Hollywood Girls Club (15 page)

Thirty glorious nights. Ever since Bradford nearly killed Mary Anne at Koi. Lydia and Zymar had spent some tense moments in the back of the ambulance with Mary Anne in and out of consciousness.

“She looks so pale,” Lydia had whispered.

“Gray,” Zymar said. “Sickly gray.”

He was right. Mary Anne’s eyes fluttered open.

“Steve? Where’s Steve?” Mary Anne asked.

Lydia leaned forward and reached for Mary Anne’s hand. “Honey, you’re okay. We’re in an ambulance—”

“But where’s Steve?” Mary Anne asked, with wild-eyed terror. “‘Oo is Steve?” Zymar asked.

“Honey, is Steve someone you want me to call?” Lydia asked.

“He’s fucking Viève,” Mary Anne whimpered, then closed her eyes.

“Who’s Viève?” Zymar whispered into Lydia’s ear.

“You’ve got as much information as I do,” Lydia whispered back.

By the time Lydia and Zymar left Cedars Sinai, Lydia was exhausted. It was a shorter distance to Zymar’s hotel than to her home (at least that’s what Lydia told herself), and so much less lonely.

Once in Zymar’s room, Lydia went to the bathroom to take out her contacts (years on a movie set taught her to always carry an extra case—you never knew for sure where you might end up sleeping).

“Lydia, you take the bed,” Zymar called.

“The couch is fine,” she walked out of the bathroom as Zymar pulled off his shirt.

Lydia stood and stared. For a director, he had a hell of a body. His torso was lean and well muscled, like that of a rock climber or swimmer, his chest hair beginning to turn silver. She glanced at the couch that Zymar had already made up for one of them. Did she really believe either of them would be sleeping there?

“Lyd, found a T-shirt for you.” He handed her the shirt, his own chest bare. He stood so close to her. Heat simmered in her belly and her heart quickened its beat with his nearness. Electricity pulsed between them and she realized Zymar must know the hot feeling he stirred within her.

Zymar looked down at her. “You look tired,” his fingertips trailed through her chestnut-colored hair.

She tilted her head. Zymar moved closer and pressed against her. The pulses of electricity shot up her neck as he put his hand behind her head, firmly tilted her face toward him, and pressed his lips to hers.

His kiss wasn’t soft; in fact, it was a little rough, but Lydia liked it that way.

He slid his hand down the back of her pants and cupped her ass. She grew wet with his insistence—his desire. Lydia pressed her body into him. She wanted him—needed him. She needed to be with Zymar—to leave behind that big empty house that she could barely stand to be alone within. Lydia unbuttoned Zymar’s jeans and slipped her hand into his pants. She grasped his cock and a low moan escaped Zymar’s lips. Lydia grew wetter.

Zymar lifted her and Lydia straddled him, grasping him around the neck as they moved toward the bed. Her heart beat wildly within her chest—this wasn’t just lust and movie-making and convenience. She wanted Zymar with a deeper passion—a more pressing desire.

Zymar flipped her onto all fours as he dropped her onto the comforter. He unsnapped her pants, pulled them over her ass, and then reached around and with two fingers and gently massaged her clit.

Zymar leaned forward over Lydia’s back. “I want to fuck you,” his husky voice rasped in Lydia’s ear.

“Then fuck me,” she hissed, taking a deep breath.

He spread her legs with his knee and gave her a sharp slap on the ass just as he thrust his cock into her. Lydia moaned. She was going to come fast; she loved it rough.

Four weeks later, the thought of that night still made Lydia wet. She tried to get Zymar out of her thoughts, but it was impossible. He was loud, obnoxious, oversexed Eurotrash, but God, he was fun. That damn accent.
That accent and his blue eyes.
This, their ongoing fling, was good, bordering on fantastic. She hadn’t experienced such good sex with such an interesting and entertaining man in almost ten years. Weston was Lydia’s last phenomenal affair, but that was the first time around.

She heard her BlackBerry give a soft beep. She picked it up and clicked on the phone. “Hello, Lydia Albright.”

“Ms. Albright, this is Madeline Darmides.”

“Uh-huh, yes.”
Who?
“How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to contact Zymar.”

“Oh, yes, Zymar. He’s directing my film. He should be here soon, in about an hour.”

“Okay. Well, this is his wife, and I just wanted to tell him that his daughter, Christina, is on her way to L.A.”

Lydia closed her eyes and inhaled.
Relax.
“Really?” she said. “I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

She’s my ex-wife,” Zymar leaned against Lydia’s kitchen sink. “E-X, ex. She’s Greek Orthodox, it’s hard for her to say the word. In her mind we’ll always be married. But we are divorced.”

“In what country?” Lydia sat at the table in her lavish, never
-
once-used kitchen. She didn’t see the humor. Sure, she and Zymar weren’t engaged, or even really living together, and it had only been four weeks. But still. You’d think if a man was truly interested, he might have mentioned an ex-wife and a kid.

“How old is Christina?”

“Twenty-one.”

“What were you, twelve when you had her?”

“That was part of the reason for the marriage. Christina’s mother was sixteen.”

“And you?”

“Eighteen.”

“That’s legal in Greece?”

“Marriage seemed like a much better option at the time than jail.”

Lydia glanced over her cup of ginseng tea. Finally, some of the much-delayed details.

“I was traveling abroad. Me grandfather on my mum’s side lived in Greece. I spent the summer there. And like a lot of eighteen
-
year-olds, I met a girl. And well, there you have it.”

“How long were you married?”

“Four years. Neither of us was very happy.”

“And Christina?”

“She always lived with her mum in Greece. Smart girl. She’s at Oxford. Studying business or some such thing. She’ll graduate next spring.”

“Did you see her much while she was growing up?”

“As much as I could. Her mum remarried twice and I did—”

“And she still tells people that she’s your wife?”

“Well, she’s widowed now so I suppose it’s back to me now that both of them are dead, and I’m the only one alive.”

“Got it.”

“So I saw Christina some. Holidays. In between films and commercials. She came to a lot of my sets. Seemed to have fun.”

Lydia nodded.

“Did you get the info for when she gets in, then?”

“Uh-huh. Wrote it all down. It’s on the refrigerator.”

“Thanks, Lyd. What time?”

“Couple of hours.”

“I better snap to if I’m going to make it to LAX.”

Lydia blew on her tea. “I sent a car and a driver.”

“What?”

“I thought it’d be helpful. I can call them back, I just …I didn’t know for sure and …”

“Lyd, it’s fine. She’ll probably love it. Think it’s very L.A. or something.”

“You need to call them and tell them where to drop her off,” Lydia said, eyeing Zymar.

“I see.”

“Well, I didn’t know. I didn’t know for sure that you weren’t still married to Christina’s mother until just five minutes ago.”

“Right. We’ll just stay at the hotel, then.”

“Oh…”

“Unless you want us to stay here?”

“I’d love that.”

“Really? Lyd, I don’t know how long Christina will be here. It could be till the end of the shoot.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. If you don’t mind.”

“Good by me,” Zymar said, making his way across the kitchen and wrapping his arms around Lydia.

“What about Christina?” Lydia asked.

 “Hmm. Now, that’s a fair question. I haven’t really brought home anyone to the daughter before.” Zymar nuzzled his lips against Lydia’s neck. “Nothing quite so serious in a long time.”

“Really? Serious, huh.” Lydia whispered, letting her hand run down the bulge in Zymar’s pants.

“Pretty serious.”

“Well, I guess she ought to know, then.”

“Well, I guess so,” Zymar said, and leaned in and kissed Lydia.

Yeah. It was phenomenal.

*

The woman standing in Lydia’s living room was breathtaking: black hair, dark brown eyes, and olive skin. Wearing Stella McCartney pumps and a matching bag. You’d never know that Christina Darmides had spent the last nine hours on a plane. Lydia noticed a faint resemblance to Zymar around her eyes. She couldn’t help but wonder how beautiful Christina’s mother must be.

“You’re Lydia,” Christina said, giving Lydia a disarming smile. “Dad’s disappeared with my bags.”

“So nice to meet you,” Lydia said. “Can I get you anything? How was your flight?”

“Good. A little bumpy on the landing, though. Thank you for the car—Dad mentioned you sent it.”

“My pleasure.”

“Dad says that the film is going quite well. You know, I read the script on the flight over. I’m not familiar with the writer, but it’s quite good. And Bradford Madison is starring?”

“Yes.” Lydia motioned for Christina to sit and then sat in one of the chairs opposite the couch. Christina’s knowledge about the details of
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
surprised her. “Do you read a lot of scripts?”

“Actually, I do. I’m quite keen on USC’s Stark School for producers once I’m finished with Oxford. I’m meeting with the director while I’m here. I try to read everything.”

“That’s a great start,” Lydia said, knowing that the best producers, agents, and executives were the ones who read every script in town. “Stark is a great program.” The program was fantastic, but it didn’t accelerate the path for producers or studio execs. They were still destined to be overeducated assistants for a minimum of two years, perhaps longer, upon graduation. Unless, of course, they found a great script, got some independent financing, and made a film that got a good buzz around town. The holy trinity.

“I’m hoping to spend most of my time in L.A. on set with Dad—that is, if it’s okay with the producer.” Christina gave Lydia a tentative smile.

“I think that would be great,” Lydia said. “We need all the help we can get.”

“You’ve met, then,” Zymar said, entering the living room.

Lydia watched Christina look at her father with admiration. Despite the distance and odd work schedule, Christina seemed to adore him.

“I think I’m off to bed.” Lydia rose to leave. She wanted to give Christina and Zymar some time alone together. She’d have time to get to know the girl.

“Well, then.” Zymar leaned forward and gave Lydia an awkward peck on the cheek.

Lydia smiled. Zymar seemed flummoxed by having both Lydia and Christina in the same room. It was adorable.

“Good night, Lydia,” Christina called as Lydia made her way up the stairs. “And thank you.”

With or without the Stark program, just by virtue of being Zymar’s daughter Christina could easily become a producer. In fact, Lydia thought the graduate program might be a waste of Christina’s time. If she asked, Lydia would tell her to skip it and start looking for the perfect script. Lydia was sure that if Christina truly wanted to produce, between Jessica, Zymar, Cici, and herself, they could get her started.
I am a control freak
, Lydia thought.

As she slipped into bed, Lydia listened to the sounds of animated chatter and Zymar’s infectious chuckle drifting up from downstairs. She loved the noise.

Chapter 15

Jessica and Her Dior Mary Janes

The wind whipped through Jessica’s hair. She didn’t like riding in convertibles. Take that back—she didn’t like riding in Phil’s convertible when Phil drove. He was a shitty driver. Accelerate and brake, accelerate and brake (very similar to when they fucked). Her stomach felt as if the seared ahi tuna she’d eaten for lunch in Carmel might reappear.

This weekend was meant to be a combo getaway-slash-work weekend for Phil. He was working on new GPS software, and he’d brought his laptop so he could plot their trip-progress data and cross-reference their position with the software. It was the only way Phil could expense part of the trip to the company and write the other part off on his taxes. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford the trip or that he couldn’t take the time off; it was that Phil was as disciplined (cheap) with cash and tax deductions as he was organized.

Usually their weekends were spent at Jess’s house in L.A. Except for Saturday night. Saturday night they always went to Morton’s (thousands of restaurants in L.A., but the only one Phil would go to). But this weekend was their Pacific Coast Highway weekend. So at exactly 6:05 A.M. Saturday morning (per Phil’s itinerary), they climbed into Phil’s Z4 and headed up the coast, making their scheduled stops.

They had planned this little coastal getaway for the last two months. Or at least Phil had planned it, down to every detail. Every minute. Every break. God forbid spontaneity. Phil loathed it (which spoke volumes about their sex life). Phil had even provided Jessica with a laminated itinerary, in a waterproof travel folder (according to Phil, you never knew when there might be spills in the car). He had also e-mailed a copy of their schedule to Jessica’s three assistants so they could put it in her BlackBerry.

They had stayed in a bed-and-breakfast last night. But of course, as it was the second Saturday of the month and not their “Sex Saturday,” as Phil liked to call it, he slumbered peacefully, while Jessica quietly masturbated facedown in her pillow. They weren’t even married and already she felt like a desperate housewife, frustrated by her soon-to-be husband’s lack of desire.

She needed a man to fuck her. Really fuck her. Grab her, bend her over a table, and make her
feel
. But the men Jessica knew acted as if she had taken a bowie knife and sliced off their balls. She spent all day, every day, walking around a fraternity (that’s all a talent agency was), and every person with a penis inside CTA was terrified of her, she could tell. Jessica beat the men at everything at every turn, and she did it in Ferragamo heels. And her fiancé didn’t want her (except for a dutiful fuck the first and third Saturday of every month).