the grip department had assembled a no-charge fully-stocked bar complete with every kind of booze and a donation jar. The furniture was cleared for a dance floor. The walls were lined with solid-wood benches constructed from left-over supplies. The crew had cleverly replaced the standard 60-watt hotel lights with red and green mood bulbs. They even dialed in the bathroom with candles and incense. And club tunes blasted from an i-Pod. It was a complete metamorphosis. For a bunch of whiskey-swilling production crew members, it was most impressive.
Alex stepped out from a crowd of bodies and slipped his hand onto my butt cheek for a little squeeze.
“Hey, careful,” I said, glancing around for watchful eyes. “Someone could see.”
Ever since Alex’s late-night visit to my room, he had “happened” into my room on many more occasions. He had one rule: don’t tell anyone. I had one rule too: no intercourse. I just wasn’t ready.
We had developed a friendship. For a former Zoolander, Alex was surprisingly funny, and mostly unfazed that he was so really, really good-looking. But, it wasn’t all peaches and cream. The occasional red flag would surface just as I started thinking “potential boyfriend,” like the time he said he had trouble committing. And the other time he mentioned a girlfriend. He said they had broken up, but she was still attached. Messy! So I didn’t bother with questions. Uncommitted romps could be part of my vernacular too.
“What’s up?” Alex asked. “You seem kind of different tonight. Everything all right?”
“I’m actually fine. Tonight I had a bit of a revelation,” I declared, waiting for him to ask.
“Listen, I can’t stay.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and angled for the door. “I have host wraps mega-early in the morning. But I’ll call you after. Maybe we can do dinner in town. On me.”
“Whatever works,” I said, ignoring the slight. “Good luck tomorrow.”
He winked and headed for the door.
Seeing him felt different tonight. Not good different, not bad different. I couldn’t place it. It would have bothered me had I not been distracted by thoughts of my dream job with the Ricky Dean.
After a few drinks and chit-chat with friendly crew members, I was starting to get my buzz on, the thought of dream jobs filed neatly away in my brain cavity to be accessed at a more sober time. After all, this was my first party night with the crew and I had to make my appearance a memorable one.
Then, like the parting of the Red Sea, a stream of bodies separated on the dance floor, and I had a straight eye-line shot at Surfer Boy. Instant butterflies. That uncomfortable gurgle. What the hell? I self-consciously grazed my hand across my nose to check for runaway boogers, a habit I’d picked up in high school—you only make that mistake once. Nope. All cars parked neatly in the garage. Then, eye contact. My heart skipped a beat. My body reminded me that though I was light years away from that gawky Margaret Simon phase of periods and B.O., my life could still be littered with awkward social stuff á la Judy Bloom until the day I died.
Surfer Boy and I hadn’t worked together since the production began. We seemed permanently on opposite shifts. But then Alex had provided a terrific distraction. At this point, Craig was barely a blip on the map. And I liked it that way. Seeing my surfer sweetie tonight made me realize just how smitten I was.
He seemed to notice me just as I noticed him. He looked surprised. I shifted my gaze. I guessed that undoing that last button—on my tight, black, stretch-silk, short-sleeved pouf-blouse á la Stella McCartney—yes, real! Street sale in Santa Monica—to reveal the stitching on a sexy black tank wasn’t such a bad idea after all. And a little beauty sleep and 20 minutes of primping never hurt anyone.
“Hey, babe, let’s see you move it/move it!” One of the guys from the grip department grabbed me to dance.
I went along, the whole while searching for Surfer Boy. Alex’s face flashed into my head. He wouldn’t do that to you? My little voice sounded particularly schoolmarmy. This was the same voice that reminded me I was plummeting to super-slutdom every time Alex tried to unzip my jeans. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t done anything—yet.
“Let’s see what you’re made of, Jane,” the grip guy said, handing me a shot of Jaggermeister snagged from a bar tray. “Your turn!”