Page 17 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says, straightening up with a wince. “He has so many business commitments these days, anything could have happened. His schedule is crazy… His body clock is working to four different time zones.”
“Serves him right for thinking he’s Caesar.Pro Hollywood et Patriaand all that.” I put a finger to my lips as the call to the travel agent finally connects.
Four hours later, I’m basking in the first-class travel experience and knocking back champagne like it’s orange juice.
“Don’t you have any self-control?” says Jake, snatching up my empty glass on his way to the in-flight cocktail bar. I raise my eyebrows in challenge as I signal the flight attendant for another. It takes a while to get her attention. She’s too busy gawping at Jake. Why does he have to be so censorious? For the first time in my life I feel like I can finally breathe. Okay, so I may be working fourteen-hour days for his brother,for his movie, I might add. I really don’t think I deserve to have him critiquing my every move for that.
I wake several hours later. My eyes feel gritty and sore, as though I’ve had my face pressed up against a computer screen all night. The blinds are down and the cabin is dark. All around me, crumpled-looking businessmen are snoring loudly or glued to some steamy sex scene unfolding on their in-flight entertainment screens.
I glance across the aisle at Jake. He’s doing neither. He’s gazing into space with such a bleak expression on his face that it makes my heart ache. He looks stripped. Raw. A mere shadow of the macho, controlling bastard that I butt heads with on a daily basis. That Ilook forwardto butting heads with on a daily basis. This man isn’t just about the headlines. There’s a story there, and all of a sudden I need to know more.
Instinctively I unclip my seat belt to go to him but the sound makes him glance up. Something electric passes between us before he’s shaking his head and mouthing that word at me again.
“Don’t.”
Chapter Ten
The L.A. freeway is a post-apocalyptic wasteland. It’s a chaotic sea of dusty concrete, peppered with potholes and skid marks. Tatty green signs forHollywoodandSanta Monicahang limply by the side of the road, and the occasional palm tree is surprisingly sparse and grubby looking.
Nowthisis more like it,I muse to myself as Jake’s Escalade turns off onto Highland Avenue and drops down into West Hollywood. Those nine forty-five-foot-high white letters, the Mecca of any wannabe filmmaker, are looming over us like the promise of a lie. There’s a strange ebb and flow of disquiet about the place that I wasn’t expecting. It’s little wonder Jake owns the rights to this town. It suits his personality down to the ground.
He’s texting away next to me, completely oblivious. Since landing an hour ago he’s been a ball of tension, snapping fierce directives at me every few minutes. He’s changed into a black three-piece Tom Ford suit, and with his hair slicked back and his Ray Bans on he looks more like a crime boss than a studio president. Perhaps that’s the kind of BS image you need to project to get stuff done around here?
“Enjoying the view?” he murmurs, barely lifting his eyes from his cell phone. It takes me a second to realize that he’s referring to the scenery outside.
“It’s okay,” I say, swallowing quickly. “I’ve always wanted to visit L.A.”
“How ironic. I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape it… Especially the goddamn traffic,” he adds with a snarl.
Our car grinds to a halt outside the Hollywood Bowl, and just like that, there are lanes and lanes of tightly packed, steaming-hot vehicles stretching out as far as the eye can see.
This is the first personal insight he’s ever given me. Jake’s thoughts are as neatly packed away as his Louis Vuitton luggage. The man has no emotional outlet apart from yelling at people—mostly me. Then I remember the expression on his face last night and, for once, I keep my mouth shut.
“Phone the studio,” he orders, checking his Patek Philippe watch again. “We’re running a half hour late.”
He won’t divulge what this mysterious meeting is all about, but I make the call regardless.
We’re heading north and following signs for Global Studios. The foliage bordering the sidewalks is more lush suddenly, as if a team of standby art directors has gone around injecting green dye into everything. Even the palm trees look more like the postcard variety compared to their shabby brown counterparts down the road.
Cruising up to the studio’s security station, Jake’s chauffeur lowers the window, addresses the guards, and we’re waved straight through. We pull up to a huge glass-fronted building and Jake is out of the car before it brakes.
He turns to face me as I’m scooting across the backseat to join him. “Wait here.”
“But—”
He removes his Ray Bans and glares me into submission. “Do as you’re told for once, Books. I don’t need any of your attitude today.”
Biting mytongue,I watch him enter the building alone. Stiff shoulders. Head held high. He doesn’t look like a man who’s just inherited the biggest film studio in the world. He looks like a man readying himself for war.
I have no idea how long he’ll be, so I lounge against the hood of his car for ages, soaking up the sunshine and multiplying my freckles.
All of a sudden I hear my name being called. “Charlie! Hey, Charlie Winters, wait up!”
A white golf cart with a blue-and-white-striped awning—the snazzy brand colors of Global Studios—zips alongside Jake’s car and swerves to a stop. I watch, transfixed, as a smoking-hot stranger unfurls himself from the driver’s seat. He clocks my face and grins. “What’s with the blank expression, honey? Don’t you know who I am?”
“Should I?” I say, sounding flustered. Mere mortals aren’t supposed to be on a first name basis with divinity.
I try not to wince as he grasps my outstretched hand. “Cute accent.”
