Bootycall 2 - J. D. Hawkins Page 0,29

put all this shit behind me. Shit. She just broke up with her boyfriend, lives in a shitty studio, had to deal with following me around all fucking day long, and she still has her shit together more than anyone I know.

I might be able to knock a guy out in the time it takes to bring up his hands, I know how to take control of a room and whoever’s in it, and I’m in a position where I don’t need to take any shit from anybody – but none of that can help the pain inside go away. For that…I don’t know what I need, but there’s a small part of me that was hoping Gemma might be the one to provide it. But in the end I can’t escape from myself.

So of course, I’ve treated her like shit. Pushed her away when I should have brought her close, and tried to get close when it was smarter to keep my distance. Maybe I know, deep down, that she’s too good for all this. Too pure to get involved with all my sins. Maybe I know I’ll only corrupt her, like I’ve done to anyone who gets close – like I’ve done to myself. Maybe if we just fucked and kept it at that, there’d have been no danger – for either of us.

I look up at the bartender. He’s in front of me, waiting for the sign. I think about calling it quits. About going back to my home and looking at the dailies, try and get my head back to the job at hand. I think about going to the set, talking with Christopher a bit, going over our approach to the upcoming scenes. I think about just grabbing a square meal somewhere and then working out, trying to pull my head out of my ass and get myself right.

I think about all of that, but instead I just give him the nod and watch him put another whiskey in front of me.

Chapter 10

Gemma

Somehow, Dylan is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It’s been two days since he was last on set, over 24 hours since I saw him myself, and at this point, he is about as gone as my job. I don’t blame him, and if I was in his position I’d take the first ticket to Cuba as well, but the fact that the entire world is going crazy about him isn’t helping.

I spent the night working my way through two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s (one was an entrée, the other dessert – the main course was a pizza from the place across the street, though I still had it delivered). The internet is a no-go. The showbiz sites and social media are still tearing every last piece of meat from the bones on the ‘lovechild’ story, and even the better newspapers are using it as a jumping off point for editorials about ‘celebrity culture’ and ‘separating the art from the artist.’ TV was no better. It seemed like half the schedulers of the smaller stations were playing some kind of twisted joke, rerunning his movies and interviews. Even the magazines in my local 7-Eleven – the one where the magazines are always at least three months out of date – had his face beaming from the shelves.

I drive to work feeling like the most useless, bloated, and imminently-forgotten person in LA. Which is the perfect time to get stuck in traffic, right in front of a billboard showing an underwear advertisement - Dylan’s recent underwear ad. His come-to-bed eyes and a bulge that I know hasn’t been Photoshopped remind me of precisely why I’m about to lose my job.

“Thanks a fucking bunch, Dylan,” I mutter to the larger-than-life sized image.

When I get to the lot I grab the first person I see and, with eyes that are almost tearing up from nerves, ask in my most desperate voice, as if willing it will make it happen, “Is he here? Did he call in, at least?”

The teenage runner that just happened to be the one I decided to ask the question my career was hanging upon shakes his head apologetically, before adding a shrug for emphasis and walking away.

I drop my head, arms, and hope to my sides.

“Gemma! Michael wants to see you,” shouts a crewmember, with the perfect timing of a serial killer.

I trudge slowly toward the producer’s office. Slow, deliberate steps, like I’m taking a walk to the chair.