Tameless (11 page)

A moment later, Wes moved and collapsed onto his back next to me. We were both staring up at the ceiling. My body was slack, exhausted. I managed to find his hand in the narrow space between us and when he felt my touch, he locked his fingers with mine.

Chapter Twenty – Wes

I got up early one morning around 5 a.m., unable to sleep, feeling restless. I thought about taking my board and hitting the waves, but decided instead to drive up to Griffith Park Observatory.

It was quiet at this early morning hour, a good place to think, and also a good place to take some pictures. The park overlooked the entire LA area, and it was halfway up the hill that was home to the Hollywood sign. I took several pictures of the city, but concentrated more on the sign as the sun rose, casting golden light on the huge letters. I went farther up the hill, and took several shots of LA from behind the sign letters.

I wasn’t much into landscape photography. I preferred action shots or portraits, but this was as good a way as any to start to get my bearings back with the visual medium.

Driving home, I felt like I’d already gotten my day off to a productive start. My phone rang and I thought it had to be Dawn but when I looked at the screen I saw a number I didn’t recognize. I almost ignored it, but for some reason I answered, and when I did, the voice said: “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to get in touch with you, for fuck’s sake?”

I recognized the voice immediately. Gravelly, deep, and sounding more like an old man than the thirty-odd years he really was.

“Roy,” I said.

“How nice of you to remember. You know, when you change your number, you should tell your friends. I remembered the name of that booze distributor—”

“I don’t know very many people who refer to wine as ‘booze,’ but if anyone does, I figured it would be you.” I smiled, knowing exactly the three-word phrase he’d respond with, one that he was very fond of and used almost to the point of exhausting it.

“Fuck you, dickweed. Okay, fine, so it’s not hard booze. But that’s not the point. I called yesterday and had to pretend I was a fuckin’ grocery store manager to get your number. Don’t worry, though, I didn’t complain about how you’re impossible to get in touch with.”

“Thank you. Very generous of you.” Better that he find me through my day job rather than finding me at the strip club. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m doing great,” he said, and I could hear him inhale. He might’ve kicked the drug habit, but the cigarettes were there to stay. “So great, in fact, that I have something you might be interested in. No, check that. I have something you better be interested in or I’ll hunt you down, kidnap you, and make you interested.”

“This is quite a sales pitch you’re doing here. It’s awesome.”

He chuckled. “Look, I promised you one thing when I last saw you, right?”

“Yep.”

“Well, when I owe someone a favor, I keep my word. So…where are you right now?”

The sun was up, LA was starting to bustle, traffic was increasing rapidly. “Headed home.”

“Out all night? Just snuck out of some chick’s place?”

“No,” I said, “just got an early start to my day.”

“Where’s home?”

“Living over in Santa Monica now.”

“Well, fuck Santa Monica. How fast can you get to Studio City?”

I paused for a moment. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I told you, I’m paying off that favor. Just trust me on this, okay?”

I said okay, he gave me an address, saying he’d meet me outside. I programmed it into my phone and let GPS lead the way as I thought back to the reason he thought he owed me a favor.

I met Roy Capps in rehab. He was worse off than I was, and had a hard time making connections with everyone in the place. He came up to me one day after a group session and said he wanted to talk photography and videography. I had mentioned it to the group when we were all asked to briefly tell something about ourselves. So Roy and I talked about it that day, and the next and the next. We talked about it every day, almost exclusively, except for the idle chit-chat about what was going on in the rehab center.

Roy was a short, scrawny guy, built more like a teenager than an adult, and I was surprised when I learned how old he was.

One night, Roy had gone out into the common area to watch TV. Two guys who were new to the center and had come together decided they wanted the TV and Roy, being smaller, was going to give up the remote whether he wanted to or not.

Roy told them no, and that’s when one of the guys grabbed Roy’s arm and lifted him out of the chair to a standing position.

I saw it happen because I’d woken up from a nightmare and decided to walk around a little, shake it off, before trying to go back to sleep. As I came around the corner to the common area, I saw the two guys hassling Roy. There were no nurses around, no security personnel.

At first, I didn’t want to step in. I didn’t know how Roy would take that, someone else having to fight his battles for him.

But then one of the guys twisted Roy’s arm behind his back and the other took a swing at his stomach, the guy’s fist landing with a hard thud and Roy doubling over and groaning.

I moved from around the corner, grabbing the guy who punched Roy and pulling him away. When I let go of him, he took a swing at me. I dodged, but his fist landed on the side of my neck, pissing me off even more than I already was. I gave him an uppercut to his chin. His jaw snapped shut with a snap and a pop.

I felt arms wrap around me from behind and as I struggled to get free, I realized it was one of the security guys.

Two others were on top of the guy I had fought with.

I turned to see Roy being shuffled away from one of the other attackers who was already zip-cuffed and seated on the floor.

It all happened quickly, in the span of maybe ten seconds.

When all was said and done, the two guys were removed from the rehab center. Right back to jail they went. I refused medical attention. My neck stung, but it would be fine. Roy, on the other hand, had suffered a wrist injury in the scuffle and was taken to the emergency room where it was determined to be just a sprain.

“You saved my ass, man,” he said to me after returning from the hospital. “I owe you. Big time.”

I told him it was nothing, but he obviously hadn’t agreed.

So now I found myself driving into Studio City, finding the address he’d given me. It was a one-story building with a sign out front: OLIVIMAX. And there was Roy, waiting for me on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth, puffing on a cigarette.

I got out of my car and walked toward him.

We shook hands, had a quick hug, and he said, “Goddamn, it’s good to see you, man. You been doing okay?”

We spent a few minutes catching up before he told me why it was so urgent that we meet here.

“Come inside,” he said, opening the door with the swipe of a card.

I followed him.

“I’ve worked here almost a year now. Best job I ever had.”

I’d heard of OLIVIMAX before, but didn’t know much about the place. Roy showed me around, introducing me to everyone we passed.

The lobby and hallways were covered with movie posters—some old and classic ones, others newer, and I figured the new ones were produced by this company.

“This guy,” Roy was saying as we walked through the building, “you probably know him.” He named a few movies, telling me the owner of this production company had written, produced, and directed all of them. “They do everything themselves now. No agent. No middle-man. They sell right to the studios. It’s almost unheard of, but when you have his name, you can pretty much do anything you want.”

We came to a suite of offices that overlooked a small green-space that was dotted with palm trees.

A woman came out of the main office and walked toward us.

“Roy,” she said, smiling. “And you’re Wes?”

“Yes,” I said, looking at Roy and wondering just what was going on here.

The woman, who looked to be about my age, extended her hand. I reached out and shook it. “I’m Olivia. We’re glad you came. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, orange juice?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” I said, thinking:
Who is the ‘we’ in ‘We’re glad you came’?

“Well,” Olivia said, “then let’s get started.” She gave a little follow-me type gesture and I did, realizing that Roy wasn’t moving.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he said.

I followed Olivia into an immense office, trying not to look overwhelmed by what I saw. An incredible view out of the floor-to-ceiling window that made up an entire wall. Couches and chairs everywhere, several coffee tables arranged around them, all of the tables covered with scripts and yellow post-it notes.

A guy came out of a bathroom that was attached to the office. He was looking at a sheaf of papers, saying, “Did we call this Justin Strong guy back, Liv?”

He looked up and saw us.

Olivia said, “This is Wes.”

The guy walked toward me, putting his hand out. “Max Dalton. Thanks for coming by.”

The next forty minutes changed everything.

Chapter Twenty-One – Dawn

Wes called late in the afternoon. “I’m taking you out.”

I was walking back up the driveway after checking the mail when the called. “Oh, yeah? Where are we going?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet, but somewhere nice.”

I stopped and sat on the front porch. The afternoon sun felt good, and there was a slight breeze. Perfect California weather, too nice to go to waste. “Wow, what’s the occasion?”

“Nothing, I just want to take you out for a nice dinner. Pick you up around seven?”

“I’ll be ready.”

My parents were out of town again. They’d been gone only one night and said they’d be gone three. They’d been traveling a lot lately, and always on short notice. I wasn’t sure what was up with that. Each time I asked, they said it was business and shrugged it off like it wasn’t worth talking about. It was strange for them to be going out of town so often, but my curiosity about their whereabouts was nothing compared to how much I enjoyed having the place to myself. And now, with Wes wanting to take me out somewhere nice, this was the perfect night to ask him to do something I’d been wanting to do since we started seeing each other.

I started getting ready about six. Shower first, then do my hair. I thought I heard the doorbell through the noise of the hair-dryer, but when I turned it off, I didn’t hear it again. After finishing my hair and putting on my dress, I heard it again. Definitely the doorbell.

I went down the stairs, putting my earrings in as I walked, thinking it was Wes and having no reason to expect to see Scott, but there he was.

“Hey,” he said, when I opened the door. He eyed me up and down. “Wow, you look amazing. Going out somewhere?”

I felt the urge to be sarcastic with him:
No, I’m getting all dressed up to stay home and sit on the couch watching reality TV and devouring chips and ice cream.
I had no reason to be mean to him, but I was just annoyed that he was here, showing up unannounced like this. And especially because I knew Wes was on his way.

I ignored his question. “What do you need?” Ouch. That came out harsher than I had intended, but I really had nothing else to say. I couldn’t fake being happy to see him, and why bother?

“What do I need? Jesus, Dawn.”

I felt bad. “Sorry. What’s up?”

He lifted his sunglasses and propped them up on his head. “Actually, I do need something. Can I come in?”

I was holding on to the door and I reached for the doorjamb, clearly telling him he couldn’t. “I’m getting ready to go out.”

“I see that. With who?”

“Scott, just ask me whatever it is you need to ask me.”

He pressed his lips together, his mouth forming a line, and his eyes closed for an extra beat when he blinked. “You know my birthday is this weekend.”

I nodded.

He took a deep breath, then sighed it out heavily. “I need you to come to dinner with my parents and me.” He raised a hand quickly. “Wait, wait, before you say anything, let me explain.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “You haven’t told them we broke up.”

He shook his head. “Have you told your parents?”

“No, but I’m also not asking you to hang out with them.”

He rolled his eyes. “I would do it for you if it was your birthday.”

He’d crossed a line now. It was one thing to show up without telling me he was coming, another to ask me to do something I clearly wasn’t going to do, but it was something entirely different to try to guilt me into going.

“That sucks,” I said. “And it’s not going to work. I’m not going, okay? End of story. I mean, what’s the point anyway? We’re going to sit there at dinner and pretend everything is okay and then what? You’ll tell them next week? Or you won’t?”

“Why haven’t you told your parents?”

“That’s different,” I said, my tone getting harsh, and I felt myself grinding my molars after I said it.

“No, it’s not,” he insisted. “Forget the dinner, forget the fact that you’re not asking me to spend time with you and your parents. I’m asking why you haven’t told them.”

“I’ve been busy, they’ve been traveling a lot, I just haven’t—”

“Come on, Dawn, you know why you haven’t.” He cut me off, taking a step closer to the door. I closed it a little more.

“That’s really the reason, Scott. Seriously.”

I heard a car coming up the driveway. Scott turned to look, and we both watched as Wes parked his Jeep, got out, and started walking to the front door.

Scott turned to me. “Are you serious? You’re hanging out with this guy?”

I looked away from him and focused on Wes coming up the brick steps. He smiled at me, then his facial expression turned blank as he looked at Scott. “We’re in a hurry.”

Scott looked at Wes, then back at me. “I was just leaving.”

“Good,” Wes said. He casually brushed past Scott, bumping him a little with his shoulder. Not hard. Just enough. Wes was a good two, maybe three inches taller, and he was broader, built stronger and more athletic than Scott.

I opened the door wider and let Wes inside. He kissed me on the cheek, then stood behind me.

Scott started to say something, but stopped. He turned and walked down the steps. I closed the door and leaned my back against it. Maybe it was the shock of seeing Scott, or the dreadful situation of having him standing at my door when Wes showed up, but I hadn’t even realized how Wes was dressed. He wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie. I’d never seen him dressed up like this. Never thought I’d see him wearing something so…professional. It was an entirely new look for him, and as much as I liked how it looked on him, I wanted to remove every stitch of clothing on his body.

“You okay?” he said.

I paused for too long before nodding.

Wes’s brow knitted. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I just…you look amazing.” I exhaled deeply as the words came out.

He smiled and stepped toward me, placing his hand on the door behind me. He lowered his head and kissed me softly, slowly. “You’re so fucking hot. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through dinner.”

I laughed and placed my hand on his chest. “Well, let’s get it over with then.”

. . . . .

Wes had made reservations at Spago in Beverly Hills. I’d been here once before, years ago, with my parents, but I was too young to appreciate the food and the atmosphere.

Wes pulled up to the valet and as we got out of the car I asked him, “Don’t you have to make reservations months in advance for this place?”

He had his hand on the small of my back as we passed through the front door. He whispered, “Not always.”

I didn’t get a chance to ask him what he meant because as soon as we got into the restaurant, Wes gave the maître d’ his name and we were immediately led to a table in the back corner of the restaurant, away from the kitchen entrance, away from the bar, clear of any server traffic.

We sat and Wes ordered a bottle of wine.

I leaned forward, trying to keep my voice low. “Okay, you want to tell me what this is all about?”

Wes’s eyebrows raised. “What what’s all about?”

I cocked my head. “This. Spago? Great table. Seated right away. How long have you been planning this?”

He shrugged and squinted his eyes. He was fucking with me, pretending to calculate how long this had been in the works, as if it had been a long time.

“About three hours,” he said.

The waiter brought our wine, poured two glasses, and left the bottle. I sipped, staring at Wes.

I looked around and soaked in the experience for a moment. A large pane of glass exposed the kitchen, the chefs bustling around. An open door led out to a bricked-in garden area where more people were seated, dining in the comfortable LA late spring evening weather. Clusters of lights hung from beams overhead, entwined with leafy grape vines.

“How’d work go today?” Wes asked, breaking me out of the reverie.

I put my wine glass down on the white table cloth. Then I just looked at him. Blank stare.

“How was work?” he repeated.

I said nothing.

He tilted his head back as a grin emerged on his face. “Okay, I see what you’re doing. It’s an interesting tactic. Not very mature, kind of stubborn, actually. Reminds me of the way a certain teenage girl used to get what she wanted from her parents. But I’ll give you points for the way you’re keeping that straight face as I mock you.”

I was doing all I could to resist laughing. He knew what I was doing. Of course he did. It wasn’t like I was trying to hide it. He knew I was playing, but I was going to stick it out as long as I could and not talk until he told me what this was all about. I could go on for a while like this.

“So,” he said, “I guess we’ll eat in silence.”

“Tell me, dammit.” I laughed. “The suspense is killing me.”

“Is that a little sarcasm I detect?”

“No.” I lowered my voice, straightened my leg until the tip of my heel found his shin, then I kicked him lightly. “Fucking tell me, Wes.”

What I got in response was raised eyebrows. He was loving this and so was I, but I really couldn’t stand it any longer. I wanted to know what was going on.

“Okay,” he said. “I got a new job today.” He told me everything, from how his friend Roy got in touch with him, how he went to the production offices of this major name in Hollywood.

“Have you heard of him?”

“No.”

Wes told me all the movies this guy Max Dalton had written, directed, and produced. I recognized several of the movies, one of which was in my top ten favorite movies.

“Oh my God,” I said. “I love that movie. I can’t believe you’re going to be working for him.”

Wes playfully frowned. “Well, thanks for that vote of confidence.”

I reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “You know what I mean. This is amazing. Do I get to meet him?”

“I’ll try my best.”

He caressed the back of my hand with his thumb. All I could do was stare into those eyes of his, eyes that were once beautiful, then almost dead, and now were wide and bright like I’d never seen them before.

Our meal came, and as we ate, Wes talked about how he was excited to get back to working with the camera. “My job is called ‘First Assistant Camera’. The camera operator does whatever the cinematographer or the director wants, and I’m responsible for making sure the entire shot is in focus, and also loading new film magazines when we need them.”

“That sounds exciting,” I said, trying to remain happy for him and not think about my own disappointing job at the mall. I guess I was successful in not letting that selfish thought show because Wes didn’t give any sign that he noticed. But it was easy enough—I was so genuinely happy for him.

What started out as a disaster earlier in the evening turned out to be one of the best nights we had spent together. I managed to enjoy it, to be part of Wes’s excitement at his newfound success, all the while having no idea what kind of turmoil we were both in for in the coming week.