The Position 3 (3 page)

I open the cabinet and pull out two of my brand new white wine glasses. Then I get a bottle from the refrigerator and fish the corkscrew from my now-stocked utility drawer.
 

Not thinking about it
.
 

Just as I pull the cork free with a satisfying pop, the downstairs buzzer rings. Relieved for the distraction, I set the bottle on the table and head for the front door to hit the intercom release button. When I open the door, Evan is just leaving. Again, he’s impeccably dressed, his dark skin beautifully contrasting his cream jacket that’s pressed and meticulously clean. He’s wearing beautiful leather shoes and an adorable gray tweed flat cap. He flashes me his million-dollar smile.

“Hey gorgeous! You got a hot date coming up to your bachelorette pad tonight?”
 

I smile and shake my head. “Just my work colleague.”
 

He waves a hand me. “Good for you! Who needs a man to be happy, anyway! Right?”
Ouch.
But I manage not to flinch. Then he gives himself a joking once over and rolls his eyes. “Okay, obviously, I do.” He disappears down the hall, leaving a trail of baritone laughter. “Have fun, sweetie!” he calls.
 

Devon rounds the corner, a large bag of Chinese takeout in her arms. She’s wearing a black jacket over a basic white tee shirt that she’s doodled all over in Sharpie pen, and faded blue jeans. Her pink converse high tops seem to glow neon on her feet. Immediately, the air is filled with warm smells of sesame chicken and pork fried noodles.
 

“That looks like a lot of food!” I force a smile and give her a hug.
 

“I should never let myself order when I’m starving. We’ll put the leftovers in the fridge for when we’re hungry in an hour.”
 

I step back and let Devon inside. She stops in the living room and looks around. “Settling in nicely.” Then she frowns at all the bare walls. “You’ve got to get something up on those depressing, naked walls. Color. Vibe. You know what I’m saying? Own this motherfucking place. Make it yours.”
 

I nod. “Yeah. But first I should get some sheets.”
 

Devon laughs. “That might be nice!” She heads for the kitchen shaking her head. “Ah, youth.” Without hesitation, she pours us each a glass of wine. “When you’re young, you don’t appreciate the finer things in life. When you’re older, you’re too stressed out to enjoy them.” She picks up the glass and holds it in the air. “To seizing the fucking day, right here, right now. Shall we do that, Mickey?”
 

I’m NOT thinking about it!
“You’re damned right we shall.”
 

We both take excessively long sips of wine.
 

“Mr. Hollywood was in the office today,” Devon says with a wide, weary eyes. “What a diva! My God! He’s such a pain in the ass!”
 

“Chance is in town?” I nearly gasp. I’m still pretty star-struck, even though I’ve never met him in person. Chance Monroe is about as A-list as you can get. He’s in his late twenties, ripped like the superhero he plays in the movies, with the strong jaw and rugged good looks to boot.
 
I’ve never met a famous person in my life, much less a gorgeous one like Chance Monroe. I don’t know how Devon can be so blasé about it.
 

“Oh, he’s here,” she says, settling into one of the cafe chairs while I get the silverware and plates. “This guy is such a head case, I can’t wait to finish this job.”
 

I shrug and fetch a bunch of serving spoons. “If you say so. I think he’s hot as hell.”
 

“Well, he would agree with you.” Devon sighs and takes a long drink of her wine. “White wine and Chinese food are the magical combination for unvarnished creativity, right Mickey? That and post-coitus refreshment.” She picks up the drawings on the table and looks at them.
 

“I’m experimenting with several ideas,” I say watching her self-consciously. I pull out the little white and red boxes of food from the bag and arrange them around the table. “You know, just sketching things out. They’re still pretty raw.”
 

While Devon studies my work, I find myself gazing across the room to where my phone rests on the table. It sits there like a grotesque insect filled with deadly venom.
Whore.
What kind of man
is
Lazarus? To do all of those amazing things to me, to make me feel like that, to rock my world, and then spit on me when it’s done. How can he be so deranged? It’s pathological.
 

Shut up! Shut up! Remember? I’m not thinking about it!

“Wowza, kiddo!” I snap out of my reverie to find Devon gaping at me over the drawings. “These are amazing! I mean, that whole ‘ethereal experience’ Mr. Hollywood keeps yammering about? I just didn’t get it. But all the white? And this crazy-ass butterfly thing? Is this even possible?”
 

I smile for real this time, relieved. “Of course,” I say, confidently. “It’s a question of keeping the conditions right—the heating lamps, the natural gardens, the lights. If the glass is thick enough, they won’t even notice the bass beat of the music. I mean, it’s not cheap, but it can work.”

“Un-fucking-believable!” Devon puts down the drawing and shakes her head. “You have to be there to present it, Mickey. It’s the shit. No one else can pull it off.”
 

My stomach clenches with nerves. “Seriously?” I try to imagine presenting my work to a bona fide movie star like Chance Monroe. It’s unreal. “If you say so.”
 

“You’re a genius, M.” Devon dips her fork into one of the boxes and shovels a forkful of noodles into her mouth. Then she drinks long and hard, wiping the back of her hand across her wide, smiling mouth. “And you, little girl, are going to blow this fucking town away!”
 

Chapter Five

Chance is staying on the forty-fifth floor of the Four Seasons Hotel and, for some reason, he’s elected to hold this meeting in his room. It seems extremely weird to me, but Devon assured me that celebrities hold lots of events in their rooms, press interviews, rehearsals, story pitches, it’s really very normal. Of course, none of it feels normal to me. The white trash scion of violent, small town drunks is about to present architectural illustrations to a movie star. As far as I’m concerned, the world is on its head.
 

I’m sitting in the expansive lobby waiting for Devon, but she’s inexplicably late. I look at my watch. Ten minutes past our scheduled meeting time. I take a deep, nervous breath and dial her number again. And once again it rings and rings until her voicemail picks up. What the fuck, Devon?
 

“Shit,” I say out loud rubbing my icy hands together. I’m so freaked out that my body thinks I’m in fight or flight mode and is sending all the blood to my vital organs. Which will it be, I ask myself. Fight? Flight? The thought of going up to Chance’s room on my own makes my windpipe close up and my heart race. Just when I’ve decided on flight, my cell phone rings. It’s Devon. I answer almost instantly.
 

“Oh, thank God!”
 

“Fuck!” Devon is frantic, her voice breathy and loud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Small accident here. I’m okay. But you’re going to have to go up on your own.”
 

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
 

“Mickey? Are you there?”
 

I nod stupidly, and then finally manage a squeak. “Yes.”
 

“Good. I’ve had a fender bender. We’re already late. Just go up. Do your thing.”
 

“Do my thing?” I shake my head in disbelief. All around me people come and go, blindly sauntering past me. The universe does not care about your nervous breakdown, I remind myself.
 

“Yes!” she yells. “Your fucking thing! You’ve got it down! Now get in the goddamned elevator and make magic happen.”

By the time I’ve hung up, I’m fifteen minutes late. No flight for you, girl. Get off your ass and put up a good fight. I take a deep breath and force myself to my feet. My drawings tucked under my arm, I weave unsteadily through the collection of sofas and chairs. As I drift toward the elevator in a daze, I try to collect my thoughts, to remember the presentation I so carefully put together. But nothing comes to mind. It’s a big fat blank. Still, I leap into the abyss.
 

The elevator ride is simultaneously short and eternal, the way I imagine drowning would be. When the bell dings at floor 45 it sends piercing pricks through my whole body. I wander like a zombie up and down the labyrinth of halls until I discover a more secluded, exclusive wing of suits on the corner of the building. There is Chance’s room number: 4522. I don’t even give myself the chance to take a breath or get my bearings. If I stall, I just might chicken out. I knock loudly on the door.
 

There’s no answer. My heart sinks. I’ve missed my big opportunity. Big shot celebrities don’t wait around for little people like me. Shit shit shit shit shit. Just when I turn to go, I hear the inside lock unlatch and the door swings open. When I turn around I feel my mouth fall open, and I just can’t seem to close it again. It’s him. Gorgeous, sublime Chance Monroe. And he’s wearing nothing but boxers. Perfection.
 

“Are you my four o’clock?” he asks casually, as if he weren’t standing there barefoot, his naked, sculpted pecks, rippling abs, and godlike shoulders staring me in the face. Even though I’m standing close to him, I can’t detect a single pore on his face. His hair is slightly longer than usual for a role he is expected to play in the coming months, a period drama that, I’ve heard rumored, just may land him an Oscar.
 

I clear my throat and try to pull myself together. “Yes. Sorry I’m late. My colleague had a car accident and I was… I…” The words seemed to be sucked into the vortex of Chance’s glory.
 

“Oh, God!” he exclaims, furrowing his brow. “Is everything okay?”
 

I force my eyes away from his body and up to his face. His eyes are blue and they glimmer like a clear summer sky. “Yes. I mean, I think so. She just called.”
 

Chance nods thoughtfully and opens the door. “I hope so. Come on in. I was just watching reruns of
The Sopranos
. You like
The Sopranos
?”
 

I walk into the room. It smells of coffee and cologne. I throw quick glances around the suite, amazed at how huge it is. The first room is sprawling and airy, with a couple of sofas and chairs surrounding a huge plasma TV, a work desk, a meeting area with a small conference table, and a giant window with a balcony. Toward the back is a lovely kitchenette where I see a half full carafe of coffee and a box of Cheerios. Somewhere, God knows where, is the bedroom.

“I never really watched it,” I say. “Kind of before my time.”
 

He pretends to flinch. “Ouch! You make me feel old!”
 

“Sorry.” My face flushes. Don’t blow it before you even begin! Get it together! I turn to face him, holding up my chin in feigned confidence. “Listen, I’ve kept you waiting long enough. Would you like me to get to the drawings?”
 

“Oh come on. Chill out, girl.” He gestures to one of the sofas. “Sit down. Watch an episode with me. You want some coffee?”
 

I force a smile and take a seat. “Okay. Yeah, sure.”
 

“Sugar?”
 

“No, thanks.”
 

It’s a surreal experience. I sit gripping my hotel coffee mug and taking in deep breaths filled with the unique smell of Chance’s rich person cologne. I’m smelling Chance Monroe. I’m watching
The Sopranos
with Chance Monroe. I’m sitting with half-naked Chance Monroe. Just when it can’t feel more like a dream, I catch him staring at me. When I meet his eyes, he smiles easily.
 

“You know, you’re pretty cute.”
 

It’s weird and inappropriate and incredibly unprofessional. Still I blush and fight back a smile. I pick up my drawings from the coffee table and arch my eyebrows.
 

“Can we get to my presentation now? Before it gets too late?”
 

He shrugs, gropes for the TV remote, and turns off
The Sopranos
. “Sure, why not? Let’s do it.” He leans back into the couch with a smile. “You stand there.” He points to the TV.
 

I nod. It feels beyond weird. Nothing like I had imagined when I rehearsed it in my apartment and at the office. “So, don’t you have any associates or partners or anyone else involved in this project that might like to hear it as well?”
 

Chance shrugs again, but this time there’s a pointed smugness in his expression. “What can I say? If I wanted someone else’s input I would have them here. It’s my rodeo. I call the shots. I make the creative choices. Who needs to gum up the situation with a lot of extraneous opinions, you know?”
 

I give him a stiff smile. So that’s the deal. I’ve got one shot at this. If this falls flat, for all I know I’ll be out of a job. I pray this isn’t a Lazarus-like tease at happiness. Promising the world and then kicking me in the teeth. But nothing is gained without trying. And if I fail… Hell, failure is not an option.
 

I open my portfolio and pull out my drawings. “Okay then. Let’s get this show on the road.”
 

Chapter Six

Devon is the one to open the champagne. She’s dressed in a jeans and a ruffled tuxedo shirt, and her boots are so high heeled she looks like a giantess. Her expression is pure elation. She seems to have forgotten all about the tragic smashing of her classic Karmann Ghia en route to the meeting. Instead she stands up on a chair, aims the bottle in the air, and lets the cork fly. Pop! A whoop goes up from the small gathered crowd.
 

“To the whippersnapper!” Devon shouts, holding up her glass. “Who fell on her crazy, creative ass and into our lives. May her young, twisted mind launch a thousand clubs!”