I hear Brad’s message loud and clear aimed at me: You’re my puppet. You’ll do this if you want a job come Monday.
Slowly, Carter sits down, his face red. I give him a little nod and smile, grateful for his attempt at least, and rattle off the basics. Salad. Meat. Potatoes. Green beans. It’s really nothing in need of explanation. Carter was smart to insist we go with traditional on our rather limited budget, knowing that they probably prepare it pretty nicely up at the lodge. We’d also selected a white wine and a red wine, and we run out of both before we’re done with the salad course.
Thank God for the cash bar, I guess?
Forks and knives scrape and screech across porcelain as everyone chows down. We are at a small handful of long tables in the center of a cavernous private room, but I can’t really accept blame for the oddity of this, since it was on Brad’s list of demands that we take our meal here, together. Like a team.
A fire roars in a stone fireplace so enormous I could probably stand inside, and there are seven waiters milling timidly around the room, hoping they can be helpful in some way but unwilling to ask too often. It’s the Brad Kingman Effect. You don’t even have to know who he is to be mildly afraid of him.
Carter is at my left during dinner and it’s strange to be in a room full of people and sounds and yet still be so aware of him. His arm brushes against mine as he cuts his steak, as he reaches for his wine, as he adjusts his napkin below the table. Is he trying to touch me? The more wine I have, the more my brain screams YES! to this question, and I start trying to reciprocate a little, leaning closer, resting my left arm lightly on the table so he has easier access.
Subtle stuff. I am a seduction ninja.
I’m so focused on what Carter’s doing and saying and how amazing he smells that I’m somewhat startled when a few of the waiters start clearing plates, and I look down to realize I’ve barely touched mine.
The party transitions to the outdoor patio, where heat lamps glow from each corner and strings of paper lanterns frame a view of the lake just beyond.
Brad rarely lets go enough to really get drunk at these things, but when he does he’s one of those intoxicated people who seems to have a volume knob attached to his drinking arm. By the time ten o’clock rolls around, most of the group is pretty tanked, but Brad isn’t just tanked, it’s like he’s hooked up to some PA system.
Don’t get me wrong; fewer people have better stories in this business than Brad Kingman, and sober, he’s as sealed as a two-hundred-year-old grave, so we’re all—even the ones who hate him—pretty enthralled. Tonight he is really on a roll.
Some highlights:
His wife paid for college by stripping. (I’m sure Maxine, the studio executive, would be thrilled he’s shared this.)
He watched one of the most famous actors in the history of film (five Academy Awards, to be exact) “do some blow off a hooker’s ass in Vegas.”
The first time he met one of the industry’s most powerful producers, said producer was so high he fell asleep in his salad, woke up, and pretended nothing had happened. He finished the meeting with shredded carrots in his hair and a smear of French dressing along the entire left side of his face. The movie they were discussing went on to win four Academy Awards and two Golden Globes, and made nearly a billion worldwide.
After some more stories, it’s midnight, the outdoor bar has closed, and my wineglass is empty. A passing server offers to find me a refill, but it’s a perfect excuse to mosey to the bar inside, where it’s quiet and warm, and get a few minutes to myself.
The bartender comes over and leans on the bar expectantly. “What’ll it be, gorgeous?”
“Whatever your best red wine is,” I tell him, reading his name tag. Woody. “I was drinking the pinot outside, but I think they ran out a while ago.”
Woody smiles, revealing a top row of perfectly white, even teeth . . . with one front tooth completely missing. It’s such an odd paradox, I am instantly fascinated. Was it pulled? If so, why? How could one tooth be so bad when the others are perfect?
These are the things that take up brain space that should be used to come up with snappy comebacks when Brad calls me kiddo or sport and insists that being a team player means I pass someone else my commission.
“I’ll give you the Ravenswood zin then,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the bar. “Not much to choose from, but that one is pretty decent.”
Woody leaves to go grab a bottle, and I lean more heavily against the bar, wondering for a beat if I could just lay my head down here and take a little nap.
Oh, wine makes me sleepy.
And amorous, apparently, because tonight Carter is looking pretty—
“How’s it going over here?”
Straightening, I look over my shoulder as the man himself approaches and pulls out the barstool next to me.
It’s a struggle to keep my tipsy attention focused on his face and not stare at the smooth, exposed collarbone. “I’m wiped. And tipsy. I just want to head to bed.”
“Me too.” Glancing to the doors he’s just come in through, he adds, “But I fear they’re just getting started.”
I find myself leaning into him, laughing into the shoulder of his jacket. God, he smells good. “Crazy kids. I guess we can’t just disappear. Being the hosts and all.”
He laughs. “How the fuck did we manage to get this gig?”
“No idea.”
He looks down, running the tip of his index finger back and forth over a pattern in the wood bar top. “Brad is still treating you like his assistant.”
“I know.” I bite my lip, looking to the side.
“Evie,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I contributed by ignoring it. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
His words make my windpipe feel tight, make my thoughts turn defensive.
Everything’s fine.
You’re just new to this, Carter.
I’ve dealt with Brad for years, I know his game.
Cut the shit, Evie.
Letting out a tiny steam whistle of vulnerability, I admit, “It always makes me mad, but now it’s making me anxious. I have this strange itch in the back of my brain, this persistent worry that he’s really trying to push me out.”
He nods. “I see it. I see it, and I don’t know what to do.”
My chest, it aches. “I hate feeling helpless.”
I didn’t expect this to be our crescendo moment. In the movies, these admissions either soften someone up or harden them further, but they rarely come out as quietly as I’ve said it and still make a huge impact.
But somehow, this one does.
Carter leans down and slides his hand along my jaw, and then bends, kissing me in a way I’ve been dreaming about almost nonstop since that night in my apartment. It’s different from the frantic kisses in the mixing room, rough and hurried. Those felt like secret, semiviolent betrayals of our better instincts.