Part 7 (1/2)

He looked back at me, his face breaking into a big grin. I was about to say, ”What should we write it about?” But before I could, Otto said, ”I could write it about my own experience, about being an actor with a scar. I know there are a zillion web series about people trying to make it in Hollywood, but I've never seen anything like my story. Have you?”

I shook my head no.

”I could call it, like...Scarface,” Otto said.

”That's good,” I said, nodding.

Truthfully, I was a little disappointed Otto didn't want me to write his web series. He probably hadn't even heard my offer. But he was probably right that it should tell his own story - and he'd be better writing that than I would. Besides, this lunch had been about cheering Otto up. Whatever I'd done, it had worked: he was shoveling up his food in big bites. It was nice to have done something for him for a change.

”Are you going back?” I said, meaning the buffet.

”h.e.l.ls to the yes,” he said. ”Aren't you?”

”Sure.”

”But afterward I wanna take you somewhere. Shoe shopping.”

”Oh,” I said. ”Okay, thanks.”

”As a thank you for today.”

”You don't need to buy me-”

Otto stopped me with a quick smile. ”Oh, I'm not buying. The thank you is helping you shop. And you're still picking up lunch. You're the one with the freakin' ten thousand dollar option!”

I laughed and said, ”Fair enough.”

It wasn't until the following week that I finally heard from Fiona.

Fifteen f.u.c.king days after we talked on the phone.

I could describe the rest of those days for you, but that would probably drive you as crazy as it did me. What kind of crazy comes after Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight? Bill O'Reilly in real life? Anyway, that was me. I checked my iPhone so often, I probably almost broke it. But finally an email arrived from Fiona: Contract attached. Print four copies, sign, and send all four to me. I'll send you a copy once all are counter-signed. Call with questions.

I knew I was a newbie, but wasn't it typical for the client to be consulted before finalizing a contract? And I hadn't exactly expected a fruit basket and a bottle of champagne from Fiona, but a phone call might have been nice.

I opened up the contract and was confronted by sixteen pages of mostly incomprehensible legal mumbo-jumbo. But I definitely understood the words ”ten thousand dollars” in the section marked ”Option.” And if the movie actually got made at a budget of six million (as Mr. Brander had said), I stood to make another whopping hundred and forty thousand dollars (two and a half percent of the total production budget, minus the option money, up to a ”ceiling” of two-fifty). Plus, I had five percent of ”net profits,” which even I knew that, due to creative Hollywood accounting, was basically meaningless. (Supposedly, the producers of the Star Wars, Spider-Man, and Harry Potter movies - some of the most popular films in history - are arguing that they still haven't turned any profits.) But like everyone who's ever gotten net points on a movie, I could at least imagine that the movie would be so successful that I'd someday get a check for two million dollars.

My first official movie deal, and it was now officially done. So why was I so uneasy about it? I thought about emailing Fiona back and asking if she'd had a chance to read my screenplays yet, but I wasn't even close to being ready to have her write back to say, ”Yes, and I thought they were dreadful.”

Feeling superst.i.tious, I quickly printed out four copies of the contract, signed them, and then ran out to the nearest post office to send them off. When I got home, Kevin was back from another interview.

”I got the contract!” I said. ”It's already signed and off to the agent.”

”Seriously?” Kevin said. ”That's fantastic!” He kissed me. ”Now we have to go out and celebrate.”

The contract may have been signed, but we didn't have the check yet, and it was only going to be for eight thousand five hundred anyway (after Fiona's fifteen percent commission). So unfortunately, ”celebrate” just meant chicken and waffles at the Hollywood Roscoe's.

But there was a concert that night at the Hollywood Bowl, which is only about a half mile away from our apartment, and walking home you could hear the music flowing out through the whole neighborhood - some kind of jazz instrumental. Meanwhile, the night was cool and the sky was a vibrant indigo. For once, the air smelled more like the sea and the plants of the Hollywood hills than it did exhaust from all the freeways.

When we got back to the apartment, the second we were inside the door, Kevin turned to me and took me into his arms.

”I thought you needed to email your writer,” I said. This was something he'd talked about at dinner.

”f.u.c.k my writer,” he said, kissing me.

I resisted the obvious joke about how I'd rather f.u.c.k him (and maybe vice-versa). I was too busy kissing him back.

Then we were undressing, even as we were heading toward the bedroom, hopping on one foot and then the other, leaving a trail of discarded clothing behind us just like in the movies.

By the time we reached the bed, we were down to our underwear, both of us tenting big-time.

I worked my way down to his grey boxer-briefs, to the considerable bulge I found there.

”Unleash the Kraken!” I said to Kevin, who laughed as I yanked his underwear down around his thighs. His d.i.c.k popped upright with the fury of a battering ram.

The Kraken had definitely been unleashed, and I spent at least the next hour wrestling it into submission.

I woke up later that night. It was darker out, but I figured we couldn't have been asleep that long, because I could still hear the concert from the Hollywood Bowl.

No, I thought. Something's not right.

I glanced at the clock. It was 2:07 a.m. So it couldn't be the concert - that had to be long over by now. The music sounded different anyway. That had been jazz, loose and contemporary. This was tighter, more melodic, bra.s.sier - big band, like something from the 1950s. Maybe it was one of the neighbors playing music, or even someone from the sidewalk outside. Except it didn't sound like it was coming from outside. It sounded like it was coming from right inside the apartment.

Did we leave the music on? I thought. But we'd started kissing the second we entered the apartment. Did Kevin get up after we fell asleep? I didn't think we had any music like this. Maybe it was some new ringtone of his, or the television.

The music didn't stop, just kept playing, big and bra.s.sy.

I looked over at Kevin, wheezing softly, sound asleep next to me. There was no reason to wake him, so I pulled on my underwear and t-s.h.i.+rt and slipped out of bed.

I could still hear the music. It had to be the concert at the Bowl - some after-hours party. Except I couldn't believe the city would allow that. Plus, it still didn't sound like it was coming from outside.

I stepped into the front room. The music wasn't loud, but somehow it really did sound like it was coming from inside the apartment. It had to be a trick of the acoustics - something to do with the night air, or the apartment, or both. It was probably the neighbors. It did sort of sound like a radio, one of the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind that you had to tune, that fade in and out. The Venetian blinds were down but open, and the windows were open too. Light spilled in past the vertical slats, casting bar-like shadows. It wasn't moonlight, just the omnipresent glow of the city at night. The trail of Kevin's and my discarded clothing was still there, everything exactly the way we'd left it. But then why wouldn't it be?

I started to turn back to the bedroom, but something stopped me.

My skin tingled, the first touch of a ma.s.seuse.

I'm not alone, I thought.

I turned back toward the front room, but it was empty, completely still. The music played on.

I tensed. Did we have an intruder? But I didn't tense that much, because it didn't feel like that kind of presence. It didn't feel dangerous. It felt like whoever was there belonged there.