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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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“Nice,” she remarked as Sean’s chin dropped to his chest and he passed out.
At Jill’s place I determined I could not let Sean get behind the wheel of his own car. Although he’d roused himself out of my car, he couldn’t seem to insert key into keyhole of his car. Looking at him, weaving slightly on his feet and giving me a shit-eating grin, I sighed and piled him back into the Explorer. I was taking a guy home with me, but it was the last thing I wanted to do.
I told Jill goodbye and that if she wanted help smoking her weed, I was going to have to take a rain check. “You wouldn’t smoke it anyway,” she said on a sigh. “And truthfully, I just want to go to bed.” Her cell phone rang and she examined the caller ID. “It’s Ian,” she said, sounding suddenly tense.
“Call me and tell me about it,” I said. She nodded, clicking on the receiver and said a tentative, “Hello?” sounding very unlike herself as she walked toward her front door.
I climbed in the driver’s seat and Sean roused himself enough to mumble, “Thanks for driving” in between a spate of hiccups.
“I’m taking you to my place. You can have the couch.”
“It was a good party. Thanks for invit—inviting me.” He finished this off with a huge belch, laughed, threw me a drunken, partially sheepish look and sank against the headrest. “Nice upholstery,” he added dreamily and promptly passed out again.
MADD and the LA police were lucky I was around to drive Sean, I decided as we pulled into the bunker—my name for my underground parking. Schematic Man was still bent over in supreme pain, but my brain had moved ahead to bed, rest and a chance to bury my head under the covers and hide from the world for a few hours. I didn’t want to examine too closely why I felt the need for this burrowing. Jackson Wright was the only answer and I just didn’t want him to matter this much.
Fifteen minutes later I had thrown a pillow and blanket on the couch and pointed out Sean’s bed to him as he stood head down, in a walking coma. Then I opened the sliding door and stepped onto my postage-stamp sized patio. I’ve got a great view of the street and the noise level is loud enough to make me certain I’m deaf sometimes. Several large pine trees block the worst of the view but they drop these long, deadly brown needles all over the place, covering my concrete patio. It’s hell being outdoor gardening-challenged.
But it was a beautiful evening. I stood in the cool breeze with my face turned skyward, eyes closed. I felt weary beyond my years and the realization totally depressed me. It’s not often that I spend much time with dark inward thoughts, but I can be as down as anybody now and again. However, as soon as I reach my own depths—which I have to admit are fairly shallow anyway—I tend to bounce back fast. I was almost waiting for this to happen when I sensed Sean coming up behind me. My first thought was impatience, especially when his arms circled my waist from behind, but then he pressed his forehead to my back, just below my nape, and there was something so intimate and almost forlorn about it that part of me responded in spite of myself. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry. It felt like I might. A moment later, sexual desire awoke, stretched, and lifted its interested head. Nate had been gone for several weeks now, and I couldn’t recall the last time I’d actually wanted sex with him before that. It felt, suddenly, like I was on the brink of something I desperately wanted. It was invigorating and scary.
“Whoa. My head’s killin’ me,” Sean mumbled, still bent against me as if in prayer.
“Don’t talk,” I said.
“Okay.”
We stayed like that a few tense moments longer. Sean, picking up something on his masculine radar, sensed my shift in mood. He might be barely into adulthood, but he had all the necessary antennae to appreciate female emotions, apparently. I concentrated on his masculinity, as well. My thoughts touched on taut muscles, thickly lashed blue eyes, and a sensual mouth, even though I wasn’t looking at him. Truth to tell, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you exactly what color Sean’s eyes were or what shape his lips were or anything else. I was suddenly looking at a fantasy man, my inner vision narrowed as if through a funnel toward him and something just out of reach. I didn’t want Sean to do
anything
lest he somehow destroy this tension-filled moment. But suddenly Sean did move, and it was to slide his hands beneath my shirt and under my bra to cup my breasts.
With an effort I pictured “fantasy man” doing the same thing. I imagined him ripping off my shirt and raining a scorching line of kisses down my shoulders. No, make that a hot, wet tongue. I would have moaned with desire but then it all went to hell when Sean started panting and humping against my buttocks.
“Oh, baby ... oh, baby ... oh, baby ...”
“Sean.”
“Oh, baby ... c’mon ...”
“Sean—”
“Shhhh ... .” His hands, which began massaging my breasts so hard I wondered if he’d been a mammogram operator in a previous life, suddenly dropped to my jeans, ripping down the zipper and snap in one quick move. I was momentarily diverted, impressed at his efficiency. But then he was grinding against my buttocks again, my cheeks now only encased in a pair of flimsy black underpants, my favorites, as a matter of fact. (I know they’re often referred to as ‘panties’ but there’s something so pornographic about that word I struggle with it. Which is interesting when I realize I have no trouble saying, thinking, and hearing ‘fuck.’ Some day I’ll have to take this issue to Dr. Dick.)
“Sean,” I said again, twisting in his arms. I was worried he might suddenly lose control and spray sperm before either of us was truly ready.
He took the moment to rip off his own jeans and boxers and his penis just popped out, strong, straight, and eager. The cartoon sound
boing
went through my mind. I half chuckled. A difficult move on my part, as Sean’s mouth and tongue were all over me while his fingers pulled down my underpants and Mr. Happy took up residence between my thighs: ready, willing, and able for complete entry.
I laughed aloud, choking in amusement. I couldn’t help myself. Luckily, Sean didn’t suffer from self-confidence issues and he started grinning in the midst of his “lovemaking.” It was with real regret that I pushed him away.
“You know,” I said matter-of-factly. “I wish I could do this with you, but I can’t. Don’t ask me why, because I couldn’t explain it in a month of Sundays.”
“Could you just suck me off, then?” Sean asked.
I looked down at Mr. Happy. Oral sex is something I struggle with. Usually takes a bottle and a half of Chardonnay or more.
“How about a hand job?” I suggested, to which he wrapped my fingers around his shaft and away we went.
 
 
Later, sitting beside Sean on the couch, with his head drooped onto my shoulder and his arms around me in a thoroughly sweet, childlike way, I gave myself a stern talking to. I was too old for this stuff, wasn’t I? Where was romance? Did I even care for romance? Why couldn’t I just have sex with Sean? What kind of skewed sense of propriety had steered my decision making tonight?
I made a noise of true annoyance. Sean stirred sleepily and asked on a yawn, “What’s a month of Sundays?”
“Lots of ’em, I guess.”
“Why Sundays? Why not Mondays?”
“Beats me.”
“You wanna smoke a joint? I got some more in my car.”
“Your car’s at Jill’s.”
“Oh.”
Stymied, Sean ended our conversation. He fell asleep within thirty seconds, and as I got to my feet he flopped onto the couch. He was still wearing his shirt and a pair of socks. The boxers and jeans lay in a pile by the sliding glass door. I thought about Kristl coming home, if she even would as she’d been working and/or with Brandon almost exclusively, and decided she might think my life was more interesting than it is if she caught Sean bare-assed on my couch.
I left him where he was, locked the patio door and headed upstairs.
Chapter
7
A
n impromptu meeting for Waterstone Iced Tea took place at 4 P.M. at our offices. As production manager, I wasn’t always required to sit at the table with all the players: the director, our producer, Holly, the advertising agency producer, the art director, the client, and various and sundry others. This made me happy as a clam as these meetings are notoriously boring from a production point of view; they were more a means to lay out everything in two-year-old’s terms to the client and ad agency. I was glad to be “below the line.” Above the line is top management: well-paid, well-heeded and well-on-their-way-to-ulcers. Below the line are the production manager (me), the production coordinator (Tom), the production assistants (Sean et al.), and other office gofers. We below-liners sat at our desks and rechecked all the to do lists we’d already checked. It’s amazing what can be forgotten or overlooked that may rise up and bite us in the ass later on.
Sean was not around and hadn’t been all week, mainly because we hadn’t needed him. Actual filming started tomorrow and I knew he was slated to be onsite in Venice at six-thirty A.M. I have to admit: I had a certain trepidation about seeing him again. My romantic encounter with him—if you could call it that—had left me feeling faintly embarrassed and ashamed. We’d hardly spoken the morning after as I’d driven him to his car. The kid was just too young for me, in every way. I needed to steer clear of him.
I hurriedly counted out the forty-nine pages of the final production manual we’d assembled for the job; the above-liners needed them in the production meeting
tout suite
. But my thoughts were traveling down different pathways. Truth to tell, I was kind of down. Running into Jackson at CeeCee’s party hadn’t been the height of my month. Seeing him had put a fine point on the fact that I—and all my friends—couldn’t seem to find a decent man anywhere. Currently Jill and Ian were in serious trouble, Daphne and Leo weren’t even an item, CeeCee seemed particularly hostile toward all males these days, and Kristl ... well, Brandon might actually be her knight in shining armor, but based on her track record, I wasn’t betting on it.
We were all definitely in a dating decline. The dearth of datable men boggled the mind. In fact—
“Ginny!”
I jumped about a foot out of my chair, my heart pounding. The harsh whisper had come from Holly, who was frantically signaling me from the doorway to the meeting room.
“The book’s almost done,” I mouthed, which only earned me more signaling.
I realized they wanted me in the meeting, with or without the preproduction book. Damn it. I was so not ready to suck up and make nice. Steeling myself, I tried on a smile and ran a mental inventory of my wardrobe: jeans, black-ribbed cotton shirt, black boots. Adequate.
They were all seated around the rectangular table as I entered. Everyone greeted me, some even by name. I glanced at the director, a sour-faced man whose thoughts always seemed to be floating somewhere in the ionosphere. He gave me a faint nod. The client, two young Waterstone Iced Tea men, did seem happy to see me. I couldn’t read the agency people, as they appeared to all be jockeying for some kind of political position within their group that I couldn’t immediately identify. I always get the feeling they’re in fear for their jobs. Tough work, advertising. I’d take production any day. I sat down and put an interested expression on my face.
The discussion concerned the talent who had been chosen for their commercial. It was all about heat, the beach, the waves, ice cubes, and sweating glasses of iced tea, which made you “high.” Personally, I thought it was dumb, but production is not to reason why. That’s for the agency.
The storyboards had all been approved and there was nothing really left to do but shoot. My gaze stole toward the plate of cheeses, deli meats, fruit, and crackers artfully arranged in the center of the table. I’d sent one of the PAs out for groceries and we’d put the centerpiece together in short order. Nobody ever ate anything at these meetings, from what I could tell, but food always had to be available and look inviting. If it wasn’t there, production would be seen as skimping and maybe the next job would be awarded to a different company.
The meeting broke up without me saying a word. Truthfully, nobody appeared to have said anything of import. I wasn’t sure why I’d been invited in. Probably just to break the momentary tension. The political infighting that accompanies these jobs is always a mysterious wrangle. When we scraped back our chairs I murmured some polite words and hurried back to my desk.
When I got there I realized the production book was missing. Before I started swearing I politely asked Tom and a couple of others if they’d seen it. No one had. Since the book had taken me hours to compile, I was ready to blow, but then Sean breezed in with the original and five extra copies of it.
He saw my face. “There was a note on it to make five copies,” he explained. “I just thought I’d do it while you were in the meeting.”
“Thanks.” The possibility of losing all my work had elevated my heart rate with real fear and made it difficult for me to be nice. I said stiffly, “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t working today.”
“I’m not. I just came to see you.”
I sensed Tom’s ears perking up as he reached nonchalantly into his Jolly Rancher bowl. All business, I said, “Well, I’m kinda busy right now. What time are you scheduled at the shoot tomorrow?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Then I’ll see you bright and early,” I said, turning away.
I did manage to catch the hurt look on his face, but I ignored it, mentally flogging myself. I felt like a heel. I wasn’t sure what the hell to do with Sean. I’d really stepped in it this time.
Sean departed and Daphne called, sounding decidedly chipper. She wanted to meet for lunch but when I’m deep into a job it’s like I fall into another dimension. I’m simply unavailable.
But Daphne’s not one to give up. I’d barely walked in my door late that night, my mind still running over the myriad details of getting ready for the shoot—had I forgotten anything? —when she appeared on my doorstep, insistently ringing my bell. I swore succinctly and pungently, then flung open the door. “I can’t. You know I can’t. Whatever it is. I’ve got a huge day ahead of me. After the shoot and post-production, I’m free, but not before.”
“You always say that, and it’s never true. There’s always another job,” Daphne complained, barreling past me into the living room.
“Yeah ... well ...” That was as clever a response as I could come up with.
Surfacing from my own funk, I belatedly realized she was practically bursting with news. I did a mental check of the time—nine-thirty—calculating how many hours of sleep I would actually get if I relented and let her tell me all. With a sigh of annoyance directed solely at myself, I asked, “Okay, what is it?”
“Do you have any wine?”
“No. None. Not a drop. I’m working tomorrow. Early.”
“Okay ...” She hesitated, waiting for me to relinquish the hard-ass attitude. I crossed my arms. I couldn’t afford to. “I just wanted to celebrate because Leo and I are together!”
She uttered this last triumphantly, as if it were a
coup
beyond
coups.
I tried to be supportive; I really did. I didn’t call him a Huge Waste of Time. But my answer of, “Well ... that’s ... great” must’ve sounded pretty anemic because Daphne’s face fell.
“I
knew
you’d be this way.”
“I’m just not his biggest fan, Daph. Sorry.” I spread my hands. “I wish I could be more supportive. I’m just tired.”
“He stopped seeing Heather, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “We had a few drinks after work the other night and it was like we’d been together forever. It was so great. I can really talk to him.”
I wanted to say, “He’s an actor!” but I bit my lip. Hard. She knew the score. If she wanted to live in a world of unreality, who was I to be the voice of sanity? Relenting, I said, “Let’s walk down to the Love Shack, and I’ll buy you an amethyst. One amethyst. Then I’m in bed.”
Daphne was thrilled. She hugged me and babbled on about Leo as we headed the few blocks toward Wilshire and then a few blocks west to the Love Shack, a little bar whose name implied it was a lot more fun than it really was. But it was nearby, and their amethyst martinis, so named for a touch of black-currant liqueur which turned it a faint lavender shade, were rather fine. The last thing I wanted before a shoot date was a drink of any kind, so I settled for club soda while Daphne sipped her drink and raved about Leo.
It was nice to see her so deliriously starry-eyed, I decided a bit enviously. None of us had been in a long time. Even Kristl didn’t appear as happy with Brandon as Daphne currently was with surfer-dude Leo.
“So, what happened?” I asked. “Why did he suddenly decide that you were the one?”
“I don’t know. I kind of ignored him for a while. I was really just trying not to let it all get to me, y’know? The way he was with Heather? I felt like an idiot for sleeping with him. I know lots of people are doing that ‘fuck buddy’ thing, but I just can’t. What’s the point? I want something more, something to build on.”
I thought of Sean, felt a twinge of uncomfortableness, nodded. I knew exactly what she meant. What I didn’t add was that I didn’t believe she’d found it with Leo. He wasn’t the “build a future with” kind of guy.
“I know you don’t like him,” she said. “Maybe when you get to know him ... ?”
“It’s not that I don’t like him. I just don’t like what’s happened so far, that’s all. It doesn’t bode well.”
“Lots of guys make mistakes.”
“Yeah. You just have to decide how many is too many. When the mistake list starts outweighing the ‘things done right’ list, it’s a problem.”
Daphne quickly rose to Leo’s defense. “That’s not the case here.”
“No. Okay. Fine.” I was not in the mood for a debate. “It’s too early to tell.”
“You’re being really negative,” she complained.
“You’re right. I am. I’m sorry. To be honest, my mind’s on work. I’m really glad you’ve gotten what you want, Daphne. Seriously. And I want it to work out,” I said, putting everything I had into it, meaning it. I really did want Daphne to be happy.
“But ... ?” She crossed her arms.
“No buts. No qualifications. None.” I tapped the rim of my glass against hers. “I hope Leo brings you happiness.”
She smiled, and I silently vowed to keep further comments about Leo trapped firmly inside my head.
 
 
Wind proved a total problem on the job. Shooting stalled, started up again, stalled. The beach tossed up sand in front of the camera lenses and into everyone’s eyes. I was in the production trailer and relatively sand-free, but the delays only meant I would be putting in longer and longer hours along with everyone else.
Sean came in and stood behind my right shoulder. I was on the phone and he was distracting me, which pissed me off. To counteract his effect, I gave him a job. “Go pick up the talent at LAX.”
“They’re not coming in for another two hours,” he said.
“We all need coffees here. Run to Starbucks, okay? And ask Tom and Joe what they want. Oh, and get Holly a Tazo-chai latte. Do you still have enough petty cash?”
“Got it,” Sean said with a nod and left. Momentarily I felt like an ogre, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Some of the talent arrived in their own cars and one of our cube truck drivers swiped the side of one of the actor’s cars. It left a minuscule scratch, but the guy was incensed. We offered to settle right then, but he wanted to go to the insurance company which meant more paperwork. What started out as an accident became an all-consuming fiasco for me, and I was so annoyed at the guy I called up Joe, the video guy, and asked how big the actor’s part was and if he could be scratched.
Joe hooks up video equipment to the film cameras while the commercial is being filmed. We can then watch what’s being shot through the camera on televisions. It’s easy to get a feel for the whole thing this way. He assured me that he would talk to the film editors and direction and make sure said actor would hit the cutting room floor.
I know it sounds like I hate actors. I don’t hate them. They’re attractive and charismatic, and hate is way too strong a word and implies a depth of feeling I’m not sure I possess. I do think they’re all a pain in the ass, however. They’re just not good for my health.
I think it’s past time I explained about Mr. Famous Actor.
I met him at a commercial shoot when I was still a production assistant. As the lowest minions on set, the PAs were warned to stay far, far away from the talent and the director. And don’t wear anything to draw attention: too much perfume, makeup, distracting Britney Spears-like outfits. Directors hate to be distracted. This all worked for me because basically I’m a blue jeans and overshirt type. If the weather’s too hot, I’ll switch to a basic black T-shirt, baggy capris and flip-flops. There is absolutely nothing sexy about my wardrobe.
Which is why it was so funny when Lang did the classic double take on me. I can’t say I wasn’t flattered. Who wouldn’t be? He was famous enough to have people on the street recognize him even if they didn’t know his name. He’d been on a television show that ran four years, then had segued to commercials and even small parts in feature films. Since my time with Lang, he’d actually become more famous. I wasn’t sure how to feel about this as it was weird to see some fantastically huge poster or magazine cover of his face. I wondered how Cris Judd felt while J.Lo was living large on Ben Affleck’s arm. Bennifer had been everywhere and he’d been the one left in the lurch. During that time I felt such a kinship toward him it made me forget we didn’t know each other. For instance, once I actually saw Cris at a trendy Hollywood bar, and it was all I could do not to run over, clap him on the back, shake my head in commiseration and say, “I feel your pain.” (I suspect this is just the kind of thing celebrities get from stalkers; it’s just as well I curbed my impulse.)

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