Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (16 page)

Despite the increase in attention,
nobody’s coming up to me or talking to me. They’re just staring.

Staring.

I manage to ignore it long enough to go
through most of the day—wardrobe, hair and makeup followed by the scene where my
character finds Damian’s character cooking naked in her kitchen with the
exception of a single oven mitt. He actually did the scene totally nude even
though they’re never going to show anything between his knees and his navel in
the final cut of the film, bless him—before someone finally walks up to me and
as soon as she opens her mouth, I know what’s been going on all day.

“So, I don’t mean to pry or anything, but
you just seem really nice and I don’t like knowing that something’s going on
when it’s about you and you don’t know…” Tammy from wardrobe asks.

Yeah, she kind of trails off and doesn’t
actually come to a single clear point, but judging by how uncomfortable she is
talking to me, I’d say there’s really only one possible explanation and she
gives it.

“There’s a rumor,” she says. “It’s about
you and, uh,” she looks around and then leans in close, “it’s about you and
Damian,” she says.

“Really?” I ask, not sure whether to play
it like I’m surprised or like I don’t have time for idle rumors and so am using
the word and its inflection in order to chastise her for paying mind to such
childish games, so I end up about somewhere in the middle and even I’m
confused.

“Yeah,” she says. “They’re saying that the
two of you have been arriving to work at the same time even though you’re
driving in two separate cars. They say that’s because you’re spending the night
together and, um,” she leans in close again, whispering, “They say that the two
of you are having sex.”

I may be a little frustrated and more than
a bit confused, but I know better than to confirm an on-set rumor about Damian
and me. Even with Damian’s unwillingness to come to a decision aside, I’m not
going to say anything.

I’d really rather not start looking like
the chick that’s only here because she’s getting nailed by the lead.

“They say we’re having sex?” I ask.

“I thought you should know,” she says.

“If Damian and I arrive at the same time
every once in a while, which, for the record, I don’t know that we do,” I tell
her, “
it’s
because we’re both supposed to show up at
the same time. I’ve shown up at the same time as you and we’re not having a
torrid love affair, are we, Tammy?”

“Well, no…” she starts.

“So why is it that when you and I show up
at the same time, it’s a coincidence and yet when Damian and I show up at the
same time, it’s got to be sex?” I ask.

That should do it.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t create
the rumor. I just thought you should know what was being passed around and
everything.”

“And I appreciate that,” I tell her and
take her by the arm. “Now, why don’t we both go to work and focus on things
that actually have some bearing in reality? You know,” I tell her, “like
acting.”

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you, and again,
I’m sorry.”

She thanked me. That was weird.

“All right, you have a good day, Tammy,” I
tell her and release her arm.

She says something back that I couldn’t
possibly care to hear and I walk away.

I’m glad I got that nipped in the bud.

If there was going to be one big moment
where Damian and I faced exposure, that was it, and I actually got her to thank
me and apologize for even bringing it up.

Yeah, I’m good.

I’m in my trailer waiting for my next
scene when Mick, one of the assistants to the director, knocks and lets himself
in without waiting for me to answer.

Mick has boundary issues.

“Hey,” he says. “Dutch wanted me to let
you know that Jones is running long on his scene and they don’t think they’re
going to be able to get to you, so you can go home or whatever.”

Mick, along with having boundary issues,
is a moron.

“Thanks, Mick,” I answer. “I’ll see myself
out then.”

“It’s just for today,” he says. “I’m sure
Dutch will do your scene tomorrow.”

“I’m not worried about it,
Mi
—”

“—or another scene,” he interrupts. “You
know, I know sometimes they like to shoot scenes for a movie out of order and I
didn’t want you to be concerned if the scene you did tomorrow was the one you
were supposed to do today.”

I just look at him.

Someone pays this man money to do things.
It’s incredible.

“Thanks, Mick,” I tell him. “You’ve put my
mind at ease. I think I’ll be able to muddle through without undergoing too
much psychological damage.”

One more thing about Mick is that he
doesn’t understand sarcasm.

“Well, I certainly hope not,” he says. “Do
you think that’s a possibility? I’m sure we could talk to Dutch and he could—”

“Mick,” I interrupt. “You’ve got to learn
when people are joking. It’s becoming a problem.”

“Right,” he says. “So you’re going to be
all right if your scene gets pushed to another day and you do a different scene
tomorrow—not that that’s necessarily going to happen, but it
is
a possibility, and—”

“Bye, Mick,” I interrupt and start
gathering my things. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

Again with the thanks.

“You’re welcome,” I answer, not knowing
what else to say.

“So, I’ll go ahead and tell Dutch that
you’re all good to go and that we don’t need to worry about a thing,” he says
as he slowly makes his way out of my trailer.

“You probably don’t have to tell him
anything,” I tell Mick. “I think he probably assumes that everything’s going to
be okay.”

“All right,” Mick says. “Should I even
tell him that we talked or—”

“It’s really simple,” I interrupt. “Go
back to doing whatever you were doing before you were doing this and if Dutch
asks you if he talked to me, tell him you talked to me. If, for some reason
that would absolutely baffle me and anyone else within earshot, he asks if I’m
going to be all right not doing today’s scene today, you can tell him that I am
perfectly fine and that it is no trouble whatsoever. Got it?”

“…no trouble whatsoever,” he repeats. The
jackass is actually writing this down.

“Good boy,” I tell him and send him on his
way.

Looking at the time, it’s probably a good
thing they’re not going to try to squeeze my scene in today. I still have my
radio interview to do and I’ve got just enough time to get there a little early
and chat with the DJ before the show.

Talking to the DJs can do a great many
things for your performance during the interview. You learn little things that
are on the interviewer’s mind, so you can often prepare your response a little,
or if you come across as friendly, an otherwise hostile interviewer—and you’d
believe how many of those a person gets—might soften a little and ease up
during the interview itself.

It’s just a good idea.

I get to the radio station and walk up to
the front desk. The woman sitting on the other side is chewing gum and tapping
the eraser end of a pencil against her forehead as she looks over a
half-complete crossword puzzle.

I clear my throat and she doesn’t look up.

“Excuse me,” I start.

“Hold on,” she says. “I’ve almost got it.”

“Almost got what?” I ask.

“Hold on,” she repeats.

“Maybe I could help,” I start again.

“No,” she answers. “I don’t cheat at
crossword puzzles. How insecure do you really think me to be?”

As she’s talking, I use her general
indifference toward me to look over her shoulder at the puzzle.

“If you’re looking for four down,” I tell
her, “it’s Cerberus.”

“See?” she asks, slamming the crossword
book on her desk and the pencil after it, “I tell you to hold on, I tell you
that I want to do this thing on my own, and now I can’t even look at that
puzzle until I’ve forgotten that I’ve met you.” She looks me up and down. “And
that might take me all day.”

Cheeky.

“I’m Emma Roxy,” I tell her. “I’ve got an
interview in about twenty minutes.”

“So, you’re one of those punctual, anal
types, huh?” she asks. “I bet you love being dominated. People like you always
want to be dominated in a sexual situation.”

“Because I show up for an interview
early?” I ask.

“Because you blabbed the answer I was
looking for and ruined my whole afternoon crossword break,” she says.

“I don’t understand,” I tell her.

She looks me up and down again and says,
“Yeah, you don’t.”

Is there something particularly offensive
or threatening about my general appearance right now, or is this woman just a
snotty bitch?

“So, are you that chick who knitted seat
covers for all the firehouses or what?” the snotty bitch asks.

“I’m an actor,” I tell her.

“I didn’t know we were having a waitress
on the show today,” she says.

“No,” I tell her. “I’m a real actor. It’s
my job. I go to work at a movie set and have cameras filming me.”

“Well isn’t that just splendid for you,”
she says. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a porn star.”

“Look, I really don’t have the time to
stand here and argue—” I start.

“Yeah you do,” she snorts. “You got here
twenty minutes early.”

I might just have to smack the shit out of
this chick.

“Could you just let him know that I’m
here?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll tell him.” She
picks up the phone and dials a number. “Yeah, Denise, when he goes on
commercial, could you do
him
a favor and tell him that
his porn chick interview is here and she’s chomping at the bit?”

What the hell is her problem?

“Yeah, thanks,” she says into the phone
and shakes her mouse, turning on her computer screen to show yet another
crossword puzzle. She hangs up the phone. “Yeah,” she says, staring at the
screen, “someone will send you in in a little bit.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, but I don’t think
she fully appreciates the level of sarcasm in my tone.

I try to get a closer look at her computer
screen so I can ruin another answer or two for her, but she manages to turn off
the screen before I can see anything clearly enough to read.

“Have a seat,” she says in a less than
pleasant tone. “You’ll be on in a few minutes.”

I’d love to continue focus on my annoyance
at this rude human being, but my phone starts to ring.

“Hello?” I answer, again making the rookie
mistake of not looking at
who’s
calling.

“Hey, I’m going to need fifty thousand,”
Ben says. “I’m going to need it by tomorrow.”

I may have switched my focus, but
annoyance may have played a fair part in my immediate response. “You’re out of
your god damned mind,” I tell him. “First off, you said you were going to stop
calling me and now you’re telling me that you need fucking fifty thousand by
tomorrow? You can go fuck yourself, you little piece of shit!”

“If
that’s
the way it’s going to be,” Ben starts.

“You said you weren’t going to raise the
payments anymore,” I tell him, switching from antagonism as a tactic to guilt.
“I don’t know when you’re going to call and you say you need it by tomorrow;
things are pretty crazy around here, you know.”

“Yeah,” he says, “you see, the problem is
that absolutely none of that is my problem. So, you figure out whatever you
need to figure out, but I want that money in my account before midnight
tomorrow night.”

I take a deep breath.

It was never the nudity that I had the
problem with, really. I mean, I would certainly like to have control over how
much of my body is available for the public viewing consumption, but I’m sure
I’m going to have at least a couple of nude scenes during my career. It’s not
the same thing, I know, but that part wouldn’t be the end of the world.

The problem I have is apparent because I’m
naked, but it’s not the nakedness itself.

“Fine,” I tell him. “But you’ve got to
promise me this is the last time we do this.”

“Whatever,” he says. “Just make sure it’s
in my account by midnight tomorrow night or those pictures of yours are going
to be the only thing trending anywhere.”

“I’ll get it done,” I tell him. “Just back
off a little now, will you?”

“Bye, sweetie,” he says condescendingly.
“Have a good day at work.”

He hangs up.

“Fucking stupid bitch bastard piece of
fucking garbage…” I realize that woman’s still sitting there at her desk only
now she’s looking at me with her chin reaching for her knees. “Sorry,” I tell
her. “You can call that the bad side of this business.”