Bootycall Read online

  The waitress, a short, tired-looking woman with a warm smile and a tight bun of a hairdo, comes over.

  “It’s ok, sugar. The bill’s settled.”

  “Oh, I was just waiting for my friend.”

  “You’ll be waiting a long while then, darling.”

  I frown my confusion and turn around. “He’s just gone to the bathroom.”

  “And he’s just come out,” she says, nodding towards the window.

  I turn my head to look where the waitress is nodding. My muscles clench before my brain can even process what’s happening.

  Fuck. Dylan’s on his bike, and there’s some girl in tiny denim shorts settling in behind him. I watch, horrified, as Dylan cranes his neck back to exchange words with the girl before revving his bike and shooting off, the girl laughing and screaming as they kick up dust and start soaring along the winding road into the horizon.

  I slump my head in my hands. Great. Dylan’s fucking abandoned me. Another thing to add to the list of things I’m going to get revenge for as soon as this shoot is done.

  “Are you ok, sugar?” the waitress asks, softly.

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I say, raising my head.

  She shakes her head sympathetically.

  “Men. They’re all bastards.”

  “Some bastards are bigger than others,” I say, stepping by her and pulling my phone out as I make my way to the door.

  I sprint out into the parking lot and stare for a few seconds at the horizon that Dylan and his new best friend have just disappeared into.

  “Fuck!” is about the only thing I can manage to say. I start pacing up and down so angrily that I’m kicking up dust clouds on the dirt parking lot. I start calling Dylan, over and over again, getting angrier and more desperate with each of the many unanswered ring tones. After firing off a few expletive-filled voicemails I give up, all too aware of how easily Dylan can ignore me.

  I can already hear the irate and uncomprehending voices of the producers ringing in my ears as they outline the many reasons I’m fired. I can already see the frustration and defeat in the faces of the entire crew as they realize I’m responsible for destroying a multi-million dollar movie project and losing all of them their jobs.

  I look up to the sky, almost in the hope I’ll see a way out of this written in the clouds. What am I going to tell the producers? ‘Hey I happened to lose your international movie star, and by the way could you give me a lift home?’ There’s no way I come out of this without looking like an incompetent idiot.

  What I should do is tell the truth: That Dylan is a complete asshole who ran from the set and then abandoned me in the middle of nowhere, that it’s not my fault, and that the star of their movie is impossible to control. Maybe they’ll understand. Maybe they’ll sympathize. Maybe they’ll blame the guy who’s gonna be on the poster, and take sides with the girl who until now was working on small-fry projects in the financial department.

  Even in Hollywood that doesn’t make for a believable story.

  I rehearse conversations to myself as I walk up and down the lot, preparing every ounce of wit and strength for the call I’ll make to the producers. Eventually, however, the call is made for me.

  My phone rings. It’s Michael. I close my eyes and tense my shoulders, bracing myself, then answer the phone.

  “Gemma?”

  “Yeah?” My voice is high-pitched, practically strangled. But I guess there’s no point in trying to pretend everything is fine.

  “It’s Michael.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, defeated. Here it comes.

  “Look, Dylan just told me about the food poisoning.”

  I stop breathing, concentrating hard as I make myself sure I heard him right.

  “He did?” I say, quickly realizing that the less I give away, the better. Michael doesn’t sound pissed, and I’d like to keep him that way for as long as possible.

  “He sounded pretty bad. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh…um…” I consider putting on a little cough, before quickly realizing that the key to good acting is subtlety. I settle for talking a little drowsily. “I’m…not doing too great.”

  “Yeah, Dylan said you might not be. Look, this is pretty bad, but at least we’re not filming proper until tomorrow. Dylan’s met the director, so we’re good for today. Dylan told us he’s going home to recover, you should probably do the same. Rest, drink fluids, all that. We really need you guys on-set tomorrow and in good shape, so just take the rest of the day off, ok? You know what’s riding on this, and we can’t afford to push back the start date.”

  “Ah…yeah. Of course. Thanks,” I mumble, still in shock that Michael’s being so nice.

  “Sure, whatever. Just make sure you get better – fast.”

  I hang up the phone and stand still for a full ten seconds. Did that really just happen? Food poisoning? It’s a lame excuse, and I can’t believe how sincerely Michael was convinced, but then I remember the obvious: Dylan’s an actor. Peddling bullshit is what he does best.

  I take a few moments to enjoy the feeling of getting away with it. It’s not a total reprieve – I still don’t know where Dylan is, whether he’ll be on-set tomorrow, or how the hell I’m going to manage him throughout the shoot when he pulls shit like this on the first day – but for now I’m just glad my job is still safe. For now.

  It takes about an hour for my dad to drive through the canyons and all the way to this Godforsaken bar in the middle of traffic-clogged Malibu. Plenty of time to think about all the ways I’d like to murder Dylan Marlowe. Plenty of time to work myself up to the point where I’m ready to break his fingers, and almost enough time to calm back down again.

  My dad’s car rolls to a stop in front of the bar just as it’s getting dark, and I start feeling a little chilly in the cold breeze that rolls in from the ocean.

  “Hey Gemma,” he says, as I walk towards him with an eagerness and appreciation I haven’t had since I was a kid.

  “Hey Dad,” I say, clutching him in a hug that I’ve needed for a long time now.

  “What’s going on?” he chuckles, when I pull away. “And what’s with the mysterious S.O.S.?”

  “Let’s just get out of here. I’ll tell you in the car.”

  Once we’re driving up the rolling roads back towards the studio lot I start feeling a little better. My dad keeps glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

  “I’m fine, Dad, really,” I say. He doesn’t need to speak for me to see how worried he is. “I just went out for a few drinks and missed my ride home. That’s all.”

  He nods, thinks it over, and – as if listening to the sullen sound of my voice, rather than the words I’m saying – responds.

  “You know, you could always handle the guys on set. Even as a little girl, you’d hold your own. Most of the crewmembers weren’t allowed to bring their kids, but you – they loved you. You didn’t count as a kid.”

  “Well, I liked helping.”

  “You did. And look at you now – you’re still helping around on the movie sets. And with this new production accounting gig, you’re not just fetching coffee anymore.”

  The pride in his voice makes me feel too guilty to correct him. Yes, I was supposed to be done with low-level production assistant work, but instead of the promotion I’ve worked so hard to earn, I’m stuck babysitting a selfish asshole who abandoned me at a biker bar and will probably end up getting both of us fired by tomorrow, food poisoning cover story or no.

  “I feel like I did a better job of it when I was a kid sometimes,” I say, looking out of the window lazily.

  “I know it can feel like that sometimes, Gemma. It’s not all glamor and magic, it’s a tough business. All I did was build sets and I still got burnt out sometimes, but it’s worth it in the end. Where else can you put your—”

  “—your hard work on a screen for the world to see. I know Dad, you’ve been saying that for twenty years now.”

  He chuckles and I join in, a warm f
eeling spreading through me at how familiar and strong my dad is, no matter what other crazy shit is going on. “Your mother would be very proud of you,” my dad says, quietly. “It’s a shame she’s not around to see you now. But I know she’s watching…somehow…”

  I look at him and see a gentle smile soften his face.

  “Silly old fool,” he says.

  “No, you’re not, Dad. Thanks.”

  He nods and concentrates on the driving for a while. As we approach the lot I guide him past the security booth to the parking area, where my car sits.

  “I’ll see you Sunday for the game, Dad.”

  “I thought you’d forgotten in all this fuss.”

  “Never.”

  He gives me one more warm chuckle as I kiss him on the cheek and get out of the car, waving him goodbye as he drives out of the parking area.

  I step towards my car, ready to drive home, take a long hot shower, and gather as much energy I can for whatever crazy shit Dylan is going to pull the next day.

  Unfortunately, fate has other plans. Just as I’m about to put the key in the ignition, I get a text from Frankie—‘How was day 1? Meet me for coffee and tell me everything!’

  Part of me wants to ignore her text and escape home to that shower, but the other part of me is still boiling with anger at Dylan, and there’s a strong need to vent pumping through my veins. I text Frankie back and tell her I can’t stay long, but I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

  Chapter 8

  Gemma

  Frankie’s face lights up when I enter the café, and retains an almost scarily excited expression while I grab a coffee and take a seat opposite her.

  “Well?”

  “He definitely fucked me,” I say, sardonically. “He fucked me pretty good.”

  “I knew it!”

  Frankie claps her hands and jiggles her knees until she notices the pissed expression I’m wearing and detects the sarcasm in my voice.

  “Wait. What’s wrong, then?”

  I sigh deeply, sipping my coffee for the energy I need to relive the awful memory.

  “He decided to run away from set, so I went with him, and then the next thing I know he’s abandoned me at a biker bar in one of those canyons off PCH – God knows where – to run off with some chick. I had to get my dad to drive all the way there to pick me up. Luckily he’d called us both out sick with food poisoning, but who knows what will happen tomorrow?”

  Frankie’s expression drops.

  “Maybe that’s his idea of flirting?” she says, the strain in her voice revealing that even she doesn’t believe it.

  “Or maybe he’s a completely arrogant, self-absorbed, egotistical asshole.”

  “He’s probably nervous about the film.”

  “Frankie,” I say, slowly, “would you be making excuses for him if he looked like Danny DeVito?”

  Frankie opens her mouth to speak, and for the first time ever, decides to close it without making a sound.

  “I thought so.”

  “But he’s sexy as shit, Gemma. Arrogance and sexiness go hand in hand.”

  I make a disgusted face and struggle not to spit out my coffee.

  “No they don’t,” I say. “A guy can be sexy without being arrogant.”

  Frankie gives me a look like I’m a kid saying the funniest things.

  “Sure,” Frankie says in a voice so sarcastic she’s dripping it all over her lap.

  I stare at Frankie for a few seconds before putting my coffee down slowly.

  “Whatever. I’m done with Dylan. I’m just going to keep my distance, do my job, and wait for this shoot to be over. I’m done. I mean it.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I am. I really am.” I cross my arms and glare at a spot on the far wall, pretending it’s Dylan’s face. My phone rings, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction until I see who it is: Dylan. I look up at Frankie, who reads my exhausted expression like a picture-book and shrugs sympathetically.

  “Hello?” I say, when I answer the phone, my voice coming out so icy and cold it surprises even me.

  “I’m sorry?”

  I grit my teeth to keep from screaming out loud at him. “Holy shit, Dylan.”

  “What?”

  “Really? You’re really going for the apology now?”

  “Christ your phone voice is sexy.”

  “Ugh.”

  Dylan laughs, and it’s like he’s casting a spell. It’s infectious, warm, and hypnotic. A balm that softens all the prickly hate I ought to feel for him, a spell that puts me in the present and makes me completely forget what he did. A man who can do that is dangerous.

  I glance up at Frankie, whose eyes are wide and attentive, and snap back to reality.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I covered for us. Told the bosses we have food poisoning.”

  “I know. But involving me with your lies doesn’t make me feel any better. What are you calling me for, anyway? Don’t you have a random girl to be spending time with?”

  “I did. We had a nice ride.”

  “You’re disgusting, Dylan.”

  “I meant on the bike! I just called to apologize.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No! Wait…” I hold my breath, waiting for what’s coming. Dylan takes a while to start speaking again, almost like he’s thinking about what he’s about to say, which takes me by surprise. “It was a dick move, what I did today.”

  “Maybe because you’re a dick.”

  He laughs self-deprecatingly, and I can almost believe he’s not.

  “Probably. It’s just…I just thought of you as one of them. As one of the bosses, one of the condescending, controlling people who decided I can’t be trusted. I can’t stand that.”

  “Nobody hates this situation more than me.”

  “I know. It just took me a little while to figure it out.”

  Frankie gestures at her wrist and starts getting up, so I smile and wave a goodbye to her as she grabs her coffee and slides between the tables towards the exit.

  “Ok,” I say, my voice now drenched in cautious reserve, “well, that’s good. I’ll see you on set tomorrow then.”

  “Why don’t we meet now? Back at the set, say half an hour?”

  “Why? You just lied to everyone to get us the afternoon off and now you want to go back to the set?”

  “We’ll make a quick recovery. Show everyone that even with food poisoning we’re troopers.”

  “I don’t know, Dylan. Can’t we just show them tomorrow?”

  He takes a long breath. “The thing is, I kinda want to discuss logistics with you. I think it’d help both of us if we talk this working relationship thing over and try to figure out how to make it work. I don’t want to step on your toes anymore and I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna step on mine. Right?”

  I sigh deeply and pinch the bridge of my nose.

  “Ok,” I say, slowly. That shower was sounding so good, and now it’s so far away. But even though I’m still angry, I need to keep Dylan in this strange new ‘productive worker’ mode, make sure he’s going to show up tomorrow with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. So logistics it is. “I’ll see you there in a bit.”

  I hang up, and put my phone back into my bag. From hot hook-up, to total asshole, to considerate apologies – it seems like Dylan is exercising his full range, and I’ve got a front seat, whether I want it or not.

  Dylan’s waiting for me near the entrance gate when I get to the set and we make our way to his trailer slowly, exchanging a few polite nods and smiles. I keep my distance, just in case Dylan gets another idea in his head. I know I said no confined spaces, but having to enter his trailer is going to be an unavoidable work risk.

  He slumps himself down into the corner couch and I stand in the middle of the trailer with my arms crossed.

  “So?” he says, shrugging his shoulders and opening his palms. “What happens now then? How exactly is this going to work?” />
  “Honestly, I don’t know. I guess…I just have to watch you all day. I’ll call you in the morning to check you’re on your way to the set, and I’ll be with you until you go home. I’ve never done this before either, honestly. But my real job is on the line here. I’m working in the finance department and I have to protect our investment—but the usual minder wasn’t available, and lucky me, I got picked.” I glare at him.

  Dylan nods. “Well, you got me. You sure you can manage it?”

  I roll my eyes and pace a little around the trailer.

  “I don’t really have a choice,” I say. I’d like to scream and shout at him. I’d like to ask what the hell he thought he was doing abandoning me so far from the studio, how he thought I’d get back. I’d like to tell him not to interrupt my private, off-the-clock life. But I need to keep a cool head, retain a good distance, if this is going to work.

  Dylan watches me and I start to feel tingles over my body, my anger dissipating. Suddenly I feel naked and vulnerable, standing in the middle of his trailer while he smiles at me. It doesn’t help that images of the night we spent fucking - of his wet, naked body, of him walking towards me with lust in his eyes and hardness in his hands – keep inserting themselves into my mind involuntarily.

  Suddenly, he leans towards the counter and takes some papers from it.

  “I tell you what,” he says, his voice almost sounding sincere, “I need to practice some lines; how about you and I run through a scene together?”

  “Me?” I scoff. “I’ve never acted in my life.”

  “You don’t have to,” Dylan shrugs, “just say the lines so I can respond. So I can get the tempo of the scene.”

  I sigh a little.

  “Come on, Gemma. Just five minutes and then you can go home. It’ll really help me.”

  Damn him for being so irresistible. Reluctantly, I walk towards the couch and sit next to him, taking the script that he hands to me and making sure our thighs are a few inches apart.