Skinnydipping (12 page)

I loved learning about cool new places on someone else’s dime, places I could never afford to go on my own. Vince came around to my side of the car, opened my door, and helped me out, which was actually necessary because of the combination of the height of my heels and the brevity of my dress. I swear when I left the house, this dress was just above the knee. Now it had my crotch in its sights. Maybe that was why I had never seen Brooke wear it. I yanked it down as I tried to get out of the car with some modicum of grace.

The elevator opened to a lush room with giant windows on all sides looking out over the city—a stunning panoramic view of sparkling L.A. There were only about fifty people in the room, some sitting against the piles of pillows on the modular couches or perched on ottomans holding elegant drinks in martini glasses with fresh flower garnishes.

“I’ll get us a drink,” he said.

He didn’t ask me what I wanted, so I wondered what he would bring me, but I was more interested in getting my underwear straightened out and my dress yanked back down to its proper location. Very classy. There’s nothing like your ass crack hanging out when you’re trying
to be taken seriously. I was starting to believe I was trying to pass off as a dress what was meant to be a shirt. I looked around for a bathroom. I didn’t see any obvious sign of one. Self-consciously, I backed into a darkish corner filled with potted palms and rearranged myself, praying nobody was watching me.

I had a good view of everyone from my dark corner—it was an older crowd for sure, a few younger glam girls, probably actresses. I didn’t know who the big players were, but I tried to guess. I recognized an actress from a movie I’d seen last year, but I couldn’t remember her name—and wait, was that Jennifer Aniston over by the window? Everyone must have been someone—not that I would know.

“There you are, darling. Not being a wallflower, are we? Because that’s certainly not
you.”
Vince handed me a cosmopolitan in a generously sized martini glass. He lifted his bourbon on the rocks and we toasted. “To your career,” he said.

“To my career.” I took a sip. “Do you see me as ambitious?” I asked, genuinely wanting to know.

“Of course, darling. Isn’t everyone in this town?”

“But I mean, do I seem
particularly
ambitious to you?”

He looked me straight in the eye. “Yes, actually.”

“OK, then.” I took a sip of my drink. “So, what do you think I should be doing about my career?”

“Oh, baby, the things I could do to your”—he winked—
“career.”

I realized I wasn’t going to get any serious advice out of this one. But maybe he had influence.

He clinked my glass again and drained his bourbon. “Off for another,” he said. “Are you ready?”

I quickly drained my drink and nodded.

He started to go off, then paused. “Come with me, darling. I’ll introduce you around. This is the crème de la crème. Perfect for your
career.
I’ve got some business, but I can insert you into a conversation somewhere.”

I winced. I was annoyed at first that he had abandoned me, even for a moment, but I also hated the idea of being shuttled around and
introduced to people like I was arm candy. I wondered if being with him was a cliché. Was I making people’s eyes roll? Was I the new flavor of the month? I decided I’d rather navigate on my own terms, even if I was with Vince Beck.

“No, you go on. I’ll mingle a little. I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

He looked relieved, then promptly deserted me.

I wandered around the room
holding my empty glass and wishing I hadn’t gulped it down. Finally I was rescued. A handsome young guy with a perfect jawline stood up from a nearby chair and came over.

“I like your dress,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you know when it’s finished. I’m expecting more fabric to arrive any minute.”

“I refuse to believe you’re here by yourself,” he said.

I looked around. Vince was on the other side of the room, talking to a group of girls with plunging necklines and short skirts. He was holding two drinks, one of which I assumed must be meant for me.

“Oh, my date’s around here somewhere, conducting business. By which I mean, hunting for vagina.”

“Ah. I came here with my agent, and I haven’t seen him all night. He’s probably doing exactly the same thing.” He held out his hand. “Jake Mandell, actor.” He had a cute southern accent.

I shook it. “Faith Brightstone.” I paused. “Actress.” My voice sounded falsely confident.

“Oh no, we’re doomed from the start!” he said in mock alarm, flashing a megawatt smile. He had perfect teeth. I wondered how much they cost.

“I’m also a production assistant,” I added, for good measure. “Where are you from? I love your southern accent.”

“South Carolina,” he said proudly. “Born and raised. And let me guess: You’re a New Yorker.”

“Guilty,” I said. “So, who do you know around here?”

“Hey, Jake-ster!” a voice said from behind me. I turned around. Oh
shit. It was Brett Jones, of the ill-fated swimming-pool granny-panty groping session. What a small town this really was. I prayed that none of them had seen me rearranging the relationship between my thong and my crack behind the potted plants.

“Hey, Buddy,” Jake said.

“How’s Jessica?” Brett asked.

Jake blushed. “I wouldn’t know.”

“He used to live with Jessica O’Conner,” Brett told me.

“Oh really?” I asked, looking at him with new respect. He’d dated America’s Sweetheart, star of dozens of romantic comedies?

“That was a long time ago,” Jake said.

“Still,” said Brett. “
Hot.
” He turned back to me and held out his hand. “I’m Brett,” he said.

“Seriously?” I said, ignoring his hand. “You’re seriously going to pretend you don’t know who I am?”

“Um …” he stammered. “Oh, right. You’re … Brooke’s friend, right? I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

I couldn’t tell if he really couldn’t remember, or if he was just trying to assert his superior social position.

“That’s OK,” I said breezily. “I’d prefer you
didn’t
remember my name.”

“How do the two of you know each other?” Jake asked.

I shrugged. “Let’s see. Hmm. If memory serves, weren’t you the one trying to finger me in a swimming pool? Were there roofies involved? It’s all a little dim for me as well,” I said.

“You weren’t acting very passed out, as I recall,” Brett said, leering at me. Creep.

I spent most of the evening talking to Jake, hardly ever seeing Vince Beck, although he checked in with me now and then. Toward the end of the evening, I met the president of our network, who stopped in at the party for fifteen minutes. Jake pointed him out, and minutes later, Vince swept into our conversation and whisked me away for an introduction: “Lyle Williams, this is Faith Brightstone, one of our most promising young assistants,” he said. The president shook
my hand. I was as thrilled as I would have been if he’d been president of the United States.

“Nice to meet you, boss,” I said. He laughed, and it wasn’t a condescending laugh at all.

I was feeling really good. In one day, I’d scored a roommate, an apartment, and a hot producer for a date, and I’d flirted and bantered with real actors and real directors and a television network president. I was getting this L.A. thing down. This was the kind of career advancement I could understand. This made sense to me—much more sense than stumbling my way through random auditions or putting photographs of myself in the mail to agents I’d never met. I felt like I could do anything, like the road ahead was wide open and I really was going to be a star.

The lights came on around three a.m. and I felt Vince’s arm around my waist. “Let’s go, sweetheart,” he said. I waved good-bye to everyone and Vince took me back downstairs, where the car was waiting.

He was obviously very drunk, and so was I. As soon as I slid in beside him, his hand was on my thigh and he leaned in to kiss me. Oh, what the hell. I kissed him back and we made out for a good ten minutes while the driver sat in the front seat, waiting. Vince was a practiced groper. He’d obviously been to this rodeo before. He expertly unhooked me and unzipped me and was all over the inside of my clothes without actually disturbing much from the outside. I still looked almost completely put together. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he murmured in my ear. “The hottest girl in the room.” I knew it wasn’t true, but I certainly didn’t mind hearing it.

Finally he stopped and turned to the driver. “Go,” he said.

The driver pulled out onto Sunset Boulevard, and we rode around L.A. for an hour, doing just about everything except actual sex. He kept trying to coax my hand to his zipper, but I resisted. I’d never been much for giving hand jobs, and I knew better than to give a blow job in a moving car—I could hardly afford to bite off a television executive’s penis at this early point in my career.

As consolation, I let him dry-hump my thigh, probably the low
point in his dating career, and the high point in mine. I had to brace against him, my foot pressed so hard against the car door that I got a cramp.

“Ow!” I shrieked, pulling away and tearing off my shoe to bend my foot back and ease the cramp.

“What is it, darling?” he said, straightening himself out and running his fingers through his hair to get it back out of his face.

“Sorry,” I said. “Foot cramp.”

“Ah, I see. Well then, let’s have a look.”

Oh no! Anything but my unpedicured toes! The second one looks like E.T.’s finger, and that’s being kind. I cringed.

He took my foot into his hands and began to massage it. Then he started sucking on my toes, which tickled so badly that I could hardly stand it. At least he couldn’t see them if they were in his mouth. I instantly regretted that I hadn’t gotten the pedicure, or waxed—but I hadn’t, just to avoid this exact situation. As if that would be a deterrent after a few drinks. My sober self was so unrealistic.

I distracted him by putting my hand on his thigh and sliding it up and back inside his fly, which he’d finally unzipped himself. “Oh, baby, that’s it,” he said. So cheesy, and yet, it turned me on. We started kissing again, and I wondered if I could taste my toes on his tongue. Thank God for small favors … and long toes.

After a while, I could tell Vince was losing steam. He was probably one of those hot and heavy guys who had trouble actually sealing the deal—especially with that much alcohol in him. This made him seem vulnerable and sweet to me, like an overeager puppy who burned himself out and needed a nap. And at least I wouldn’t have to worry about trying not to sleep with him on our first date.

I feared his sudden fatigue might make him self-conscious later and that he wouldn’t call me back, but he didn’t seem embarrassed at all. I leaned into him, resting my head against his arm. He told the driver to take me home. Even though he’d obviously cooled off, he stretched his arm around my shoulders and it felt incredibly safe. I snuggled into him.

“You know, darling,” he murmured. “
Hollywood & Highland
is planning a spin-off. It’s very hush-hush, so don’t let on you know,” he said, his words slurring together as if he was about to fall asleep. I felt like we were in bed together, cuddling, having pillow talk after a night of passion.

“Really?” I said. “And they need a new star?”

“Actually, yes …” he said, his voice getting softer. “Brighton’s going to buy an apartment complex in Santa Monica—we’ll fill it up with juicy young professionals with
drama
in their lives.” He waved his hand vaguely as he said the word “drama.” “And we’re auditioning for the new cast next month.”

That got my attention. I looked up at him, suddenly feeling very sober and alert. My temporary position was ending soon, and I’d been wondering if they would offer to keep me on or if I was going to have to find something else. Maybe this was the answer. “Really?”

“I think you’d be great for it, darling.” He patted my head, encouraging me to rest it back against his shoulder, and he snuggled me in closer, but the lovely drowsiness I’d been feeling had evaporated.

A spin-off! This could be just what I was waiting for—exactly the reason I’d taken this job. It sounded perfect—I could skip all the degrading auditions and low-rent theater productions and cheesy local commercials and go straight to network television. I’d be Donna Shannon’s equal. “And… you think I should audition?”

The thought made my stomach lurch.
Steady, Faith
, I warned myself.
Freak out or handle Vince Beck the wrong way, and you could destroy your chance.

“Sure, darling. Why not?” His eyes were closed.

I shook him a little until he opened his eyes and looked at me. “No, really. Do you think I have a chance?” This could be different than all those cattle call auditions. I knew someone. It was the thing Perry had said was the most important. Maybe this was it.

“I don’t know. Do
you
think you have a chance?” Vince smiled at me, fondly, and then his hands were on the move again, like I’d reminded
him I was actually here, a warm body in an insistently short skirt. His hand crept up my thigh again.