Spur of the Moment (19 page)

She nodded again.

“Yes!” Scott punched the air in victory. “Awesome. I've wanted this for so long.”

“Have you ever fantasized about me?”

“All the time.”

“But that's so weird. We're best friends.”

“Whatever. I'm a guy. I have testosterone. You have enormous luscious breasts and the sexiest legs in the universe. You do the math.”

“So how should we do this? Should we get some wine and light some candles?”

“I don't think that's necessary. All we need to do is take off all our clothes and then start fucking like rabbits.”

He began unbuckling his pants.

“Scott, you dork, the door is wide open. I'm going to get some wine and light some candles and we're going to lock the door and we'll go about this like normal adults. Anyway, I don't have any condoms. Do you?”

“I might. But I think they're from like 1979. Do you know how long it's been since I've had sex?”

She laughed. “You were six years old in 1979.”

“I'll go ask Ramiro for a condom.”

“But then he'll know what we're doing.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So that's so weird.”

“Ram will be thrilled that my long crush on you will be requited.”

Ana smiled. “Okay. Meet me back here in a few minutes.”

Ana lit several candles and turned off the lights. She got a bottle of wine (she wasn't supposed to drink, but it had been a
year
since she'd had sex and she was going to have a couple celebratory glasses of wine, damn it) and two glasses and brought it all upstairs. Scott was waiting for her on the bed with a box of twelve condoms.

“Think that'll be enough?” she joked.

“For now anyway.”

Ana sat on the edge of the bed and drank her wine quickly. Suddenly she felt nervous and awkward. What had she been thinking, agreeing to do this? She'd gone nuts from depression, dieting, and jealousy. What if this didn't work out? They lived together. Their friendship would be over.

Scott sat up and pulled her close to him. Ana took a deep breath, pushed her worries aside, and did what six years of improv training had taught her to do: She acted on her instincts.

 

 

S
ex with Scott had been amazing. Sex was so much fun! Why hadn't she done it in such a long time? It was awesome!

They made love three times that night and once in the morning, and though Ana was sore, she wanted more, more, more.

All day at work, she looked over at Scott and smiled. She couldn't wait until they went home so they could have more sex. She wished one of them had a van so they could go in the back of it and have sex for their entire lunch hour.

She thought of the way he'd kissed her neck, the way his face had looked with his eyes closed as he strained toward orgasm, the way his fingers felt trailing their way from her cheek, down her neck, across her collarbone, between her breasts, then making their way to her hip bone, where they lingered for quite some time. Scott had told her she had the sexiest hip bone he'd ever seen. It was an odd compliment, to be sure, but Ana loved that someone thought a part of her body she'd never stopped to consider was the sexiest one of its kind.

Ana crossed her legs. It would do no good at all to get horny at work.

She couldn't believe how a little nookie could improve her spirits so much. She still felt the ache of depression, but the world seemed decidedly brighter today than it had the day before.

There was no question that all the usual clichés about feeling in love were apropos: She did feel like she was walking on air—no, actually she felt like she was skiing on air, down a treacherous, out-of-bounds black diamond mountain at a zillion miles an hour. But in a good way, an exhilarated way. She didn't know what she was doing or where she was going or if there were cliffs and forests coming up, but somehow she had this strange sense of ease, that everything was going to be all right.

A box popped up on her computer screen informing her that she had new mail, and wondering if she'd like to read it now. “Yes,” she clicked.

Ana hit S
END
. She couldn't stop smiling.

 

 

T
hat night, Ana called Marin at the hotel where she was staying.

“You're never going to believe it,” Ana said. “I had sex with Scott.”

“God.
Finally.
I've been waiting for you to hook up forever.”

“You have?”

“We all have. It's so obvious Scott is madly in love with you and you guys are best friends and are practically joined at the hip.”

“He is? We are?”

“So how was it?”

“It was awesome. It was so much fun. I love sex! I'd forgotten how yummy it is.”

“Good for you, girlfriend. You deserve some good loving.”

“He's a really good kisser, too. And his hands . . .”

“That's enough! There is only so much I want to know about Scott.”

“So how are things with you?”

“It's pretty intense. We tape an hour-long show every six days. I think the shortest day I've had here was twelve hours. Listen to this. In the first episode, I do a stand-up routine at a comedy club, and I do really well, right? Okay, but listen to some of the jokes they have me tell. ‘What is the difference between men and women? Men are crabby all month long.'”

“No, not a PMS joke. That's so late eighties.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, I don't get it. Is that supposed to be funny?”

“They just play the laugh track, so no matter how unfunny I am, I get laughs.”

“Can't you make some suggestions for jokes that are actually funny?”

“I tried. I thought I was really nice about it, but the director bit my head off. Apparently they don't much care for nobody actors trying to rewrite their teleplays.”

“But you're a comedian.”

“Yeah, but they don't want my opinion, just my pretty face reciting their lines.”

“You think the series will be a success?”

“Not with writing like this.”

“What a bummer. Why don't they get the writers from
Felicity?”

“I loved that show.”

“It was the best. It's so, so wrong that it was taken off the air.”

“The world is just not as bright without Keri Russell every Monday night.”

“That rhymed. That would actually make a great song lyric. We could do a skit where we lament all the TV shows that we liked that were taken off the air.”

“Ooh, I like it.”

“How do you like the rest of the cast?”

“Devin is awesome. She's hilarious.”

“I don't like you making new friends.”

“That's very mature.”

“Look, I know it's not mature, but you're my best friend and you're not supposed to go off and make new friends and have all these adventures without me.”

“Ana, nobody is ever going to replace you. You're my best friend and I love you.”

“Yeah, I know, I just want to be sure that everyone else knows it. I want you to wear a T-shirt that says, ‘Ana Jade Jacobs is my best friend in the universe and no one can take her place, so Devin, don't even think about it.' ”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Ahh!”

Ana heard a thunderous crash. “Marin?”

A few seconds later, Marin got back on the phone, laughing hysterically.

“Marin? What happened?” Marin was laughing so hard, Ana couldn't make out what she was saying at first.

Then, “I fell off my chair!”

“You fell off your chair? I don't understand. Have you been drinking?”

“No! I had . . . feet up . . . leaning back . . . tipped over. Ah ah ah!”

Ana cracked up. For a couple of minutes, the only sound over the line was their laughter.

“You are such a loser!” Ana said at last, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you. Well, I guess I should get going.”

“Okay. You should put a helmet on if you're going to do anything dangerous like sit on the couch or pour a glass of milk.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Smooch smooch, babe.”

 

 

T
he best thing about sex with Scott was how much Ana laughed with him and how much fun she had with him. She loved how quickly a simple touch from her could transform his penis from a springy mushroom-looking thing to its full purply veined ridiculousness. Once he was hard, she liked to make him laugh so his penis would spring back and forth like a metronome on crystal meth. This would induce paroxysms of giggles from Ana.

After a couple minutes, Scott stopped laughing and swung his naked body over her so he was straddling her.

“Are you making fun of my manhood?”

“No, I'm making fun of your
throbbing
manhood.” She kissed him and then made a thoughtful expression as she considered the term
manhood.
“Manhood—isn't that a funny term? Did you know when I went to cheerleading camp, one of our instructors was from the South and she told us to put our one hand between our ‘personalities,' and we were all like, what? It turned out she meant breasts. Can you believe she'd . . .”

He shut her up with a slow, deep kiss. She was ready for him instantly, but he tortured her with light teasing caresses, kissing her on the inside of her thighs even though every thought and synapse in her body was pointing arrows that said, “Psst, over here, just a couple inches higher.”

He turned her over on her stomach and gave her a long massage. She couldn't remember ever feeling so relaxed. Then he got to her butt and thighs. He slid his fingers inside her until she was making noises that she was sure were embarrassing and unladylike but she couldn't care less.

Ana didn't know how long they made love. She never once looked at the clock or thought of errands or chores she really should get done tonight before bed. She didn't worry about her day at work or what she'd have to get done tomorrow. She tuned out the world and just focused on how good her body felt. Her mind went to this place where she didn't think at all, it just swirled with colors and sensations.

They fell asleep entwined in each other's bodies, still sticky with sweat.

33

In the Shadows of the Limelight, Part One

B
eing on a television set was nothing like Marin had imagined it would be. The main thing about it was that it was
bor
ing. Excruciatingly so. She'd have to be at the set at four in the morning, then she'd sit there for an hour doing nothing as the techies fiddled with the lights or whatever, then she'd perform for two minutes and then go sit down again and wait for an hour till she performed again.

Television was a surreal experience, completely different from performing in a play. A play was acted out linearly, so one event triggered the next. Television was completely different. They taped the easy stuff early in the week. The scenes that involved any outdoor lighting or things that couldn't be controlled in a studio sound stage were done last. They worked the taping so that only the people who were in the scenes they were taping that day had to be there. Many of the scenes they'd have to run through two or three times so the camera could capture different angles or cutaways shots. Nothing happened linearly, so in a moment Marin might be yelling at Jessica yet didn't know what it was that had supposedly pissed her off. Or she'd have a heart-to-heart talk with Alex and have no idea what the event they were talking about was.

None of the women were needed on the set on Friday, so Thursday after they got off the set at two, they went home, napped, showered, gussied up, and headed out for a night on the town.

Jessica had done careful research about the trendiest clubs in L.A. She'd created a list and insisted that the three of them hit every one before they finished taping the show, “Just in case it doesn't get picked up and I have to return poor and unknown to Nevada.”

The taxi—working on a television show had enabled them to indulge in luxuries like a taxi, and it wasn't like buses were big in L.A., if they even had them—dropped them off at the Good Luck Lounge just before eleven.

They found a circular table, and Jessica and Devin sat on the barstools encircling it.

“I'll get the first round. What do you guys want?” Marin asked.

“Dirty martini,” Devin said.

“Diet Coke,” Jessica said.

“How are you going to get drunk on a Diet Coke?” Marin asked reasonably.

“I can't afford the calories.”

“You weigh about three ounces. You're four calories away from being declared anorexic and shipped off to the hospital. You can get a Diet Coke chaser, but I insist you do a couple shots. You can do an extra hour on the treadmill tomorrow.”

“No I can't, really.”

“Vodka, rum, J.D. What's it going to be? A couple shots won't kill you. They'll only make you stronger.”

“You want us to think you're uncool?” Devin said.

“Peer pressure peer pressure,” Marin began. Devin instantly joined her. “Peer pressure peer pressure.”

“O-
kay,”
Jessica finally agreed with a deep, beleaguered sigh. “Rum.”

“Rum it is.”

The bar was packed, so Marin walked past the side of the bar staffed by a female bartender and went straight to the guy, who was underwear-model yummy. As usual, Marin blazed past the other people who had been waiting there. Even in a town in which gorgeous women were as common as bad jokes, Marin stood out.

“What did I miss?” Marin asked when she returned to the table.

“We were just talking about what we did before we got this job,” Devin said.

“Which was?”

“I've been in L.A. since I was eighteen,” Devin said. “I've done a couple commercials, I've done lots of pretending to be a sick patient for med students to diagnose, lots of stand-up, a few plays here and there, and to pay the bills, I've done it all. I've been a sushi deliverer, a tour guide, a sandwich maker, a nanny. For a while I read books to an old blind guy. I really liked that job but the bugger kicked the bucket and I had to find another job, which just sucked. I was a high-rise window washer for a while, a short order cook, and I've been a clown for kids'birthday parties.”

“Damn, girl, you have done it all. Jess, how about you?”

Jessica downed her shot. She scratched her lip. Looked away. “I lived in Nevada till about four months ago. Since I got here I've worked as a lingerie model. We give private shows to guys. It's all totally legit,” she said a little too quickly.

“Yeah, whadja do in Nevada?” Devin said, already suspecting the answer. Jessica didn't say anything. “You were a working girl, weren't you?”

“How did you know?”

“I don't get it, we all have to work,” Marin said.

“Yes, but we're not
working girls,”
Devin said.

Marin mouthed a large “oh” of the “I get it now” variety.

“Did you like it?” Devin asked. “How long were you a working girl?”

“Since I was eighteen, so about three years. Um, did I like it? Um, I made a shitload of money. Sometimes it was kind of fun I guess. I worked at the Bunny Ranch, which is known to be, like, the best brothel in the country. We get tested for STDs once a week, it's all very safe. I'd get a thousand bucks an hour . . .”

“Jesus Christ!” Devin said.

“Well, I mean, I'd get to keep $500.”

“You only get half? But you did all the work!” Marin said.

“Um, you know, the house provides the room and all that.”

“Who the hell can afford $1,000 for an hour of fun?” Devin said.

“You'd be amazed.”

“So, tell us everything. Did you do it all? Lick butts and do chicks and stuff?” Marin asked.

Jessica smiled. She was warming up to all the enthralled attention. She nodded.

“Screw a horse?” Marin asked.

“Once.”

“Holy shit! I was kidding!” Marin and Devin cracked up. “How do you even . . . I mean . . .”

“You want to know the craziest thing?”

“There was something crazier than fucking a horse?” Marin shot Devin a look of amazement.

“One of my regulars had two ribs removed so he could blow himself.”

“No! No! That's not possible! Gross!” Marin and Devin nearly fell off their stools they were laughing so hard.

When Marin and Devin calmed down, Marin wiped the tears from her eyes and said, “No, but seriously, what kind of doctor would remove parts of somebody's skeleton? That can't possibly be legal.”

“I had it done. Working at the Bunny Ranch paid for all my surgeries.”

“You had ribs removed?” Devin screeched.

“Why? Why?” demanded Marin.

“It makes me look skinnier.”

“If you looked any skinnier . . . I mean you look like a prisoner of war.”

“What other surgeries did you have?” Devin asked.

“My nose, my cheeks, my knees, my calves . . .”

“Knees like, from a skiing accident?” Marin asked.

“No, I had the fat around my knees removed.”

“Knees have fat?”

“The area around them does. What surgeries have you guys had?”

“I haven't any surgeries,” Marin said.

“Oh yeah right, you look like that naturally. Devin, how about you?”

“Breasts, stomach, butt . . .”

Marin sat there, open-mouthed with amazement. What insane world was she in? “But doesn't it hurt?”

“Like a motherfucker,” Jessica said.

“It's excruciating.”

“But you get a ton of Vicadin so you can just sleep for like two weeks. I hardly ate a thing and I lost a ton of weight. It was awesome,” Jessica said.

Devin nodded.

“Come on, honestly, what have you had done?” Jessica asked.

“Honestly, nothing. I haven't even had braces.”

Both Jessica and Devin gave her a “yeah right” roll of their eyes.

That's when Marin saw him walk in the bar. He was casually dressed in jeans and a silvery-gray, fitted sweater that Marin guessed cost about three hundred bucks. Same for the Bruno Magli black shoes. And the Ulysse Nardin watch? Around fifteen thousand. He had thick, wavy dark-blond hair and pale gray eyes that matched his icy sweater. She liked the way he smiled like he meant it, not that teeth-gritted, put-on, smile-for-the-camera kind of smile so common in people in
the biz.
And a movie person he most definitely was. A producer, she guessed.

She watched him casually as he ordered martinis for him and his friend—a guy, she was happy to note. His friend was also obviously well off. He was good looking, too, but he didn't have the casual confidence of the silver sweater guy. Green-sweater guy was trying too hard.

In Denver, all Marin had ever had to do to get a guy she thought was hot come talk to her was wait until he noticed her. But this was L.A., where beautiful women were like grains of sand on the beach—infinite, everywhere, and invasive. Maybe Marin would actually have to do something to get a conversation with him going.

Marin, Devin, and Jessica continued talking for half an hour or so. Marin learned that Jessica had slept with six guys and a woman to get the role on
Roommates.
Marin suspected Jessica might not have actually
had
to screw seven people to get the part; she probably gave out sex preemptively just in
case
it could help her career. Marin's thesis was supported because Devin had just given one blow job to get an audition.

Marin finished her drink and tried not to look for the silver sweater guy. Just as she was plotting to “bump” into him on her way to the bathroom, deciding what she should say, the waitress brought her another Tanqueray and tonic. “Courtesy of the guy in the gray sweater,” the waitress said.

Marin leaned back on her barstool, turned her head to meet his gaze, lifted the drink as if in a toast, and flashed him a smile. Then she returned her attention to Jessica and Devin. Well, she looked at them, pretending she didn't give a damn about the guy, when in fact, all she could do was think about what she should do next. Maybe she should approach him.

“I'm going to go over there and talk to him,” Marin said at last.

“Good luck, girlfriend,” Devin said.

She walked across the bar, watching him the whole time. When she reached him, he turned his gaze to match hers.

“Thanks for the drink.”

“I figured it was the fastest way to ingratiate myself with you.”

The remark was so unexpected she laughed. “I see.”

“Let me guess: actress. Are you an actress-slash-something else, or one who actually makes a living at it?”

“Currently I'm in the makes-a-living-at-it camp, but that just started recently. I'm shooting a pilot for the WB. It's a mid-season replacement that will launch at the end of January.”

“What were you before you were a sitcom actress?”

“A temp-slash-improv comedian.”

“Oh my, a smart girl.”

“You sound surprised. Are you saying that actresses aren't smart?”

“Oh they can be, but they're not always. Improv-ers are always smart. They have to be.”

“Yeah, that's true, but how do you know that?”

“I have two really close friends at Second City in Chicago. When I lived out there I hung out with improv-ers all the time. They were without exception really bright.”

“What brought you out here from Chicago?”

“Come on, sunny L.A. versus chilly Chicago?”

“So what do you do? Let me guess: producer.”

He laughed. “The movie business isn't for me. I was an entrepreneur, now I'm retired.”

“Retired? But you look like you're about thirty.”

“I'm thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-eight! Wow, you look good for thirty-eight.”

He laughed again. “You must be pretty young to think thirty-eight is old.”

“I am not. I'm twenty-four. Hey, stop laughing at me. Anyway, thirty-eight is young to retire.”

“I got lucky with the company I built. I sold it three years ago for a very pretty penny. I play the stock market some, but mostly I just like to travel and enjoy life.”

“So L.A. is your home base?”

“One of them. I have a place in New York, a place in France, a condo in Hawaii.”

“Nice.”

He shrugged. “I've been lucky.”

He didn't seem like he was bragging. Most guys would try to impress her, going on and on about their cars and their swimming pools and their yachts. He was just telling her a fact about himself. He didn't seem proud, just lucky, like life had dealt him a very good hand, but it could have just as easily gone another way.

“My name is Marin Kennesaw, by the way.”

“I'm Jay. Jay Prochazka.”

“That's a mouthful.”

“So am I.”

Marin laughed again. Normally a joke like that would make her squirm.

“Jay, it was nice meeting you. Thanks for the drink. I should probably get back to my friends.”

“I'd like to see you again. If you want, you can come over to my place, sit by the pool, and work on your tan.”

“Thanks, but I don't go to a guy's house till I know them a little better, enough to get a sense of whether he'll cut me up into tiny pieces and bury me in the floorboards.”

“I knew you were a smart girl. How about I take you out for a nice meal?”

“That sounds like a very nice idea.”

“Can I get your number?”

“You could if I knew what it was. I'm staying at the Graciela Burbank, room 214.”

“You don't have a place out here?”