Chapter 59: Kraving Something Else (Patreon)

Chapter 59: Kraving Something Else

Anita’s Hacienda, Calabasas LA. 31st December 2010.

“Gotcha, Bas. I’ll see what I can do. Just, dude, while I do you this favour, do me one too, please. Don’t expect any miracles. Kicking your project up the chain of command at Disney is one thing - my overlords have big ears, so they’ll hear you out at the very least. Helps that you aren’t an unknown quantity. Mickey keeps a long ledger of talents he’s interested in - you’re one of ‘em. Trust me, I’ve seen your profile. They show it to me every time you send me a birthday cake, not so subtly prodding me to tempt you over. Nice hammer pants, by the way. You overdid it with the baby oil, though. The mouse’ll happily get your face out there for you - especially if they can slap their logo across your forehead.” 

“But if, and only if.” In an active effort to throw off WB’s oppressive yoke, I’d been laying plans to see what other baskets I can put my eggs in - for the short term only. Shame on me if I allow another corporation to coop me up. 

More specifically, rather than relying on Warner for the theatrical distribution of Limitless, I’d reached out to my network to see who else might be interested in my pitched script. Downey and his ever-strengthening position with Disney may very well be the debut I was shooting for. 

Though, as RDJ was persistent in preempting, it would come with its own costs. “Pretty much the long and short of it. My guess? At minimum, your pretty little face is gonna have to share screen time between your own movie and one of theirs - even if a year or two down the line. Still want me to bring it up to the brass?”

I could already envision myself drawing a pair of mouse ears with a CGI wand. ‘Hi, this is Bas Rhys, and you’re watching the Disney channel!’ digitally highlighting the destruction of my dignity. Nothing for it, though; even if it starts off shite, I can always attempt to spruce it up - or at the very least my own role. “Yes, please. Presumably, I’ll have to slip into spandex, in all likelihood. No biggie. Putting on a cape once isn’t gonna be a collar forever.”

“Alright, bud. Your funeral.” Merely in the sense that I was intent on burying my character after a single feature. “Now that that’s done and dusted, can we talk about something other than the job? I mean, seriously, sport. Cut yourself some slack, already. Fame doesn’t come cheap, but it comes with a metric ton of benefits - take advantage. Work, work, work all you want; but are you even stopping to smell the flowers?” The casual ease with which he expressed his unease filled my chest with momentary warmth, “or, you know, maybe pluck a few,” which I was inevitably forced to exhale in a chuckle. 

RDJ metaphorically suggested I sniff out something to pollinate. “I much prefer burying my nose in a bowl full of pot-pourri myself, honestly.” This honey B had a penchant and proboscis for more matured perfumes.

“Gross. I pray that Madonna never finds you.” 

A shudder ran through me as another vision played in my head. Somehow, there were more shackles and whips in that image than even the Disney delusion. “No worries, Downey. I’m not quite up for anything that… advanced,” in experience, if not age. 

“If not that either, then what exactly are you doing to kick back? Like right now, for example, chances are you’re holed up in some stuffy office - I can practically hear the tie around your neck!” Nagged and ragged in the same breath.

Therefore, no need to hold mine. “Ear hair trimmer - invest. Your chin beard’s meant to start below your sideburns, not next to them. I’ll have you know at this very moment I’m floating on a pink flamingo.” 

“Didn’t I warn you against drugs? Just because it’s winter doesn’t mean you hit the slopes, Bas! There’s better ways to party.”

Actually, my implication was a great deal more literal than a misunderstood literary device. Splash! A fierce flick of my foot tossed up a fountain of chlorine flavoured water. The ripple it caused swiftly evolved into a small shock of waves that rebounded off the pool walls. Spread eagle, I barely kept my balance on Anita’s giant, pink, flamingo-themed inflatable as I bobbed to the same rhythm as the overflow sloshing into the bordering grates. One hand kept my phone secured tightly to my face, while the other charitably brought my crystal of rum to my mouth. A sip later found a trickle of fire overwhelming the jolt of grateful emotion pulsing in my chest. “Feel free to show me the ropes, then. Tonight’s a perfect opportunity - I’ve got this shitty little shindig I must attend. Care to be my plus one?”

“No can do.” RDJ revealed he didn’t have the right attitude, and poor ‘ol Bas gets passed. “I’m doing my level best to avoid my own corporate obligations, thanks. Yours doesn’t sound any more tempting, either. Thankfully, I have the mother of my children as a valid excuse. I sorta assumed you’d have a similar one. Guy like you, with your proclivities? Where’s your mommies?” His phrasing wasn’t as salacious as it seemed; RDJ wasn’t inquiring about the ones ILF. 

“Unfortunately, my mommies are just giving me more issues. Even if I could tear Mrs Stephens away from the foster children in Wales during the holiday season, I’m certain she’d take one look at the sleazefest these industry parties are, drag me back in her duffel, and truss me up as a permanent fixture at the house. My career would be relegated to putting on school plays for children. Rowling was actually meant to be in attendance tonight, but when I asked her if we could go together, she said - and I quote verbatim,” compressing my larynx and channelizing every bit of British bite I knew her for, I ventriloquised Rowling’s voice through my mouth. “‘If I wanted a bunch of gaggling ghouls pointlessly gabbing away at me, I’d relinquish myself to the cesspit that is social media. But I shan’t be doing either.’ So, as it stands, I’ll not be changing my orphan status soon.”

“Ah, I get it. I was your last resort then, huh? Good for me, gives me far less guilt for rejecting you.”

“C’mon, man!”

“See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya-!” Boop! He disconnected, leaving me discontent.

“Do not worry, Bas,” Fedex’s head breached the water’s surface, “you are never alone with me around.”

“Thanks, Fed. Doesn’t solve my problem, though. You’re not exactly planning on going arm-in-arm with me, are you?” Fluttering my leg again, I splashed her face in admonishment. Water off a duck’s back, though. Her swim cap and goggles allowed her to remain unflappable.

“Ah, that is true.” Swishing her limbs and stroking through the water, she treaded over to me, grabbed my glass of rum out of my hands. “as it is, I must have them free to keep strangers from getting you in trouble, no?” Fedex paddled over towards the edge of the pool and handed over my stolen drink to Anita. Following which, she propelled herself off the wall and continued her laps.

“Before you ask, no, I won’t be joining you tonight, either.” Anita rose languidly from her deck chair, polished off the last sip swirling around the bottom, and set the empty glass aside. Her sarong and floppy sun hat were about the only things covering her shame, since neither her bikini nor her words were capable of it currently. “I’m gonna be traipsing over town from one studio party to the next.” Anita had a packed agenda; which, considering WB and WME had their own, was vitally important. “Plus, I gotta rep my other clients, too. Dwayne, Emma, remember them?”

How could I forget? Her name served as another stark reminder of my bachelorhood. For a brief minute, I contemplated… Nah. 

I plunged my head underwater and reset my system. Reemerging from the blue, I spat out water and sarcasm both. “Wow! Fine, go prioritise your mistresses. I’ll just be a good little trophy wife,” I sensually caressed my bare, bronzed torso that shone with sweat, “and drown my sorrows alone.”

Anita rolled her eyes and sauntered back inside. Couldn’t blame her, it was way too hot out with me here. “You need more friends, Bas.”

Yes. I believe I did.

–

Robinov Residence, Beverly Hills. 31st December 2010.

Jeff’s home wasn’t what I expected it to be. Granted, my idea of his natural habitat was a bone nest on dead branches. Though, to be fair to my imagination, his home wasn’t too far removed from skeletal.

Despite the manor’s multi-story height and massive square-footage. It felt a bit soulless underneath the New Year’s streamers.

What was it with the Hollywood elite and all white everything? Walkways up to the walls, couches, carpets, and even the uniforms of the serving staff carrying trays of canapes. The cuts of fruit and cured meats did almost nothing to hide the anaemic cream cheese on crackers beneath. 

It was the sort of corporate hotel room kitsch that only the bland tastebuds at architectural digest could savour. 

As I surveyed the mingling crowd from behind my awkwardly framed 2011 novelty shades, I could at least appreciate how much more colourful the cast of guests was.

Robinov had invited an eclectic array of attendees from all walks of fame in the industry. 

Plenty of actors and actresses beamed at me through their bleached veneers. Pot-bellied execs jiggled and giggled drunkenly, while they palmed starving models, all of whom pretended their stomachs weren’t growling over the passed hors d’oeuvres they avoided.

The models around the musicians weren’t as morose. A riot of scarves, piercings, sunglasses, and a towering top hat - Lenny Kravitz and Slash made themselves the center of attention. Drawing no to myself, I was careful to skirt around that particular quarter. RDJ’s warning was still fresh in my mind, so I didn’t wanna risk bumping (and grinding) into Madonna. That was not a confession I wanted to make on the dancefloor.

My stealth was a distant second to Fedex’s, however. “Pay your respects, then Anita said we are clear to scoot out after the countdown, if that is your wish.” I reckon she felt rather smug when she disappeared from under my nose.

Nobody, though, was preening as much as Jeff. Especially when he spotted and plotted me in front of himself and a few distinct guests. “Alright, folks, I obviously don’t need to make intros for this guy. You all know who the fuck Bas Rhys is.” I allowed myself to be paraded around in this instance purely because there was an unexpected someone who I wanted to make a good first impression on. “First off, this is Stephanie Meyer, my guest of honour for the night.”

“Pinch me, I must be- aren’t you just the dreamiest, Bas? Gosh, I’d have the hardest time choosing between you and Robert!” Jeff called her Stephenie? I call her Bedphanie - because that’s precisely where the gleam in her eyes broadcast she wanted to tie me down. This vampire author of the Twilight franchise wanted to suck more than just my blood. 

“Well, you might not have to, yeah? We didn’t buy the adaptation rights to your The Host, without considering who could potentially play the heartthrob in your next series. I mentioned it to you in our last meeting, Bas. Same project. I’m telling you, boss babes in a dystopian world, getting chased after by douchey dreamboats is the next big thing! It’s gonna fill that gaping fantasy hole Potter and Twilight leave after they end.” Robinov was astute; I couldn’t deny that. He had the trend picked right. Problem was, he’d chosen a stock with no legs, and I’ll be damned if I let him run me into the ground alongside him. “Anyway, moving on, next up is Michel Grignon. He’s an up-and-coming fashion photographer from France, who we’re thinking about tapping for something.”

“And I think I just found a raison d’être! Monsieur Rhys, tell me, have you ever been someone’s muse before? You must let me photograph you!” He further highlighted his creepiness by grabbing me and rubbing his stubble on my cheeks. His breath reeked of cheese. It took everything in me not to recoil and maintain my placid expression. I don’t think I could camembert this much longer. 

But I held strong anyway for the last greeting in the group, courtesy of Jeff. “And last but not least-”

I quickly intercepted “-George Miller.” I drove my hand out for a shake, which the older director hesitantly clutched.

“Ha! Looks like you’ve got a fan, Georgie! He’s young, so chances are it’s for that dancing penguin of yours and not Mad Max.” The booze had clearly addled his bald head. “C’mon, Steph. There’s still a few people I need to introduce you to. The boys can get acquainted without us.” They trundled off to go schmooze with someone else.

“Are you another one of his creatures, are ya?” George’s tone was tartly acidic, even under his Aussie accent. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one Robinov had cultivated a poor reputation with.

Hmm. How do I play this? Do I flatter George, or do I batter our mutual enemy behind his back? May as well do both. “Jeff likes to style himself as a collector, but I promise you, I’m no toadie.” 

George smiled at having his work and distaste for Robinov acknowledged. “Quick with a quip, eh, lad? About time I ran into someone who can carry a conversation at one of these things.” 

“Oh, I’ve got quite the motormouth, and there’s a bunch of stuff I’d love to chew your ear off about-”

“C’est magnifique! A melding of the creative minds. Ah-! If only I had my camera on me to capture this moment.” 

George and I looked back and forth between the two of us and Michel Grignon, who’d been watching us both this whole time. “Not the place for it, I wager.” He turned back to me, reached into his coat pocket, and handed me his business card. “Get in touch, mate. That’s my personal number, so I’ll pick up. Let’s have us a chat - in private. I’m heading home. I’ve had about enough of this place.” He made his exit.

Despite how abrupt his exodus was, there wasn’t a second I felt lonely. My Michelin-star stalker followed me relentlessly around Robinov’s Mcmansion, eager to serve up a yappy meal. 

“I’ve shot for some of the most historic, prestigious fashion houses en France. Balmain, Lanvin, Hermès,” more like Herpès the way he’d latched on to me. 

I try to grab a bite? There he was, ready to spoon feed me.

I try to use the loo? There he was, offering to unzip me.

I even tried to dance, and there he’d be doing the best dougie I’d ever witnessed in person. Yeah, fine, I cut the rug with him for a bit… but that still didn’t mean he had to follow until near midnight!

My temples were throbbing. I plonked myself on a sofa, hoping for blessed silence. Yet, my butt barely made an imprint before the cushion beside mine dipped with his weight as well. Grignon was loathe to clench his teeth. “But throughout my career, I have found one thing lacking. My own personal initiative. One I hope you can help fulfill. Je suis très sérieux, Bas. Please let me make you the subject of my next magnum opus.” 

I stared at him with every iota of misery I was experiencing. “You’d give a panadol a fucking headache, you know that?” 

He just laughed as if I was joking. I was also being très sérieux, you ruddy baguette!

“Oops.” Mercifully, though, my guardian angel of death came to the rescue. 

“Putain!” He shot up from my lap, his pants dripping with a spilled cocktail spreading a dark stain. 

“Oh, dear, my apologies. Let me make it up to you. I think I know where I can find you spare trousers.” Fedex didn’t give him a chance to protest as she dragged him away as he desperately blotted his designer slacks. She winked at me as they passed - which presumably meant the house cleaners would likely find him snoozing in a random closet tomorrow morning. 

Truth be told, despite my dramatics, I didn’t mind him. Bloke wouldn’t be poor company if he just shut up once in a while. 

I heaved a sigh of relief, lolled my neck over the lip of the couch, and relaxed. The view of the main room was upside down, but still discernable.

I saw her then. Button nose, brown skin, high cheekbones, and those scattered beauty marks that pinpointed all her best features. 

Suddenly, my migraine wasn’t a concern anymore. Abandoning my brief respite, I stood and sashayed over to my target.

Anita, after all, recommended I make new friends. Michel wanted to be one. However, I was seeing the potential benefits of meeting someone else. “Hi. I’m Bas.” When you were me, there wasn’t a need for cheesy pickup lines. If she did indeed come here often, it may only turn me off.

The slight widening of her eyes and the subtle flinch of her prominent brow clued me into her surprised recognition. She wasn’t dazed or star-struck, though. I appreciated it - a life surrounded by celebrity was the likeliest reason. “N-nice to meet you. I’m Zoë. Zoë Kravitz.” She held herself firm, and thrust out her palm in greeting.

I took one delicate wrist between my fingers, raised it up, turned it over - thwap! - and slapped her with a high-five. 

I’m a master of seduction. 

“Um… ouch?” Her confusion was obvious.

“Sorry. I had to check to see how soft your hands are.” I offered no clarity.

“For what? Why?” 

“Because I wanna confirm that you won’t leave any bruises when you take a swing at me. All the women I’ve ever dated eventually do. You won’t be an exception.” Cards, meet the table. Jaw, meet the floor. Kids, meet my new mother.

She gormlessly parsed out the meaning of what I just said. Her jaw snapped into position when it mentally clicked for her. “Usually, dudes at least make an honest attempt at learning more about me than just my name before they hit on me. Never encountered someone so blunt. Haven’t you ever thought to ask a girl where she’s from, who she is, what she does, or anything like that?” Her retort was sharp, but the inquisitive lilt in her voice told me she didn’t mind my approach.

Time to turn that timid curiosity of hers into complete concentration. “Easy, tiger! If you really want me to get to know you that bad, you’re at least gonna have to take me to dinner.” I leaned in close enough to catch the hairs on the back of her neck stand as I whispered to her. “Don’t worry, by the way. I’ll put in the effort getting to know every inch of you.”

She proved my earlier point when she playfully smacked my chest. “You’re incorrigible! Do you really think you can get away with saying whatever you want by acting all cute?” She gasped out.

I was aiming for Casanova, but I’ll take cute. I smirked at her while tilting my head. The countdown to 2011 had begun. “So, what do you say? Shall we seal the deal with a smooch?”

Zoë feigned nonchalance with a shrug. “Sure. Why not?” But the dusting of freckles, made increasingly more obvious against the red band of shyness across the bridge of her nose, betrayed her secret.

“One!” 

She lifted on her tippy-toes; I hunched low, and her warm, plump lips met mine in the middle.

What a way to bring in the new year.