So. Long(204)
“The word napkin mean anything to you?”
She crosses her eyes and pushes the end of her nose up, her snarl dissolving into another giggle.
Good Lord. Was I ever that ridiculous at eighteen? A flash of a memory of Buck and I rolling on the ground, arms over our bellies, laughing our asses off at some stupid thing one of us said reminds me that I was just that silly.
“Aunt Delores still sleeping?”
Sadie hops up from her chair. “Yup. You finally ready?”
As I turn the key in the ignition, Sadie flips the visor down and glosses her lips.
“So…”
I wait for her to finish, but after a few seconds I prompt, “So?”
“Buck’s home. You know, I was only like thirteen the last time I saw him. You think you could introduce me?”
“Introduce you? Why?”
“Because he’s fucking gorgeous, and famous, and I want him to autograph my tits so I can show them off to my friends.”
Her tits? Oh, good Lord.
Of course she wants him to sign her boobs. He’s famous—not as famous as some, but definitely getting there.
“Do you ever go see his movies? Is that just the weirdest thing? You know, seeing him kiss other girls?”
My fingers flex on the wheel.
“I’ve seen a couple of his movies.” All of them, but I won’t tell Sadie that, or anyone else.
“And no, it doesn’t bother me. We haven’t dated in years. So what if he kisses other women?” Lots of other women.
I’m not just going to hell for all the lying I’ve done since I got home—I’m driving the fucking liar-liar bus straight to the fiery gates.
Time to change the subject.
“I’ll be out most of the day. Are you going to need a ride home?”
She pops her gum. “No, thanks. If you can drop me at Johnny’s house, he’ll take me to work around six-thirty.”
“Where do you work?”
She turns in her seat and flips her platinum hair over her shoulder. A sly smile plays at her lips, her eyes alight. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Jesus, Bob. Can’t we tell them I grew up living with my grandparents from the start?”
“As your manager, it’s my job to advise you on the best course. The curious public wants to know the nitty-gritty. They want the sob story, the hard-knock life parts. It’s in your best interest to let them have it. Fuck, man—you don’t even have to make this shit up.”
“But—”
“Look, it’s your decision, Buck. But I’m telling you, this is the shit fans love. And they need to love you after that scene at Roddenberry’s Restaurant. Give them a reason to understand why you’d show your ass like that.”
Show my ass. Yeah, I guess I did sorta do that. But fuck, that old waiter dude was acting like a douche. All hoity-toity with his tray full of fucking wine and caviar, looking down his nose at me like I was something the fucking skunk dragged in. He deserved it.
So what if I stood up in the middle of the restaurant and announced who I am and that I wanted the most expensive of everything on the menu just because I could?
Fuck, that cost me a mint, but the look on that old bastard’s face was worth it—almost.
The videos that showed up online were a little side effect that I didn’t think of in the moment. “I guess I did come out looking like a pretentious fuck who thinks he’s better than everyone else.”
“That you did, my friend.” Bob always has a way of saying my friend in such a way that you believe it’s true, but you somehow also get the feeling that he’s being a jackass.
“Yeah, well, so be it. It’s done.”
“That’s why you need to give the public a reason to understand why you might feel the need to show off a bit. Tell the world you have some money in the bank now. Especially if you want that part with Razor Wire.”
The mention of Razor Wire sends a thrill through me. It could be the role that propels my career into the stratosphere, to the place where real stars live.
“Buck, you need this part with Razor Wire. I can’t stress that enough. So let the world see where you really come from. They’ll want you to be successful when they know what you’ve been through. Everyone loves the underdog.”
Underdog, my ass.
I may have started out in a shithole, but I only stayed as long as I had to.
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll do the segment like you want. Just get me a script from Razor Wire.”
I end the call.
I’m a dumbass. If I hadn’t been a dick at Roddenberry’s I wouldn’t be doing this fucking reality show. Before three months ago, I could get almost any part I wanted. I’ve either worked with, or I’m under contract to work with all the best directors and producers—unless they yank the contracts…then I’m fucked.