Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Read online

  “The truth is,” CeeCee said to me as we threw our burger wrappers in the trash and headed back to the van, “I didn’t actually mean to burn him with the cigarette.”

  I stopped short. “I thought you purposely got him.”

  “I turned around fast when he grabbed and was screaming in his face and I got him with the cigarette. It all happened at once. He thought I did it on purpose and I let him think it. Now, if I say I didn’t mean to, it’ll sound like an excuse.”

  “Yeah, but, this way he thinks you assaulted him.”

  “Let him think it. It keeps him in line. I’ve got bigger problems.”

  “Oh?”

  We climbed in the van and CeeCee continued. Over the last couple of weeks her time on the air had quadrupled, then quadrupled again. The evening-shift DJ was pissed as hell, as he was being put in elsewhere. But the numbers were up on CeeCee’s stint. Everyone was happy—except maybe the previous evening-shift DJ and Cheese-Dick, who seemed to be smoldering over CeeCee’s sudden good fortune.

  “Aren’t you worried about him?” I asked. “You should really tell someone what really happened.”

  “I’d rather have him screw up on the job so Gerald can fire him without all the ‘he said, she said’ stuff.” She lit another cigarette, inhaled, then released a slow, blue stream of smoke. “Gerald and I have started making a habit of staying late. The station goes to tape after midnight and there are a lot of hours till six A.M. when Koonst, the morning DJ, comes on. We’ve been having sex.”

  “You and Gerald.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Koonst. He’s into the coffee boy. Your Mr. Mane.”

  “Oh.”

  “Gerald’s still not completely divorced.”

  “But he will be soon, right?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Uh-oh. You don’t believe him.”

  CeeCee smoked silently for a little while. “I want to believe everything he says. Every word. I like to watch him talk. I like the way his teeth look. He has these stubby brown eyelashes but they’re thick. I look at them and want to chew on them.”

  I couldn’t recall ever wanting to chew anyone’s eyelashes. “Really.”

  “We’ve been doing it on the floor, the chairs. Desks.” She shrugged. “It’s like animalistic. I’ve howled.”

  “Howled?”

  “Like I’m screaming from inside. It’s so damn good.” She stubbed out the cigarette on the pack in vicious little jabs. “Scares the shit outta me. And I don’t want Pat to find out. She’s seeing another guy, so it shouldn’t matter. But it kinda does.”

  “I’m more concerned that this is all happening at the station,” I said. “You love that job. And seeing the boss ... let’s face it. The death knell.”

  “I came on this trip to get some perspective, y’know? Told Gerald I needed a few days. I need more than that. I need to date some guys on this trip. Maybe sleep with ’em. It pissed me off that Daphne’s had more men than I have. I’m too conservative.”

  I managed to keep a straight face. Just. And it wasn’t like she didn’t have a point when it came to sex. I surreptitiously studied her profile as I drove. CeeCee was extraordinarily attractive. Her pink tips were fading and her hair brushed her shoulders, not white-hot-blonde now, but more of an ashy color. With her pert nose, blue eyes with long-lashes (which I had no desire to chew on), and a stubborn chin, she could turn heads. Of course, the army fatigues, chains, and boots might turn off some, but sometimes they, too, worked as an aphrodisiac.

  “Sleep away,” I said. “Just stay away from the director and crew. It’s an incestuous little group. I slept with an actor once. ONCE. Only because I really liked him. But it nearly ruined everything.”

  “Lang?”

  I made the sign of the cross though I’m really not religious. “My first and last actor. He had his moments, though.”

  “Well, how about a Sedona local,” CeeCee suggested. “There must be some bars around. I could probably pick up a one-nighter.”

  “You really want this? I mean, even with the lash-chewing and all?”

  “That’s exactly why,” she stated emphatically. “I hate being in love. I want to be in lust.”

  “Sounds like you got that one covered.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Her logic was, as ever, unique to CeeCee. She was taking fear of commitment to nuclear levels. Then I had a sudden thought. For a moment I kept it to myself. Carefully, I said, “Hairy Larry lives in Phoenix.”

  “An Ex-File?” CeeCee perked up. “And Phoenix is how far from Sedona?”

  “Hour and a half?”

  “This is the guy who burned off his chest hair?”

  “That would be him.”

  “Interesting ...”

  We pulled into the Ramada about ten o’ clock. Both of us got out and stretched. Red Rock towered over us to our right, though its beauty was disguised by the dark. I’ve been to Sedona a number of times. It’s an artist’s haven and the scenery is awe-inspiring, even to someone as unaware as myself. However, I am not in love, love, love with the place, which seems to be the prevailing feeling. Tourists arrive, swoon, and plunk down money on yet-to-be-built condos. Retirees flock to the area. Hikers, climbers, and outdoorspeople of all types hyperventilate just by looking. I know there’s basically something wrong with me because I just don’t get it. Give me the ocean and a Ketel One vodka martini. Spear the olive with a parasol for an added froufou factor. Now that’s Eden.

  CeeCee said, “The air feels so clear here.”

  I stared at her through the gloom. Like she could tell? As much as she smoked? Was she some closet nature girl? I grunted an acquiescence and we stepped into reception and checked in.

  Later, we tried to hunt down a bar. The hotel was like a tomb. It was November and nothing much was happening besides our group. The air was chilly. High desert. Since we were in the van with hundreds of thousands of dollars of rental equipment, we really didn’t want to be driving too far in search of alcohol.

  We finally ran into Holly, who was walking along one of the paths around the hotel carrying a bottle of vodka. Not Ketel One, but at this point I had no right to be picky. “We’re meeting at Will’s suite,” she said, frowning at CeeCee.

  “CeeCee’s with me,” I said. If director Will Torrance didn’t want interlopers, I was more than happy to eschew the fun as well.

  Holly, however, just shrugged. “It’s twelve-oh-nine.”

  We were in jeans and puffy insulated jackets, so we went back to my room to change. Since CeeCee had come as my guest, she was either my roommate or paying her own way. I had two double beds and didn’t mind sharing. PAs are generally hired at the location and therefore don’t get their own rooms.

  I changed into tan slacks and a clingy red shirt. Looking at my now-mostly-brown hair, I groaned. Long, slightly shaggy, and a pain in the ass at the best of times. I pulled it into a sleek ponytail, added lip gloss to my mouth. The height of fashion.

  CeeCee changed from a snowboarder’s shirt of dark blue to a snowboarder’s shirt of dark green. The pants with their chains remained the same. She did throw on some whitish lip color, however, which shouldn’t have worked but did.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, standing by the door as she picked up a phone book.

  “What’s Hairy Larry’s last name?”

  “Stoddard. He lives in Phoenix, not Sedona.”

  “This is a Phoenix book.” A moment later she found the number and dialed. I was shocked and couldn’t hide it.

  “You’re just going to call him up?” I hissed. “And say what?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  She apparently got an answering machine because she said in her CeeCee way, “This is Catherine Collingwood. My friends call me CeeCee. One of my friends is Ginny Bluebell. Her friends call her Blue. I’m with her right now and we’re in Sedona. Ginny’s cell phone number is—” I started making frantic hand motions but CeeCee blithe
ly ignored me and reeled off the digits. I glared in impotent fury. I wanted to throttle her.

  “I haven’t spoken to him in years,” I declared as she hung up. “He’s going to think I want to see him now!”

  “Don’t you?”

  “NO.”

  “I do.” She grabbed her coat and headed out the door. “And he’s an Ex-File. I haven’t forgotten your pledge.” She grinned like a devil. “Some day you’ll thank me.”

  Yeah, like right.

  We went to the party.

  Chapter 12

  Will Torrance was staying in a two-bedroom suite with a full bar and a room full of loud people. I saw the “Agency” people for the House About You? commercial shoot first. They were grouped along the couch and several adjoining chairs, looking rather cold and feral. Sometimes Agency are pleasant and supportive, but lots of times their jobs are riding on how well a commercial is received so there’s an undercurrent of tension throbbing around them. Agency are the people who decide which production company will produce their commercial. You might think it would be the client—in this case, House About You?—but the advertising agency is hired by the client and the production company is hired by the agency. Therefore production needs to suck up to Agency more than to the client to ensure future work. This doesn’t mean we ignore the client; we just go out of our way to keep Agency happy. And sometimes Agency is okay. I’ve had good times with many an agency producer, art director, etc. Agency for the Waterstone Iced Tea shoot were a case in point. They were all polite, stayed out of the way, and wore smiles. The tenor of any location shoot all depends on who’s powertripping at any given point.

  As a production manager I report to the producer, which is, in the case of Wyatt Productions, Holly, though I’m really an independent, as all of us are to some degree. Producers generally connect with particular directors. Holly moves around a bit but sticks mostly with the tried and true. I float along with her more often than I’d like to admit. She might be the Holy Terror, but I know her ways and honestly, I’m not great about charging out and selling myself. I’m much happier just doing the work and having people get to know me on the job.

  Holly has worked with Will Torrance several times and thinks fairly highly of him as a director. This, however, was to be my first job with him. My skeptical nature refuses to afford anyone high marks until after a shoot. I’ve been both pleasantly surprised and aggravated to the extreme. The jury was still out on Torrance and would be for a while.

  Having CeeCee with me could be construed as an industry no-no, generally speaking: a production team never wants to appear as having “extra baggage” along—baggage that might pad the bill. But I was determined to have CeeCee be a production assistant. I just hadn’t gotten it all straight yet. Therefore, CeeCee was in a kind of production work limbo. Though she technically wasn’t working for us yet, we had to act as if she were already part of the crew for Agency’s benefit. CeeCee definitely looked the part, and I told her to act as if she’d been on hundreds of jobs.

  “No problemo,” she assured me.

  Will Torrance was at the bar as we moved into the room. He glanced up as we approached. The jury might still be out, but my heart did an uncomfortable little flip. The man possessed blue eyes. Oh, the trouble I’ve gotten into over a pair of blue eyes. Witness: Sean. Also Mr. Famous Actor, John Langdon. And, though not strictly an Ex-File, Jackson Wright. And if I ever get my chance, Dr. Dick ... .

  My second thought, irrationally, was the fear I might be too tall for him. At five feet nine, it’s a consideration, especially around actors. But directors ... . I watched as he straightened to his full height in order to pull out the cork from a bottle of Syrah. I calculated at least six feet. Hallelujah.

  Why I was tracking this was something I didn’t want to examine too closely. My own EXCELLENT advice is to stay away from liaisons on the job. But that didn’t mean my brain wasn’t chalking up the man’s pluses and minuses. Just by the look of his lean, handsome frame, he was worth breaking rules over.

  “Thought you advised against getting involved with people in the biz. Too incestuous,” CeeCee drawled, amused by my cataloguing.

  I pretended not to get her point, “I swore off Sean, didn’t I? And he was really too low in the pecking order to get me into serious trouble.”

  “What about him?” She nodded toward Will.

  “What about him?”

  “Blue ...” she chided softly, in a tone suggesting my attempt at deception was just plain sad. I thought about giving it another try anyway, then shrugged and admitted defeat.

  “He’s nice to look at.”

  “Here, here,” she muttered.

  Since I was found out anyway, I stole another lingering glance at Will. I was plagued by a déjà vu that wasn’t entirely pleasant. Phantom memories circled. Carefully searching through the wreckage in my brain—carefully, because sometimes you can be hurt by what you uncover, like a smoldering ember amongst cold ashes—I finally landed on the source. Will Torrance bore a passing resemblance to Mark McGruder, Ex-File Number Six, a gorgeous black Irishman with long, wavy hair and a killer pair of electric blue eyes. How had I forgotten his blue eyes? I asked myself, faintly worried. Sometimes my ability to suppress history when faced with a potential “current” File concerns me. But Mark had a vile temper, which rose up whenever he drank, which was morning, noon, and night. These days I prefer to think of him as Black Mark, and the period of our relationship as the Black Death. Another Ex-File that had not ended well.

  “Will Torrance looks like Ex-File Number Six,” I related quietly to CeeCee.

  “Which one’s that?”

  “Mark McGruder. Black Mark.”

  She grunted. “Well, if this starts to take off, you’d better look up Black Mark pronto to make peace with yourself.”

  “This isn’t going to take off,” I assured her, motioning between Will and myself. “And I’d never look up Black Mark.”

  “You said you were going to work your way through the Ex-Files. So far, Charlie’s been it. Who was number two again?”

  “Kane Reynolds.”

  “Oh, the motivational speaker. Right. We’ll see him when he gets to LA.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “Are you backing out of the deal?”

  “No ...”

  She looked at me and silently asked, Well? I said, “Charlie’s not the only Ex-File I’ve dealt with.”

  “Name another one.” CeeCee bypassed the wine and examined the makings available for a mix-your-own rum drink. Several brightly colored bottles of different juices awaited the brave who might be into potpourri approach to mai-tais. Examining the array, CeeCee reached for a Heineken in a tub of ice.

  I thought really, really hard and said, “Nate.”

  “That leaves six more,” CeeCee pointed out.

  My cell phone, silent for quite a long period, bleated at this point. I cringed at my current choice of ring. Too whiny. Note to self: change immediately after answering call. “Hello?”

  “Ginny? Virginia?”

  Virginia? I did a veritable double take. Memory hit with a bang. “Larry,” I said, my voice undeniably dull though I strove for “unexpected delight.” Ex-File Number Three, as if listening in on our conversation, had called right on time.

  “I got this message on my phone—”

  “Yeah, I know. My friend CeeCee called. And she’s right here with me now.” I thrust the phone into CeeCee’s hands and walked away. Virginia. Jesus Christ. Now, I remembered the other irritating things about Hairy Larry that nearly drove me mad. Never mind the fact that he broke up with me. Sad as that is, it’s true. My boyfriend who had a tendency to light his chest hair on fire had broken up with me. The reason? None, as far as I could tell. He’d been one of those relationships that I’d chased after, and I remembered one of those, “It’s not you, it’s me,” kind of lines in the end, and then he was out of there. I recall wondering whether I was upset or not. Sti
ll would be hard pressed to answer that one.

  CeeCee jumped into the fray with gusto. “Hi, there,” she greeted brightly. “Blue’s been reminiscing about old friends, so we thought we’d give you a call.” I bristled a little at the “we” but kept my cool. Larry must have given her an earful, because she listened for quite a while. Feeling like an eavesdropper, I moved away. I avoided Will Torrance, I can’t say quite why. Well, yes, I can. I didn’t want to give CeeCee any ideas, and I also felt it was smart to keep my distance. Whenever my antennae start picking up vibes, and I sense myself inordinately aware of someone else’s proximity, like knowing where they are in the room at any given moment, it’s a potentially hot situation. These are the times I make bad judgment calls. I get too flirty, or too loud, or too something. I was very cautious these days about the dance with the opposite sex, and kind of out of practice. I’d been with Nate awhile and, let’s face it, choosing Sean as my first foray into the dating world wasn’t exactly inspired.

  CeeCee clicked off my phone with a flourish and sent me a sideways smile. Trouble, I thought instantly. Not CeeCee’s usual approach.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “He’s coming over.”

  “Who? Larry? Here?” I pointed to the walls, meaning the hotel. When CeeCee nodded, I said, “You’re kidding.”

  “I invited him.”

  “This party is for people on the shoot! Only people on the shoot. That’s why you have to keep your mouth shut about yourself and your ‘job.’ I thought you got that.”

  “Larry sounded like a kick.” She shrugged. “We’ll go to the bar.”

  “He’s driving from Phoenix tonight? Where’s he gonna stay?”

  “He said he’d get a room.”