Confessions of a Bad Boy (5 page)

I
heard all
the jokes about talent agents my first year of doing the job – after that, it was just variations on a theme. Everyone thinks it’s easy, and I lost my appetite for explaining why it isn’t a long time ago. One minute you’re the only buffer between the biggest egos this side of historical dictatorships, the next you’re in the position of crushing dreams. The talent expects you to be a leader, a parent, a confessional, and a teacher all at once. You’re the first guy people look for when they come to L.A. hoping to make it, the only guy blamed when they’re struggling, and the last guy to get any credit when they succeed.

I’m not saying talent agents aren’t assholes – I’m saying there’s a good reason we are.

Thankless as it is, though, I’m one of the best. I can spot talent from a mile away, can turn busboys into A-listers, and turkeys into blockbusters. I’m the guy directors call when they run out of casting ideas, the lifeline my actors tap when they’re thinking of writing a script or taking on a completely new role that could either make their career or tank it, and if I didn’t have a secretary I’d drown under resumes every morning. If I take you on as a client, you’ve either made it, or are about to go up a whole new level.

If I ever write a book about how I made it to the top it’ll be a short one. I can sum it up in two things: I love what I do, and I keep the bullshit to a minimum. In an industry where half the people are being taken advantage of, and the other half are trying to take advantage, that counts for a lot.

Or maybe I’m just good at being an asshole.

My office computer pings and I look up from the stack of scripts I’m working through. It’s an instant message from Chloe, the receptionist.

THE COUGAR HAS LANDED.

Shit.

It’s code, and not a very good one. The ‘Cougar’ is exactly that, fifty-three year old actress Dominique Ferreira. Five-feet-nine of ass, tits, and hair so shiny you can see your reflection in it. She looks like a cross between an Italian porn actress and an afghan hound, and I’m sure somebody has sampled her laugh for a kid’s cartoon villainess by now.

Of course, her real name is Jane Gerst, she’s from a podunk town in Ohio, and it took three divorce settlements for her to get a body like that. A couple of years ago she got a role as one of the lead detectives in a police procedural TV series. It wasn’t meant to last, but the show got renewed over and over again, not least because of her determination to squeeze into stiletto heels, low-cut blouses and short skirts that were two sizes too small for her, and which would have her arrested for indecent exposure in a real police precinct.

But legions of men in their fifties who still hadn’t figured out how to use the internet tuned in, making her, and the show, a regular on TV – and a constant presence in my office. These days the only work I do for her is book her gigs doing magazine spreads and daytime TV interviews, things which are more about keeping her ego satisfied than any kind of self-promotion.

My door opens – no knock, of course – and she bursts in, collagen-injected lips first.

“My beautiful Nate! How are you, gorgeous?”

I get up from behind my desk and meet her in the center of the office. She squeezes me against her body so tightly I can feel her nipples, and I hear her indecently-toned sigh as she wraps herself around me.

“Hello Dominique,” I say, with the small amount of breath she’s not squeezed out of my lungs.

She kisses me on the cheek – a little too close to my lips – and lets me slip out of her python-grip.

“Always better for seeing you, sweetie,” she says, dropping her voice down into pillow-talk frequencies.

“Take a seat,” I say, retreating behind the safety of my desk. When I sit down in my office chair, after discreetly wiping her lipstick from my cheek, she’s right there. Dominique’s interpretation of ‘taking a seat’ is sitting side-saddle on my desk, gazing coquettishly at me over her shoulder. She crosses her legs, an impressive feat considering the tightness of her skirt and the awkwardness of her position, and whips her hair behind her shoulder to reveal her cleavage.

“You look great, as always,” I say.

It’s only a half-lie. Dominique might be a sex-crazed cougar, but she’s nothing if not fuckable. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. She’s famous for having a mouth like an industrial vacuum cleaner, and the sexual proclivity of a boy going through puberty.

“I love it when you compliment me,” she purrs.

She’s also got the viciousness of a cornered tiger and the mean streak of an angry Queen experiencing PMS. She puts about twice as much passion into seducing younger men as she does her work – and still consistently manages to act everybody off the set with her charisma and take-no-prisoners attitude. You can usually find Dominique by following the trail of shattered, broken, and worn-out men she leaves in her wake. As much as I might let my imagination run wild, I’d never be desperate enough to risk being chewed up by her.

“So what can I do for you?” I say, shuffling the scripts around on my desk to let her know I’m busy.

“I just wanted to see my agent – is that too much to ask?”

“Of course not. But it’s a bit of a bad time. I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

“Aw,” she says, drawing the word out sensuously. “Don’t tell me one of L.A.’s sexiest young men is wasting all of his time on work. My heart would break.”

I laugh lightly.

“If you’re referring to me, then I’m afraid so.”

I keep my eyes down on the scripts, scribbling things in the margins for show. I feel a cold finger under my chin, and Dominique lifts my gaze to meet hers. She’s smiling like she’s about to tell me a secret I don’t want to hear.

“When are you going to do the inevitable, Nate, and take me out to dinner?”

Before I can laugh I suddenly remember. Jessie. Dominique’s show is the one that Jessie has been working on. It’s been a few days since I spoke to Kyle, right before he went to London. I tried to call Jessie a couple of times after that, but there was no answer.

“Do you know a girl named Jessie? Works in the costume department on your show?”

A twinge of suspicion enters Dominique’s eyes.

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“No,” I say, absently pulling her hand away from my chin, “it’s important. I’m supposed to talk to her.”

“Pfft. Do you really think I sit down and talk with everyone who brings me my coffee?”

“She’s not a PA. She does the costumes. She’s got black hair, hazel eyes, about—”

“Nate!” Dominique sighs. She eases herself off the desk, and steps slowly around it towards me, trailing her long fingernails against the wood. “You’re smart enough to know that kind of girl can’t really do anything for a guy like you. They’re good to look at and all, sure, but they don’t know what they’re doing when it comes down to it.”

I lean back in my chair as she steps in front of me.

“It’s not like that. I just need to check up on her for a—”

She presses a finger against my lip, and a hand on my thigh, leaning over me until all I can see is the Grand Canyon between her tits. A giant void that seems to have its own gravity.

“You’ve done a lot for me, Nate. A lot for my career. Let me repay you a little bit.”

“Dominique, seriously. I’ve got work to do.”

“So have I,” she says, her spider-like fingers working the buckle on my belt.

Just before I push her away the door to my office slams open, the mousey-haired head of Chloe poking itself through.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, without a hint of surprise at the awkward scene she just walked in on, “but your Porsche is being ticketed down at the curb, Ms. Ferreira.”

Dominique pulls her attention away from my groin and marches towards the door.

“For fuck’s sake! Every single time! When are you going to complain to the city about this?”

She continues ranting all the way out of my office and into the elevator. I swing my chair back towards the desk.

“Jesus, Chloe. I thought we said seven minutes? A second longer and she’d have stripped me.”

“I’m sorry. I got held up. You really need another method for getting rid of her though – she’s gonna figure that parking thing out sooner or later.”

“Short of keeping an ice bucket by my desk I can’t think of anything quicker.”

“Anyway, the reason I was late was that there was a call for you. It sounds really urgent. Someone named ‘Jessie’?”

“Shit. I’ll take it. Thanks.”

Chloe closes the door behind her and I pick up the phone and punch the blinking button.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Nate?”

Relief washes through me at the familiar sound of her voice. “It’s me. What’s up?”

“You’re not with Kyle or anything, right?”

I take a second to think.

“No…he’s in London. Why?”

I hear Jessie’s breathing on the other end of the line, short intakes, long exhales – she’s frustrated and anxious.

“Okay. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m in jail.”

“What?”

“I’m in jail.”

“What the hell did you do to get yourself in jail?”

“Nate…” she says, her voice pleading, “I just need someone to bail me out. I didn’t have anyone else I could call. But if you’re going to sit there and lecture me, can you at least save it for later? My own conscience and the criminal justice system are doing a perfectly good job of making me feel like shit already. Please don’t make me beg.”

Despite her tough-girl tone, I can hear the tremor in her voice beneath the bravado. And just like always, my heart goes a little soft knowing that Jessie’s in trouble.

“Okay, okay. Just hang in there. I’m on my way.”

S
pending
seven hours in a police cell with a dreadlocked stoner and a valley girl who got caught drunk driving ought to be a certain kind of hell. But once the anger runs a little dry, the alcohol wears off, and I know for sure that Nate is coming to bail me out, I end up appreciating the fact that I have a little time to myself. I guess it’s true what they say – it’s good to disconnect sometimes.

A big shadow covers the stripes of light on the floor that I’ve been staring at for the past twenty minutes and I look up and squint between the bars at the beefy officer who put me in here in the wee hours of the morning, when I was still drunk and ranting at three AM.

“Jessie Meyer,” he booms, before loudly unlocking the cell door and sliding it aside.

“Bye girls. Good luck,” I say to my new friends. The stoner sprawled on the bench offers a hazy wave, and the crushed teen raises her mascara-streaked face to smile meekly at me.

The police officer leads me down the corridors, stopping briefly at a desk to hand me my phone and purse, and then I follow him out into the reception area where Nate is waiting as casually as if we’re at a bar.

“Are you sure she’s safe for me to be alone with?” Nate jokes to the officer, who rolls his eyes and turns back.

We stand for a second, looking at each other. I’ve known Nate for as long as I can remember, but whenever I go a week or so without seeing him, it still takes me a few minutes to get used to how annoyingly beautiful he is. The sharp lines and rough stubble on his face made you wonder if someone had breathed life into a Greek statue, setting a couple of zircon gems in it for eyes. The sort of face you experience, rather than see. For pretty much all of my teenage years I’d get a static shock whenever Nate looked at me, and I was certain he had superpowers.

But it’s Nate, my brother’s best friend. And I’m too old to have silly crushes anymore.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, refusing to meet his irritatingly gorgeous eyes for even one more second as I head for the exit. “I just want this night to be over.”

“It’s technically daytime now. And while I appreciate having an excuse to leave work, I’m almost tempted…” Nate begins, holding the door open for me.

“Let me guess, you were tempted to leave me there and stew,” I interrupt.

Nate laughs. “Something like that.”

He keeps laughing as we go down the steps of the police station towards his car.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” I say across the roof of his car.

“You gonna tell me why I had to drive across the city to bail you out of a cell?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m sure it’s a good one.”

We get inside the car but Nate doesn’t start it up. Instead, he shifts in his seat and casts the spotlight of his eyes in my direction intently. Even if he hadn’t told me, I can tell he came straight from work— he’s in a soft button-down shirt that fits like it was made for him, sleeves rolled up to show the sinews of his forearms. I take a deep breath.

“I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me. Is that stupid enough for you?”

As the words tumble from my lips I feel all the anger and hurt once again, almost as if reminding myself how shitty it was. I quickly suppress the quiver in my throat and the heat in my eyes that could so easily turn into full-on, soap opera levels of crying.

“Shit,” Nate says, his discomfort about discussing this kind of thing showing in the uncertainty of his voice. “Is he still alive?”

I smile timidly.

“Yeah. I don’t know about his car though.” I let out a weak laugh.

“What happened?”

If my morning in the cell felt like a brief vacation away from it all, sitting here in Nate’s car as the sun shines down on us outside the police station, and telling him exactly what happened, brings it all back again. I can feel the stress in my muscles, tensing them up and setting me on edge. The millions of problems and annoyances that seem to make up my life now reforming themselves in my mind.

“My bad taste in men happened. Again. No…that’s not fair. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Kyle mentioned that you had a new boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend. Hank. He seemed cool. I met him at a studio party. He was working in the sound department. We’d been dating for a month or so. It wasn’t perfect – I mean, he was always complaining that I kept putting work before him. I should have seen it coming, I guess. Last night he left his phone at my place. I took it to work with me, and it rang. I was so overwhelmed I just answered it, not even realizing it wasn’t mine.”

“It was the other girl, right?”

I nod grimly, and see a look of tight, restrained anger on Nate’s face. The same kind of protective aggression Kyle wears constantly, but which Nate understands when to keep in check.

“After bitching at each other for a few minutes, we started talking. She was actually pretty cool. Turns out the asshole had been stringing both of us along. I got so pissed, I couldn’t think. I felt like I was burning up. I managed to get through the work day, and after we wrapped around midnight, I got in my car and left. I stopped at a bar near his house, thinking I’d have a drink and then go tell him off. But the next thing I knew I was hiding outside his apartment, scrawling everything I wanted to call him on his car in lipstick.”

A smile twitches at Nate’s lips. “They said you smashed in his headlights too. And pulled off the windshield wipers. And then you tried kicking in the bumper. At some point the car alarm went off, but you didn’t seem to notice.”

I sink my head into my hands.

“Fuck. See, I don’t even remember doing that. It was such a shit day. I’d just found out I didn’t get a job doing the costumes for this indie film about a single mom who’s a kingpin in the Russian mafia –I
really
wanted that gig. And then those bastards at Edison turned off the electricity at my apartment while I was at work because the bill’s past due and my roommate had to pay to get it turned back on and she’s ready to kill me over that. And then Hank. It’s like absolutely everything is fucked.”

I feel myself getting worked up again, but then Nate’s hand press itself against my shoulder comfortingly and my breathing instantly slows.

“Look, you’re obviously pushing yourself too hard. Stressing yourself out at work, where you’ve spent years steaming cop uniforms and they don’t pay you enough to even keep your lights on at home. And then your boyfriend – ex – cheating on you just tipped you over the edge. It sounds like you need a little time off, is all. Maybe evaluate where your life is at.”

I smile and look up at Nate.

“You’ve been talking to Kyle, right? You sound just like him.”

Nate looks forward through the windshield, avoiding my eyes. “Is he wrong?”

“Probably not. But it’s a little rich for my brother to be lecturing me about overworking. I don’t think he’s slept since last October. Besides, even though it drives me crazy sometimes, I love what I do.” It’s only half a lie – I do love what I do, I just don’t love the show where I’m doing it. If only I’d gotten that movie job.

Nate shrugs, finally turning the key in the ignition and driving us out into the L.A. traffic. I let my eyes lose focus as Nate revs the car, the store fronts and parking lots flying by in a blur. Soon I’ll be back at work, grinding my hopes and dreams into dust as I try to squeeze out a living long enough to get that big break that only seems to get further away.

“You wanna grab something to eat?” Nate asks. “It’s past lunch. And it sounds like you could use an Oreo milkshake.”

I grin, pleased for some reason that Nate still remembers my favorite treat. “Sure.”

In a few minutes we’re at a drive-thru, picking up our orders. Nate finds a spot, kills the engine, and we tear open the paper bags with child-like glee.

“So how’s the glamorously sleazy world of ego-management these day?” I ask, after a couple of bites.

“Same as always,” Nate says, sipping loudly from his milkshake. “The egos get bigger, and then the money does, too. Your burger’s leaking.”

I look down to see the extra mayo I ordered seeping out of the bottom of the bun, some of it already on my jeans.

“Shit! Gimme more napkins!”

Nate quickly fishes around in the bags while I slam open his glove compartment. Eventually he hands them to me and I manage to stop the flow before spattering my jeans so much they look like a nineties fashion statement.

“Um…Nate?” I say slowly.

“Mm?” he mumbles, his mouth full.

“I think there’s a pair of women’s lingerie in your glovebox.”

Nate swallows, smiles, and leans over. He picks them out and throws them in the paper bag with the dirty napkins. I raise an eyebrow, and look back at the glovebox.

“What the fuck? Are you selling condoms as a side-business? Why are there so many in here?”

“Because I’m too young to be paying multiple child support.”

I laugh like it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in awhile, which it is, but when I recover I just stare at him, open-mouthed, while he takes another gigantic bite of his quarter-pounder.

“Are you really getting that much action?” I ask, equal parts awed and repulsed.

Nate thinks as he chews, swallows slowly, and carries on thinking for a few more seconds.

“I get enough.”

“Wow. And you’re still nowhere near getting serious with anyone?” I’m suddenly more fascinated than disgusted. I can’t imagine playing the field forever like Nate does, but there’s something undeniably attractive about the idea of never having a broken heart again.

“I’m not getting thrown into jail for any of them soon, no.”

I punch him playfully.

“That’s awful.”

“Why is that awful?”

“It just is. I thought you’d grown out of all that.”

Nate looks at me with a furrowed brow, as if I just told him the most offensive joke he’s ever heard.

“‘Grown out of it’? What do you mean?”

“That whole ‘alpha-male, swinging-dick’ thing. Seducing all of those girls. ‘One-night stands.’” My voice trails off as I force myself to not-remember the one we had a few years ago.
Never happened, Jessie
. “Don’t you think it’s kind of…I dunno…asshole-ish?”

“No,” Nate says, and I can see how much difficulty he has in even understanding me. “Asshole-ish is your ex-boyfriend making you think you were his only girl when he was seeing someone else. Asshole-ish is telling a girl you love her when all you love is her body. Asshole-ish is lying to yourself about what you want from a woman because you haven’t got the balls to be true to your own instincts.”

Nate caps off his rant by tearing another bite out of his burger. I get what he’s saying, but I still feel like his logic is faulty. Has he really never been in love?

“Whoa. Calm down. I wasn’t trying to wind you up,” I soothe. “I’m just saying it’s weird that you won’t consider the possibility of ever having anything more meaningful.”

Nate glares at me, and I can feel his disappointment almost telepathically.

“How many ‘meaningful’ relationships have you had, Jessie? And how many of them ended up with someone – usually you – getting hurt? Is that what you mean when you say ‘meaningful’? Look, do you know how many women I’ve hurt in my life? Zero. Because I don’t promise them anything I don’t intend to give. I love women. I fucking worship them. Nothing on this planet is as beautiful, as mesmerizing, as capable of giving as much joy, as a woman. I want to celebrate every beautiful woman I meet. And the day I stop loving women, is the day I start looking for something ‘meaningful’ with them.”

I stare at Nate for a few seconds. He turns his head and looks at me, his face completely serious. That’s when I burst out laughing again.

“Ha! Are you fucking kidding me, dude?”

“Alright, alright,” he says, sorely, turning the key in the ignition.

“Are those the kinds of lines you use on them? Jesus Christ, Nate. I can’t believe that works.” I suck at my milkshake through the straw and suppress another giggle.

He frowns. “Okay. I get it. You’re not down with my methods. End of conversation, then.”

“You should write a book or something. ‘The Player’s Philosophy.’”

“You done? Because I’m ready to go now.”

Before I can answer, his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and answers it.

“Will? What’s the news? You already met with him?” Nate listens and then does a fist-pump, banging his hand against the BMW’s headliner. At least someone’s getting good news today. “That’s awesome…okay. Leave it to me… Don’t
worry
. I’ll get him the reel right now…good…okay, we’ll talk tomorrow.” He hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket, then eases the car out of the drive-thru parking lot with a grin on his face. “I’ve got to run by the office real quick. Do you mind?”

“I don’t have any plans for the immediate future except feeling sorry for myself,” I say.

After about thirty more minutes of weaving between traffic as if we’re in a car chase, Nate pulls up outside the fancy glass-tower building of his office.

“Stay here. I won’t be long,” he says, tossing me the keys.

“Sure. I’ll be here with the radio on.”

I watch Nate jog towards the entrance and slam through the doors, then start the car and turn my attention towards the stereo, flicking through stations as I impatiently search for a decent song. After quickly realizing that either every radio station in L.A. sucks, or I’m just too on-edge to enjoy anything, I get out of the car to stretch my legs a little. I step up onto the sidewalk and lean up against Nate’s car.

“Why hello there!”

I look up to see who said that, and find a tall, handsome, old guy who looks like he should be farming cattle in the mid-west.

“Hello?” I reply, caution and confusion mixed with a little politeness.

“This is Nate’s car, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah. He just went inside for a minute.”

“I thought he left early to attend to a family emergency?”

“Yeah,” I shrug, scrambling for an excuse that does not include explaining to this stranger that I needed Nate to bail me out of jail. “He, uh, had to come back and grab something though. We’re leaving soon. It wasn’t like a big emergency or anything. More of a medium-sized one,” I finish lamely.