Picture Perfect (4 page)

“Do people still drink those?”

“They drink hers.”

Jack escorts me into the bowling alley, a tribute to the seventies in orange plastic chairs, countertops and carpeting. He ushers me through the noisy alley and into the darkened bar, behind which stands a woman of remarkable beauty. She looks as if she stepped out of the pages of
Cosmopolitan
circa 1978. Her long blonde hair sweeps over the shoulders of her hand-made poncho as she leans across the bar to kiss Jack on the cheek.

“Sweetie! What are you doing here?”

“We stopped in for a drink. Can you hook us up?”

“For you? Anything! What’ll you have?”

“I’ll take a draft, and I think Lauren wants to try one of your killer zombies.”

“Lauren, is it?” she winks at me. “You’ll love ‘em. I make ‘em with fresh fruit.” She wipes her hands on a towel and offers to shake mine. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Barbie.”

“Oh, yes,” I mutter, taking her hand. “I’m Lauren. I had no idea I’d be meeting Jack’s mom today.”

“Yeah, what’d you do, Jack? Blow off that meeting with the fancy-pants producer?”

“Uh, no. She
is
the fancy-pants producer.”

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry.” A flush of embarrassment reddens her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to say that you were fancy-pants.”

“It’s okay. I am fancy-pants.”

Barbie smiles at me in that sort of fashion when you know you’ve stuck your foot in your mouth, but are too afraid to say anything for fear that you’ll end up swallowing the whole damned thing.

“Mom, the zombie?”

“Yes, right away. Why don’t you two take a seat in one of the booths, and I’ll bring it over to you. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.”  

Jack pulls me by the hand, and we slide into a red, vinyl, circular booth across the darkened room. Parts of the backing are patched with duct tape, and the table appears to have been wiped down with a syrup-laden cloth. I scoot in closer to Jack, a habit left over from dining with Alan. Whenever we were seated at a round table, he wanted me right next to him. We would press our knees together and occasionally stroke each other’s thighs like high school kids.

Why am I thinking about Alan now?

Jack flashes a sultry grin my way, and a flare of excitement rises up in me. Our closeness feeling oddly familiar, I shove my insecurities to the side and try to play it cool.

Sure, I hang out in bowling alleys with hot, young movie stars-in-the-making all the time.

Barbie brings over our drinks, and Jack and I suck them down like fiends. We order two more zombies and a plate of chili-cheese fries, and soon we’re laughing and acting like drunken teenagers on a first date. It’s unlike me to swoon, but if anyone could make it happen, it’s Jack. His playful boyishness and exquisite physique are indeed lust-worthy, but he’s got something else at work. Something less tangible. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol and fried food I’ve consumed that’s got my head all wonky and my heart palpitating every time he brushes up against me. Whatever it is, I’m too tipsy to care. I just don’t want it to stop.

 Jack convinces me to bowl a game with him, and drags me out to the lanes. I haven’t bowled since high school, and slipping my feet into a pair of shoes countless others have stood in almost makes me wretch. But I do it anyway. For some inexplicable reason, Jack actually makes the idea sound fun.

I do a stellar job of avoiding the much maligned gutter ball. Of course, I still can’t manage to knock many pins down, but I take my wins where I can get them. Jack’s game is not exactly trophy-worthy either, and somehow that makes me like him even more. Throwing the ball down the long lane, he does a little victory dance when it manages to topple over three pins. He rushes back to join me on the plastic chairs behind our lane, nearly crashing on top of me as he sits down.

“Ah, I love this!” He beams. “Just chilling. It’s great, huh?”

I nod as he runs his fingers through my silky black hair (thanks due in no small part to the organic goat’s milk and berry extract shampoo my stylist charges me sixty-five dollars a bottle for). His hand pauses at my shoulder, and he rubs his thumb along my neck. Suddenly, every bit of saliva in my mouth is sucked dry.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?” he replies, staring hard at my mouth.

“Don’t you think we should talk about the film? The contract?” I say, trying to get a hold of myself before tearing the poor boy’s clothes off and wrapping my legs around his waist like some sex-starved housewife at a 1970s key party. I don’t know why this guy is sending me into such hormonal overdrive today, but for some reason, my body is completely ignoring all tenets of professionalism. Especially the one that warns against seducing your prospective employee.

“No. I don’t need to talk about it.”

My heart sinks, fearing that I’ve lost him.

“I’m interested in doing other things.”

“Oh,” I say, as every salacious thought floating around my brain shrivels to non-existence.

I can’t believe I ate chili-cheese-fries in a goddamn bowling alley for this guy.

“Okay, then,” I say, defeated.

 The next thing I know, his hand is gripping the back of my head and his tongue invades my mouth with a ferocity usually found on nature shows. Shockwaves of delight soar through my body as he envelops my mouth in a kiss so hot and wet that I nearly choke on his tongue.

His kiss is reckless, passionate and totally inappropriate. Not like Alan’s. Not like anything I’ve enjoyed in a long time. Jack’s nimble tongue exploring my mouth feels almost taboo.

And over way too soon.

“What’s up with you and the old guy?” he asks after dislodging himself from my mouth.

“What old guy?” I reply still trying to catch my breath after that trophy worthy lip-smacking. He may not be able to bowl worth a damn, but his kisses are in a league of their own.

“From Spago. The old guy. What’s his name? Alan.”

“You think he’s old?”

“Looks old enough to be my dad.”

“He’s only forty-five.”

“So’s my mom.”

“How old
are
you?”    

“I’m old enough,” he says, ending the subject. “So what’s the story with that guy?”

“We’re getting divorced.” I drop my gaze in shame.

“So, you’re available?”

“Huh?” Jack’s bold question shakes me, and my mouth goes dry again.

“You deserve better than that guy anyway.”

I lick my lips, still feeling the tingling sensation of his mouth there.

“That’s a very sweet thing to say, but you don’t even know me.”

“I know your soul.”

I roll my eyes at him.

“No, really! I have a gift. I can see into your soul.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but it’s true. See this?” He opens his hand and points to a small X formed by the lines on his palm. “It means I’m psychic.”

“Who told you that?”

“My grandma. She’s a witch.”

I raise my eyebrow at him.

“Not the kind of witch that wears a black hat and rides around on a broom. She just, you know, practices white magic.”

“Okay,” I say incredulously.

“It’s okay if you don’t believe me, but I know that you’re better off without that guy. He’s trouble. His aura is very dark.”

“And my aura?”

“Your aura is beautiful,” he says before smothering me in another kiss.

“A-hem.” I hear behind me. Jack quickly pulls out of our kiss, and I turn around to see his mother standing with her hands on her hips. “My shift is almost over, so if you kids want another drink now’s the time to get it.”

“No, thank you. I’m fine. I need to get back to work.”

“I’ll drive you,” Jack offers.

“I don’t think so. I’m far too sober to get on that motorcycle again. I’ll call a cab.”

“Are you sure,” he sulks. “I can drive you back in my mom’s car.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine with a cab.”

“No. Cabs in this town suck. It’ll be half an hour before they get here anyway. I’ll just drive you. You don’t mind, do you, Mom?”

“Of course not,” Barbie replies with a tight smile. “It’ll be just like in high school when you borrowed my car for the prom.”

“Don’t be difficult, Mother,” Jack scolds her. “I’m just going to drive her up to her office on Sunset Strip, and then I’ll be right back.”

“Actually, I just need to go back to Spago, so it will be even quicker.”

“Oh, right. See, no big deal,” Jack says to his mother. “You can get in a game or two while I’m away.”

Barbie finally consents, and Jack and I pile into her late-model hatchback and zoom back toward Beverly Hills. Jack drives the car as wildly as he does his motorcycle, and I spend most of the trip with my hands braced against the dashboard. Only when he finally pulls up in front of the restaurant do I feel safe enough to relax into the seat.

Jack leans over and kisses me again. “Can I see you tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Say yes.” 

“Okay,” I say, my brain synapses firing in all sorts of directions. None of them good.

The valet opens the side door, and I step out onto the curb. Jack leaps out of the car after me, spins me around and wraps me in his arms, nearly lifting me off the ground. He places a soft kiss on my cheek.

“See you tonight. I’ll pick you up at your office at six.”

“No! I mean, no. I’ll call you, and we’ll figure out when and where.”

“Okay.”

He kisses me again and then releases me from his embrace.

“Send the contract to my agent. I’ll do your film,” he yells out to me as he climbs back into the car.

I nearly dance a jig as he drives off. I succeeded in my quest and got Jack Ford in my picture. All of Hollywood will envy me!

Elated, I hand the valet the claim ticket to the car that I abandoned some two hours ago and head inside to pay the bill for the lunch that I skipped out on. I walk in feeling victorious, but the stern look given me by the hostess quickly replaces all my feelings of joy as I am reminded of my outburst with Alan. I hope they don’t ban me from dining here. That would be the
end
of my career—no matter how many it-boys I snag.

Or shag?

No. That would be
totally
inappropriate.
And deliciously bad…

***

“You did what with who?” Justine barks down the phone line at me.

“You don’t have to sound so shocked. I wasn’t born with this stick up my ass. Sometimes I take it out.”

Back in my office, I prop my feet up on my desk, the phone cradled on my shoulder. I unbutton my trousers with a faint sigh, finally giving my belly some much needed breathing room. Still giddy from landing Hollywood’s hottest shooting star, and probably more so from those incredible kisses of his, I had to call Justine as soon as I wrapped up all the paperwork on the deal.

My no-nonsense New York pal would surely be able to quell my blossoming desire for Jack. Talk some sense into me. As tempting as Jack Ford is, I’m in no position to start fooling around with my lead actor. I’m sure the whole of showbiz is already buzzing about my tantrums both at Timeless and at Spago. The last thing I need now is to have an affair.

And dizzy with thoughts of Jack Ford’s lips exploring my body (my long-neglected body), I knew I’d never be able to finish the day if I didn’t get my head sorted out. Justine has always been able to knock the daydreams from my mind with her sharp tongue. Surely, she’ll be able to help rid my brain of the increasingly naughty visions of Jack that continue to parade through my mind.

“But bowling? That’s so unlike you! Who is this guy and what has he done with my best friend?”

“He’s an actor, but you wouldn’t know him. Only LA and New York know anything about him so far.”

“Uh, I am sitting in a historic Greenwich Village brownstone at this very minute, you know. I am
the
quintessential New Yorker.”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Justine. Only people in the industry know who he is. He’s an up-and-comer.”

“The industry?” she harrumphs. “And what industry would that be? The scrap metal industry? I assume you’re referring to the
beast
, but there are people on this planet who do things other than make movies, you know.”

Justine is the only friend I have who doesn’t earn her living off the “beast,” or, as the rest of us call it, the entertainment industry. Justine spends her days cramming the works of e.e. cummings and T.S. Eliot down the throats of pampered NYU students. At night you can find her either reciting the complete works of Anne Sexton to any poor dolt who’ll let her, or documenting her own incoherent ramblings in what she refers to as her “opus.”

“Sure there
are
other industries, but without entertainment, we’d just be a bunch of brain-dead zombies.” I like to bait Justine. “Even the ancient Greeks knew how important entertainment was. They even had a freaking entertainment god.”

“Dionysus was actually the god of wine and fertility, Lauren. Just because a bunch of drunks were inspired to dress up in skirts and rant for twelve hours on a dais in his name does not mean that Dionysus approved.”

“Oh, you are just as addicted to the boob tube as the next person. Why don’t you just admit it? I know you DVR
The Biggest Loser
.”

“I do not!” she gasps. “That was a mistake! I was trying to record
The Big Lebowski,
and the damn machine screwed it up.”

“Oh, give it up. You’re a prime-time junkie just like the rest of us.”

“Oh, please. I don’t have time to waste on that garbage. You know I spend all my time writing.”

“Except when you’re busy luring teenage boys into your lair.”

“They aren’t teenagers. They’re graduate students. I can’t help it if they fall in love with me.”

Justine is a towering, six-foot-tall sex goddess reminiscent of Botticelli’s Venus, and she’s always got some new boy-toy hanging around her apartment. Of course she refers to these lusty, young men as her teaching assistants, but I know they’re doing a lot more than grading papers.

“So what’s this semester’s love-slave called?”