Beautiful PRICK (4 page)

CHAPTER SIX

I spend a good hour checking in extras for the scene we’re
shooting today. It’s the first day of official shooting here on set, and we’re
starting with some sort of Olympic training montage. From what’s been explained
to me, unlike most movies, they’re trying to shoot this one more
chronologically. They’re doing this because they need to see Johnny physically
get bigger throughout the movie as he ages and works up to the MMA fights. They
have him set up with a trainer, and every minute that he’s not on set, he’s
working out.

Woof.

Shooting is set to last five months, including the two weeks
they already shot in New Mexico for the wartime footage. So unless things go
totally haywire, it looks like I’ll have a pretty consistent job for the next
four and a half months. It probably won’t permit me much time to write, but I’m
hoping the money will allow me to take off for at least a week after the
production to do nothing but write. Hey, maybe I’ll write a pilot about being
on a television show.

Nah, that’s been done.

Maybe I’ll go to New York.

We’ll see.

“Caroline, can you come to the tent?” My Walkie Talkie starts
talking from my hip.

“Coming.” I happily reply.

Whoops, I didn’t press the button. Let me try that again.

“Coming.” I happily reply. Second time’s a charm.

I go to the tent, where I meet up with my supervisor who is
looking over the day’s itinerary. I give her a second, seeing as she seems
quite preoccupied. She quickly glances up, sees that I’m there, and then darts
her eyes back to the paper.

“Give me a second.”

“Take your time.” I smile.

She grabs her phone from her pocket, dials a number, and
puts it to her ear.

“Listen, I have too much on my plate for today… No… Tell him
to get someone else… It’s not an option… I don’t care who he is or who he
thinks he is… No… No… No… Fine.”

She hangs up with a huff. “Did you have a conversation with
Mr. Braylock yesterday?”

It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me, because
she still hasn’t looked up. “Who me?”

“Yes you. Whom else would I be talking to?”

The tent is full of people. I don’t really understand why
she’s so surprised that I don’t know if she’s talking to me, especially since
she’s still not looking at me.

“Then yes. I met him on set yesterday morning.” I warily
reply, not sure if I have already done something wrong. I really can’t afford
to get fired on my second day.

“Did you offer to sleep with him?”

I bust out laughing because she made a joke, but for some
reason, she’s not laughing with me.

“Wait, is that a joke?”

“No, that’s not a joke.” Oh, I guess it wasn’t a joke. By
the way, she’s still not looking at me.

“Oh, then, no. I didn’t suggest that at all. Wait; did he say
that I offered to sleep with him? Do people do that? What did he say I said?” I’m
freaking out.

“Calm down, Caroline. I get it. You didn’t offer to sleep
with him.”

I’m still freaking out. Do I just go around giving the
impression that I want to sleep with people?

“So Johnny…”

“Mr. Braylock.” She corrects me.

“Right, so Mr. Braylock didn’t say that I said I would sleep
with him?”

“He didn’t say that.”

I start laughing again because now I’m ridiculously
uncomfortable, and it’s the only thing my body will allow me to do.

“Phew. Now that we got that covered…” I really don’t know
what else to say.

“Mr. Braylock wants you to be his personal assistant.”

“What? No, I’m the production assistant.” I don’t know why
I’m arguing. She knows what I am.

“Right. That’s what I said, but he’s the star of the movie
and he’s refusing to work with the personal assistant assigned to him, so we’re
going to switch your roles.”

“But…” I’m in shock. I don’t know if this is a promotion or
a demotion or if I’m excited or mad or happy or sad.

“I’ve already tried fighting on your behalf, but it’s out of
my hands. He wants you in his trailer.”

“When?” I’m still in shock.

“Now.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

I spin around in a circle, because for some reason, I think
that will help me. It doesn’t. “Okay, wow, okay, then I should…”

“Yes, you should.”

So my day has completely changed. I guess I’m no longer a
P.A. Well, no, that’s not true. I’m still a P.A., but now it stands for ‘personal
assistant’ rather than ‘production assistant’. Why do I feel like that’s a
demotion?

I’m in front of his trailer. Okay, deep breaths; I can do
this.

“Knock, knock.”

Maybe
it would be more
helpful if I actually knocked on the door rather than meekly called “knock,
knock” from the other side.

So I knock, for real this time, and the door quickly swings
open.

“Oh good, you’re here.” Johnny doesn’t even look at me,
he just turns around and walks back into his trailer.

Is there something on my face? Why is no one looking at me
today? Is it because I chose yet again to wear my glasses instead of my
contacts?

“My supervisor said you needed to see me?” That seems like
an easy enough way to break into a conversation.

“I’m your supervisor now.”

“Excuse me?” I don’t know if it’s his tone, his curtness, or
the fact that he still hasn’t looked at me, but I’m actually annoyed.

“Check on my breakfast.” He quickly makes eye contact with
me from the reflection in the mirror.

“What?” I’m still very confused as to what is happening.

“My breakfast is supposed to be delivered at 7:15. It is now
7:17. Therefore someone has made a mistake.”

“And I’m supposed to find out who made that mistake?”

“Precisely.”

I have the sudden desire to step back and laugh at him. Who
does he think he is? So his breakfast is two minutes late. Who the hell cares? Is
he serious? Is this really how his world works?

“I’m going to be candid with you, Mr. Braylock, I have never
been a personal assistant, nor do I care to be a personal assistant.”

“Okay.” He lightly replies.

“So…” I’m not quite sure what his ‘okay’ means. “We’re good
here?”

“Are you finished complaining?” Just in case you were
wondering, he still hasn’t looked at me other than in the reflection from the
mirror.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘are you finished complaining?’”

He spins around from the mirror and lands directly in front
of me. He’s staring into my eyes for the first time, and I feel myself
literally go weak in the knees. You have to be kidding me. Seriously? The smell
of his redolence overwhelms my senses, and I find that I no longer have the ability
to be angry with him.

But the mere fact that I am no longer angry makes me even
angrier.

“I don’t have to put up with this.” I turn to leave his
trailer, now completely fed up with the whole situation.

“Are you quitting?” He says as if he knows my answer.

“You know what?” I give him a sly smile. “I am.”

With that, I run down the three steps from his trailer and
make my way down the lot. I know Melissa will be upset with me. After all, she
did recommend me for this position, but she has to understand that I can’t work
for someone who doesn’t respect me. I also can’t work for someone who freaks
out if his breakfast is two minutes late. Here I am, just overwhelmed by the
bagel selection at craft services, and he’s got a freaking timer on his omelet.

I guess Keith was right. Johnny Braylock is a dick.

Childhood dreams: crushed.

I stop by craft services to grab a bagel: hey, if I’m
quitting, I might as well leave on a full stomach, but I don’t get as far as
cutting the bagel in half, when I feel a presence behind me. I quickly turn
around, holding my plastic knife in front of me.

Let it be known that I have never been attacked, I have
absolutely no background in self-defense, and I’m pretty sure if I were ever
truly in danger, I would freeze. But for some reason, at 7:30 in the morning,
on a guarded studio lot, I felt the need to defend myself with a plastic knife.

“Johnny.” I whisper, surprised to see him. “I mean, Mr. Braylock.”

“Oh dear, call me Johnny.”

“Right. Yes.” Sure, I’ll call him by his first name, except
it doesn’t matter, because I will never see him again after a few moments.

“Five dollars an hour more than what you were getting paid.”

“What?” That wasn’t even a sentence. What is he trying to
say to me?

“Your P.A. pay. I’ll make sure you get five dollars an hour
extra to be my assistant.”

Okay, I had no idea there was wiggle room on the pay. Why
didn’t I think of that? The winds have now changed!

“Ten.”

“What?” Now it’s
he
who doesn’t know what
I’m
talking about.

“I want ten dollars an hour more than my P.A. pay.”

He gives me a knowing smile. “I’m not sure if I can do
that.”

I shrug at him. “I’m not sure if I can be your personal
assistant.”

“Fine.” He quickly jumps on my dispute.

“I want it in writing.”

“You’ll have it by noon.”

“And yet you expect your omelet in two minutes.” I almost
laugh at my quick debate.

Johnny swiftly looks away and then looks back to me. “If my
omelet is in my trailer in five minutes, you’ll have your salary in writing by
eight.”

“I can do that.”

I confidently begin to walk away, when I realize I actually
have no idea how to do that. Where’s the omelet guy? Who normally brings Johnny
his breakfast? Is that my job?

Oh gosh, what did I just get myself into?

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Johnny, no, that’s not a thing. I can’t get you caffeinated
herbal tea. It’s naturally decaffeinated.”

“You’ll figure it out.” He smugly leans against his trailer
counter.

Oh my gosh, this man is driving
me
crazy. “I won’t figure it out because it’s not something you can figure out. It’s
the way the world works and the world doesn’t caffeinate herbal tea.”

“And yet they make decaffeinated tea that was originally
naturally caffeinated.  Do you see how your logic makes no sense, Caroline?”

 I want nothing more than to scream at him. So I almost do. “It’s
your logic that doesn’t make sense. Decaffeinating things is a process. They
steep the leaves and then rinse them with either dichloromethane or ethyl
acetate for a good ten hours to get rid of that caffeine. That, or they use
pressurized liquid CO2 to extract the caffeine. Either way, it’s a process.” I
stomp my foot to show that I am finished.

Johnny raises his eyebrow at me, but doesn’t speak for the
longest second of my life.

And then he does, and I want to slap him. “Why do you know
so much about tea?”

I throw my hands up in the air and storm out of his trailer.
I just need a second, and with him, I’m never allowed it. It’s always something
with him: his sandwich is too small, his socks are too big, his trailer is too
cold, his shirt is too thick, his naturally decaffeinated tea isn’t
caffeinated.

This is not at all what I signed up for. I knew the hours
would be long, as sometimes a P.A. is on set for over sixty-five hours a week,
but this is just bitch work. I’m a serious, dedicated person who is being
forced to carry around a thermometer so that I can make sure the temperature of
his protein shake is exactly 46.4 degrees Fahrenheit, because apparently if the
water is too warm, it’ll denature the amino acids.

And…he thinks it’s crazy that I know how they decaffeinate
tea.

“You’re coming to my workout with me.” He leans his head out
of the doorway and catches me kicking the stones on the ground.

“Nope.” I sarcastically smile up at him.

“That wasn’t a question, Caroline.”

He tosses me a hoodie, and shuts the door behind him.

The gym they set up for his training is across the studio
lot. Most people take the golf carts, but I’m from New York, and honestly, I
miss the walking. California people drive too much. Johnny doesn’t argue with
me, as he’s coming up with any way to stay active every second of every day.

It’s kind of annoying. He’ll just stop what he’s doing, even
if he’s in the middle of a sentence, pull off his shirt, and start doing push
ups. I’m not stupid: I know he doesn’t need to take off his shirt to do push
ups-he’s doing that just to make me stare.

Which I do.

“Have you ever watched MMA?” He casually tries to make
conversation.

“I’ve seen bits and pieces at bars, but I’m not an avid
follower.”

We walk a few more steps in silence, before he begins to illuminate
me, very passionately, I might add. I quickly ask if it’s something I really
need to know, to which he replies, “yes.”

He explains to me that there are three fundamental aspects to
MMA fighting: Brazilian Jiu-jitsu, Wrestling, and Shoot-Boxing. He tells me
that he’s boxed before, and wrestled in high school, but Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, is
pretty new to him.

“So you’ve wrestled and you were a marine? You have quite a
bit in common with this character.”

Johnny stops quickly and looks at me. “How did you know I
was a marine?”

Awesome. Good going, Caroline. I can’t very well
tell him that I was up until four in the morning
stalking his IMDB page.

“I must have heard that somewhere.”

He eyes me suspiciously, as I’m an absolutely terrible liar.
“Interesting.”

“Oh look, we’re at the gym.” I awkwardly announce to try and
rapidly change the subject.

Johnny then explains to me that Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, or BJJ,
is a form of martial arts that focuses on finding weak spots on your opponent
to incapacitate them. It’s main lesson is that it doesn’t matter who is bigger
or who is smaller: by using the proper techniques, leverage, and getting the
fight to the ground as fast as possible, a weaker person has a very good chance
of winning.

“Now to show you how it’s done.” He winks at me as he takes
off his shirt, again, and jumps into the ring with his trainer.

Okay, now here’s the issue;
I
hate him so much, but the man is freaking beautiful. I don’t know how they
expect him to get any bigger over the next four and a half months, because
right now, he is practically a God. His hair is a light brown and he wears it a
little longer so it falls into his face. It also has streaks of blonde, as if
he spends his days surfing. Actually, I wouldn’t doubt that information if it
were presented to me as a fact. The boy could totally be a surfer. He
has these dark brown irises that practically fade
into his pupils. It’s actually startling when you first see it in person, but
once you know what to expect, it’s positively hypnotizing. His face is cleanly
speckled with a bit of stubble, which just makes him seem like the manliest man
ever.

And, if that weren’t enough, for heaven’s sake, Johnny Braylock
has an accent.

What is it with accents? Why are they so sexy? I don’t get
it. I honestly can’t watch British television because I can’t stand the way
they talk, and yet this man opens his mouth and basically vomits Welsh on me,
and I feel my stomach twist and twirl and my heart begin to race.

Yet, I can’t stand him.

When Keith said he heard Johnny was a dick and I proudly
defended him, I spoke way too soon. Keith was right. Everyone Keith talked to
was right. Johnny is a dick.

That really sucks, by the way. Imagine having a childhood
crush, someone who you admire and fantasize about, who’s poster you fall asleep
staring at ever night, and then imagine he’s a complete jerk who doesn’t want
his peach to have fuzz on it.

“Then do you want a nectarine?” I speak in as monotone a
voice as possible.

“No, I want a peach without all this fuzzy stuff.”

“Right, so a nectarine.” Again, I’m sardonic.

“A peach, Caroline. A peach. Just not this kind of peach.”

“Because you want a nectarine.”

He throws his arms out to the sides as if I have just made
up the whole family of pitted fruits. “What the hell is a nectarine?”

And there it is: my childhood crush doesn’t even know what a
nectarine is. But, he yells at me with that Welsh accent with those long vowels
and that single rolled “r” and I can’t hate him. I just can’t.

And then I hate him because I can’t hate him, but then I
can’t hate him because I hate him because I can’t hate him… and do you see why
I’m going absolutely insane?

And now he’s using his muscles. Why is he making me watch
this?

I cringe as he’s thrown to the ground by his trainer and put
in a chokehold, but then, he bucks his hips up and twists, landing himself on
top of his trainer, and sliding from his hold. He puts him in a type of joint
lock where he swings his legs up so he’s perpendicular to his trainer’s body.
He
pins him down by the back of his knees,
one on his neck and the other on his chest, then
takes his arm and pulls up to his own neck, trapping him.

It’s really fascinating to watch, although I really have no
idea what’s going on. He then takes him through a couple other joint locks: a
wrist lock, a leg lock, and a spinal lock.

The spinal lock is… interesting. Johnny’s trainer spoons him
from behind and wraps his legs around his hips. He then holds his neck and
twists in a way that brings Johnny’s spine past its normal range of motion. I
give a quick yelp, purely instinctual, as I watch Johnny’s face contort from
the pain.

“Why are you putting yourself through all of this? It
doesn’t seem like fun at all.” I yell over the sound of the water from his
shower.

“Fun? Of course it’s fun. It’s exhilarating.” I hear the
water cease, and I turn my head as I hold out the towel for him.

He laughs at me, as this is now the third time he’s forced
me to sit outside of the shower, waiting for him to clean himself, and it’s the
third time I have closed my eyes when the water turned off.

“You know I don’t mind if you look.”

“Eww!” I shout as if I’m a pre-teen girl on the playground
who is deathly afraid of cooties.

“We’re going to be spending almost five months together,
Caroline. It’s only probable that at some point you’re going to see me naked.”

What? Is this some sort of concealed attempt to hit on me?

“I’m not sleeping with you, Johnny.” I quickly blurt out
without taking a second to think.

“I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me, Caroline. I’m just
saying that you have free reign to my trailer, and I’m quite sure at some point
I’m going to be
naked when you walk in.”

“Just… just try to keep your clothes on.” I continue to
shake the towel at him, hoping he’ll take it so I can stop squeezing my eyes
shut.

“I’m not making any promises.” He walks in front of me and
lifts my chin up. I blink my eyes open, elated to see that he has wrapped the
towel around himself.

I walk through his evening schedule with him, as he stands
in front of me half-naked. I’m smart enough to know he’s doing it on purpose: he
likes to see me squirm. I’m keeping myself in check, and making sure I don’t
fall weak to his ways.

After all, I have a job to do…and he’s still a dick.

After the director yells, “cut” and checks the footage,
we’re told that the day is wrapped. I’m so happy about this, as my feet are
killing me, and the only thing I can think of is soaking in a hot bath full of
Epsom salt. I walk back to Johnny’s trailer and open the door for him, readying
his space for his evening ritual.

He’s a little weird like that. All his personal belongings,
everything he brought from home that day, need to be laid out on the table
alongside his back pack so he can see exactly what he’s taking back home and
what he’s leaving in his trailer. I also prepare a protein shake for him with
one cup of fat-free milk, one scoop chocolate whey protein, one packet of hot
chocolate mix, and one-half cup of low-fat cottage cheese.

I have no interest in protein shakes, but this one is
actually really good. I mean, come on, hot chocolate mix? Yes, please!

And the last thing I have to make sure of is that his bike
is sitting by the entrance to the trailer. Let me clarify: it’s not a
motorcycle; it’s an actual bicycle. As I said: every minute that he’s not on
set, he’s working out.

Again, woof.

“What do you think, Caroline? A little heavy on the hot
chocolate mix?” I can’t do anything right by the man.

“I don’t know why you think that question should be aimed at
me. I will always say it needs more hot chocolate mix.” I laugh it off, trying
desperately to not let him bother me, as my day is so close to being over.

“Next time, let’s add a little less.”

I should just agree and move on, but that’s not in my
nature. “Okay, that’s all well and good, but the recipe calls for one packet of
the mix. If I use less, then I’m wasting part of the packet, and then I’m not
sure I can keep the measurement the same every time, as I’m just attempting to
hold back part of the mix that’s in the little paper packet.”

He nods to me, I’m sure having not at all listened to my
little rant, puts his things in his back pack, and turns to walk out of the
door. “You’ll figure it out.”

Then
he walks out. My blood
is boiling. I can feel my legs begin to shake from the absolute rage the man
brings out in me.

I finally calm myself down and step out of his trailer.

“Let’s grab a drink.”

I scream, which is ridiculous, but I wasn’t expecting him to
be there, and he startled the crap out of me.

“Not tonight, Johnny.” And by that, I mean: Not ever.

“It wasn’t a question, Caroline.”

Oh gosh, not this again. “No, I am off the clock. I am going
to go home, I’m going to soak in a bath for at least two hours, and I’m not
going to think of you at all.”

“You’re going to think of me.” He winks.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sir. I’m not going to think of
you for one single second.”

“Well, you will, because we’re getting a drink.” He takes a
step closer to me, making sure I’m aware of his power.

I fight. He fights. I’m snarky. He’s snarky. I laugh. He
laughs.

I lose. He wins.

I guess I’m saving the Epsom salt bath for another lifetime.