Bootycall 2 Read online

  Gemma.

  I hate to fucking admit it, but this fourth whiskey is making me. She’s the one who’s had me thinking I might be able to move on, might be able to put all this shit behind me. Shit. She just broke up with her boyfriend, lives in a shitty studio, had to deal with following me around all fucking day long, and she still has her shit together more than anyone I know.

  I might be able to knock a guy out in the time it takes to bring up his hands, I know how to take control of a room and whoever’s in it, and I’m in a position where I don’t need to take any shit from anybody – but none of that can help the pain inside go away. For that…I don’t know what I need, but there’s a small part of me that was hoping Gemma might be the one to provide it. But in the end I can’t escape from myself.

  So of course, I’ve treated her like shit. Pushed her away when I should have brought her close, and tried to get close when it was smarter to keep my distance. Maybe I know, deep down, that she’s too good for all this. Too pure to get involved with all my sins. Maybe I know I’ll only corrupt her, like I’ve done to anyone who gets close – like I’ve done to myself. Maybe if we just fucked and kept it at that, there’d have been no danger – for either of us.

  I look up at the bartender. He’s in front of me, waiting for the sign. I think about calling it quits. About going back to my home and looking at the dailies, try and get my head back to the job at hand. I think about going to the set, talking with Christopher a bit, going over our approach to the upcoming scenes. I think about just grabbing a square meal somewhere and then working out, trying to pull my head out of my ass and get myself right.

  I think about all of that, but instead I just give him the nod and watch him put another whiskey in front of me.

  Chapter 10

  Gemma

  Somehow, Dylan is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It’s been two days since he was last on set, over 24 hours since I saw him myself, and at this point, he is about as gone as my job. I don’t blame him, and if I was in his position I’d take the first ticket to Cuba as well, but the fact that the entire world is going crazy about him isn’t helping.

  I spent the night working my way through two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s (one was an entrée, the other dessert – the main course was a pizza from the place across the street, though I still had it delivered). The internet is a no-go. The showbiz sites and social media are still tearing every last piece of meat from the bones on the ‘lovechild’ story, and even the better newspapers are using it as a jumping off point for editorials about ‘celebrity culture’ and ‘separating the art from the artist.’ TV was no better. It seemed like half the schedulers of the smaller stations were playing some kind of twisted joke, rerunning his movies and interviews. Even the magazines in my local 7-Eleven – the one where the magazines are always at least three months out of date – had his face beaming from the shelves.

  I drive to work feeling like the most useless, bloated, and imminently-forgotten person in LA. Which is the perfect time to get stuck in traffic, right in front of a billboard showing an underwear advertisement - Dylan’s recent underwear ad. His come-to-bed eyes and a bulge that I know hasn’t been Photoshopped remind me of precisely why I’m about to lose my job.

  “Thanks a fucking bunch, Dylan,” I mutter to the larger-than-life sized image.

  When I get to the lot I grab the first person I see and, with eyes that are almost tearing up from nerves, ask in my most desperate voice, as if willing it will make it happen, “Is he here? Did he call in, at least?”

  The teenage runner that just happened to be the one I decided to ask the question my career was hanging upon shakes his head apologetically, before adding a shrug for emphasis and walking away.

  I drop my head, arms, and hope to my sides.

  “Gemma! Michael wants to see you,” shouts a crewmember, with the perfect timing of a serial killer.

  I trudge slowly toward the producer’s office. Slow, deliberate steps, like I’m taking a walk to the chair. I guess it’s not all bad if they let me go now. I have half a month to scratch up the rent still. Maybe they’ll give me some kind of severance package before they let me go. I’ll need to work on my resume though – and the fact that I may become known solely as ‘the girl Dylan Marlowe fucked’ won’t do me any favors.

  Who am I kidding? I’ll probably end up moving back in with my dad. Either that or going the whole hog and finding a crappy room to rent someplace downtown by the train tracks and becoming a crazy cat lady. I do like cats, and I’m not too far off from going crazy.

  “Sit down, Gemma,” Michael says, when I knock and open the door. His hands are joined in an arch in front of him, ready to slice and whip the air in order to express how truly disappointed in me he is.

  I nod and sit. Clenching my muscles as I brace for what’s to come.

  “Any idea where Dylan is?” he asks, his words flying through the air like they’re razor-edged.

  I shake my head. “He won’t pick up his phone or return my texts or calls. He’s not at his house, his bike is gone…I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Great,” he says. “Just fucking fantastic. Another day of pointless work. Another fuckload of cash just dumped into the ocean. The supporting cast are very happy – we’ve already had to add an entire subplot just so that we don’t completely fucking waste all the time Dylan is…doing whatever the fuck he’s doing. But we don’t have a movie if that asshole doesn’t get back here soon. You really have no idea where he is?”

  I shrug and shake my head again.

  “No. Of course not. It was only your job to keep track of him. It was only the very fucking thing that we asked you to do. Why would you know? Why would you do your job?”

  “Michael,” I say, leaning forward and clasping my hands like I’m begging in a silent movie, “I know. It was my job to watch him. But I can’t stop him from doing stuff like this. How could I? What was I supposed to do? Nobody knew this news would break.”

  “Wrong!” Michael shouts, his hands shooting out in front of him like he’s just caught an imaginary basketball. “Wrong, Gemma! We knew! We knew some shit would happen with Dylan, and that includes this kind of shit. We never expected you to handcuff him to you, but the problem is, you have no idea where he is! No clue when he’ll be back, and no way of getting through to him!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you? How much of this is because you were screwing him, Gemma?”

  I stare at him, shock spilled all over my face.

  “Oh yeah,” he says, nodding. “We know all about that. I saw the pics of you two leaving your apartment looking very fucking cozy. I had to pull in every favor with every piece of shit in town to stop them from putting those pics out. A lot of fucking money too.”

  I gasp for air for a few seconds before speaking. “Really? Thank you! Oh God, thank you, Michael!”

  “Don’t thank me!” he says, as if offended at the gratitude. “I didn’t do it for you! I did it for the company! You represent us¸ Gemma. If they knew we were fucking the actors we’d lose even more money than we already are – which is way too fucking much by the way.”

  I hang my head, the silence feeling almost as crushing and as humiliating as the shouting. I wait for the final blow, hoping that Michael will just make it quick and simple. No discussion, no weird vibe, just tell me I’m fired and let me go back to my Ben and Jerry’s.

  “Well,” he says, his voice dropping a few decibels, but still forcefully loud, “what are you going to do about it?”

  I look up, confused.

  “Do about it?” I somehow manage to mumble.

  Michael nods. “Yes. Do about it. What? Did you think we would just let this go?”

  “No, I thought—”

  “’Oh, I happen to have lost the star of the picture.’ ‘Ok, Gemma, why don’t you pop back to accounts then and make yourself busy.’”

  I shake my head. “I thought you’d just fire me.”


  “Fire you? Get a grip, Gemma! You’re the only chance we’ve got at fixing this right now! You need to find whatever rock Dylan has hidden himself under, persuade him to get his ass back here pronto, and then make sure he doesn’t run away like a spoiled teenager again until the film is done. Then I can think about firing you. After I give you a bonus.”

  My head is spinning trying to process everything Michael is throwing in my face right now, but all that’s getting through is that they need me. “Um…ok. But…how do I find him?”

  Michael looks at me like I just slapped him.

  “I don’t know, Gemma. Hire a fucking detective. Hire a fucking telepath. Strip naked and run down Sunset Boulevard calling for him like a lost dog for all I care. Just get that dipshit back here!”

  I nod, then take the hint that Michael’s tight lips and stern glare are giving me, and leave his office.

  I walk back onto the lot feeling somehow invigorated. It’s a stay of execution, but it’s something. There was no doubting that Michael – and therefore most of the producers – would be about as pissed as they can be before pulling the plug, but now I have a purpose, a job. This time I won’t fuck it up. Maybe I’ll even be able to keep my job.

  I go to Dylan’s trailer, not sure exactly of what I’m hoping to find, but it seems as good a place as any to start hunting him down.

  As I step inside, smelling a faint trace of cologne, seeing the mess of papers and empty bottles – a trail he seems to leave wherever he goes – I start to remember all the times we’ve been together. This time I look at the memories clearly, brushing away the emotions and the baggage they used to bring with them like dirt from stones, reliving our moments together with a sense of distance, peering into them for any clues they might reveal. The night at his place, before all this started. Running lines in his trailer. His days on set. The afternoon we spent shopping.

  Almost immediately I start to struggle. The story doesn’t add up. From the first night Dylan has been obviously troubled by something. The way his face would suddenly darken, the way certain things seemed to bring out a pain in him, the way he was obsessed with how false Hollywood is, and how he was looking for something ‘real.’ None of it chimes with the idea of a ‘secret lovechild.’ Hollywood is full of actors who’ve had failed marriages. Who have kids they support while not being a full part of their lives. The only reason I can think of for Dylan to keep it a secret would be if he cared about his ‘wild and crazy bachelor’ image – and I know for a fact that it’s no image.

  So what is it, then?

  I have to speak to that mother. Whatever is going on, she can’t be that happy with the attention either, and if there’s a way out of this, she’s it. Maybe she even knows where Dylan is. But how to find her?

  I stand in the middle of the trailer, looking around at the mess, trying to find something, anything, that could help me.

  “Let’s see…I know what she looks like…I know that the kid is three years old…I know that he’s been making secret payments…Fuck! That’s it!”

  I leap towards the mass of stacked papers as if I’m scared they’ll fly away at any second, and start sifting. I push aside the scripts, notes, and random scraps, while tossing the envelopes into a pile. Once I’ve gone through it all, I start tearing open the envelopes.

  “One of these has to be a bank statement,” I say, half in prayer.

  Then I find it.

  “Yes!” I shout, clenching my fists and gritting my teeth like I just won the biggest pot of the night at a poker tournament. “Thank you God! Thank you!”

  I flip through the statement pages, hoping I’m right. And then I see her name.

  Ramona Stone. Payment on the first of the month. It even has the tag ‘support’ on it. It has to be her. I pull my phone out, and within seconds have her Facebook account, an address in Orange County for her, and even her taste in clothes available at my fingertips.

  I burst out of the trailer like a champagne cork and sprint towards my car, frantically working my phone as I do so. This is it, Dylan. I’m gonna get some fucking answers – even if you won’t give them to me yourself.

  Chapter 11

  Gemma

  I arrive at the address to find a scene that’s not much different from the one that greeted Dylan and I on the morning he stayed over. Cars line the road, closely-parked right where Ramona is supposed to be, and there are a bunch of sketchy-looking guys standing around making small talk, their eyes occasionally flickering toward the gates of the address.

  I roll my car past them, trying to figure out a way of getting through. ‘The abandoned mother and the homewrecker’ – if they saw me visiting Ramona it would be a dynamite story for them. I’d better be careful. I park up some way down the road and look back at the cluster of paparazzi.

  “Shit,” I mutter under my breath, as I look around for some other way to get to the house. After walking a few steps I notice an alleyway that leads around to the back of someone else’s yard – it wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve done in the past few weeks, and if I hold on to my questions any longer they’re going to explode inside of me.

  I keep my eyes on the photographers and dart into the alleyway, glancing in all directions as I take a sharp turn and start jogging across somebody else’s well-preserved lawn. After a few minutes I reach a fence – Ramona’s fence. I see something moving between the wooden panels and lean in close. It’s a kid. I can’t tell, but it has to be Ramona’s - Dylan’s.

  “Psst!” I say, waving over the top of the fence as I angle my head to look between the panels. “Hey kid! Over here!”

  He turns and sees my hand. I see him stiffen as he runs through all the procedures he has for dealing with strangers – I’m hoping that none of them involve calling the police. After a few more seconds of frantic waving, and smiling like a Disneyworld employee, the kid turns back to the house and runs.

  “Mom!” he screams, as he leaps up the steps and enters the house. “Mom!”

  I jerk my head wildly as I try to catch sight of the door between the thin gaps, and can just about make out the sight of the dark-haired woman stamping out into her yard, the kid pointing out my position behind the fence.

  “Go away!” she says. “This is private property! I’m calling the cops right now.” She waves her phone threateningly. “Leave my kid out of this. Don’t you people know where to draw the line?”

  “Wait! I’m not a photographer! Please, I just want to talk!”

  She stops screaming when she hears my voice, pocketing the phone and slowly walking towards the fence. I angle my head so she can see as much of my face as possible.

  “Who are you?”

  “I work with Dylan. I need to find him. I just want to talk with you. He’s…he’s gone.”

  She walks past me, and I look along the fence. A second later, part of it swings open, and I jog towards the entrance. She’s a good-looking woman. Dark-haired and tanned. She has an earthy, effortless beauty, and I begin to rethink the possibility of Dylan being involved with her – she’s definitely got what a guy like Dylan would like.

  “Ramona?” I say, suddenly realizing that I’m panting from the excitement and jogging.

  She nods.

  “I’m Gemma. I’m Dylan’s—”

  “Babysitter,” she interjects, smiling. “Yeah, he told me all about you. Come in quick, before those rats outside see you. Sorry for the paranoia.”

  A few minutes later I’m sitting in front of the glass doors, sipping espresso with Ramona, as the kid – whose name I find out is Ben – kicks a soccer ball energetically around the yard.

  “Cute kid,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Ramona says, wistfully, “cute and a troublemaker – like most men in my life.”

  I turn to look at her over my coffee cup, before putting it down slowly and figuring out where to start.

  “Is he…” I start, before trailing off. I suddenly feel bad, intruding on her life like this and digging for
secrets – no better than the paparazzi outside.

  “Dylan’s?” she says, a small smile showing that she expects to talk about it, and isn’t hiding. “It’s a long story.”

  I sip my coffee again, saying nothing. Ramona knows I want to hear it. After a few seconds she sighs a little and looks out over the yard towards Ben again.

  “I met Dylan – and Cal – pretty much right after they came to LA. They went way back; growing up together in Ireland.” She snorts a gentle laugh at the memory. “They were two peas in a pod, brothers in all but name. Both loved movies, both were a hit with the ladies, both never knowing when to stop. They came out here together to make it in the business, shared a tiny apartment, scratching up rent God-knows-how. I was living with a roommate at the time, right next door to them.”

  “How was that?” I say, trying to put a little humor into my voice.

  “A pain,” Ramona smiles. “Actually there were whole weeks when they’d barely be home, but when they were, it was like living next to a frat house, bar, and nightclub all at once.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” I say. “Dylan’s a handful.”

  “Imagine two of them,” Ramona smirks. “Actually, Cal was worse – or at least, he became worse before too long.”

  “What happened?”

  Ramona lets out a deep sigh and sips from her coffee again.

  “Dylan got the lucky break. And Cal didn’t. It really was as simple as that.” I nod as the picture starts to feel more real. “Both of them tried their best to get an agent, do as many jobs as possible. Both of them were great actors, with so much determination, and such a weirdly obsessive – but kind of admirable – passion for movies. But…well, you know how it is, you work in Hollywood. There’s plenty of talent out there, and without that little bit of luck you can work your ass off and still end up landing on it. Another coffee?”

  “Oh,” I say, when she breaks me out of the story. “No, thanks.”