Beautiful PRICK (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

“She’ll have another Gin and Tonic and I’ll have my regular.”
Johnny lightly grabs the cocktail waitress’ wrist.

“No, no, no!” I slur out, but it’s no use. She’s not looking
at me. I might as well not even be there.

“You were telling me about your boyfriend.” Johnny leans
forward on his elbows.

But I wasn’t. I hadn’t brought up Nick at all. I know
what he is
doing, he is
baiting me.

“I was not telling you about my boyfriend.”

“You were about to.”

That freaking accent…his freaking smile…his freaking
whiter-than-white teeth…What am I suppose to do with all that.

The waitress sets our drinks down. I attempt to refuse it,
but to no avail. He already ordered it.

I stare at the glass, telling myself that although he
ordered it, I don’t need to drink it. I feel bad because it’s sitting there and
I don’t want it to be a waste.

I mean, there are thirsty kids in Africa, right?

Wait, that’s not how that works.

Whatever… I take a sip.

“Nick is… well, he’s interesting.”

“So you
are
telling me about your boyfriend?”

I coyly look to the ceiling, and then shrug my shoulders. “I
guess I am.”

We talk about the normal things: what he does, how we met,
why he didn’t come to L.A. with me… all things that make me really frustrated
after a few drinks.

“He just…” I put my head in my hands. “He doesn’t get me.”

I take another sip of my drink as I find myself in the drunk
stage of
contemplating my life.
This is never a good stage, at least for
me. I think about all the time I’ve wasted trying to get to the point I’m
currently at, and for what? What have I really accomplished?

I’ve written a few articles for a comedy site and a silly
little short that barely left my Facebook page. That’s really it. I can’t claim
pride for anything my name is attached to.

Wow, I’m no fun right now. I need to go home.

“I need to go home.” I quickly down the rest of my drink and
set the empty glass as far away as my hand will reach.

“You’re not going home.” His hand is on top of mine.

I allow it.

“Why aren’t you drunk?” I turn my head at him.

My inhibitions are completely gone, as I reach back across
the table and instead grab his drink. I put the glass to my lips and take a
sip.

What the hell?

“This is soda water.”

“Yup.” Johnny nods as a smile appears on his face.

“I thought we were going out for a drink.” I’m angry now. I
feel as though I’ve been played.

“We did go out for a drink. My drink is just non-alcoholic.”

“Why?” I know my voice is loud, but I can’t seem to quiet
down.

“Caroline, I’m on a strict diet. Alcohol has a lot of
calories.”

Here’s the thing. It makes sense: he’s been really good
about his diet. It could be genuine: he’s invested in his routine. But however
he’s saying it, makes him seem like he was planning this reveal the entire
time. He got me drunk, and he’s in complete control.

Dick.

“Well, I’m going home.”

“You’re not. There’s no way you’re driving like this.” He
wraps his fingers in mine. I can’t peel myself from his grip.

“Then I’ll walk.”

“It’s too late, and you live too far.” He calmly announces.

“You don’t know where I live.” I smile, thinking I have won.

“I saw your address when I got you that new contract.”

Damn. He has an answer for everything.

“Then I’ll take a cab.” I try again to pull my hand from
his. His face doesn’t even twitch, but I know he’s enjoying himself.

“You left your bag in my trailer.”

I look around for my bag, but it’s not there. He’s right. In
my annoyed state from missing out on my night to take a bath, I must have left
my bag on the table in his trailer.

Not only had he planned on this, but he had
planned on
this.
What kind of games was he used to playing?

I purse my lips together and prepare to fight. “Well, then
I’ll just walk back to the studio and get it.”

He shakes his head. “Your badge is in your bag.”

“Dude! What are you doing to me?”

He narrows his eyes and quickly bites his lower lip before
he continues. “I feel like that’s obvious, Caroline.”

Of all the low down, dirty, scummy ways someone has tried to
get me into bed, this is by far the sneakiest… most conniving… most tempting…

“You’re coming home with me.” He holds his credit card up in
the air and signals to the cocktail waitress.

I want to. Oh God, why do I want to? But I can’t. I won’t. I
still hate him.

I stand up from the table, trying to find any bit of left
over self-respect.

I can’t.

“Well we can’t both ride your bike, now can we?” I try to
make it seem as though I’m taking back over the situation.

“It’s a three block walk.”

“Really?” I drop my hands to my sides. “You only live three
blocks from the studio?”

“The producers are renting me an apartment there. I actually
live in a beach house in Santa Barbara.”

And now, I hate him more.

The walk is fine. It’s fine. He makes stupid little jokes, I
reply with snarky comments, and then we walk in silence.

Of course the apartment is worth more than my entire
apartment building.

“Why do you need all this?”

“Why not?” He smiles as he pushes open the door.

Eh, he has a point. If I had the
money, I would certainly live in a place like this. I really can’t judge him,
for that at least.

“Question for you…” I take a step toward him, trying my best
to act as though I’m seducing him. I’m sure it’s not coming off that way
though, as I would definitely consider myself less of a sexy person and more of
an awkward person. “Why were you so adamant that I become your assistant?”

He takes a step into me. Hey, maybe drunk Caroline is sexy. Who
knew? “Because I wanted to make sure I saw you again.” He whispers as he
brushes the back of his hand against my cheek.

Wow, that was oddly sweet. I wasn’t expecting that.

Then
he just keeps talking. “I
always pick my assistants based on if I plan to sleep with them.”

And there it is.

I knew it, I knew it all along, and yet I let myself get
sucked up in his little Welsh accent-y game.

Ugh. Just ugh.

If I were not so utterly shocked, I’m sure I could come up
with something witty. Instead, I simply make some sort of shrieking sound
before I turn and run for the first door I see.

I throw the door open, close it behind me, and securely lock
myself inside. I’ve proved my point.

Unfortunately, the first door I saw was the coat closet.

CHAPTER NINE

It’s about an hour before I finally decide to sneak out of
the closet. Johnny had spent a good twenty minutes trying to coax me back out
into the living room, but I was so utterly embarrassed by the whole thing that
I refused to even acknowledge him.

He even offered to let me sleep in the bedroom and he would
take the couch, but I just knew he’d get too much satisfaction from that. I
wanted control, even if I had to sleep in the closet, I was taking it.

But after an hour crammed in a small coat closet, I was over
it.

“Are you still out here?” I whisper into the darkness.

There’s no reply, so I assume I’m safe. I tip toe into the
center of the room, looking this way and that, just in case he’s hiding in the
shadows. On the couch I notice two pillows atop a folded blanket, a glass of
water, and a bottle of ibuprofen on the coffee table.

Why can’t he just be all bad? This minuscule act of
thoughtfulness humanizes him and in my still-drunk state, makes me smile. I
don’t want to smile at the thought of him. I want nothing more than to hate his
non-nectarine knowing ass.

Is that too much to ask?

But as I look around, I feel myself soften. The room is
bright, even in the darkness. There are a few pictures, but not too many, and
not many at all of him. Most of the pictures are actually of a dog—some sort of
shepherd. I catch myself staring at one picture in particular. It’s a candid
shot of Johnny and the shepherd, both sitting on the beach staring off into the
water.

They look so peaceful, so happy, so… and I’m hugging the
picture.

Okay, I have to leave. I quickly scan the room for my bag,
and then remember that I still don’t have my bag. My bag is at the studio, in
Johnny’s trailer, along with the keys to my car and my apartment. I can’t stay
here,
I know that. Staying here is not an
option.

It’s a little chilly outside, as the sun has stopped warming
the city and only the soft breeze has taken over. I wrap my arms around myself
and swiftly walk to the gates of the studio.

“Hi there.” I put on my best
I’m not drunk
face. “I’m
Johnny Braylock’s personal assistant, and I left my bag with my badge in his
trailer. Is there any way one of you nice gentlemen would be able to walk me to
the back of the lot so I can retrieve it?”

The two middle-aged men quickly glance at each other before
one nods in my direction. “I’ll take a walk with you, Miss.”

“Thank you so much. I feel like a scatter-brain!”

I hum a little to try and break the extremely awkward
silence between us, but the security guard doesn’t flinch. We walk the rest of
the way hearing only the sound of a late night shoot in the distance.

After stepping into the trailer, I quickly rifle through my
bag, and pull out my ID badge. “See. I belong here.”

“I had no doubt, Miss. Do you need me to call you a cab?” He
lowers his eyes at me as I stumble down the trailer steps.

I’m still not sober enough to drive, so a cab would be the
next best option. Now I’m embarrassed. I don’t want him to think I can’t take
care of myself.

“Oh no, I’m fine, thank you. I think a nice walk is just
what I need.”

Only the walk is twelve miles, and the only way I know how
to navigate those twelve miles is on the highway. Maybe I should’ve thought
this through.

But now I’m in it, and changing my mind would only make me
seem weak. I don’t really know why I care what this security guard thinks of
me, but for some reason, I’m determined to prove my independence.

I think quickly about calling Melissa to see if she’ll come
out and save me, but it’s now two in the morning, and I really don’t want to be
a bother.

So, I start my twelve-mile walk. The city is oddly quiet,
desolate-at least this area. New York isn’t like that. There aren’t many places
you can walk around at two in the morning and be the only person on the street.
There are bars, diners, people walking their dogs, and couples walking hand in
hand as they enjoy the crisp night air. That’s just New York,
you’re never alone.

But here… here is different… and different feels… well, it
doesn’t feel safe.

I see the silhouettes of four or five people up ahead, and
start to feel a little better about my circumstances. I’m already about ten
blocks from the studio, and this is the first group of people I’ve seen. But as
I start to near them, the little hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. My
skin pricks and my stomach sinks.

Something is wrong.

“Hey little lady. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

I politely smile, but don’t engage. I keep my eyes down and
keep up my pace, now passing them.

“What is a pretty little thing like you doing out here all
alone?”

I hear one of them call from behind me. I step faster,
hoping to get away without seeming too obviously fearful.

“Answer me when I talk to you.”

“Do you need company?”

“She must think she’s better than us.”

“Why else would she be ignoring us?”

They keep talking: they keep getting closer. They must be
walking fast now. I wonder if I should stop and confront them. Would that make
them leave me alone? Would that end this harassment?

I figure I’ll give it a try.

So I stop.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” I politely smile as I
push my hair from my face.

There are five men, I’d say all within five years of my own
age, standing before me. The one in the center steps forward.

“You can give us that bag of yours and be on your merry
way.”

As I’ve already mentioned, I have never been attacked
before. That also includes being mugged. I lived in New York for ten years
before moving to the west coast, and never once had an incident like the one I
currently find myself in.

That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about it. I’ve come
upon dark alleys or groups of interesting people and I’ve played out scenarios
in my head where I’ve had to defend myself. In none of those scenarios did I
ever give up my bag. Sometimes I scared them away with my wit. Other times I
took them down with a sharp kick to the groin. In some fantasies, I’ve even
whipped out extensive martial arts expertise that I was unaware I had, and then
I laughed as an entire group of grown men were groaning on the ground,
incapacitated by my skills.

But those were just fantasies; none of them ever saw
fruition. None of them were a reality.

But this is.

“No.” I meekly spit.

“What?” The center guy speaks again.

“No.” My voice is louder this time. “I’m not giving you my
bag.”

He laughs and shakes his head as he begins to walk toward
me. “You see that you’re outnumbered, right?”

“I do.” I nod.

“And you know what we could do to you, right?” His voice
becomes a whisper as he inches closer to me.

“I do.” I nod again.

I feel his cool hands brush up my arms, and then his fingers
wrap softly around my neck.

I want to wow him with my wit.

I want to kick him in the groin.

I want to surprise myself with my adrenaline-triggered
martial arts.

But I can’t. I am frozen. My body won’t move.

The group surrounds me and my head starts to spin. I feel
someone grab my hand
and another brushes
up my thigh. I feel fingers grip my hips and I feel breath on my neck. There’s
weight on my collar and then the sound of something tearing. My shirt hangs off
my shoulder, as it’s been sliced to one side.

There’s a sharp blow to my back, then to my side, and now
I’m on my knees. I can see blood begin to soak through my jeans, as I must have
landed on some piercing stones. Someone grabs at my purse, so I try desperately
to hold on tight, but my bag is soon pulled from my grip, and my wrists are
secured behind my back. The center guy steps forward, and through my tears I
can see his bright smile. He raises his hand and I close my eyes as I prepare
for the sting across my cheek.

It hurts, I try to hold back the stream of tears, but I am
painfully unsuccessful. I hear a few murmurs, a few grunts, a few laughs, and
then another blow. There’s a pounding in my head, a ringing in my ears, and I
see nothing but blackness.

I know I’m on the ground. I know my head is resting in a
puddle, but I can’t move. I can’t see. I can’t hear.

I can’t do anything.