Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Drunk/Drugged, Slow, School, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Ex-lovers in High School have their paths separate before graduation, but he finds out 20 years later at a High School Reunion that she still holds a torch for him. Can he ever again trust her? A story of love lost and found… and revenge!
"There are no second acts in American Life" – F. Scott Fitzgerald
"Sometimes there are second acts in American Life" – anonymous
"Old flames never die, but sometimes memories burn" - anonymous
My wife of fourteen years loved me without fail until the day she died of internal organ failure several years ago. A minor throat surgery turned into a post-op infection that no drugs could manage and she died on me less than a week later, in terrible pain ... but with all of her humor and love of life intact until the very end. The secret to our marital success? She'd never met in real life either Sean Connery, Hugh Jackman or Viggo Mortensen!
Every married couple has an exception list complete with a marital 'get out of jail free' card. Sort of an, 'I love you dearly, but I'd do (insert famous name here) in a heartbeat, if he/she knocked on the door!' Maria had her exception list, complete with four or five Hollywood 'A' list actors on it whom she'd dump me in a heartbeat for. Or at least enjoy permission to drop her dress down on his hotel room floor and pounce upon him like an all you can eat buffet! At least she had the good sense not to have the hots for Brad Pitt!
As for me, my own exception list for an authorized extra marital fling only contained one name, Rebecca Westbrooke, but that was her birth name that I knew her as in high school. Later for the silver screen she became Becky Brighton, and like Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts, she was tall, funny and stunningly brunette, and very definitely currently 'America's Sweetheart'.
Maria's final instructions to me were to go find and bang Rebecca! I smiled at my dying wife and told her that I would indeed give her a chance, but that she was not to wear herself out too much with Cary Grant up in heaven until I eventually (in another fifty years) decided to rejoin her! She just laughed and mentioned that she wanted a piece of Errol Flynn and Frank Sinatra too! I gave Maria a kiss as she drifted off to sleep and the runaway infection took her away from me a few hours later that evening, leaving me now alone in the world ... except for a promise that I would find and bag my dream girl, Rebecca. The one and only name on my exception list, and my late wife had given me carte blanche to bag and tag her, even to marry her, if I could pull the feat off!
And it wasn't exactly a one in a million chance of my needing to find her by stalking the gates of her Hollywood mansion either! For me she had been the proverbial girl next door. We'd been best friends in junior high school in Tampa Florida and even began to 'date' once we started high school together. The last time I'd kissed her, we were both seventeen and I thought that she would become my own personal leading lady for the rest of life. And then she became instead 'Backseat Becky'.
I guess I need to back up here a little and explain a few things.
Rebecca, hereafter just called for simplicity Becky, had always been a slightly insecure girl and then an even more insecure young woman. She was slightly slow to physically mature in comparison with the other girls at school and especially by her junior year in high school she began to feel increasingly out of synch with everyone and everything in her life. More than anything, she yearned to be popular, one of the in-crowd, to be part of the clique at the very top of the girls' social order ... the group of a dozen or so girls that formed the school's fashion trends, had the best parties and had the hunkiest guys in school at their beck and call, and more importantly to Rebecca, determined who was 'in' or 'out' of their school society, whether a girl was 'popular' or not!
Becky had the love of her parents and no particular problems at home, and she had me! Her friend, the boy next door. But she wanted more! She wanted to become one of the popular girls, and at nearly any cost!
"I just want to take drama for one semester and also do drama club as well after school." She told me, and I understoodd why. All of the clique girls were in drama club and at least half of the so called best and hottest weekend parties were those put on by members of the club. She wanted to join and then mold herself into their image, to laugh at their jokes and dress in their approved fashion styles, to become in other words, anyone but the original Rebecca Westbrooke! And to some moderate extent, she succeeded, at least at first.
Now calling herself Becky, she began to dress with flash, not slutty mind you but more fashionably, with shorter skirts and off-shoulder sundresses and way more makeup. As we lived in Florida, there was a great deal of sun to be worshiped and the clique girls, of whose outer sphere Becky slowly found herself entering, always sported the nicest tans and dressed to show them off.
Still, even by the beginning of her senior year, Becky could not breech that final obstacle and gain admittance in the inner most workings of the clique. For all of her effort she was in fact still barely better than an outsider who just aped the manners of her social betters and even her heavily padded bras (as I discovered first hand one evening) couldn't make her 'fashionable' and one of the really cool girls. Desperate to adapt and to conform, Becky did everything but grovel at the feet of the clique, and they in turn treated her with some amusement, hinting and making vague suggestions for her social improvement and promotion, which of course they never had the slightest intentions of ever granting.
They never actually told her that she stood no chance whatsoever of making the cream of their society, but they could sense her desperation and during that last year they increasingly manipulated her like a puppet, jerking her around solely for their amusement.
I was not amused and kept trying to break Becky out of the drama club group with its collection of hangers-on, but that only caused fights between us. I considered myself her boyfriend but honestly I have no clue about the way that she then saw me. We'd been kissing for some time, and I'd even sort of reached second base with her, kissing her on my bed with her t-shirt off and my hands just down the front of her jeans barely feeling her pubic hair when she stopped me cold.
Two nights later at a little after midnight I saw a car pull into her parents' driveway without any lights and for the next half hour from my darkened corner upstairs bedroom I watched Rebecca, now 'Backseat Becky' hand over to Cliff Logan on a silver platter everything that I had been denied! And then again the next evening, and for weeks after that until I stopped watching from the window out of mental self preservation.
In retrospect, I think I handled it all really rather well, considering the shock I'd received. That is I didn't borrow my dad's gun and shoot the bastard who was banging my longtime girlfriend! I'd always been geeky, one of the library nerds, and not even drama club was ever going to make me socially acceptable at school. I worked on the school newspaper instead and wouldn't have traded that for anything! A few equally oddball friends of mine heard it through the grapevine fourth or fifth hand that the clique had set-up Becky with Cliff on purpose, to allegedly boost her status on the theory that she should never again be seen with me ... as I was apparently a severe social handicap!
Cliff was good looking, a semi-star athlete and came from a well-off family and they did make good boyfriend-girlfriend material, I grudgingly had to admit. On the other hand, he was in tight with the clique and he knew that it was all just a put-on from the start, that the clique ringleaders like Carolyn Baxter were just trying to see how far Becky would indeed go ... and manipulating her every step of the way. He was just there at the front of the line to cap a bit of Becky's willing ass. When he tired of banging her like a cheap drum, he passed her down to one of his friends ... and then another, then and a few more after that.
Pretty soon Rebecca was known as 'Backseat Becky' all over school as she discovered that being the slut for all of the A-list (and B-list) guys at school wasn't improving her own social standing one little bit. The clique found it all hilarious, and with her reputation as the school's bike that nearly half the guys had taken a ride upon, was now being discussed with amusement in every classroom and hallway.
Even Becky by then had realized what she had been made a fool of and she then had something of a nervous breakdown and went begging back to Cliff for him to somehow fix everything for her.
Cliff told her what she wanted to hear and then took the opportunity to fuck Becky again, this time in her own upstairs bedroom one Saturday afternoon while her parents were gone. Cliff also made sure that all of her bedroom windows and curtains were wide open so that I could watch and listen. He first made her strip naked and beg for his cock, and then he made her pose for photos for him. Next he made her give him an obscenely long and noisy blow job, making her stop often to loudly tell Cliff in a overly loud stage voice how 'nice and big his cock was and how much she loved sucking it'. Next he fucked her cunt and then her ass too, but by then I'd watched and heard enough and had gone downstairs to do something else instead, like slash all of Cliff's tires on his car!
No. Obviously throwing herself back into Cliff's arms wouldn't do a thing to salvage Becky's reputation, which was already a joke all over school. A few days later supposedly the candid photos of my former girlfriend spreading and posing for her lover were spread all over school, random pictures placed into every locker at school with the notation, "Backseat Becky – Collect the entire series of 20 prints!".
The clique had worked her over to perfection, toying with her goals and aspirations and slowly twisting her until she was utterly socially destroyed, left worse off than she had been even, right from the very start!
Cliff beat the shit out me about half an hour later, but then again I shouldn't have been sitting on the porch laughing at him either when he came downstairs an hour or so later to leave! That was poor judgment on my part. It also earned me a trip down to the police station where I spent the next two days waiting to appear before a judge. I'd turned eighteen a few days earlier that spring so it was the big house rather than juvenile hall for me! No one much cared that Cliff had beaten the crap out of me, breaking my nose and giving me two black eyes that remained swollen nearly shut for days. His dad was golfing buddies with the local station police captain and as fair as Cliff's version of the events had gone I had been the sole instigator and he had responded solely in self-defense, as I had allegedly threatened him with the same knife I used to slash his tires.
The charges wouldn't hold up, but I was held for the legal maximum of three days just to make the point that any further retribution against Cliff would be highly unwise.
During my long stay in the local lockup I met a rather infamous local minor crime boss Cameron O'Neil and his top two henchmen and earned myself a lasting favor, and a job that would span the next twenty years. I proved my worth right from the start by running a certain small errand for Mr. O'Neil that took me a full week to accomplish (but successfully) after my release, and when I returned home Becky was gone. Her parents wouldn't talk about it, even to me, but I heard later that she'd attempted suicide with an overdose of pills and had been placed into medical care for a while afterwards with acute depression.
They wouldn't let me visit her. For some reason they blamed me for their daughter's state of mental illness, even though I had clear memories of warning them, and Rebecca, for much of the school year that her current 'friends' were anything but, and that disaster was likely to happen. No one likes an 'I told you so!" Logically, there was no way that they could put the blame on me, but anger is very rarely ever logical and I was persona non grata with them from that time on.
Neither Becky nor I had ever returned to school after that fateful Saturday, but we both had enough credits to technically graduate, or else the school just wanted us both gone to stay. Neither of us walked the stage to get our diplomas either. I was now working full time for Mr. O'Neil and after her release from the hospital Rebecca went to go live with an aunt in Burbank, California. She never called me or even left a note. Another neighbor told me that her parents had virtually disowned her, and that they didn't even want her name mentioned in their house anymore.
From what I heard from mostly second and third hand sources, her aunt worked as a makeup technician for a TV production company and she got Becky production support work. Then a director took notice of her backstage and gave her a tiny walk-on role, and then another speaking part in his next project, and then a supporting movie role for that's years hit romantic comedy.
The rest became history.
My own career wasn't doing too badly either. While being stuck in that crowded police holding cell, I'd mentally needed to pace about more on my feet than I wanted to just sit, and I'd given the elderly Mr. O'Neil my own seat. Then, as we had nothing much else to do for a great many hours I told the delighted expatriate Irishman about my minor triumph over the local sports athlete that had cuckolded me! My story of revenge endeared me to the old scoundrel, who was facing a number of local gambling charges and was currently being denied bail while the local DA was trying to patch together a case. It wouldn't stick, but Mr. O'Neil and his immediate associates were unavailable for business temporarily.
Asked if I would do them a small favor and make an urgent but minor delivery for him, I agreed immediately and I made the specified drop-off down in Miami. Then the next week, I was asked to handle another, much more important delivery all the way to Las Vegas, and borrowing my mom's car for the week I completed that assignment as well. The DA and the police were watching all of Mr. O'Neil's men like a hawk, still trying to gather evidence against him, but I was a brand new innocent (and unknown) face.
Arriving in Vegas, there was some suspicion there that since I wasn't the usual courier (of what I was actually delivering I have no idea ... I never looked!) and was rather young for the job, that I must be a plant by some law enforcement agency. But after a day in a fairly comfortable casino hotel room watching cable and eating room service, eventually someone in Mr. O'Neil's organization vouched for me and faxed a photo of their newest and youngest courier.
When I returned home, Mr. O'Neil (Cameron now to him), was out of jail (and to stay) and my Becky had gone to California. I tried to call her there a few times but her aunt would only say she'd given Rebecca my messages ... but she was never home when I'd call, and she never once called me back. I could get the hint.
I wouldn't say that I eventually got over Rebecca and forgot all about her, but I did put her behind me into a sealed folder in my heart labeled 'the past' and moved on without too many regrets. I had a steady job making serious money for Mr. O'Neil, undoubtedly doing criminal things like illegal interstate transportation of gambling money, documents and god knows what else, but I didn't much care. Life was a lot of fun and I was living it up high! I lived and played smart and didn't buy expensive fancy cars or dress up in thousand dollar Italian suits for business. I bought my clothes from Sears or Penney's and never flashed money when out on the town. I changed cars every year, but I always bought a used one, selecting a boring make and model that wouldn't attract police attention. I did buy my parents new cars every four or five years but I didn't splurge for the beachfront mansion or the European vacations. To my loving parents I had a good white-collar job as part of a traveling auditing team for a sales company ... and I did nothing that would convince anyone otherwise. My criminal bosses even provided me access to extremely confidential off-shore banking opportunities so that I was able to secretly bank away the majority of my income, living quietly and modestly on the rest.
Life was indeed pretty good!
When I saw Becky's first 'above the line' movie credit I mailed her a Congratulations card, via her parents address. There was no return reply ... of course.
A few years later I heard that she married an up and coming director in a big Hollywood wedding, but no one sent me an invitation and I didn't bother to even send a card. I was way over her. A few months later I met Maria who was working as a waitress in a Vegas casino hotel. One of the same casinos that I was making regular deliveries to and from. I was now working as much now for the legendary and infamous Mr. Adriano DeLuca in Vegas as I was for Cameron O'Neil back in Florida. DeLuca was one of the major mob bosses at the top of the organized crime pyramid, and Mr. O'Neil was under much obligation to him as a subordinate and the big boss began to take something of a shine to me. Over time, Mr. DeLuca (no one ever called him by his first name) made arrangements to have me handle deliveries and pick-ups nearly exclusively for his parent organization ... with a significant increase in salary and benefits too!
Between the two of them I was traveling across the country nearly non-stop, personally handling shipments and special packages too sensitive for any known mob associate to touch or be seen anywhere near. I seemed to be invisible to the eyes of law enforcement and I was never once stopped or even questioned while doing 'company business'. Security was always paramount with Mr. DeLuca and no loose discussions of my duties were ever discussed on either over a non-secure telephone, or any place that might have recording wire. Less than ten people in his entire organization even knew my name, let alone my real duties ... and everyone worked hard to keep it that way.
I started to make Las Vegas my home and Maria shortly thereafter became my bride. Being a loyal employee of Mr. DeLuca she never once asked me where I went or what business I handled for his organization. She was smart, and clever enough to know that she didn't want or need to know. She loved and trusted me, and knew that I also never once carried or handled a gun to perform company business, but for several years it was hard on her when I was away from home more than I was present.
Life was still plenty good for us, and we were happy together, but unfortunately we never had children. At first, I think Maria was the reluctant one, knowing that I was gone from home at least three weeks of out every month, but later we decided to try anyway, but it just didn't work out. Now during these last few years without Maria I still managed to find enjoyment in life during my constant travels and life was still pretty darned good!
Spending far too many days on the road driving and then nights alone (always) in my hotel rooms far from home and Maria, I soon began to find new ways to amuse myself other than watching endless hours of cable TV. I was working with and meeting improbably interesting and colorful characters nearly every day, and finding myself occasionally in situations that were too wild and fanciful even for television shows about the mob.
At first I just began to write down interesting tidbits and events that amused me, but never any names, dates or places. Then while driving those long Interstate highways and county roads I began to envision entire semi-fictional plots, wilder than life characters and a proper hero, a worn-down Vegas private eye who'd seen every seedy side of life but just couldn't quit. The thoughts became more notes, then an outline and then at last a novel, typed in a hundred different hotel rooms on a portable manual typewriter evenings and late nights while on the road.
With immense trepidation, I presented Mr. DeLuca with the final draft for the mystery novel and I asked for his permission to publish it, under an alias of course. No true names, people or even places were involved in the story, but some events had more than a hint of previous real live occurrences to them, and I was prepared mentally to have Mr. DeLuca declare the entire story 'too dangerous to print', but to my surprise he loved it! The crime lord was a lover of hard boiled mysteries and he thought mine was better than most. With a single phone call from his desk, I had an appointment with a literary agent the very next day in New York and an absurdly large advance check in my hands not long after that.
Six months later my first novel was published. Every year thereafter another mystery novel sprung from my hands until my disgruntled PI hero Lionel Hopkins was an annual best seller, and my movie and TV rights for the books and characters became highly sought after Hollywood properties, constantly sold, resold, abandoned, lapsed back to me once more and then promptly resold yet again. The money for the options was nice too, but somehow the media projects always seemed to fall through and were never quite finally made into any films or TV series. That was ok with me too, I'd rather have the books filmed 'right', rather than some slap-dash project with a crappy script or low production budget just to see my name up there on the big screen. My ego didn't need the Hollywood stroking.
In the sixteen years so far since the publication of my first book, nothing had come of the numerous plans of turning my taciturn alter-ego into a dashing hero on the big screen. Harrison Ford had allegedly wanted to do a three movie series out of the property but the financing fell through. Really he was much too old to play Lionel Hopkins, but the thought of such a Hollywood legend playing my hero was enough to give me pleasant goose bumps anyway. Better than Brad Pitt, who was once considered for the role, to my utter horror!
Three days after Maria's death my movie agent reported that a producer was interested in the series as a vehicle for Viggo Mortensen. Alas it too fell through, probably because my wife was rolling in her grave at the misfortune of not getting the chance to meet (and meat) one of her favorite actors. In truth, the final shooting script just sucked donkey balls! The first draft written by an A-list screenwriter had been pretty darned good, and then he let me polish it up for him to fix a few deviations from the books. Then the script (accounted by all to be 'perfect') was gently altered (i.e. mangled) by the would-be director and then placed into the hands of a dozen talentless hacks until virtually nothing was left of the original screenplay that everyone had 'loved'. Viggo read the revised abomination and wisely passed on the project. The project died and the option expired again, restoring the rights back to me for the third or fourth time.
About this time, Mr. DeLuca retired to Palm Springs and since I had no love for the old crime boss's idiot nephew who had taken over the reins of the empire, both legit and not so, I sold our large empty house in Vegas and moved back to Tampa. Mom and Dad were now thinking of retiring as well and moving to an active senior's apartment near Jupiter Beach, leaving me their house to either live in, rent out or sell. I could have legitimately bought a mansion now; having sixteen consecutive New York Times Bestsellers in a row can be delightfully lucrative, but the old home suited me.
Rebecca's parents next door had moved out some time ago and the new owners had all but bulldozed the old house, renovating it to the extent that I could look out my old bedroom window towards Rebecca's old bedroom and not see a single familiar thing! Cameron O'Neil was long gone from the Tampa gambling racket as well, so I had almost no friends left in town and frankly little reason if any to consider staying, but I did anyway.
The old house and neighborhood were quiet and it was a nice place to think and work upon my latest book, which was giving me much more trouble than usual completing it!
The notice of my forthcoming twenty year high school reunion didn't interest me much at all, and I think I would have forgotten about it entirely if my movie/TV agent Fred didn't phone me with a bombshell about fifteen minutes later.
"Ed, you won't believe the news! Lampadaire Productions has made an offer to option the Hopkins mysteries for one point two million dollars. Lou Watson wants to be the executive producer himself and he bought out Searchlight's previous interests in the property too, including the original script you helped co-wrote, "A Death in Neon Yellow". He insists that they want to use this as the basis for final shooting script, but with one significant change ... they want to make the PI character Lionel a woman instead. Calling her instead Rowena, or something like that. What do you say? They want to do a meeting, preferably with you in the room. Legally, they own the script now, you were paid for it by Searchlight, but they want your buy-in for the project anyway. Probably for the publicity value."
"Making Lionel a woman? Why screw everything up? Jeez, it's not like anyone is falling all over themselves to make any more V.I. Warshowski or any other female PI movies! Still the money's damned good, better than what we got the last time we optioned the rights. Besides, the project's jinxed and they'll never go to production anyway. They don't need me. You can do the face-to-face and fax me for my signature."
"Odds are pretty good this time Eddie boy! Lampadaire has its own in-house financing pre-approved and a tentative shooting budget of about 60 million already established. It's moving, they just need us to sign the rights away and take their money and it's on."
"That's scary! What about casting? I assume for a project to be fast tracked through the studio like this, then this has to be someone's vanity project. What A-lister got her panties into a bunch and decided she wanted to be a luckless alcoholic PI that keeps tripping over dead mobster bodies and big titted Molls? Please don't tell me Angelina Jolie is running this circus!"
"Nope, better! They've already got Becky Brighton tentatively signed on to play the lead and it looks like a done deal. She'll be there at the meeting too. Can you make it to Hollywood next Friday afternoon?"
To see my old flame Backseat Becky again, I could put up with a few hours of Hollywood bullshit. At least they were paying me about a cool million for the rights to ruin my entire literary life's work, after Fred's twenty percent commission, of course.
I was on the early morning flight to LA and with the change in time zones it was still an ungodly hour of the morning when we arrived. Fred was earning his percentage and had a limo waiting to take me to a nice Hollywood four-star hotel, complete with a cold bottle of bubbly and a pretty assistant to look nice under my arm.
Oddly though, she wasn't assigned to be either mine or Fred's personal assistant. This rather pretty piece of long haired brunette fluff was instead Becky Brighton's own personal assistant!
Now you have to understand in LaLa Land that being a Personal Assistant to the Stars is really just one small step above being pond scum. You're underpaid and really have no real authority to do much of anything, other than make sure that your employer gets their Zone-certified meals delivered on set properly and that their laundry gets picked up. Usually in person by the said assistant. It's modern slavery really. And a soul destroying thankless job! Also everything is always your fault!
"Hi, I'm Sandra, Becky's PA. She couldn't make it here with us this morning, she had a late night on the set, but she wanted us to get together briefly for a pre-meeting before the meeting. She had some ideas about how she saw the character and what minor script adjustments she'd require."
I accepted the list but declined the glass of bubbly. I can be a two-fisted drinker when the mood strikes me but it was far too early in the morning for me! I did give the lovely PA a second and third look, and for the most part I thoroughly approved of the package. Tall and just on the slender side of having an otherwise average build for a woman just about to hit that danger zone of turning thirty. She worked out a bit, but wasn't obviously a zealot about it ... or else Becky kept her too busy running personal crap to spare much time for herself. The latter option ended up being the correct guess, I found out later. Her eyes were bright and intelligent and she remained quiet and left me alone in silence so that I could read Becky's armload of haphazardly typed out and hand-written thoughts with growing amusement.
Clearly her employer had never read a single one of my books, nor perhaps had she ever glanced at a carefully truncated Cliff's Notes edition either! She had no concept of Owen's complex and sometimes contradictory character, or even an idea of what really made him tick and fight on even when he knew the odds were hopeless... especially when they were hopeless.
I sighed deeply and handed the notes back to Sandra. "The silly tart hasn't read a single one of my books, has she? She either saw one on the NY Times Bestseller's list at some bookstore or someone told her that the property was hot. Which one was it?"
"Both actually. You see, I love the books and own them all in first edition hardbacks. I even have a signed first edition of "Bloody Neon Streets" that I bought on eBay a few years ago. I take them with me when we're traveling, paperback copies mostly, and I read them while on-set."
"Wow, you found a first of "Bloody Neon Streets"? They're going for crazy money on eBay. You know the story behind that publishing rat-fuck? They screwed up the binding job and omitted most of an entire chapter. Since I was still an unknown in those early days, they shipped out the screwed up copies anyway, until my agent got his advance copy and raised holy hell. They'd printed fifty thousand copies, a decent print run for a relatively small author in those day and they recalled most of them from the bookstores that got early copies and trashed the majority of the rest in the warehouse. I'd guess that only a couple of hundred copies of that first edition, first printing survived out in the wild, so hang on to it and use it to put your kids through college!"
"Not married unfortunately. I did get lucky finding that book, all of the rest were easy to get after that, once the third book made the New York Times bestseller list. As for the film options, Lou Watson at Lampadaire saw me reading one of your books a few months ago and we got to talking. He's a huge noir mystery fan too and he talked Becky into doing the project. Her career has stalled a little and Lou thinks that a serious change of pace film, giving America's Sweetheart a gritty thriller to star in, rather than another vapid romantic comedy, would revitalize her career. Make her a quote 'serious actress' unquote, and keep her on the A list."
"I do read the tabloids. Becky's had two box office 'disappointments' in a row, and another divorce ... is that number three now? Not to mention several bouts of quote 'exhaustion' unquote, usually meaning that she's been trying to out-party LiLo and the other professional Hollywood party girls. Correct?"
"More or less. It is divorce number three, this last one from an indie film director that I warned her in advance not to get involved with, right from the start. She was caught having an affair with her director from "It takes Three to Tango" ... and now both of their spouses have thrown them out and they each think the other ratted them out to the tabloids. She's at the same hotel with you, for now. Maybe you can do lunch or dinner with her this weekend?"
"Maybe. Look, can I tell you a secret? Just how badly do you currently hate your boss anyway?"
"This week? About a seven plus on a scale of one to ten. I usually quit when she hits around an eight, but then she sends me flowers and begs me to come back. Sometimes I even get a pay raise, but it isn't really enough! I came to Hollywood six years ago to sell a script. You can laugh hysterically now! You, me and every waiter and waitress in the city is trying to sell a script! Mine was good, but Lou already looked it over for me and it doesn't meet his interests. So, I've shot my bolt here and I'm about ready to move on! Make my day ... I haven't quit yet this month, but the inclination is right there!"
"This will amuse you then. Becky, or rather a certain Rebecca Westbrooke, went to school together with me in Tampa, at both junior and high school. I lived next door to her for nine years, and for awhile we were even boyfriend and girlfriend. Her school nickname was 'Backseat Becky', and the last time I ever saw her was late in our senior year when she was spreading her ass cheeks wide for a local sports-stud named Cliff, who passed her around to all of his buddies and then had loads of nude photos of her put into nearly every locker in school!"
"Becky the Slut!" Sandra laughed. "I can believe it. There's more than one story floating around that she got her start on the casting couch! She's had affairs too with nearly every single leading man she's worked with, not to mention usually screwing the director and producers too."
"Well a slut is technically a woman that will fuck anybody, but since she never fucked me, her then boyfriend, I prefer to think of her as just a bitch."
"That works too! Assuming that Becky's not up out of bed yet, the sun not being up for at least four hours, let's get your bags dropped off in your room and then let's do lunch ourselves. I'd even offer to treat, but I'm a nearly starving PA and don't have many books on the New York Times bestseller's list either!"
"Actually, all of this comes out of 'cost of doing business' and that's my movie/TV agent Fred's responsibility. Splurge! Get the steak and live Maine lobster, chow down! I'll keep your secret! Besides, I know you'd love to hear more dirt about her school days. By the way our twenty year reunion is next month, is she going?"
"Not that I've heard, but I have seen the Westbrooke name used occasionally with some of her personal mail. I'll dig around and see if she's misfiled it, like right into the trash bin. I take it that you'd rather that she went?"
"Not sure yet, but I'm thinking about it. On one hand, she can be the big Hollywood showoff and pull the 'see how rich and famous I've become' act, or, all of her old drama club friends can retell all of their old adventures with Backseat Becky, including a candid photo swap, to a lurking reporter from the Hollywood Tattler. That might be worth the price of admission alone. Let me think about it for awhile first before you commit her."
"If she walks into that sort of circus, with all of her old acquaintance throwing used condoms at her, she will be committed, back at Cedars Sinai again for another rest!"
"For more exhaustion? She had her first breakdown right after the last incident with her fuck buddy Cliff, so she's got a very long history of insecurity and instability. Besides, Backseat Becky never used a condom! But enough about her, tell me some more about you ... and why you think I am indeed the world's greatest living mystery author!"
I was just teasing, but she knew all of my books intimately, and had indeed read them all cover to cover at least a dozen times and over the next two hours at lunch I enjoyed one of the nicest dates I'd had in years with a personable and intelligent woman. It just made me miss Maria all the more when I went up to my room to freshen up for the four o'clock meeting at the studio.