He’s twenty one years old, and in the last two years, he’s been in eleven movies. He’s a third-generation celebrity, and he’s flawlessly beautiful—tall and commanding, with a huge chest and shoulders, thick, wavy black hair, and hazel-brown eyes framed by long, lush lashes. He isn’t really Cal Hammond. His birth name is Ricardo Condor. His father is Peruvian and his mother is from Egypt.
Do you know how many photos I’ve seen of him? I have a collection of them, in a binder under my bed. Seventy-nine different snapshots, cut from magazines and newspapers, pasted onto white cardboard pages. I’ve seen him lying on a bed, standing on a boulder, hang-gliding over cliffs. I’ve seen every inch of his throat, his chest, his thighs. I’ve seen him in an underwear ad for Ralph Lauren, in old-fashioned swordsman’s armor for a movie. I’ve seen the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. One day he’ll have laugh lines. I’ve seen him smirk. When I lie under the covers late at night and close my eyes, and reach under the sheets, I see his “V.” You know, the sexy man version of love handles: the way his hips indent in those little lines of muscle I think I could grab onto. I know what I’d name our babies. But I don’t want to have sex with him…because I don’t want to have sex with anyone.
At least I don’t think I do.
We step through the tall, wooden fence around Perri’s house, and into the torch-lit yard, and I can taste the Peppermint Patty I had while getting dressed.
I don’t want to meet Cal Hammond. It was just a joke. A silly joke that got way out of control when Carolina’s father got us on the guest list for this party.
I only mentioned it because I thought that it would never happen.
I look out across the lawn, across dozens of bodies, talking and touching and swaying to the music. I look over to the porch, and there he is. I rush back outside the gate and throw up in the sand.
*
Ricardo
I was wrong about Uma. For the last three months, I’ve thought she was shy and boring. Long red hair, pale skin, thin lips. She’s tall and well-proportioned, but she’s kind of plain. To be honest, I didn’t see how she was a model.
Now I do. It’s the intensity.
She wanted to suck me off while I drove to Perri’s. Guy’s piece of shit Ferrari wouldn’t start, so he and Royce needed a ride, which meant I had to tell her no. Still, she spread a bunch of blow around the head of my cock and licked it off, and I came in her mouth.
Maybe pretend dating her won’t be so bad.
We pick up Guy and Brody, do a bunch of blow just to spice things up, and I drive us there with a pounding heart and twitching hands. We get to the beach, and I can already tell I’m too hyped up for something this crowded. Who the fuck did Perri invite? Every tween, teen, and twenty-something in this zip code?
One of the little twits steals a parking spot I’m working my way into, and I maneuver the Lambo to give her hell for it. It’s an asshole move, but I’m high, and I’m feeling like a dick.
My brand new, yellow Lambo is noisy and warm. We’ve gone through the bag and have energy streaming out of us. Uma is talking a thousand miles an hour about some hair product she’s contracted with. Guy is practically bouncing as I pop the seat to let him out. And Royce— Jesus. Fucker cannot quit talking about his hard on, and what kind of girl he wants to stick it in.
“Just no one that looks like my sister,” I hear him say—to himself—as he climbs out.
“What the fuck?” Guy laughs.
I just shake my head and hold out my hand for Uma, who gropes my crotch before weaving her fingers through mine.
I consider telling her not to do that shit in public, but instead I walk a half foot ahead of her, our joined hands trailing between us. I glance over my shoulder a few times as we move. She’s wearing some crazy, floral patterned blue dress that looks like it belongs on a woman from the 1930s. It flounces around her long legs as she walks.
“Cal,” she coos as we walk toward the fence. Her fingers tighten around mine. “Everyone with tits is staring at you, but you’re mine.”
She uses a sexy, sultry voice, and gives me a sexy, sultry look, and I know I should think she’s hot.
Her face is on billboards all around the country, selling lotion and all kinds of other shit. But as I look over at her, I realize I don’t like it. Not my type of face.
God, there’s a lot of people here. A lot of lights strung up over the fence and the lawn and the sand. This place is happening. Why did I come here?
I turn around to look at Guy. “I hope you get laid,” I mutter.
Not that the new Spiderman ever has a problem. He’s just picky.
He says something I can’t hear because suddenly, the music is bumping. I hear the gate creak as it shuts behind us, and there we are in a sea of bodies, bumping and grinding and talking and drinking and laughing.
Normally, I’m alright with the party, but tonight, I’m twitchy. I don’t like this.
I look at Brody—short, stocky Royce, whose looks don’t matter because his family’s old money like mine, and motherfucker is the frontman of the band Inez Irene. He’s still standing funny. I look at Guy, the golden god, Brody likes to call him in jest. He’s a TV actor, but he doesn’t have to be, because his father owns one of the largest studios in Hollywood. Brody’s still bopping, still bright-eyed and bushy fucking tailed. And then I look at Uma. Her huge, green eyes are working like little fucking lasers, trying to see through me. I just want to sit down. Lay down.
Fuck.
I’m already crashing.
I rub my eyes. Me and my fast fucking metabolism.
“Goddamn,” I murmur.
“What’s wrong?” Uma purrs.
I sigh. I wonder if bitch has more coke in that giant ass bag on her shoulder. I don’t do coke, though. I’m not my fucking father.
I rub my head again and try to wipe the irritation off my face.
“Nothing is wrong.”
“There she is,” I hear Guy say. And then he’s off, a lanky cowboy in ragged blue jeans, some kind of hipster boots, and a plain white t-shirt.
I watch the girls around him turn and stare, and I can tell this party is a lot of townies. Clingers and hangers on, star fuckers, although I think that term is somewhat lewd.
“Want to go inside?” Uma asks me.
Brody says, “I need a beer, dudes. Then find Britta—” his flavor of the week.
A few minutes later, the world is spinning still more slowly, and Uma keeps grabbing at my crotch.
I’m sweating, and my stomach hurts.
Why are we still on the lawn? It’s so damp out here. Fucking ocean breeze.
“I gotta get inside,” I say, and Uma replies in that awful, raspy voice.
She’s got my elbow, and we’re swimming through the human sea. Over a wooden deck, past a lit-up swimming pool, up some stairs and finally inside where it’s cold and louder and the stone floor vibrates from the beats.
“I want to do some more blow,” she whispers in my ear. “And then blow you.”
She smiles, like she’s just told me she’s going to save my soul, and I nod. No, wait. I shake my head.
“Go away and find me later.” I look up and down her. “This is just for show. Unless you like drinking my gizz?”
She smiles, the kind of smile that belongs on a billboard, not on a person. Then she bites her lip. “I do kinda like it. It’s rich in protein, you know.”
And that’s so fucking sick, I turn around and walk the other way.
God, I’m such a dick. Walking about from Uma. Associating with Uma at all. Sometimes I think my life is such bullshit.
I guess that could be my comedown talking.
A few minutes later, at the bar that spans most of the first floor, I bump into Ted, my agent’s son, who, ironically, offers me some blow.
I decline, even though I know it would make me feel better. “What is it with the blow tonight? Good shipment come in somewhere?”
“Oh, the best,” he tells me
, nodding like a Muppet. “My dealer says it’s Grade A shit. I feel like nothing but air and adrenaline.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a baggie like Uma’s. Holds it out to me. “You sure you don’t want a line or two?”
I shake my head. “Save it for yourself, dude. I’m good.”
But that’s not true. I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t have done so much powder, ’cause now I’m heavy and my head throbs and everything is dim, and I want to sit down. I’m sweating. Hope no paps are here. Nicci will be pissed if I get photographed looking like shit.
What a man-girl. Girl-man. Who gives a fuck how I look? But it’s my job. I’m hardly any better than Uma.
The acting, I like. It’s the other stuff that sucks.
I see Uma waving from the other side of this giant bar-dance room, and I quickly turn around. I walk into some kind of library type room with a huge, very unnecessary fireplace. I lean against some bookshelves and text Nicci: ‘Sorry, this isn’t going to work with Uma. Get rid of her.’
I snap my phone shut, then open it up again. My sister—Aerie. Shit.
I text: “Hi, Aer. How ya doing?”
I want to add a sorry for not contacting her sooner, for not giving condolences that the only parent who’s ever home has lost his shit again, but what’s the point? I’m an asshole. Son of two assholes. No point making excuses.
Speaking of assholes… I check the phone for a missed call from mom, and then I double-check my text box, but nope. Mom knows about Dad—my contact at Promises told me they’d reached her—but she won’t check up on me, or Aerie. Never has, never will. If she treats us like her kids, she might feel the urge to be a mom, and who has time for that?
I slide the phone into my pocket, and when a crowd of guys my age walks in, hauling several handles of vodka and leading several hot girls, I try to slip out. Fail. The girls stare like they’ve just seen Bigfoot. One of the guys holds his hand up. It takes me a second to realize he wants a high five. Another second before he pulls his hand down.
“Dude, I love your movies!”
“Me too,” says the brunette on his arm. She loosens her grip on him and shifts her weight in my direction, and that’s my cue to go.
“Thanks, guys.” I try the cool nod thing, try to step away, but the guy in the gray v-neck follows me.
“Hey, you wanna hang with us in here?”
I frown. The invitation is delivered in a tone that suggests maybe I’ve just been sitting here waiting for this.
I shake my head. School my expression so the irritation I feel isn’t obvious. “No thanks, but I appreciate it, dude.”
“Okay, man. No worries,” he says. He gets all awkward and stutter-y, still shadowing me as I go through the door and back into the hall.
I should get back to my Mistress now.
I’m so tired now, like I should go to sleep, and shit, I don’t know what I expected because the powdery stuff does this to me every time. I am not a coke head.
It occurs to me, as I make my way down the hall and back toward the large, glass bar-dance floor-room that runs along the back of the house, that I must have a real shit tolerance. Or maybe not. All I know is, I’m not doing this again anytime soon.
If I can keep my eyes open long enough, I’ll drive the Lambo to the docks and get the yacht slipped tomorrow morning. Go back home. I’ve got three weeks before filming starts on the indie film Divining Rod, in Alabama.
I step into the glass room, and I’m feeling kind of sick. If I can keep my head down, try to dodge people, I think I’m gonna grab a ginger ale before I go. Every step I take, I can feel people’s stares on me. I stand at the bar and or a ginger ale from a girl with huge tits. A few seconds later, Guy materializes from nowhere.
“Hey, dude. Been looking for ya.” He slaps my back and gives me a look that says he knows something is wrong. We went to day school together—motherfucker knows me.
“What’s up?” he asks.
I rub my head. “Probably gonna go in a few.”
“How come?”
I get onto one of the bar stools and shrug as he stands beside me. “Just tired.”
“And?”
“Bored.”
“And?”
“This Uma thing is over.”
He arches an eyebrow. “And?”
I might as well tell him. He’ll find out soon, because my father loves to leak his fictionalized version of events to the paps. “Dad.”
“Fuck, what now?”
“H,” I mutter.
His eyes widen. “Shit, dude. He okay?”
“Promises,” I tell him. “Probably pissed the fuck off, not that I care.” I take a swig of my ginger ale, hiding behind the glass like a fucking pussy.
“Damn, dude. I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “Thanks. I feel bad for Aerie.”
I must sound as miserable as I’m suddenly feeling, because he asks me, “You coming down hard?”
I nod. “Guess so.”
“Brody and I will catch a ride. You leaving Uma here? We’ll give her one, too, if you want.”
“That’d be pimp.”
He slaps my back one more time, and I see him eyeing a small, black-haired girl across the room. Miss Morocco. Right. The reason we’re here.
I wish I could find a lay like that. Except, do I? Maybe I don’t give a shit. I’m just so tired. Of everything.
I’m rubbing my eyes, just about to get my wallet out and tip the bartender, when I spot the first thing with two legs and a pussy that’s penetrated my haze tonight.
She’s tall—even taller than Uma—with the prettiest skin I’ve ever seen, and mile-long legs, and a dark-colored dress that hugs her squeezable ass. I can’t tell much else, because the shadows flicker over her as she moves. But every step she takes, my dick gets a little harder.
Maybe pussy is what I need.
It’s not. I know. What’s the fucking point? It’s all the same. But damn…
I turn around and slide a twenty across the bar. Big Tits offers me her number, and I try to nicely reject her. When I turn around to head outside, the girl with the pretty skin is standing right in front of me.
CHAPTER 3
Ricardo
Well, fuck.
I look into her eyes, despite how badly I want another look at that tight body.
I’m surprised to see a softness there. Not like some women, who think they own me because they’re willing to spread their legs and offer me their cunt. She looks at me like she’s trying to read my mind. And carefully. So it doesn’t hurt.
Her eyes are big and brown, and right away¸ they make me warm.
I tell myself it’s just the comedown. Then she licks her lips, my temperature rises a few degrees, and I let my breath out.
“Cal Hammond?” She’s got a sweet voice.
“The one and only,” I say. I slide off the stool and stand right there, inches away from her.
She tilts her head up at me, giving me a nice view of her smooth neck. “You’re taller than I thought.”
“You’re short.”
She raises her hand to her face and laughs behind it. “Oh, wow. You’re like…a real person.”
“Yes, it’s true.” I press my lips together. “I replaced the last of my mechanical limbs with a biomechanical one just last week.”
She gives me a smile that looks a little like a smirk, then blossoms into a full-on grin. “You’re funny.” She says it like it pleases her, and I’m shocked to find I feel a little kick of gladness.
“Does that surprise you?”
She shrugs. “Robert Allman was funny. Ted Bose was funny. But that doesn’t mean you, Ricardo Condor, are funny. Except you are.”
I look down at her—really look. She looks young as hell, with those sweet brown eyes and that delicious little mouth. I wonder how many dicks it’s been around, then tell myself it’s of no consequence to me. Who cares if she called me my real name? That probably means she’s one of the cr
azy ones.
She cuts her eyes left, then right, as if she’s looking for someone, or someone is watching her. She sways a little in her sandals, making it hard to keep my eyes off her amazing tits. I drag my eyes up to her face.
I need to walk around her; out the door.
I’m tired of fucking random fangirls. Tired of feeling like I’m leaving behind a wake of victims.
She looks back up at me, and there it is again: that uncomfortable warmth on my chest and neck. This is ridiculous. If I can’t get my own feet moving, I’ve got to make her go. I wipe everything off my face, calling forth an expression I use when directors want me to look cruel or apathetic. I match my voice to the face and look into her eyes.
“Look, honey. You’re making a mistake. I might have my funny moments, but I’m not nice, or sensitive, or available. I’m not Corey from The Supers or Hawk from Sonic Waste or even Ted Bose from Florence Adams. I’m just a dude who’s high at a house party and ready to go home.”
Her eyes widen. She drops her gaze to the floor between us and gives a slow nod before looking back up at me. She’s got her lip between her teeth. She releases it and licks her lips. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “I know you’re not those characters. But you’re my favorite movie star.”
“Do you know why I’m a movie star?”
She shakes her head.
“Because my father was a movie star. You know why he was a movie star?”
“Because his Dad was Lambert Hammond?”
I nod, holding my ‘apathetic’ face. Whoever this girl is, she knows her Cal Hammond trivia. “We’re no different than you or your dad, except we do a lot more blow. Come here.” She steps a little closer, and I pull her to my chest. Her breasts press into my pecs, making my dick throb. “You feel my shirt? It’s wet. I’m hot and tired, and high. I’m not your guy tonight. I’ll never be your guy.” I give her a grave look, and she pulls away from me.
Good girl.
“I—I was going to leave. Just not talk to you.” Her voice lilts up on ‘you,’ as if she’s asking me a question. It makes her sound even younger than she looks.