“Can’t wait to see what it is. See you later, babe.”
After a stint at the gym, and a quick shower, Reeve walked across town to Jill’s apartment in Chelsea and she buzzed him up.
“I have beer and I have vodka. Pick your poison.” Jill waggled a long-neck bottle in one hand, and a short glass with ice cubes and clear liquid in the other.
“Vodka,” he said, and took a long swallow of the liquor, downing most of the drink.
“Whoa, Tiger. Slow it down.”
Reeve just shrugged, thrust the glass at Jill, and affixed his best commercial toothpaste smile. “May I have another, pretty please?”
“Fine,” she said, pouring more into the glass.
“Since when do you buy Belvedere?”
“This is the something nice I got. It was a gift from one of the ladies in my running club who finished the New York City marathon.”
“She gave you vodka for finishing a marathon?”
“Yes. And I genuflected, because I love my Belvedere almost as much as my beer. Now, come to my couch, and tell me all your problems,” she said, pointing to the mustard-colored couch, well-worn from many late-night talk sessions.
“So your roomie’s in Paris?”
“She’s on a mission to find new designs for her necklaces. That, and trying to stay away from the guy she’s been jonesing for.”
“You know she blew me off for a nightcap after opening night when we played at the Soho Club.”
Jill waved a hand in the air. “She’d have blown off David Gandy, my dear. She only has eyes for this guy. She’s been a done deal for a long time.”
“Anyway,” Reeve said as he stretched out on the couch, resting his head in Jill’s lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, but not in a romantic way. They were past that, but actors are naturally touchy people. They are used to having hands on each other, whether on stage or in rehearsals, so it becomes a natural state of affairs when hanging out.
“Let’s see. Well, I totally f**ked up my audition for the Joss Whedon film, as you know. Second, I haven’t booked a commercial in weeks. Third, I’m pretty sure the residuals from my last toothpaste spot are going to dry up soon. Fourth, my boss at the messenger service is forcing me to take a week off without pay because I was rude—“ Reeve said, sketching air quotes around the word “—to one of his customers.”
“Ouch.”
“Fifth. Rent. Rent. Rent.”
Jill stared pensively at a cracked section of plaster on the ceiling. “You know, Reeve,” Jill said, in a voice that Reeve instantly recognized as her mastermind tone. “One of the Upper East Side cougars in my running club has a high-end escort service going on.”
Reeve laughed and sat up straight. “Seriously? You want me to be an escort?”
“Is it such a crazy thought? You’re young and hot and you can play any part. That’s what these ladies want.”
“What kind of ladies?”
“All kinds,” Jill said, in an evasive way.
“What do you mean all kinds?”
“Just that all sorts of ladies use escort services.”
“I can’t believe you have a chick in your running club who’s a pimp,” Reeve said and pushed his long fingers through his dark hair.
“She’s not a pimp, Reeve.” Jill punched him on the shoulder. “She’s a high-end madam. For dudes.” Then Jill laughed.
“Would I have to, you know, with them?”
“Go down on them?”
Reeve made a rolling motion with his hand. “That and other things.”
Jill shrugged. “Probably in some cases. I mean, some women just read Playgirl for the articles, but I’m pretty sure when you’re shelling out $500 a pop you want the escort to take care of the lady business.”
“Call me crazy, but I kind of like actually—you know—being attracted to the girl I’m making scream my name out loud.”
“Do you, Reeve? Do you make them scream your name out loud?”
Reeve raised an eyebrow playfully. “Every. Single. Time.”
Sutton Brenner had a problem. A big problem. She was on the cusp of winning a contract so hot and so coveted that any of her competitors would walk on hot coals for it. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. She’d been prepping for it, she’d been pitching for it. She knew she was the right one—the only one—- for this project.
Escorted Lives.
Who else had better credentials to find the top talent for the red-hot film based on the biggest selling erotic romance series the world had seen in ages? After all, Sutton had cast the most successful male stripper movie—It’s Raining Men—which had showered $302 million in greenbacks at the box office down on the producers. Not to mention Spread, an indie flick about a chiseled male model who falls in love with an Oklahoma house wife. That film had burst out of the festival circuit to earn both critical acclaim and a cool $112 million, ten times its budget. Sutton had even earned a nod in an industry trade magazine as “the best appraiser of male flesh and talent in all of the film community.”
She’d grinned in delight at the accolade.
But the money guys hadn’t given her the greenlight to cast “Escorted Lives” yet. Maybe they were being cautious, but then the mega-rich Frederick and Nicholas Pinkerton were known as risktakers. Sutton was perched on the edge of her chair, across the glass conference table from the British twin film financiers. They were her countrymen, and she couldn’t help but hope that her British-ness might give her a leg up. She could talk the talk about London and the Queen and footie, and they loved that. The were avid golfers too, and so Sutton had chatted them up about the relative merits of the Augusta National Club versus Pebble Beach Golf Links. Sutton didn’t know a lick about swinging a golf club, but she’d researched the hell out of the courses so she could hold her own on one of their favorite subjects—golf in America.