38
Swimming With the Sharks
TJ
As I drain my morning joe at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, an image of washboard abs lands in my email. There’s no text in Hazel’s email, just the subject line: For my next cover—your rating, on a scale of one to ten?
As I tap out, “Looks-like-he’s-never-even-seen-a-carb-much-less-tasted-one,” Mason’s name flashes on the screen. I hit send quickly so I can answer my agent. “Hey, give me a sec,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I have all day,” he barks.
“Dude. Cool your jets,” I tease, grabbing my laptop quickly. I stuff it into my messenger bag and go outside. “Okay. What’s up?”
“You. You’re up. You’re at bat, and Kristen wants you to get your fine ass on over to CTM in, oh, say, two hours.”
Is he for real? He wants me to meet his LA counterpart for the first time, and he’s giving me this little warning? “Two hours? From now?”
“Yes. As in noon. Was that not clear?” he deadpans.
“Back it up, man. You want me to go to the Beverly Hills offices?”
“Yes, sweetheart. They want to give you a foot rub and a hot-stone massage. Shall I send a car to Doctor Insomnia’s for you? I can arrange to have the Olympic men’s swim team waiting for you if that’ll sweeten the deal.”
I swing my gaze back and forth along this Venice street. “How do you know where I am?”
“I had your tracking device implanted last time you were here. Also, you’re a creature of habit, so I took a good guess. Was I right, totally right, or of course I was fucking right?”
“Yeah, you’re right. No, the swim team won’t be necessary, but thanks for the offer. Also, if you’re making your Christmas list, I like hand rubs, not foot rubs. And why the hell do your LA doppelgangers want to see me, stat?” He’s hitting me with surprises left and right.
“Because everyone loves Top-Notch Boyfriend. Anyway, do you look decent? Wait. Who am I talking to? You always look good. Bet you’re wearing one of your animal-print shirts and fashionable jeans that you’ve never washed in anything but Method detergent?”
I glance down at the armadillo print on my chest and the aforementioned denim. “That tracking device worked out really well for you. Anyway, why am I going to CTM at the last minute? Just to meet with Kristen and company?”
“Not just with the LA Masons. A producer is coming too, but you know my mantra.”
“Don’t believe anything till the check cashes,” I fill in.
“And even then, who knows? But there’s some stuff in the works, and we can sell your books better if we can also sell you. I figure I could have a little TJ showcase while you were in town for whatever secret tryst you’re having.”
Damn. Mason knows me too well. But hopefully, this secret tryst won’t be secret for long. Jude and I have hardly been clandestine since we’ve been out in public. I’d like to make some plans with him beyond this trip, plans to see Amsterdam with him. I’d like, too, to make this thing more than a thing. I want him to be my boyfriend.
For now, though, I focus on Mason as he rattles off details about the meeting. When the town car he ordered arrives five minutes later, my head is reeling.
Still, I know better than to get excited about Hollywood.
Just like Mason taught me.
Only, it’s not just a meeting. It’s more like a full-court press in the sunlit, floor-to-ceiling glass conference room overlooking Beverly Hills.
CTM’s catering brings in Costa Rican coffee, blueberries, and an assortment of kale-based snacks. Jude will get such a kick out of this when I tell him about the spread later.
Even though Mason prepped me, I’m still a little surprised to see Robert Walsh from the theater the other night. I was sure nothing would come of bumping into him. But after hellos, he takes a seat next to Kristen. Mason’s zoomed in on Kristen’s iPad.
The producer from Webflix leans forward in the orange chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “I literally can’t stand how much I love this story.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” I’m still gobsmacked and sound like it.
Robert shoots me an intense stare. “Let me make it clear. I love it as much as my dog.”
“And his dog has a private chef,” Mason chimes in.
“Rocco, the Fiercest Chihuahua, has a personal trainer too,” Kristen supplies with a smile. “Tell us what your vision is for the show, Robert.”
“We’ll stay as true to the book as possible,” Robert says, then stretches his hands out like he’s framing a marquee. “After the prologue when they meet, I see the camera pans to an establishing shot, Greenwich Village. Close-up on our hero. He’s working on one of his cartoons when his best-friend-turned-business-manager saunters into their artsy office, tells him about the deal he just booked for our hero’s illustrations. Then, we cut to the guys celebrating that night with ping-pong and beer at their favorite bar. In walks the other hero—duh duh duuun—the best friend’s brother. Our hero has been crushing on him since that day in the prologue. AKA for-evah.”
It’s too good to be true. I know Mason’s mantra, he’s repeated it ever since my book took off, so I do my best to stay super chill.
But man, it’s really fucking hard when this guy tells me that Webflix loves my story and wants to make a deal.
Maybe I do finally understand musicals because it’s also really hard not to burst into, well, an epic rock song right the hell now.
Especially when Robert shakes my hand at the end of the meeting. “I know this seems like luck because we ran into each other at the play. But it’s not luck. Your book is gold, and we’re going to mine it and give it a good home. I promise you that.”
“I’m just glad you enjoyed the story,” I say. That’s about as much as I can process right now.
When he leaves, Kristen mimes her head exploding. “Some deals are the LA freeway system. Some are the autobahn. That deal is a Bugatti on the autobahn.”
I don’t even know what to say to her. It’s all too much. Too Hollywood. Too unbelievable.
I thank her then slip my cell phone out of my pocket to snap a shot of the catering spread before I leave. I slide into the town car a minute later, my bones buzzing. When we’re on the road, I call Mason back. “So, what did you think?”
“I think armadillos suit you, and so does LA. You look happy, so I’m guessing you needed sunshine. And . . . Robert just called to say he’s sending a term sheet over tonight.”
This feels so unreal. But as the car slogs through traffic, I’m struck by one more revelation. Even though I usually keep this shit to myself, I want to tell Jude.
I want to let him know about my crazy day. Find out what he thinks about it.
But I also don’t want him to get weird like Flynn did. Or, really, like Jude kinda did on Sunday at the café.
Except, it should be okay if Jude has his own feelings about this maybe-kinda-sorta deal. He’s an artist. I get that. But he’s shown me his wounds; he’s opened up about his sore spots. If I want to be a damn good boyfriend, I need to share things in a way that shows I give a shit about his sensitive heart too.
Share in a way that says, Hey babe, what do you think? and not, look at me, look at me!
If there’s one thing I know about Jude, it’s that he likes fun, sex, books, and food he can eat.
And, well, me. He likes me.
I send him a text.
TJ:Hey, want to go to the Silver Spinner Neon Bowling Lanes and see if you can beat me? Then, sushi? Just the fish for you, though, babe. I’ll happily eat all your rice.
Then I follow with a second note.
TJ:If you’re very good, I’ll let you blow me after. Sixty-nine if you beat me like you did in pinball, you secret pinball wizard.
Jude:Fuck me. The shoot is running late. Can you please be naked and covered in sushi when I return later? Like, on a table and all. I don’t even require chopsticks.
TJ:Mark that down with things that will never happen. (Me covered in sushi, not me fucking you. The latter is of the name-the-time-and-place variety.)
Jude:Someday, you’ll be my sushi feast. But for now, can I trouble you to order me some yellowtail rolls for takeout? Wait. Nope. Fuck me again. I mean yellowtail and edamame. Do not tempt me with rice. Seriously. Promise me you will never bring rice near me. I might want rice more than your cock at the end of a long day.
TJ:You said, “fuck me twice.” What I hear is you want double-sex tonight. Got it.
Jude:At last! He gets my order right! Yellowtail and a long cock!
But when nine p.m. rolls around with no sign of Jude, it’s clear neither sushi nor dick is on the menu for him tonight. His next note comes with a crying eggplant emoji.
Jude:I hate everyone. Hollywood time is a bigger lie than It must have gone to my spam folder.
TJ:Or Your hair looks nice?
Jude:Wait, are you saying you don’t like my hair?
TJ:I like your hair all the time, especially when my fingers are tugging on it and your lips are on my dick.
Jude:It’s sooooo late. I’m hallucinating about eating white rice off your dick. Send help soon.
TJ:Fine, fine. I’ll be covered in yellowtail when you return.
Mason sends me a term sheet a little later, and it still seems too good to be true, so I go to bed.
It’ll be there in the morning to sign, after all. Then, I can try again to share my news with Jude, maybe invite him to go to Amsterdam with me, and then finally ask him to be my top-notch boyfriend.