Page 50 of All That Glitters
Eli didn’t even flinch. He calmly pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Amy. Can you send a janitor in, please.”
“My apologies, Eli,” Craig said, shaking his head. “The dang mutt don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”
“You just keep making movies,” Eli said smoothly, “and I’ll keep buying him plants to pee on.”
Before anyone could say another word, Carrie leaned in, her voice a furious whisper in Eli’s ear. “I need to speak with you.”
“But we’re with guests, dear,” Eli hissed back, like a husband whose wife just asked him to mow the lawn during a dinner party.
She’d had enough. She reached out, grabbed him firmly by the ear, and began dragging him out of his own office.
“Oww—You guys excuse us for a minute,” Eli yelped, as she pulled him out the door.
The hallway was a stark contrast to the chaos inside the office. Carrie released his ear, leaving it red and throbbing, and pulled the door closed behind them. Her face was a mask of fury.
“There is no way in hell I’m doing a film with those… people,” she seethed. “Find me something else.”
Eli rubbed his ear, his patience quickly waning. “There is nothing else,” he said. “Ever since Planet of the Sorority Vixens tanked, all the offers have dried up. So it’s either this, or you learn to ask people if they want room for cream in their coffee at Starbucks.”
He let the words land. He watched the outrage on her face flicker, replaced by the slow, dawning horror of a queen realizing she’s been checkmated. The silence in the hallway was absolute. For the first time, Carrie Thompson had no comeback.
Chapter twenty-one
Motels and Questionable Judgment
Inside Tony’s duplex, things were a bit chaotic that afternoon as he packed for his three-week stay in Los Angeles. The Rif Raf gang was putting him up in a motel for the duration of production on The Frat. It would be a no-frills budget motel, the kind with free coffee in the lobby and not much else, but for someone who had been ready to sleep in his truck, it sounded like the Four Seasons.
Matt and Jeff were there, allegedly to help, but mostly to lounge on his couch, drink his beer, and conduct a post-mortem on how Jeff’s bet had gone so disastrously wrong. Debbie watched with amusement from the arm of the couch as Jeff handed everyone their winnings.
“You’re such a dick,” Jeff grumbled at Tony. “I told you to warn me before you sold that script.”
Tony grinned, folding a pair of jeans and stuffing them into the duffel bag. “How much did you lose this time?”
In response, Matt held up a wad of cash and flipped through it, shooting Jeff a smug grin.
“This much,” Matt answered.
“And this much,” Debbie grinned, waving her own wad of cash.
Jeff shot them both a frown. “You both suck.” He turned to Tony, who was trying to wrestle a hoodie into his already overstuffed duffel bag. “What do you think the chances are of the movie actually getting made? Like, for real?”
Tony couldn’t resist smiling at the desperation in Jeff’s voice. First, he’d lost money when Tony finished the script. Then, he’d lost even more money when Tony sold it. And now, he was about to lose even more if the film actually got made.
“They’ve got the money,” Tony said, zipping a side pocket on his bag. “And they already cast the lead.”
“Crap,” Jeff groaned, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He turned to Matt. “I’m canceling my bet.”
“Too late,” Matt said cheerfully, putting a rubber band around his winnings.
With a groan of pure anguish, Jeff banged his head against the wall. It made a dull, pathetic thud. Matt smiled and turned to Tony.
“Congratulations, Tony,” he said, handing Tony three ten-dollar bills. “Here’s your cut of the winnings.”
“Cool,” Tony said, pocketing the thirty dollars.
“You guys are both dicks,” Jeff moaned, banging his head against the wall again.
Tony just laughed, picked up his duffel bag, and headed for the door. He turned back to Jeff and Matt. “You guys lock up when you leave?”
