Page 48 of The Cruiser
“He’s very nice,” I say.
“Hey. If yousettle for nice, I’m dragging you back to my den by your hair. That guy, any guy, better be bringing his A-game to the table.” Stryker leans back, a skull tattoo grimacing at me from his broad, shirtless chest. I remember the day he started on it, me at his side in the tattoo parlor. How he wanted to get my name inked over his heart and I talked him out of it. “What?” he asks when my eyes drop. “It’s the truth.”
I fiddle with the salt and pepper shakers, moving them back and forth. “I never wanted to leave your den.”
Reading my mind, knowing where it’s spiraling to, his smile falters. “You’re a good woman, Vandana. The greatest. Don’t ever doubt that.”
“I have a lot of doubts lately,” I say.
Stryker shuffles his chair closer, and I welcome the familiar weight of his arm draping around my shoulders. “I know I caused you a lot of doubt. But believe me when I say, I would’ve broken your heart a hundred times more. I knew you were going to do great things. I also knew I was going to do great things. Call it selfish, stupid, or just fucking prescient, but I knew I couldn’t be with anyone bigger or better than me. That doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you. Not for one minute.”
We share a shaky, loaded look. At one point, he was so essential to every ounce of my happiness. Calling this out only compounds my disquiet.
“You’re telling me this now?”
“Vanarama, you have no idea,” he says. “I hated every minute you were on set, kissy-facing Derek. He didn’t deserve you.” His arm tightens around me and I imagine it’s to comfort the impact of his confession. “And I give zero fucks that you and I screwed around behind his back.”
June calls me an oversharer, but I’ll go to my grave telling no one that Stryker and I got up to our old ways one coke-fueled night when Derek was out of town. The only way I could live with myself was if something good came out of that tryst. I begged Stryker to hire him. And he did.
“He called me today,” I say. “Said he’s on the outs for that superhero movie.”
Stryker’s flat expression tells me Derek figured right. “Me and you are family,” he explains. “Someone fucks with the family, they’re out.”
“Half of Hollywood is closeted. At least he had the guts to come out.” I squeeze his arm, hoping that if my words don’t appeal, maybe my touch will. “If you blackball him, everyone will. You know how that town works.”
“It works the way I work,” he says. Stryker moved to Laguna Beach with his family when he was thirteen, but his staunch Wyoming farm boy morals never changed. “I gave Derek a shot because of you. I admit, he proved himself, but I have a hundred other guys pounding on my door. Dudes that won’t fuck up the best thing that ever happened to them.”
I nod, knowing full well once he makes up his mind, it’s done.
“That being said,” he continues, “if it means that much to you, I won’t totally crush him. I’ll have to smash him just a little, to put him in his place. So as far as working with me ever again, sorry amiga, no bueno. He pulled the wool over your eyes and I’m not letting anyone hurt you again.”
His kiss is one of the sweet, slow ones I cried over for months. I’ve never seen him cry, but when he pulls back, his pupils are wide and haunted and I understand now that somewhere deep in his heart, he and I are still together. After a contemplative silence, he switches gears. We’re talking about old Laguna friends when Morgan returns with a bottle of champagne and three flutes.
“I thought we could start the party here,” he says, and I admire him for blowing past the awkward intro. This is the stronger move.
“Hells yeah, bro.” Stryker slaps the table with his hand. “Never too early for panty remover.”
Morgan pops the cork, letting it fly into the distance. More disapproving stares land our way, only this time it rolls off my back. Screw ‘em. While Morgan fills our flutes, Stryker regales us with a story of a champagne-fueled night in Miami and how it ended with him at The Breakers, crawling out of some chick’s bathtub at noon.
“To this day,” he says, chuckling at the memory, “no clue how I made it to Palm Beach.”
Morgan’s laugh is so unbridled. I forgot Stryker can easily charm anyone; studio executives, surly crew, insecure actors. Me. He’s a natural born storyteller. Cheyenne, Wyoming’s biggest pride and joy.
Stryker raises his flute for a toast, bubbly sloshing out. “Cheers,” he says in his booming, cowboy voice. “To boats, booze, and broads. What else does a man need?”
“You’re forgetting box office,” I remind him.
“You see?” He turns to Morgan. “That’s why they pay her the big bucks. I hope you’re spending some bankroll, dude.”
Morgan clinks Stryker’s flute, lingers on mine. “She’s worth every penny.”
I catch Stryker’s smirk and my eyes flash in return: Don’t push your luck.
