Underneath It All (21 page)

John Enos was the kind of guy my mother should have warned me about. This six-foot-three Italian bad boy had blazing green eyes, dark chocolate-brown hair, and an appetite for destruction. He should have come with a "Proceed at Your Own Risk" sign. He was a bull in a china shop, a walk on the wild side, a testosterone-driven madman. He drove Harley-Davidson motorcycles, enjoyed a good barroom brawl, and drank Jack and Cokes like water.
He was as far away from the Brooks of the world as one could get, and at the time that's exactly what I was looking for.
John was no stranger to life in the fast lane. He'd seen it all. He was an ex-model/actor who had appeared on the pages of Vogue and traveled the world as one of the "beautiful people." He'd wined and dined with the best of them. He walked the walk and knew all the shortcuts. He'd had his share of famous girlfriends, the most recent being Madonna, and needless to say my frantic schedule and budding music career were nothing compared with hers. It didn't faze him.
With my single topping out at number two on the charts, my video added to Les Garland's The Box (an interactive version of MTV), and a new guy in my life, I had no time to spare. I
traveled all over the United States, the United Kingdom, and Germany promoting my music career.

For two years John and I dated and lived in a world of dinners, parties, designer clothes, and trips to Miami. I felt like I was at the hub of everything exciting that was going on in Holllywood. And it was fun. But after a while, it left me longing a hot bath and a clear head. I grew sick of the rumors, sick of the champagne and caviar, and just wanted a quieter life. In spite of all my experiences, at heart I was really a small-town girl who wanted simple things —a fireplace and a home-cooked meal. Enos didn't have those things to offer, and although I knew it, I hoped it would change.
It was during this period that I was cast in the Wesley Snipes movie Blade.
Even before John and I moved in together I knew it wasn't right, but I did it anyway. Why did I do it? Because I
realllllly
wanted it to work. I wanted to be in love again, get a house, get married, have kids, recapture the dream I'd given up years before. But Johnny was no Brook and you can never go backward, only forward, and I was hanging on to the past.
As I unpacked the first moving boxes, I found myself tempted to reload the truck and make a break for it. That little voice inside my head screamed run! But I didn't listen. Instead I took a deep breath and convinced myself I'd made the right decision. Taking a seat in the sun in the backyard, I twisted my hair into a knot and asked myself the big question: Do I love him? And the answer was yes. I did. But was I really over my marriage? Should I tell John I need time?
He was due to arrive with all his worldly possessions any minute and more into this house with me. How do I tell him I still harbor feelings for my ex-husband? Was I just nervous about making a commitment? Oh man . . . oh man . . . oh man. . . .
I sat there staring out into our backyard stroking Mr. Steve's furry belly. He was such a good listener. "You like it here, buddy?" He yawned lazily, bored with my head trips.
I'm just being silly. Look at this place. It's all good. Don't worry about it, girl.
It was a great old Spanish-style house. The rosebushes that lined the driveway reminded me of Granny Harris's house (minus the ugly parts). I'd come a long way from those bloody sidewalks. . .. Searching the sky, I wondered if my great-granny was watching me now from heaven.
John and I moved in together that afternoon. He arrived with a smile on his face and his dogs at his heels. Yes, that's right dogs! Enzo and Lucy were to Johnny what Mr. Steve was to me—buddies. Although I wasn't a dog person and the idea of having two pit bulls around made me nervous, I'd spent a lot of time with his dogs and really liked them. Johnny and I agreed the dogs would stay outside, where they had an enormous backyard to run in. He assured me the only real problem with our animals coexisting was in my head. But just to be on the safe side, he promised the house would be a dog-free zone. I sealed up the doggy door and began to relax, giving Mr. Steve full run of the house.
My head was filled with thoughts about my next album when the opportunity came up for me to audition for a regular role on the NBC series
Profiler
for producers Kim Moses and Ian Sanders. Ultimately, I won the role of the resident psycho Jill. It was an incredible moment. I was now a series regular! My agent, Stephen LaManna, and Juliet and I were thanking our lucky stars. It was an undeniable victory. All the pieces of my career were falling perfectly into place.
I reported for work on Profiler two weeks later and came home that afternoon to find my beautiful living room filled with congratulatory flowers, cards, and gift baskets from my agents, friends, and the folks at NBC. I was floating on air. I settled into the sofa to read the cards.
My handsome boyfriend walked in the door a few minutes later, laughing that with all the flowers around the house looked like a morgue. He just stood there in the doorway staring at me for a moment. Then he tossed me a little red box, which nearly bonked me in the face.
Hey!
I totally didn't get it. Then I opened the box to find a stunning diamond the size of Texas winking at me. I was speechless.
"Well . . . will you?" he asked as casually as if he was asking me to dinner.
He kissed me, not waiting for a response, and placed the ring on my finger. "I love you, baby." And in that moment my doubts gave way to the fairy-tale dream.
"I love you too," I said, kissing him back.
A month later, it fell apart.
I got home late one evening from work on the Profiler set to find dogs running free in the house. I called for Johnny, praying Mr. Steve was okay.
I found my cat's mauled carcass on the back steps of our house. He'd been dragged out into the yard and torn apart by the dogs. I became hysterical.
What if that had been our kid?! What am I doing? How could I be with a man who's so irresponsible? What the hell am I thinking!!??.
I was stunned. Sobbing hysterically I called Vince, who now lived nearby. I told him what had happened and he came right over. We wrapped Mr. Steve up in my favorite Dr. Seuss bathrobe and called the pet cemetery. John walked through the front door and found me with my dead cat in my arms. Honestly, it wouldn't have mattered how many times he said he was sorry or how much he wished he could take it back. But the fact that he didn't say those things until much later only pushed me over the edge. He'd fucked up big time and confirmed all my worst fears about him.
I ended the relationship that night. His apologies met deaf ears as he offered to buy me a new cat. He really didn't get it and I felt like a moron for wasting my time with someone so insensitive. My cat had died a hideous death, and the fact that John didn't take responsibility for what his dogs had done was inexcusable. But it was more than that. It opened a Pandora's box. I'd known life with him wouldn't be as quiet as I might have dreamed and I knew he wasn't perfect, but I really thought I could trust him. And while I may have overlooked the other things, I couldn't ignore this one. I buried myself in my work.
I was in the mood to play a serial killer. . . .

My life as a steadily employed single woman left me with little time to contemplate the breakup with Enos. As casually as he'd arrived in my life two years earlier, he'd disappeared from it now. My world was mine again and it was a kinder, gentler place. I set the pace, made the rules, and chose my playmates much more carefully after that.
Unlike in times past, I wasn't looking to forget my problems. I was just giving myself some room to breathe and a stricter set of guidelines to work from. I was done with bad boys and said good-bye to the fast crowd I'd been hanging with. I kept my head down, avoided my old haunts, and plowed straight ahead.
Enjoying the harsh pace series regulars are expected to perform at, I found the nonstop schedule invigorating. In the mornings I did pilates in a small West Hollywood studio. The Zen-like atmosphere grounded me and put me in the right state of mind for work. I went on a major health kick, determined to give up smoking once and for all. Typical Traci — all or nothing, hot or cold.
But would I ever master that balance thing?
I would leave the workout space with the remnants of my former nicotine vice pouring out of my skin and head home to Casa Martel to grab a quick shower before work. The
Profiler
stage was only a hop, skip, and a jump away, and I had the schedule wired. I arrived on the set each day with just enough time for a hazelnut latte and a quick chat with costar Dennis Christopher before going into makeup. We had already established a rapport, having worked together years before on the film
Circuitry Man II
. I was thrilled when I learned he was playing the mysterious Jack. He was a gracious actor, completely confident in his work, unafraid to do the dance.
The first episode showed Jack collecting me from a woman's prison and then transforming me into a look-alike of female Ally Walker's character, Sam, with whom he was obsessed Once the makeup department had finished with me, I bore a haunting resemblance to the actress. Walking onto the set first time, I was greeted by producer Ian Sanders with a "Good morning, Ally," as the makeup people cheered behind me. Success!
Ian Sanders and Kim Moses had championed my casting in this role and I was indebted to them. They are that rare breed of producers who actually like actors, and I was excited to hear that Ian was directing my first episode, my respect for him driving me to work even harder.
I spent the better part of that year performing bizarre killings at the request of my master, Jack. I studied all the bones in the human body, and learned the quickest way to murder someone. My homework was a bit creepy—the hanging charts of body parts in my home were a major deterrent for potential dates. It was not uncommon for me to drive home from a late-night shoot covered in fake blood, and I often wondered how I would explain myself if I was ever pulled over by the police. .
I began doing double publicity duty for
Profiler
and the soon-to-be-released
Blade
, the Wesley Snipes film I'd shot the previous summer. Juliet and I traveled to New York to attend the film's world premiere. I was flattered to be invited as I took my place among
Blade
stars Snipes and Stephen Dorff. I walked on the red carpet wearing a gorgeous midnight blue silk gown. I felt more confident than ever.
Returning to Los Angeles to finish my stint on Profile', I was sad to leave my pals behind but definitely ready to put down my weapons. I had no idea what was next but had the urge to do a nice light comedy!
I spent my suddenly free days digging around in my rose garden. I talked to the flowers, fed the hummingbirds, and wandered down the street for early dinners with my buddy John Tierney, who owned the Hollywood hot spot Muse. John was like a brother to me and we often shared tales of our very different life experiences over delicious meals at his restaurant. I was, however, a bit baffled by his presence in my life, and during one of these dinners I asked him right out if he thought it was odd we were friends. "I mean, what's in it for you?" I asked.
He set his drink down, looked me in the eye, and said, "I can't believe you still don't get what an amazing person you are. I'm in awe of you. You remind me that if you could rise above the obstacles in your life, then I certainly have nothing to bitch about."
I was stunned: someone could relate to my struggle.
I left the restaurant deep in thought. Tierney's words had really hit me. I was shedding another layer. I was like an onion with layer after layer of life slowly being revealed.
Blade
opened to sensational business. It was the number one movie in America. My agents were thrilled and so was I.
Holy cow! Sanity and a film career?

My blue-and-white ribbed Nike slip-on tennis shoes sloshed along the slick pavement. I felt my heart racing as I sprinted the final mile. The drizzling rain freckled my face and I grit my teeth, swallowing the burn in my side as I pounded the joggers' path toward Yale Town in Vancouver, British Columbia.
I doubled over to catch my breath, exhilarated from the five-mile run to Stanley Park. Soaked to the bone, I walked in little circles while watching the morning's first water taxi float by.
It was an Ansel Adams—looking day. The sky was painted with gray swipes against the fluffy white cauliflower clouds. I closed my eyes and breathed in the glorious moment, stretching my quads across the street from the high-rise I currently called home in what was by now pouring rain. My G-shock watch read 5:05 A.M.
I'd better get a move on
. I headed for my new Vancouver digs as Sade's "Bullet Proof Soul" pumped through my Walkman.
I'd been cast in the Larry Sugar—Chris Brancato—Francis Ford Coppola series
First Wave
in the role of Jordan Radcliffe, an heiress whose privileged life is destroyed by her parents' murder. She learns that all alien force is responsible for the killings and, using her considerable fortune, she starts an under ground militia to light the invasion. It was exactly the kind of role I excel in--the feisty underdog. She was a kick-ass, whip-smart Sigourney-Weaver-in-
Aliens
-meets-Linda-Hamilton-in
Terminator
kind of woman and I loved playing her. Only weeks into my new Canadian lifestyle, I had zero homesickness, and enjoyed a freedom and peace of mind that I had never experienced before.
I welcomed the change of scenery Canada afforded me. I felt energized and only missed the sweet felines I'd recently adopted named Malickai and Pea, whom I'd left in my sister's care. One thing was certain in my family we all had an absolute love for cats.
At 5:17 I crossed the street and punched in the security code for 239 Drake Street. Getting to my rooftop apartment, I stripped off my wet clothes and welcomed a hot shower, babbling out loud to myself as I practiced the day's dialogue. I dried and dressed quickly, pulling a "Vancouver Canucks" sweatshirt over my newly scarlet hair.
I loved it here in my rooftop paradise. Producer Lany Sugar had hooked me up with a real-estate agent who specialized in finding housing for visiting actors after I had mentioned that living in a hotel for an extended period of time just wasn't working for me. He went out of his way to please me and I rewarded him with home-baked chocolate cakes.
My driver arrived promptly at 5:45 A.M. We collected our preordered Starbucks coffee on the way to the set and Roger dropped me off in front of my dressing room a few minutes later. There I cranked the stereo, singing "Superlove" along with Macy Gray—"We are the genius of love, feel like an ex—X-rated movie star, it's the way you love me down, the way you love me down" —as I changed into Jordan's skintight black leather pants.
Checking my leather-covered bottom in the mirror, I approved of
First Wave
costume designer Vicky Mulholland's choice of combat gear—
not bad, lady
and headed off to the makeup department to see the paint slappers.
Helloooooooooo
, I kissed Donna Stocker, the head of the makeup department, on the nose and plopped down into the hair chair, where my unruly locks would be beaten into submission by
Danna Rutherford, aka Danna Danna Banana, Fe Fi Fo Fanna, Danna. . . .
Six forty-five A.M. I was wide awake as episode director Ken Geraldi bounced into the makeup trailer, saying "Hello, ladies!" I was always thrilled to see Ken. He was my favorite director on
First Wave
, a real goof ball whom everyone loved. His silly nature and self-deprecating humor always kept the set atmosphere light. We'd hit it off immediately and took turns playing jokes on each other. He was a down-to-earth guy with an impeccable eye for detail. He didn't pussyfoot around actors. He went right to the heart of what he wanted. After a take I could look at him from across the room and know what he wanted done differently
just by the way he walked toward me. It was kind of like Mind Reading 101, and I loved doing that dance with him.
Series creator Chris Brancato took my character, Jordan, through some serious battles throughout the third season of
First Wave
. Jordan immediately clashed with Cade Foster, played by actor Sebastian Spence, and their struggle for power eventually led to a joining of forces as they fought to save I lit world from the aliens known as "the Gua."
It was a physically demanding role. Jordan was the jock of the show, which meant I suffered many a broken nail! And while Spence was nursing a back injury, I was the one who had to do all the running, jumping, and scaling of buildings. But I wasn't complaining. Playing with the stunt guys, I became fascinated with Ninjitsu (a style of martial arts) and started training with a Ninjitsu master Donald Munro. He worked in Larry Sugar's production office so word of my victories spread last. Donald taught me how to throw a two-hundred-pound man. I was very good at it and kept a mental list of future potential victims. By the end of the season I had graduated to a brown belt.
Spence and I had chemistry on-screen and Brancato took full advantage of it, always putting Jordan and Cade nose-to-nose without letting them touch, teasing the audience for a full season. My on-screen relationship with Spence was the closest to a man I'd let myself be in months. I was single and intentionally dateless, having grown leery of all those possessing a penis. I'd become very
Sex in the City
, enjoying months of gi 1.1 talk and cosmopolitans with my makeup and hair team coworkers, Donna Stocker and Danna Rutherford. We spent many long days on the set together and had become close friends. It was just me and the six-foot Canadian blond girls. They became my designated bodyguards, and the "Green Machine," aka manager Juliet Green, was very happy with the merger.
Juliet checked in on me often, and we spent most weekends on the phone gossiping about work. We'd become very close, particularly over the past year, and she was the one person I missed most besides my buddy John -Tierney. I often called John from my living room as I'd watch the Vancouver rowing team stroke by my window. Usually they were shirtless, and man—the arms on those men!
Now I was calling John to let him know that I had a three-day break coming up and I was heading to L.A. We made plans for a dinner date that Saturday at Muse. I was going home for
the weekend! I was going to play with the kitties! Yay! I did a jig in the living room, waving to the Peeping Torn across the way who was watching me dance in my apron. Then I remembered Larry Sugar's birthday cake in the oven. Yikes! I saved it just in time from a bitter fate. Frosting the devilish morsel carefully, I placed it in the fridge for delivery tomorrow, before my escape.
Packing my weekend bag, I jumped into bed and fantasized about catching up with John and driving down Pacific Coast Highway in my black convertible. Eventually, my excitement gave way to sleep as I drifted off blissfully.
Work sped by the next day. After lunch I serenaded my boss. Placing the sinful cake in front of him, Danna and I sang him a "Happy Birthday, Sugar Baby" song and then planted kisses on his face before I scrambled for the airport to catch a flight back to Los Angeles.
I walked into Muse several hours later. It was lipstick lesbian night and I raised many a prettily tweezed eyebrow with my body-worshiping Dolce and Gabbana dress and sexy Gucci high-heeled sandals. John greeted me at the door with a good squeeze hello and whistled as I gave my best diva strut toward our usual table.
He ordered us a beautiful bottle of Caymus and I purred like a happy cat when the waitress placed two ounces of beluga caviar in front of me. John always ordered for me, knowing exactly what I liked. We clinked glasses before he darted off to the kitchen to speak with the chef, and I sank back comfortably into the soft leather booth.
I watched the ladies at the bar competing for one another's attention and then momentarily locked eyes with Jeff, the lone male bartender across the room. He smiled and I smiled back, taking him in. I remembered him well—he'd poured me several martinis over the years. Tonight he had his hands full, surrounded by a heck of a lot of estrogen, and I laughed to myself. . . .
Over an amazing dinner of salmon and mashed potatoes, John and I swapped stories about his love life and my Canadian adventures. The restaurant was packed, though, so he often had to excuse himself to tend to business. I didn't mind. Sitting contentedly at the candlelit table listening to Barry White croon, I was just glad to be in the company of friends.
Jeff took a break and slid into the booth beside me. Smiling warmly, he offered me another drink and we chatted until John Tierney returned, teasing me about how I'd replaced him so quickly. "Not on your life, honey," I said, excusing myself to the ladies' room and leaving the boys standing by the table. I looked over my shoulder and caught them watching me.
I felt beautiful.
Forty-five minutes later John and I called it a night. We made our way toward the front door and collided with Jeff on the way out. He offered me an arm.
Man, was he gorgeous
. I looped my arm through his and John's, and off we went to collect our cars from the valet. I gave Jeff a kiss on the cheek good night and turned my attention toward John, hugging him extra tight. "Thank you for an amazing evening," I said. "I'll see you soon, okay?" He grinned, peeling out in his Porsche.
I said good night to Jeff again and he pulled me close into a hug. Then he gave me a nice kiss, smack-dab on the lips. Whoa, I felt dizzy. I broke the moment, backing off.
Not bad," I said coolly, even though I was screaming on the inside. He laughed, his whole face lighting up. Holy cow—blazing green eyes!
He kissed me again . . . deeper. . . .
Wow!
"Ahh, it could use some work, "t quipped, leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk grinning like a Cheshire cat. Every hair on my body was standing up. I wasn't ready for this.