Faces in Time (11 page)

“That makes two of us.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch that.”

“Oh, nothing; I’m just not too fond of these parties either. Writers at their table in the corner, getting drunk and arguing about etymology or some minutia of
Star Trek
.”

She laughs.

“And, network executives talking loudly, telling jokes and slapping people on their backs at the punch line. Producers trying to be friendly with staff that they might have yelled at yesterday. Starlets trying to schmooze their way into their next role.”

Her smile breaks down.

“Oh, Miss Romero, I didn’t mean you. I was talking more about tipsy over there,” as he motions his head in the direction of the brunette who now has her arm around Harvey’s waist as both a career and balance support.

Rhonda’s smile is half the distance of returning fully.

“You’re funny, Mr. Fuze.”

“You can call me Chaz. Is it okay to call you Rhonda?”

“Only if I can call you Chester,” smiling now.

“Chester, huh? Most people call me Chaz, but, yeah, you can call me Chester if you like.” He struggles to keep his excitement from bursting forth and scaring her away.

“It’s just,” she wrinkles her nose, “different. Different and nice.”

He smiles awkwardly, words evaporating in his brain, full of molten emotion at hearing her say his name.

She flings her hand out toward his shoulder, but not touching, which he appreciates more than contact, “O-o-o, I didn’t say that well. It’s a nice name, and I’m not fond of cutting nice names short.”

“That sounds like a great reason to me, and I wasn’t offended.”

She snickers, “It’s a good thing Mr. Price’s over there by the bar; he’d’ve wanted to kill me for being so awkward.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, Rhonda; he’s no good for you anyway.”

Raising a thin red eyebrow, like the top of a fiery question mark, “Now, what makes you say that?”

Scratching at his neck, “Well, you call him Mr. Price for starters. What does he call you?”

“Rhonda,” she pauses, “Well, not all the time. Most of the time I’m ‘darlin,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘baby.’”

“Does that bother you?”

“No, I don’t think it does. He…he doesn’t mean anything by it; that’s just how agents are. Hollywood’s a weird place.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“So, why is he bad for me? Mr. Fuze, you’ve captured my interest in this one.”

“Mmmmm, he’s not a nice guy. Working in Hollywood, you hear some things, and he’s not a good person.”

“Got me work; he got me on my first TV show. Got me in this party tonight.”

“Yes, but that’s not a reason to be rude to you.”

Twisting her lips for a moment, “at makes you so convinced that he’s bad for me? Didn’t you say that you’re a new writer?”

“Yeah, I am a new writer, but that’s my job: I study people. Good writers study people around them for behaviors. You can’t write a believable character without knowing how that character would act in real life.”

“I see, and how do you think I would act?”

“You act a lot more polite than Mr. Price. I can already see that much.”

“What else do you see, Chester?” she asks with a raise in both corners of her lips.

Pointing inconspicuously with his hand across his midsection, “See Harvey over there? He’s picked out the most drunken girl at the bar to have a conversation with. She definitely doesn’t work for the show; got to be an actress. And, low and behold; there’s his business card. Mr. ‘I can make your dreams come true’ and an eager and hopeful girl are making a business transaction of sorts. There’s nothing friendly about it.”

He smiles as he looks back toward her, mildly amused at how fortuitous it was for Harvey to have taken out his business card in the middle of Chester’s analysis of the situation. With her eyes growing soft, her face looks like she’s been slapped.

“I’m sorry, Rhonda, did I say something wrong? Sometimes I get a little overzealous when I’m trying to be funny. Probably why the show hired me.”

Releasing her lip, “That’s not how I signed with him. I would…I would never…”

“Oh, oh, of course you wouldn’t. Man, I’m an idiot. He would never behave like that with you because you have talent. This girl is drunk at a party. He has no intention of representing her—he hasn’t even seen any of her work. He just wants her to think he will. I mean I wouldn’t trust him if I were you. I wouldn’t put him past hitting on you, especially as beautiful as you are. I just know you wouldn’t go for it.”

She sniffles, and turns her face into a smile.

“What? What is it?” he asks.

“You said ‘beautiful.’ Most boys say ‘pretty.’”

“Well, it’s true. I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s nice. It’s nicer than the shorter version. Just like Chester.”

He snickers. He knew she was smart, despite what all the rag grocery store newspapers would purport. He had seen her in interviews, and he felt the depth of the emotion in her movies. No one could be that convincing without understanding the situation of the scene fully: every motivation, the correlation to the other characters, how the person would be feeling. Her job isn’t that much different than his.

He also saw her blush when he complimented her. He has always believed she was really shy and not stuck-up, and that others took advantage of her. He knew she wasn’t easy, despite what everyone loved to believe.

Brutish movements stir at the bar.

The interloper who sprinkled Chester with his vodka earlier has now spilled the watery drink at the bar that he was sipping, and he asks the bartender loudly, “What’re you looking at?”

The people in the immediate area turn their heads away from him at the question, pretending to find their original conversations, their drinks, or their shoes to be more interesting than his spill and shout.

Chester
still watches him. He knows the man at the bar all too well, and tonight was the night the man met Rhonda the first time around. The trouble is stirring already, and he’s barely spoken to her so far. He has to prevent the sloppy man from getting to her.

His whole trip pends on one conversation, and that does little to calm his nervousness that he so desperately doesn’t want her to notice.

The drunk’s eyes are on the redheaded bombshell. His brows are raised in appraisal. They dart to Chester, and then furrow with his lips sneering. They return to Rhonda, who looks away quickly.

“So,” she asks, “what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you out,” knowing his time is growing short.

Surprise is followed by a smile, and then it turns to pain as a tray of fried chicken bumps her elbow.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” says a woman of similar height, with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, wearing a waiter’s formal black and white garb, complete with bowtie.

“Are you alright?” asks Chester.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” rubbing her elbow.

The server asks, “Would either of you care for some chicken?”

“Yes, I’d like to try a piece,” answers Rhonda.

“Okay, I’ll have one too,” he says as he watches her daintily grab a leg.

Watching her lips as she takes a bite is something special for him. She’s not overly cautious, but her natural grace has always been a point of interest. Without any conscious effort, her movements are mesmerizing. Perhaps that’s why acting comes so easily to her.

Placing a hand over her mouth as she chews, “So, just where were you planning on taking me, Mr. Chester Fuze?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe we could go out back behind the dumpster.”

She coughs.

He puts his hand up to her shoulder, “Rhonda, I’m sorry. I was just joking. I’m a comedy writer. When I’m nervous, I fall back on jokes.”

Her coughing stops, and her face relaxes.

He continues, “Coffee would be nice, maybe a movie, a drink, whatever you feel like. Honestly, I’m sorry. That was a bad joke.”

Removing her hand from her mouth, a slick smile takes shape, “So, Chester, what exactly is making you nervous? Do I make you nervous?”

“You always have,” the words fly out of his mouth.

Confusion surfaces at her eyes and mouth.

His stomach sinks.

“What do you mean I always have? You just met me. What are you talking about?”

“I…I…”

“Are you one of those—what do you know about me? How could I have made you nervous before?”

The worry on her face hurts him more than the fear that he’s ruined his own chance with her.

“I’ve always been in awe of you.”

She stares, lips quivering.

“I told you I’m a big fan of your acting on
The Arcade Life
. Whenever you act, I’m mesmerized. I’m a little star-struck.”

Eyes lock. Two yearning, two softening slightly.

“What do you know about me?”

His eyes fall toward his feet.

“Chester?”

He looks up. Her eyes grab hold of his. Their perfect green mesmerizes him.

“What do you know about me? Don’t lie to me; tell me what you know.”

He sighs, “I know you had a stalker arrested a few months ago. I know that this conversation must be scaring you because of it.”

“Well, yes, it is a little scary,” she leans forward closer to him, “But, what else do you know? I can tell you know something.”

“I know the guy at the bar, the loud one, he’s been staring at you. He’s drunk, and he’s violent, and he’s going to hit on you before the night’s over. No matter what, please don’t go with him.”

Feeling his ship is going down, his panic is for her.

She looks to the bar, and sees the man is indeed staring at her hungrily.

“What makes you so sure about him? He is looking at me, but how do you know? How do you know about Harvey? You seem like you could be very nice, but you’re creeping me out. And, how do you know about the man I had arrested?”

“Okay, you don’t have to say it. What about the other stuff?”

“I buy groceries.”

“What?”

“The stalker story was in the grocery tabloids. I read the headlines while I’m in line. Your story was on a day with a new cashier and a lot of price checks.”

“Uh huh,” she says with confliction.

“Harvey didn’t look at you when he talked to you. It was like you were supposed to be watching and listening to his every word, but he couldn’t be bothered with granting you his attention in return.”

She chuckles awkwardly, “Every man I’ve ever known has talked to me like that.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”