Page 21 of Erik

I fish my checkbook from a top drawer, jotting down a six-figure number on the paper. Detaching the check, I flip it, dropping it on the glass top. I unlock my cell phone screen, scroll down, and jot a number on the blank sheet in front of me.

I shove the slip of paper into her palm and close it in a fist. “Here’s a little something to get you by, plus the contact info for my former supplier.” I stretch my arm out pointing to the door of the trailer. “Now, you’ve got no reason to come back. At. All.” I bark, “Get the fuck out.”

She stands up, toe to toe with me, foam gathering on the corner of her mouth, as she spits the words, “You were a sex god once, when you used to get high, you know? Horny all the time, fucking like your life depended on it, all night long. News flash, pal: That’s over. Who wants to fuck a block of ice anyway? I don’t.”

I punch a wall; splinters of plywood turn projectiles as fiberglass insulation hangs from the hole.

Rita wisely cowers back.

Seeing red, I get on her face. “I swear I’ve never laid a finger on a woman, but you try my patience. Scram.”

She mumbles, “Cocky dickhead.” She raises a finger in the air beside her face, but adds in a feeble tone, “You’ll read about this on the tabloids.”

“Who cares? You’re not the first to threaten that. I’m aware reading isn’t your forte.” I scoff. “So, here’s a little friendly advice. Better skim that NDA you signed months ago before calling the paparazzi.”

She stomps toward the door, slamming it on her way out.

With deliberate movements, I crouch to pick the shattered wood, and throw it in the trash. Inner chaos may be appeased by arranging the outside environment.

Or so I was told.

I find controlled pain to be more effective, and much more satisfying.

And addictive as fuck.

Which reminds me of a certain curvy woman with the voice of an angel. So far, Christine hasn’t been able to handle the challenges I’ve put her through. Maybe it’s time I called it quits and moved on. Plenty of fish in the sea and all that shit. Right?

I sink into my chair, unlocking a drawer on the left, and grabbing my notebook. Thumbing through the pages, I get to the song I’ve been working on. The last words I wrote down jump at me and I hear Christine’s voice in my head.

Until the moment I found mercy

A redheaded angel came to me

Her heart of gold offering the key

I stare at the page, but my muse refuses to dictate new verses. My mind turns to different ways I could seduce a certain woman with shining red curls and flaming green eyes. With a sigh, I slouch. A moment ago, I decided to forget Christine and carry on with life. Why the hell can’t I stop dreaming up ways to reel her in?

The simplest of truths slaps me in the face: Because no other woman will spark my dark muse.

9

Christine

Slumped on a chair in the shadows of soundstage five, I wince as Pat Robertson butchers another of my favorite songs by Muse of Darkness. I send a little prayer to the Gods of Film Production begging someone has the brilliant idea to dub Erik’s original singing over this wailing cat in heat.

Actually, I take that back because it’s not fair to felines. An alley cat during mating season sounds more harmonious than this poor excuse for an actor.

Jim Harrison, the second unit director yells, “Cut.” He pauses, shoves both fists on his waist, and adds, “Here’s the thing. This hotel suite set will be gone in a couple of hours. That means, we’ve got to nail this damn scene in a couple of takes.” His biting stare bounces from Pat to me, and back to Pat. A deep crease appears between his eyebrows as he holds the actor’s gaze. “Is that clear?”

Pat raises his fingers to his forehead for a second, dropping his hands in a mock salute. “Yes, sarge.”

Jim rubs a palm over his bald head so many times the translucent skin sports a furious red. With a deep sigh, he offers a toothy grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Call me whatever you want as long as you get your lines right in the first try.”

I snicker before muttering under my breath, “Good luck with that.”

A makeup artist occupying a chair six feet away from mine offers her palm for a high-five. I wink, lift my hand, and we air five.

The director claps, swirling to scan the room. “Hotel suite scene, everyone. It doesn’t require much acting skills, nor a degree in rocket science.” His eyes return to the leading man for a moment before stopping on me. “I’m aiming for a once-and-done shot here. Let’s do this.”

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