God bless Adam and his lack of artistic integrity.
“I’ll arrange a meeting,” I tell him, already comparing our calendars with that of his agent.
“Can you just imagine it?” he says. “Pretty soon I’ll have a star on Hollywood Boulevard. Fame, fortune, and a hot-as-fuck boyfriend. We’re like the gay Kennedys. I’m Jackie O, obviously.”
“I’d say you’re more of a Marilyn Monroe. I don’t see the First Lady gagging for cock the way you do.”
“Yeah, probably. Blondes have more fun anyway. You think this is the one?”
“Could be. We’ve worked hard to get you where you are, but we’re not going to settle for just anything. Eyes on the prize.”
“Eyes on the prize,” he repeats and focuses on what he can control, which for now, is the size of his biceps.
* * *
The restaurantwhere we’ve agreed to meet with the director is in Venice Beach, which may as well be on the moon for as far away as it is from downtown L.A. The drive takes two hours thanks to rush-hour traffic, and Adam spends the majority of it stressing about whether or not to wear a tie with his suit. I finally decide the matter for him by ripping the fabric from his hands and tossing it out the window.
“Problem solved,” he says to me with a sheepish grin and settles back into his seat.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” I remind him for the tenth time. “The director and producer both want you. The director’s invited you to dinner tonight to discuss it. You get to decide if this is a project you want to work on or not. You hold the power.”
“But you’ll help me decide, won’t you?” His plea has a ring of desperation that I crave.
“Of course, I will. I’m your manager.”
“I should really be paying you for all the shit you do for me.”
“You do pay me, dove. I collect on that mouth and ass every night.”
He groans and shifts in his seat, spreading his meaty man thighs so the fabric of his slacks stretches taut across his groin. “Don’t talk dirty to me right now. I can’t walk in there with a boner.”
I’m tempted to make him edge himself for the remainder of the ride, just to give us something to do, but I don’t want to cause an accident.
We arrive at the restaurant at last, and I escort Adam inside to where the director, Lars Brecker, and Adam’s agent Shondra are already waiting at a table that looks too small for four adult humans. I did my research on Lars already. He’s a Swede, born to a flavored syrup magnate and a baroness, both of whom financed his first few films. His one commercial success was nearly ten years ago, the American adaptation of a Swedish thriller that already had a huge cult following. His movies since then have been flops, all style with very little substance and terribly over budget. To say I’m skeptical is an understatement. His appearance does little to reassure me. His spray tan is shoddy, and his hair plugs are not uniformly distributed on his scalp, which is extremely distressing to this artist’s gaze. Clearly, this is not a man with an attention to detail.
Lars stands to shake both our hands, doing the second hand over top thing that I detest because it transfers even more germs as well as broadcasting false sincerity. Strike two. I greet Shondra with a firm but brief handshake since neither of us are touchy-feely types. I met Shondra through Lucia. She was Lucia’s agent when she was flirting with the idea of becoming a model. As it turned out, Lucia hated it, and the demands of the profession only compounded her body issues. But Shondra and I remained in contact. She’s a no-nonsense businesswoman who’s always ahead of the trends, which in L.A. is really saying something. She has connections in the industry and knows how to make the most of them. She’s also excellent at managing both Adam’s expectations and his moods, which vacillate from overconfidence to crippling insecurity on any given day. She delivers tough love with shark-like instincts. Today, as always, her appearance is impeccable, wearing a lavender power suit and complementary silk scarf. Her makeup is understated and tasteful. Her skin is flawless. Bitch.
“I was just talking to Lars about his last American release,” Shondra says, giving me a look that screamsDanger, Danger!
“How did it do?” I ask conversationally, while knowing it was literal dog shit.
“How about we order before we talk business?” Lars says, motioning to the cramped seats that allow for very little elbow room. “If I don’t eat every four hours, my blood sugar crashes, and I get a bit cranky.”
“Same,” Adam says with a nod.
“That must be hard for you while working on set,” I observe, wondering what kind of leadership style he employs. Adam performs best with a lot of positive reinforcement. And spankings, but those are only for me to administer.
“I drink a lot of smoothies,” Lars says and motions to the menus. “Shall we?”
“It all looks like baby food,” Adam says, having spotted a server passing by with an overly ornate platter of what looks like different colored piles of mush, fitting for a restaurant called Purée.
“Chewing is so twentieth century, Adam,” Lars says with a toothsome smile. “All the foods here are rich in vitamins, minerals, and electrolytes. Easily digested and soothing to your digestive tract. Semi-solid foods are the future of fine dining. And it’s a great way to lose weight. Fashion models love it here because of the strict portion control.”
“Really?” Adam asks, and I nearly roll my eyes. Just what I need, a new diet fad to rear its ugly head.
“Absolutely. I haven’t chewed in months,” Lars says with a wink.
“But how do you know what you’re eating?” Adam asks. “I mean, this one is just called Tang. Is that the flavor or the color? And Meat… Mousse? What kind of meat?”
