An Accidental Affair (13 page)

“And most of them used to be actresses.”

We kissed again, kissed for a while, felt each other up, and then we got out of the car.

I said, “I’m surprised that you got in contact with me. You had your agent call my agent.”

“That’s how we do it in Hollywoodland.”

“Sure is. Still, it surprised me. I thought you were done with me.”

“I wanted to see you for dinner. This morning I arrived home to a surprise and it sort of threw me for a loop. I needed to get away. I figured you would be good company.”

“Something happened?”

“Nothing that I want to talk about. Didn’t mean to say that much.”

Her phone rang again. Her publicist. She took the call and moved away from me, walked around my white, spotless garage. Talking, moving between anger and moments where she shook her head and laughed a laugh that expressed irony. She touched the cars. Rolls-Royce Ghost. Bentley Mulsanne. Maserati Quattroporte S. Porsche Panamera Turbo. She passed my favorite, the Maybach 62 S. Paused at the Audi A8. BMW Alpina B7. Lexus LS 600h.

She finished her call and came back to me. “All of your mouth-watering toys.”

“And Regina Baptiste.”

“I bet that you’ve gotten laid inside of all of these cars.”

“Not by you. But we can if you want to. Would love to reciprocate for that road head.”

“Can’t. My publicist is panicking and just talked up all the time that I had left. Told you. I really need to be home in time for this Skype call. It’s been scheduled all day long.”

“You make the call sound more business than personal.”

“It is. Trust me, it is. And I am not one to forsake business for pleasure.”

“So my time is officially up.”

She pouted. “I have to go. I told you that I could sneak out for dinner, but I have to go.”

“Bobby Holland’s not home for a few more days.”

“He’ll Skype me in a couple of hours. We have a few things…to discuss.”

Again, when she mentioned Bobby Holland, her disposition changed, went south. Unhappiness had made her put on a meat dress and dazzle everyone at the event last night. That same unhappiness had sent her to a bar and put her on a barstool next to me.

I asked, “You like who you are when you’re with him?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “Don’t ask me that.”

“What about now? How do you feel while you’re with me?”

“This is new, Thicke. This isn’t even real. Besides, new always feels better until it becomes old. Holland felt new. But he never felt like this. This is a different kind of new. New becomes old then we go after what’s new again. We chase that feeling like we chase our dreams. I’m new to you too. Are you with the movie star or the woman? Which are you with?”

“You’re a movie star? No shit? I thought you were an accountant.”

“What makes me any different from the rest of the women that you’ve taken to bed?”

“You’re from Montana with Spanish Wells and UK roots. Your personality, you have something that makes you stand out. You’re naturally
beautiful too. Most women up here have implants, capped front teeth, and contacts to give their eyes a better shade. You’re all real.”

“I had my nose done.”

“Just when I thought you were perfect. Thanks for bursting that bubble.”

“I was lured here by the Hollywood lucre, just like everyone else, Thicke.”

“Maybe. But we all are.”

“There are a million women here who are prettier than I am. I just got lucky.”

“You have something that no one else has. It’s indescribable. And marketable.”

“Nothing like a beautiful woman peddling tampons and Midol.”

“You should have your own clothing line. Your own perfume. You should be like Elizabeth Taylor. And you should be spending your nights with a better man than Holland.”

“Interesting answer, Thicke. Interesting answer on a day like today.”

“Stay.”

“What?”

“I want you to stay the night. I stayed with you a night. You owe me a night.”

She paused. “Is this about sex?”

“Stay and we can find out.”

“How do you see me?”

“You’re a hardworking and determined woman. I’m a hardworking and determined man. For me the diligent, strong-minded woman is in itself an aphrodisiac.”

She almost smiled. “Describe me as a film. Tell me how you see me.”

“You’d be a Spanish film with lots of music and dancing, a character with a dark side in a movie with good wine and decadent food, familial obligation, and lots of laughter.”

We looked at each other again.

She said, “You’d be a French film, introspective, witty, realistic, and lusty with urban grit.”

We kissed for a very long time. Kissed until we both had hungry looks in our eyes.

I whispered, “Stay.”

“We’ve already done enough damage. I cheated on Bobby Holland. I’m sure a few women are trying to figure out why you’re off radar and where you’ve been for the last few hours.”

“We don’t have to have sex.”

“Don’t do this, Thicke. This was just supposed to be a nice dinner date. An escape. Told you I had a very bad morning. I have to be home soon to take this important call.”

“Stay.”

“No. That’s not possible. And don’t be forceful with me. It’s a turnoff.”

“Please?”

She paused. “Did you just say please?”

“Yes.”

Again she paused. “And if I stay?”

“Stay.”

She moaned and kissed me again. “Baby, I have to go home and do my laundry.”

“How many excuses do you have?”

“I really have to do my laundry.”

“Bring it here and do it.”

“Serious? I can bring my basket of jeans and Agent Provocateur here and wash?”

“I have three washers and three dryers and a laundry room the size of a McDonald’s.”

“James,
we’ve done enough damage
. And I can’t be here.
You know I can’t be here
.”

I pulled her to me and kissed her shoulders, her neck, pulled her dress away from her shoulders and took her breasts out, sucked and licked each one until she almost exploded.

With her nipple between my teeth, as she panted, I whispered, “Stay.”

She took a breath, moaned, and squirmed. I put my hand between her legs, massaged her with my fingers. She moaned. I eased a finger inside of her. She moaned louder.

Regina Baptiste stared at me, her chest rising and falling. “Wait a second.”

She adjusted her dress, stepped away and took out her cell. I pretended that I didn’t care who she had to call. But I did. Even then, after only being with her one night, after one dinner, I cared. Whoever she called, her body language never became intimate.

She came back to me and asked, “What’s your address? My assistant needs it.”

“She’s coming tonight?”

“She’s going to walk the dogs tonight and bring my laundry in a few hours. She’s wonderful. She’s from Turkey. Well-spoken and so professional. Today was the worst day that I’ve had in a long, long time and she really helped me keep my head on straight. Some days it seems like all I have are enemies in this business. Love her to death and trust her with my life. She does everything, no matter what, and never complains. She’ll be here with laundry by ten.”

“Not Bobby Holland’s laundry. Leave his skid marks at his house.”

“I don’t do his laundry. I’ve never done his laundry. Only do my own.”

I told her my address so that it could be fed into her assistant’s GPS.

She stepped away again and continued her phone call. It looked like her publicist had called again. Minutes passed before she nodded, hung up, and came back to me.

She licked her lips and smiled. “So tonight I’m Spanish and you’re French.”

Minutes later we were in the shower in my master suite, eight shower heads on, picking up from where we had left off in the car. Regina Baptiste had her back to the wall and I was down on my knees servicing her. Water from one showerhead cascaded down my face and neck. When I stood up, Regina reached for one of the showerheads and I watched her while she placed it between her long legs, watched her find heaven as the stream pulsated on her clit. Her mouth opened, eyes closed, and her left hand held the wall. I watched her come twice. It was like watching a dream. Then I took her from behind, worked her slowly, one hand wrapped around her waist, the other cupped over her breast, fingers twisting and pulling at her nipples.

Not long after, we put on white robes and stepped outside. Underneath she wore her Agent P thong and I had my jeans back on. We stopped by the pool. There was a bivouac, in case I ever wanted to sleep outside under the stars. She was impressed with the property.

She said, “The bottom of your pool is painted so beautifully.”

“The pool’s floor is blown glass sculptures inlaid, with heavy flat glass over top.”

“How much does something like that cost?”

“Too much.”

“Tell me. Over one hundred thousand?”

“Ten times that.”

She stared at the art for a moment. “Pool is heated?”

“Seventy-five degrees.”

She dropped her robe and stepped down into the shallow end, created ripples.

She said, “I love your spread. So peaceful here. So tranquil. I need this environment.”

“Thanks.”

“I thought you’d retort by saying you like the way I spread my legs.”

“I love that too. But the road-head could make me give up all other forms of sex.”

“Sorry if I was too rough. I was pretty aggressive.”

“Very. Tonight you look like you’re filled with aggression.”

She looked at my world within a world. “This is a wonderful place to hide.”

“Thanks. There’re bigger homes around. Especially going up toward the amphitheatre. Lots of old money. The people who the people who make decisions report to are up there.”

“I love this area. Everyone here is rich and dresses so casually. I love it.”

She went in to her neck, walked around for a couple of minutes, then went underwater, swam, and touched the bottom. She surfaced and looked up at the dark sky before she came back out. I sat down and she swam lap after lap. She swam aggressively. With anger.

When she had finished I met her with a big white towel.

I asked, “Feel better now?”

She dried her hair. “Not even close.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“We can have sex again later. Sometimes a good fuck makes it all seem better.”

“When you’re stressed out, you like to have sex.”

She nodded.

She was still upset, the tension palatable.

Barefoot, hair wet, no makeup on, in a long white cotton robe, Regina Baptiste followed me, her hand hanging onto two of my fingers, as we retraced our steps, moved from room to room, took in the
trestled-ceiling living room with arched doorways. She loved the bathrooms and bedrooms. She smiled when she saw the eating area, the Bouquet Canyon Stone flooring, the formal dining room. She inspected the pots, pans, and Viking appliances.

She said, “I love to cook. Well, I used to.”

“You don’t cook at all?”

“As an act of rebellion. Let Bobby Holland feed his own whiney regrets.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She looked at the time on the microwave, lips pulled in, concerned and angry.

I stepped away to go to the bathroom and when I returned she had a credit card in her hand. She had poured blow and done a line from the top of my counter. She wiped away excess power with her fingertips, and then she massaged her gums. She stared at me a moment.

We stood in the window, staring out at the new pool with waterfalls in an oversized backyard that had trees and walls that gave total privacy.

She reached into her purse and handed me a DVD.

I asked, “What’s this?”

“My work. I forgot that I had brought you a reel of my best work.”

I popped it in the system and turned the projector on, the system playing footage first from her latest film, then all of her work for the last decade. The two-hundred-inch screen showed her wholesome image as a young mother in an action film. She was astonishing kicking butt on the big screen. In one film she was an action hero. Then in the next she was all dolled up and walking a modelesque sashay that would be imitated by many, a walk that she had worked on for weeks with a pageant coach, a man who helped her with her image and taught her how to sashay down the red carpet, how to stop, how to pose, how to have that movie-star appeal at all times.

She said, “Since you convinced me to stay, you should tell me about your next script.”

“One day, maybe.”

“No way your number-one fan can get a little sneak peek?”

I grinned then shook my head. “Nope.”

“The sex scenes in your scripts are the best in the business.”

“When they, anyone, only talk about the sex, that is a gross underestimation of what the material is about, and that takes away from the character and plot development.”

“Oh, I agree. I agree totally. It’s the same for me. If I do a film and at the junkets they only talk about the damn sex scene, which, on camera, is only a few seconds, it pisses me off.”

“They don’t understand what’s going on in the script.”

“Or what’s going on in a movie. For example, no one understood
Monster’s Ball
.”

I nodded. “I can’t argue that point. The sex made the plot a moot point.”

“It was about pain. Pain so deep that they both thought they were going to drown from the anguish. Pain is a bitch. No one comprehended the pain, the grief; the need to feel connected, to feel something other than misery. No one took in the purpose of the sex.”

“They could’ve made the same movie without the sex scene.”

“It was needed. She tried to fuck her pain away. Besides, sex is never really about sex.”

“Controversy made the movie sell.”

“To the stupid and shallow, yeah. We don’t exactly live in a literate or literary country.”

“Made the movie sell like iced water in Hell.”

“I’m not saying that for your ego, but you’re good at making actors look good with your words. It starts with the screenplay. Starts with the idea. You’re part of the foundation.”

“You’re racking up the brownie points over there.”