they’re thinking of writing a script or taking on a completely new role that could either make their career or tank it, and if I didn’t have a secretary I’d drown under resumes every morning. If I take you on as a client, you’ve either made it, or are about to go up a whole new level.

  If I ever write a book about how I made it to the top it’ll be a short one. I can sum it up in two things: I love what I do, and I keep the bullshit to a minimum. In an industry where half the people are being taken advantage of, and the other half are trying to take advantage, that counts for a lot.

  Or maybe I’m just good at being an asshole.

  My office computer pings and I look up from the stack of scripts I’m working through. It’s an instant message from Chloe, the receptionist.

  THE COUGAR HAS LANDED.

  Shit.

  It’s code, and not a very good one. The ‘Cougar’ is exactly that, fifty-three year old actress Dominique Ferreira. Five-feet-nine of ass, tits, and hair so shiny you can see your reflection in it. She looks like a cross between an Italian porn actress and an afghan hound, and I’m sure somebody has sampled her laugh for a kid’s cartoon villainess by now.

  Of course, her real name is Jane Gerst, she’s from a podunk town in Ohio, and it took three divorce settlements for her to get a body like that. A couple of years ago she got a role as one of the lead detectives in a police procedural TV series. It wasn’t meant to last, but the show got renewed over and over again, not least because of her determination to squeeze into stiletto heels, low-cut blouses and short skirts that were two sizes too small for her, and which would have her arrested for indecent exposure in a real police precinct.

  But legions of men in their fifties who still hadn’t figured out how to use the internet tuned in, making her, and the show, a regular on TV – and a constant presence in my office. These days the only work I do for her is book her gigs doing magazine spreads and daytime TV interviews, things which are more about keeping her ego satisfied than any kind of self-promotion.

  My door opens – no knock, of course – and she bursts in, collagen-injected lips first.

  “My beautiful Nate! How are you, gorgeous?”

  I get up from behind my desk and meet her in the center of the office. She squeezes me against her body so tightly I can feel her nipples, and I hear her indecently-toned sigh as she wraps herself around me.

  “Hello Dominique,” I say, with the small amount of breath she’s not squeezed out of my lungs.

  She kisses me on the cheek – a little too close to my lips – and lets me slip out of her python-grip.

  “Always better for seeing you, sweetie,” she says, dropping her voice down into pillow-talk frequencies.

  “Take a seat,” I say, retreating behind the safety of my desk. When I sit down in my office chair, after discreetly wiping her lipstick from my cheek, she’s right there. Dominique’s interpretation of ‘taking a seat’ is sitting side-saddle on my desk, gazing coquettishly at me over her shoulder. She crosses her legs, an impressive feat considering the tightness of her skirt and the awkwardness of her position, and whips her hair behind her shoulder to reveal her cleavage.

  “You look great, as always,” I say.

  It’s only a half-lie. Dominique might be a sex-crazed cougar, but she’s nothing if not fuckable. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. She’s famous for having a mouth like an industrial vacuum cleaner, and the sexual proclivity of a boy going through puberty.

  “I love it when you compliment me,” she purrs.

  She’s also got the viciousness of a cornered tiger and the mean streak of an angry Queen experiencing PMS. She puts about twice as much passion into seducing younger men as she does her work – and still consistently manages to act everybody off the set with her charisma and take-no-prisoners attitude. You can usually find Dominique by following the trail of shattered, broken, and worn-out men she leaves in her wake. As much as I might let my imagination run wild, I’d never be desperate enough to risk being chewed up by her.

  “So what can I do for you?” I say, shuffling the scripts around on my desk to let her know I’m busy.

  “I just wanted to see my agent – is that too much to ask?”

  “Of course not. But it’s a bit of a bad time. I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

  “Aw,” she says, drawing the word out sensuously. “Don’t tell me one of L.A.’s sexiest young men is wasting all of his time on work. My heart would break.”

  I laugh lightly.

  “If you’re referring to me, then I’m afraid so.”

  I keep my eyes down on the scripts, scribbling things in the margins for show. I feel a cold finger under my chin, and Dominique lifts my gaze to meet hers. She’s smiling like she’s about to tell me a secret I don’t want to hear.

  “When are you going to do the inevitable, Nate, and take me out to dinner?”

  Before I can laugh I suddenly remember. Jessie. Dominique’s
show is the one that Jessie has been working on. It’s been a few days since I spoke to Kyle, right before he went to London. I tried to call Jessie a couple of times after that, but there was no answer.

  “Do you know a girl named Jessie? Works in the costume department on your show?”

  A twinge of suspicion enters Dominique’s eyes.

  “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  “No,” I say, absently pulling her hand away from my chin, “it’s important. I’m supposed to talk to her.”

  “Pfft. Do you really think I sit down and talk with everyone who brings me my coffee?”

  “She’s not a PA. She does the costumes. She’s got black hair, hazel eyes, about—”

  “Nate!” Dominique sighs. She eases herself off the desk, and steps slowly around it towards me, trailing her long fingernails against the wood. “You’re smart enough to know that kind of girl can’t really do anything for a guy like you. They’re good to look at and all, sure, but they don’t know what they’re doing when it comes down to it.”

  I lean back in my chair as she steps in front of me.

  “It’s not like that. I just need to check up on her for a—”

  She presses a finger against my lip, and a hand on my thigh, leaning over me until all I can see is the Grand Canyon between her tits. A giant void that seems to have its own gravity.

  “You’ve done a lot for me, Nate. A lot for my career. Let me repay you a little bit.”

  “Dominique, seriously. I’ve got work to do.”

  “So have I,” she says, her spider-like fingers working the buckle on my belt.

  Just before I push her away the door to my office slams open, the mousey-haired head of Chloe poking itself through.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, without a hint of surprise at the awkward scene she just walked in on, “but your Porsche is being ticketed down at the curb, Ms. Ferreira.”

  Dominique pulls her attention away from my groin and marches towards the door.

  “For fuck’s sake! Every single time! When are you going to complain to the city about this?”

  She continues ranting all the way out of my office and into the elevator. I swing my chair back towards the desk.

  “Jesus, Chloe. I thought we said seven minutes? A second longer and she’d have stripped me.”

  “I’m sorry. I got held up. You really need another method for getting rid of her though – she’s gonna figure that parking thing out sooner or later.”

  “Short of keeping an ice bucket by my desk I can’t think of anything quicker.”

  “Anyway, the reason I was late was that there was a call for you. It sounds really urgent. Someone named ‘Jessie’?”

  “Shit. I’ll take it. Thanks.”

  Chloe closes the door behind her and I pick up the phone and punch the blinking button.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello? Nate?”

  Relief washes through me at the familiar sound of her voice. “It’s me. What’s up?”

  “You’re not with Kyle or anything, right?”

  I take a second to think.

  “No…he’s in London. Why?”

  I hear Jessie’s breathing on the other end of the line, short intakes, long exhales – she’s frustrated and anxious.

  “Okay. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m in jail.”

  “What?”

  “I’m in jail.”

  “What the hell did you do to get yourself in jail?”

  “Nate…” she says, her voice pleading, “I just need someone to bail me out. I didn’t have anyone else I could call. But if you’re going to sit there and lecture me, can you at least save it for later? My own conscience and the criminal justice system are doing a perfectly good job of making me feel like shit already. Please don’t make me beg.”

  Despite her tough-girl tone, I can hear the tremor in her voice beneath the bravado. And just like always, my heart goes a little soft knowing that Jessie’s in trouble.

  “Okay, okay. Just hang in there. I’m on my way.”

  4

  Jessie

  Spending seven hours in a police cell with a dreadlocked stoner and a valley girl who got caught drunk driving ought to be a certain kind of hell. But once the anger runs a little dry, the alcohol wears off, and I know for sure that Nate is coming to bail me out, I end up appreciating the fact that I have a little time to myself. I guess it’s true what they say – it’s good to disconnect sometimes.

  A big shadow covers the stripes of light on the floor that I’ve been staring at for the past twenty minutes and I look up and squint between the bars at the beefy officer who put me in here in the wee hours of the morning, when I was still drunk and ranting at three AM.

  “Jessie Meyer,” he booms, before loudly unlocking the cell door and sliding it aside.

  “Bye girls. Good luck,” I say to my new friends. The stoner sprawled on the bench offers a hazy wave, and the crushed teen raises her mascara-streaked face to smile meekly at me.

  The police officer leads me down the corridors, stopping briefly at a desk to hand me my phone and purse, and then I follow him out into the reception area where Nate is waiting as casually as if we’re at a bar.

  “Are you sure she’s safe for me to be alone with?” Nate jokes to the officer, who rolls his eyes and turns back.

  We stand for a second, looking at each other. I’ve known Nate for as long as I can remember, but whenever I go a week or so without seeing him, it still takes me a few minutes to get used to how annoyingly beautiful he is. The sharp lines and rough stubble on his face made you wonder if someone had breathed life into a Greek statue, setting a couple of zircon gems in it for eyes. The sort of face you experience, rather than see. For pretty much all of my teenage years I’d get a static shock whenever Nate looked at me, and I was certain he had superpowers.

  But it’s Nate, my brother’s best friend. And I’m too old to have silly crushes anymore.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say, refusing to meet his irritatingly gorgeous eyes for even one more second as I head for the exit. “I just want this night to be over.”

  “It’s technically daytime now. And while I appreciate having an excuse to leave work, I’m almost tempted…” Nate begins, holding the door open for me.

  “Let me guess, you were tempted to leave me there and stew,” I interrupt.

  Nate laughs. “Something like that.”

  He keeps laughing as we go down the steps of the police station towards his car.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly,” I say across the roof of his car.

  “You gonna tell me why I had to drive across the city to bail you out of a cell?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m sure it’s a good one.”

  We get inside the car but Nate doesn’t start it up. Instead, he shifts in his seat and casts the spotlight of his eyes in my direction intently. Even if he hadn’t told me, I can tell he came straight from work— he’s in a soft button-down shirt that fits like it was made for him, sleeves rolled up to show the sinews of his forearms. I take a deep breath.

  “I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me. Is that stupid enough for you?”

  As the words tumble from my lips I feel all the anger and hurt once again, almost as if reminding myself how shitty it was. I quickly suppress the quiver in my throat and the heat in my eyes that could so easily turn into full-on, soap opera levels of crying.

  “Shit,” Nate says, his discomfort about discussing this kind of thing showing in the uncertainty of his voice. “Is he still alive?”

  I smile timidly.

  “Yeah. I don’t know about his car though.” I let out a weak laugh.

  “What happened?”

  If my morning in the cell felt like a brief vacation away from it all, sitting here in Nate’s car as the sun shines down on us outside the police station, and telling him exactly what happened, brings it all back again. I can feel the stress in my muscles, tens
ing them up and setting me on edge. The millions of problems and annoyances that seem to make up my life now reforming themselves in my mind.

  “My bad taste in men happened. Again. No…that’s not fair. It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Kyle mentioned that you had a new boyfriend.”

  “Ex-boyfriend. Hank. He seemed cool. I met him at a studio party. He was working in the sound department. We’d been dating for a month or so. It wasn’t perfect – I mean, he was always complaining that I kept putting work before him. I should have seen it coming, I guess. Last night he left his phone at my place. I took it to work with me, and it rang. I was so overwhelmed I just answered it, not even realizing it wasn’t mine.”

  “It was the other girl, right?”

  I nod grimly, and see a look of tight, restrained anger on Nate’s face. The same kind of protective aggression Kyle wears constantly, but which Nate understands when to keep in check.

  “After bitching at each other for a few minutes, we started talking. She was actually pretty cool. Turns out the asshole had been stringing both of us along. I got so pissed, I couldn’t think. I felt like I was burning up. I managed to get through the work day, and after we wrapped around midnight, I got in my car and left. I stopped at a bar near his house, thinking I’d have a drink and then go tell him off. But the next thing I knew I was hiding outside his apartment, scrawling everything I wanted to call him on his car in lipstick.”

  A smile twitches at Nate’s lips. “They said you smashed in his headlights too. And pulled off the windshield wipers. And then you tried kicking in the bumper. At some point the car alarm went off, but you didn’t seem to notice.”

  I sink my head into my hands.

  “Fuck. See, I don’t even remember doing that. It was such a shit day. I’d just found out I didn’t get a job doing the costumes for this indie film about a single mom who’s a kingpin in the Russian mafia –I really wanted that gig. And then those bastards at Edison turned off the electricity at my apartment while I was at work because the bill’s past due and my roommate had to pay to get it turned back on and she’s ready to kill me over that. And then Hank. It’s like absolutely everything is fucked.”