Drama Queen

Chapter 1-2

“You wanna volunteer to babysit me?”

Fuck knows what my face did; whatever it was, Loren laughed at it. Previously-invisible lines suddenly appeared around his eyes and mouth, turning that pretty face into something truly special. “Better than twenty-five,” I said, like an asshole.

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“Twenty-five’s too young for me.” What the f**k was falling out of my mouth? Making a pass at an injured performer was probably (okay, definitely) the most unprofessional thing I’d ever done.

But he looked kind of delighted about it. “I suppose you live in Calabasas or some shit.”

“Uh, no,” I said. “Westwood, actually.”

No doubt he heard the question in my tone. “I’m about ten minutes from here by Uber. Did you drive?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So?”

Was this a serious question? Was he inviting me to come home with him and make sure he didn’t fall into a post-head-trauma coma? I needed to f*****g clarify. “Are you inviting me to supervise you tonight?”

He huffed out a wicked little laugh. “Yeah. Supervise me.” Maybe he surprised himself with the suggestive tone; he blinked and said, “In all seriousness. I appreciate your concern, I would otherwise be alone, and if it’s not a gigantic inconvenience or pain in the ass, I wouldn’t mind being taken care of. Just a little. It’s been a long time since I got knocked out.”

“Then yeah. Sure. Get your stuff, get yourself signed out, and I’ll bring my car around.”

* * * *

Not much later, less than a mile away, parked in a spot marked Tenant Parking Only and following Loren through the door of a guest house, I was still not sure if this was a good idea. Obviously nothing was going to happen, aside from me waking him up from time to time and putting him through the head check. I didn’t have to be anywhere till noon the next day, hadn’t exactly worked up a sweat, and coped well with interrupted sleep myself. Couldn’t help feeling I’d crossed at least one line today, though.

The place was no bigger than a studio apartment. A twin XL bed behind a curtain, a small complete bathroom, compact kitchenette, a patch of open floor big enough for someone his size to stretch. The rest of the space was occupied by an efficient computer desk and a futon couch. I’d slept on much worse surfaces.

I set down my gear bag and watched Loren open the refrigerator and stare into it. Speaking of much worse? The way he looked now. Not in the near death way, just in the worked a lot of hours outdoors way. I’d had to bite my tongue when he walked up to my car in jeans, a vintage-looking Star Trek T-shirt, and flip-flops. No makeup, his own hair flattened with sweat. I thought it was probably dark blond and wavy at its best, possibly shoulder-length when it wasn’t in that tight little bun. Aside from that, fatigue and strain on his face. Not quite pain. His body was telling him it was sore and tired, maybe a little shaky, and undoubtedly hungry. “Did you have anything to eat today?”

He looked at me over his shoulder, blinking as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Yeah, I got a sandwich from craft services. You?”

“Same. I could order some takeout.”

“I could murder a pizza,” he admitted.

“Me too. Favorite place?”

Loren closed the fridge and plucked a menu off the top of it. Gave me a look that said I should come and see, so I took three steps that direction and leaned my shoulder against the fridge, studying the menu. “I like this one,” he said, pointing at a veggie special. “But I think I’ll add five-alarm chicken. How about you?”

“Uh, is it a cliché to get Hawaiian?”

He looked interested. “Oh, are you? I wondered.”

“Half,” I said. “My dad’s a white guy, he’s in the Navy.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Koa.” How long had we been holding eye contact? I wanted to look at him forever. This was such a bad idea.

“Koa,” he echoed softly. “Gorgeous name. Suits you.”

Oh Jesus f**k. I swallowed hard. “For the record, I’d love to, uh, take you on a date sometime. But tonight all I’m here for is to make sure you’re safe.” He nodded, half-smiling. Nudged my hand with the menu. I glanced down, noting that five-alarm chicken had a four-pepper rating and specified ancho, cayenne, jalapeño, and habanero. My mouth watered. “Jesus, that on a veggie pizza is an antioxidant bomb.”

“Sure, if I didn’t get cheese, but f**k that.”

I laughed. “Think I should put that chicken on mine too?”

“Absolutely.” He turned away, clearly leaving the order up to me. An assumption like that can be annoying. Right now it seemed he was giving me a chance to take care of him, and I got the idea he didn’t let a lot of people do that. So I took a step back, got out my phone, and placed the call. Loren pulled two bottles of sparkling water out of the fridge, then replaced one. Handed the other to me as I disconnected. “Thirty minutes?”

“About that, yeah.”

“I’m going to shower. Take a load off.” He gestured at the couch. I wandered toward it as the bathroom door closed behind him.

There’s not much to see in a studio apartment. No view, if the apartment is in a former garage behind an old house, hunkered down off an alley between two multi-unit buildings. I didn’t sit still long, is what I’m saying. I prowled around the place like I was going to have to describe it to Sherlock Holmes.

The bed had an upholstered headboard, implying Loren sat there and read a lot. A nightstand beside the bed had nothing on it but a gooseneck lamp, an intercom box, and a sleep mask. Above the headboard, a framed movie poster: Key Largo, with Bogie and Bacall. For the first time, I wondered if Loren McCall wasn’t the stuntman’s original name. Now that I had the comparison in front of me, I could see a resemblance.

At the foot of the bed, leaving just enough space for a person to actually make the bed, bookshelves. Not built-ins or heirlooms, but not crap either; solid wood in three stacked units that probably came from thrift shops. I was glad to see that the top two were anchored to the wall. Turned away before I got sucked into reading all the titles. A bookshelf can tell you a lot about a person.

A freestanding wardrobe rack was the only other thing in that corner, invisible when the curtain was pulled to the end of the bed, which it probably usually was. Turning around, listening to the shower run, I surveyed the rest of the space. The couch was under a big window. Being snoopy, I lifted the drapery out of the way to see it was three standard windows, framed in as a unit. Mini-split HVAC. No visible TV; he probably watched movies or whatever on his computer. It was a big enough screen, for sure. Nice area rug. All a person needed, really, if he wasn’t acquisitive. Or who knew, maybe he had a storage unit crammed with decades of junk like my ex-boyfriend.

The thing he caught me looking at was a stack of paper on the desk beside the keyboard. On the top sheet was the title Tough Enough: A Life in Moving Pictures by Loren McCall.

I glanced up guiltily as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom (wearing a robe, thank God, because I needed this guy to stay covered up). He was smiling, but in a nervous way. I hadn’t actually picked up the draft, or leafed through it, but no doubt he could tell I wanted to. “I haven’t read any of it,” I said.

He shrugged. “Feel free. My landlady’s the only person who’s read it so far.”

“Work in progress?”

“First time I’ve printed it out. I mean, I’m only forty. Not done yet.”

“Maybe.” I hesitated, then forged ahead. “You could tell me why you decided to write it?”

He thought about it. Nodded. Walked to his bedroom area and pulled the curtain across. When he came out, wearing threadbare sweats and another old T-shirt (this one: Charlie’s Angels), he went to the fridge and got his sparkling water, then came to sit beside me on the couch. Took a long drink, belched discreetly, and leaned his head back. Winced.

“How sore?”

He looked at me without moving. “I can tell I banged my head, put it that way.”

“How about the elbows?” Another point of impact.

“No, they’re fine.” I put out a hand; he stared at it for a second, then gave me one of his. I rotated the arm to verify his assertion. When I gave him back his arm and glanced up, he was grinning at me. “You sure found the right line of work.”

I f*****g blushed. Drank some of that fizzy s**t. Stifled my own belch. “I was an EMT, then paramedic. Physician assistant now, I do set work on the side.”

“Good for you. How old are you? Because you could be anything from twenty to sixty. Those goddamned Polynesian genes.” He drank some more water, apparently untroubled. Sat there with his eyes closed, looking tired but relaxed.

“Thirty-six,” I said, trying not to stare at his hair. Dark blond and wavy and shoulder-length, like I thought. “Have you always worked in the movies?”

“Since I was eighteen,” he said. “But I have a side hustle as a night word processor for a law firm. Pays the rent so I don’t have to sweat if I don’t get booked for anything for a while.”

“Is that a full-time thing?”

“Not anymore. Not since I got my union card.”

“SAG?”

“Yep. Good insurance plan.” I didn’t say anything else for a minute; he opened his eyes and slanted a look at me. “I’ve done stunts or background in close to two hundred movies and TV shows. Doubled everything from a teenage cowgirl to an eighty-year-old shooting victim.”

“Usually women?”

“Mmm. There’s a lot of parts where women get banged up somehow, and I’m a good size. Plus I’ve got skills.” Eyes closed again, smiling lazily.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. Guns, driving, horses, motorcycle. I grew up on a farm. Out in the Heartland.” He gave it an obvious capital H that was obviously ironic, and suddenly I didn’t even need to ask why he was writing a memoir.