Bootycall 2 - J. D. Hawkins Page 0,31

has hidden himself under, persuade him to get his ass back here pronto, and then make sure he doesn’t run away like a spoiled teenager again until the film is done. Then I can think about firing you. After I give you a bonus.”

My head is spinning trying to process everything Michael is throwing in my face right now, but all that’s getting through is that they need me. “Um…ok. But…how do I find him?”

Michael looks at me like I just slapped him.

“I don’t know, Gemma. Hire a fucking detective. Hire a fucking telepath. Strip naked and run down Sunset Boulevard calling for him like a lost dog for all I care. Just get that dipshit back here!”

I nod, then take the hint that Michael’s tight lips and stern glare are giving me, and leave his office.

I walk back onto the lot feeling somehow invigorated. It’s a stay of execution, but it’s something. There was no doubting that Michael – and therefore most of the producers – would be about as pissed as they can be before pulling the plug, but now I have a purpose, a job. This time I won’t fuck it up. Maybe I’ll even be able to keep my job.

I go to Dylan’s trailer, not sure exactly of what I’m hoping to find, but it seems as good a place as any to start hunting him down.

As I step inside, smelling a faint trace of cologne, seeing the mess of papers and empty bottles – a trail he seems to leave wherever he goes – I start to remember all the times we’ve been together. This time I look at the memories clearly, brushing away the emotions and the baggage they used to bring with them like dirt from stones, reliving our moments together with a sense of distance, peering into them for any clues they might reveal. The night at his place, before all this started. Running lines in his trailer. His days on set. The afternoon we spent shopping.

Almost immediately I start to struggle. The story doesn’t add up. From the first night Dylan has been obviously troubled by something. The way his face would suddenly darken, the way certain things seemed to bring out a pain in him, the way he was obsessed with how false Hollywood is, and how he was looking for something ‘real.’ None of it chimes with the idea of a ‘secret lovechild.’ Hollywood is full of actors who’ve had failed marriages. Who have kids they support while not being a full part of their lives. The only reason I can think of for Dylan to keep it a secret would be if he cared about his ‘wild and crazy bachelor’ image – and I know for a fact that it’s no image.

So what is it, then?

I have to speak to that mother. Whatever is going on, she can’t be that happy with the attention either, and if there’s a way out of this, she’s it. Maybe she even knows where Dylan is. But how to find her?

I stand in the middle of the trailer, looking around at the mess, trying to find something, anything, that could help me.

“Let’s see…I know what she looks like…I know that the kid is three years old…I know that he’s been making secret payments…Fuck! That’s it!”

I leap towards the mass of stacked papers as if I’m scared they’ll fly away at any second, and start sifting. I push aside the scripts, notes, and random scraps, while tossing the envelopes into a pile. Once I’ve gone through it all, I start tearing open the envelopes.

“One of these has to be a bank statement,” I say, half in prayer.

Then I find it.

“Yes!” I shout, clenching my fists and gritting my teeth like I just won the biggest pot of the night at a poker tournament. “Thank you God! Thank you!”

I flip through the statement pages, hoping I’m right. And then I see her name.

Ramona Stone. Payment on the first of the month. It even has the tag ‘support’ on it. It has to be her. I pull my phone out, and within seconds have her Facebook account, an address in Orange County for her, and even her taste in clothes available at my fingertips.

I burst out of the trailer like a champagne cork and sprint towards my car, frantically working my phone as I do so. This is it, Dylan. I’m gonna get some fucking answers – even if you won’t give them to me