Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story (2 page)

The plane arrives at the Santa Monica Airport at eight thirty. The bourbon still has Andy wobbly and drowsy so I help her down the ramp and into my silver Ferrari. I drive her to her apartment in Venice and help her to her door.
 

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask. I’m the only thing keeping her steady on her feet.

“You don’t want to come in?”

“Not today.”

She wraps her arms around my neck. “Why do I feel like I’m never going to see you again?” She grinds her pussy against me.
 

“Hey, I got to go.” I take her arms off of me.

She looks down at my dick. “No takers?”

I shake my head. “Not here.”

“Fine, Charlie.” She sighs. “Will you at least kiss me goodbye?”

I have no problem doing that. I kiss her quickly on the lips, mouths closed, no tongue. That’s enough to get her inside, and I leave.

It’s a crawl to Bel-Air on the 405 Freeway. It gives me time to think about what to say to Monroe. She’s been squeezing my balls ever since she learned I was involved with the movie version of “The Great Dame.” She tried to sic her lawyers on me, but my lawyers were better. In the last seven days she’s wreaked havoc on pre-production. She rewrote the script after I approved the final draft. Shane Winters, the director and a pretty good friend of mine, said that the second draft was worse than the first. At least the first one he could fix in production. The second draft was unsalvageable. I kind of washed my hands of the whole situation. I don’t want to fight with her anymore. There’s a lot of work that goes into making a movie, and you have to like it to stick with it. I finally have the perfect excuse to walk away without hearing “I told you so” from Maggie. If Monroe wants me out, then her wish is my command. I’ll remain the sole investor, but that’s it.
 

The gates are already open when I arrive at her place. I recognize the midnight blue BMW that’s parked along the roundabout. It’s Shane’s.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask myself. I have a bad feeling in my gut, but I decide not to jump to any conclusions.
 
He’s the director and she’s the writer. Shane is probably trying to convince her to see things his way.
 

I park behind his car, cross the bridge to the front porch, and ring the doorbell. A few beats pass. The door opens, and I’m looking at the unruly hairs on Shane’s chest.
 

“What’s up, Charlie,” he says. The asshole is smirking. “I thought you were in Nantucket.” He has a towel around his waist.
 

I sneer. “Nope. I’m right here. Where’s Monroe?”

“Hey, man, I know what it looks like but…”

Monroe appears behind him wearing an oversized T-shirt. “Charlie? I thought you were in Martha’s Vineyard this weekend.”

 
Her skin is flushed, and she has a sexy case of bed-hair. It takes less than a second for my hopes to die and go straight to hell. “I’m going to go,” I say and get the hell away from both of them as fast as I can.

“Shane, go inside. I’ll be back,” Monroe says and then calls, “Charlie, wait!” as she runs after me. Her hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you call first?”

“I’m not angry,” I say. I’m way beyond that. I’m pissed off. “Go finish having your fun. I should’ve known.”

“Known what?” She yanks my shirt. “Will you stop so we can talk?”

I stop. I make sure I have the right expression on my face before I turn around. “What?” I’m not feeling shit for her at the moment. She might as well be Andy or Angela. Whatever the hell her name was.

“Why do I feel like I betrayed you?” she asks.

 
“You shouldn’t feel that way. Hey, I’ll see you on Monday at the production meeting.” I try to sound indifferent.
 

She smashes her hands onto her hips. “Why didn’t you call first?”

“I would’ve if I’d known you’d be busy fucking Shane!”

“Ha. Low blow.”

“That wasn’t meant to be a low blow. Weren’t you just fucking Shane?”

She grimaces like an angry but sexy wild animal. “You wanted to find someone here, didn’t you?”
 

There’s an edge to my chuckle. “No. I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“That implies that I knew you’d be in there fucking my friend and the director of our movie.”

“Why did you come over here in the first place?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”
 

I glare into her electric blue eyes. “Because I wanted to fuck you,” I say, hoping it makes her feel cheap.

But Monroe makes a bold move and massages my dick. “If that’s all you wanted, then you can stay and Shane can go.”

She smells like papaya and sex. She’s working me good, and I want her to get me off.
 

“Stop,” I say, my voice feeble.
 

She shakes her head. “Uh-uh.”
 

She unzips my pants to rub me off skin on skin. I smash my mouth onto her parted lips. She tastes so damn good.
 

“Monroe, what the hell are you doing?” Shane shouts from the other side of the bridge.

I’m this close to spraying her hand before I come to my goddamn senses and pull away from her.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, out of breath.

Her lips are still looking for mine. “No, Charlie. I can tell him to leave.”

“It’s too late.” I zip my dick back into my pants. “See you Monday!” I back away from her and get the hell to my car.

Bad shit runs through my mind as I drive away. Monroe has me all hot and bothered, but I still want to finish with Daisy. “Shit.” I’m right back at square one.
 

I drive down the hill to The W in Westwood since I can use a few rounds of something strong to drink. I give the valet an extra hundred to park my Ferrari in a safe spot. Once inside, I take the one empty seat at the bar.

“A Rusty Nail?” the bartender asks. He knows me and what I like. I’m real bad at remembering names, but I recognize his face. Maggie says I can’t remember names because I’m commitment-phobic. I don’t know how the two equate. She never explains, and I never ask her to elaborate since she’s the pot calling the kettle black. I give her and Vincent Adams a solid two weeks before she starts finding dumb shit wrong with him.
 

“Get me a whiskey straight. No ice,” I say. It’s Friday night, and I’m hopping on the bullet train to hammered city.
 

There are plenty of girls out, the kind you usually find in these parts, “aspiring” actresses and models, not the real kind. A lot of them are sizing me up, including the one who just pulled up next to me. I’m not interested in her. She reminds me too much of Andy, Annie, or whatever the fuck her name was. I search in the opposite direction, looking for another easy lay.
 

I size up a raven-haired woman with brown eyes and tan skin. She reminds me of Pocahontas, the cartoon version. She’s as frail as hell, so she must be an actress. She’s at the edge of the bar, standing with another woman. They must’ve come together. I wave at Pocahontas. She beams and looks away shyly.
 

“Should I put it on your tab?” the bartender asks.

I look away from Pocahontas to ask him, “Hey, what’s your name again?”

“Donnie.”

Got it, Donnie. “Yeah,” I say, determined not to forget it from this point on. I’m no commitment-phobe.

I turn my gaze back on the raven-haired woman. She’s still grinning. I smirk. I’ve caught the fish, and now it’s time to reel her in.

Her name is Lilia or Lila or Lake. It takes two martinis, made by Donnie, and a little bit of telling her how beautiful she is to get her to join me, and then a constant flow of whiskey in the “Extreme Wow Suite.”

We go slowly at first. I peel off her tiny dress. I unclip her bra in the front, right between her apple-sized tits. I taste those tits, biting the stiff nipple and sucking it until my dick hardens. She quivers. I push her down on the bed because she’s wet and soft and ready for it. Lila is panting and twisting her body.
 

“Please hurry,” she whines.
 

I snatch my shirt off, take one of the condoms out of my wallet, rip it open, drop my pants, and slide it on. I want this. I want to fuck Laila and not Daisy. I close my eyes and spread myself on top of her and give her what she’s been begging for. I fill her up, and she lets out a high-pitched gasp. Her warmth and moisture engulf my dick. She’s not that tight but tight enough.
 

By Saturday morning, I don’t need a vision of Daisy to keep me in the moment with what’s her name. I order breakfast from room service and plenty of bourbon, gin, and whiskey to last until Monday morning.

“So, Charlie, what do you do for a living?” Lila spoons cottage cheese in her mouth. She’s having a cup of fruit, a quarter cup of cottage cheese, and a cup of green tea for breakfast.

“I’m making a movie.” I break a blueberry scone in half, take a bite out of one, and offer her the other half. “Want a taste?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m trying to take weight off, not put it on.”

I snort. There’s no use in telling her that she’d be sexier a little heavier. It’ll just fall on deaf ears.

“Are you a director?” she asks.

“Financer.”

“Financer of what?”

“Movies.” Well,
a
movie.

She perks up. “Oh!”

“Yeah, oh.”

That’s all it takes for her to spread her legs and ask if I want to eat anything else. I have a rule. I don’t eat pussy unless I’m in a relationship or if it’s Monroe—or Daisy. Instead I tear another condom out of the package. I choose to fuck her instead.

By Sunday night I’m certain that her name is Lydia. She waitresses at one of the nearby chain restaurants, and she skipped her shift to stay here with me.

“I kind of love you,” she confesses while lying naked across the bed.
 

I slump in a chair, gripping a bottle of bourbon. She doesn’t turn me on anymore. “Don’t,” I mutter.

“It’s too late.” She flips onto her back and gazes at the ceiling. “So are they still auditioning for the movie you’re making?”

Suddenly I’m experiencing every ounce of the deprivation that landed me in a hotel suite with a chick I’ll never see again after this weekend. I think about Monroe and Shane together. All I needed was for her to be home alone when I showed up. Or at least boning the UPS guy or the mailman instead of Shane.
 

“I might have a part for you,” I say, thinking about waltzing into tomorrow’s meeting with Pocahontas on my arm. Drunk, I slam the empty bottle on the tabletop and go to the living room to lock my wallet and keys in the safe. But I rip one more condom off the roll before heading back to the bedroom.
 

“Are you fucking with me?” she asks when I return. My brand new erection is pointing at her face.

“I will be in about five seconds,” I say, smirking.

She crawls across the bed and takes hold of my dick. I know what’s coming next. “You better not be screwing with me,” she says before sinking her mouth onto my dick.

“Oh shit,” I whisper as she licks me like an ice cream cone. I whimper when she takes me in so deep that I’m hitting the back of her throat. It fucking pays to be making a movie in this town.

Chapter 2

A Change of Direction

It’s Monday morning. The production meeting is scheduled for ten a.m. I streak down the streets of L.A. in the Ferrari on my way to the studio lot in Culver City. I have Lila or Linda in the car with me. I arrive fifteen minutes late. Lila latches on to my arm. She wobbles all the way to the trailer as if she were still intoxicated from our weekend of excessive sex and strong libations.

Lily trips up the short steps and giggles as I grab her by the hips to steady her. We stumble the rest of the way into the meeting, causing a ruckus. Monroe scowls at the sex-stained girl. The look of scorn on her face is satisfying. Mission accomplished.

I tell what’s-her-name to take a seat in the back of the room. I recognize every face except the one sitting next to the empty chair that’s been reserved for me. Funny. Her lips, and the shape of her eyes and face, are familiar.
 

I sit down. “How are you?”

She smiles slightly. “Fine thank, you.”
 

I regret that I smell like I’ve been drinking and fucking all weekend. The stranger is beautiful. Her eyes and skin are cinnamon brown. I’m consumed by whatever the hell energy it is she’s emitting.
 

“You’re late, Chuck,” Monroe says from the power seat at the head of the table.
 

“L.A. traffic,” I say and turn back to steal another glance at the stranger.
 

Monroe points a hand at her. “So, you brought in another story editor?” she asks.
 

“I hired you?” I ask the beautiful woman, surprised.
 

“Yes, I’m Angelina.”

It takes a moment for her name to ring a bell. “You’re Daisy’s sister?”

“Um, yes. Belmont contacted you last week. He told you I was a story editor. Mary, your assistant, messengered me the book and the script. I read both, and I have notes and revisions.” She sounded like she was asking a question instead of explaining how she ended up here.

I expect Monroe to flip her lid after hearing the word “revisions,” but she doesn’t. Suddenly it dawns on me that she’s too clever to offend Daisy’s sister without knowing much about her. She’s been kissing Daisy’s mother, Heloise Krantz’s, ass and then there’s famed composer Jacques Blanchard, Daisy’s father. Monroe doesn’t want to offend the offspring of either one of them. All I know about Angelina is that she’s five years younger than Daisy, and the product of an affair Jacques had with Madame Josephine Beauchamp, a renowned Creole jazz singer from New Orleans. I remember telling Jack that Monroe’s rewrite of the script was comically bad. That was when he mentioned that Angelina had been a story editor for three major films and is supposed to be pretty good. I forgot that I asked him to have her contact Pearl Colby, the producer.