“Of course I don’t!”
“Then pull your thumb out of your ass, put on your big-boy panties, and do what the hell needs to be done,” she said.
He looked at her in astonishment for a moment. “Pull my thumb out of my ass?” he asked. “Put on my big-boy panties?”
She giggled. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been hanging out with Jake too.”
Meanwhile, in San Juan Capistrano, Matt Tisdale had just returned home after spending the workweek staying in his Los Angeles condo. The recording of his second solo album—tentatively titled Hard Time—was now well underway in the National Records studio in the basement of the big building. He stayed in the condo Monday through Thursday so he could put in twelve-hour days without traveling all the way home each night, and then came home on the weekends.
He parked his Maserati in the garage. He had only gotten his driver’s license back and started driving it again two months before, after the lengthy multiple suspensions of the driving privilege that DMV had saddled him with finally ran its course. It was just incredible how they had overreacted to that one little incident nearly five years ago now. You drive a little bit drunk and run from some cops (and get in a knock-down, drag-out fight with them at the conclusion) and they act like you’re some hardened criminal. It wasn’t even like they were allowed to consider the cocaine and marijuana charges. Those had been dismissed! And then there were those extensions of the eighteen-month suspension just because he got caught driving suspended a few times. Those cops had been out to get him, staking out his property and waiting for him to slip up. He just knew those motherfuckers were still sore at him for getting away during the chase. And they still insisted they’d let him get away in the name of public safety! Assholes.
In any case, it was nice to be able to drive legally again. He was in a good mood as he exited the car and headed into the house. The recording process was going well and he had some good, solid tunes for Hard Time. Even though he was selling out by letting them engineer and overdub the tunes, he was selling out with style. In only another month or so they would be done with the basic tracks and ready to start polishing.
The servants all had the weekend off and were nowhere to be found when he came inside. Kim was there, however, sitting at the kitchen table and sipping a glass of what appeared to be lemonade. She was wearing a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail and she had a thoughtful expression on her face. The smell of garlic and oregano was heavy in the air.
“Hey,” he greeted, walking directly over to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of beer. He saw the pitcher of lemonade in there, noting that it was about half gone.
“Hey,” she returned, her voice quiet. “How was the drive?”
“I made it in fifty-one minutes,” he told her proudly. “Average speed, ninety-three miles per hour.”
“You’d better be careful,” she warned. “If the cops pull you over and cite you for excessive speed again, the DMV is going to yank that license right back away from you.”
“Fuck ‘em,” he said. “I gotta be me.”
“I’m just asking that you be a little careful, Mattie,” she said, a distinct tone of bitchiness in her voice.
He looked at her pointedly. “What’s with the nagging housewife routine?” he asked. “It ain’t like I don’t have the ability to get by without a fuckin’ driver’s license.”
“I just think you might want to behave a little more responsibly as you get older,” she said.
“Responsibly?” he scoffed. “What the fuck has crawled up your ass? And why the fuck are you drinking lemonade? I’ve never seen you drink that shit before.”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “It’s important. And I thought that maybe drinking before the discussion might be a bad idea.”
“Oh...” he said slowly. “That kind of discussion.”
“Right,” she confirmed.
“So ... I shouldn’t drink this then?” he asked, hefting his still unopened beer bottle.
“You might want to hold off for a few,” she said. “I’m not sure how you’re going to react to this, but you should probably keep a clear head.
A feeling of dread wormed its way into him. It was a feeling that Jake would have been familiar with. Slowly, deliberately, he walked back to the refrigerator and returned the bottle of beer. He pondered the lemonade for a moment and then shook his head. It was better to go without liquid than to drink any of that shit. He closed the door and then walked back to the table and sat down across from her. “You got my attention,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she said. “By the way, there’s a lasagna in the oven. Louisa made it last night before she took off. It’ll be done in about another half an hour or so.”
“Just give it to me straight,” Matt told her, dismissing the lasagna (even though Louisa made about the best fucking lasagna in the free world). “Are you knocked up, or what?”
Kim’s eyes widened almost comically. “Knocked up?” she asked. “Why would you ask that?”
“Is that not what this is about?” he asked, confused.
She barked laughter. “No, that’s not what this is about,” she said. “Whatever gave you the idea that I was pregnant?”
“Well ... you said you had some important shit to talk about, and you’re not drinking, and last month you had that thing where you barfed up all your pills, and ... well ... it seemed like the logical fucking conclusion to make.”
She laughed again and reached out to stroke his arm affectionately. “Oh, Mattie,” she said, shaking her head. “Fucking pregnant. Holy shit. Don’t you know that if that shit actually happened, I would’ve just gone to the abortion clinic and you never would have known about it?”
“I did think that was our unspoken agreement,” he said. “Still, you kind of threw me for a loop with all the bitchiness and drinking lemonade and shit.”
“I’m not pregnant,” she assured him.
“Well, all right then,” he said, nodding, feeling a surge of relief flowing through him. “But ... if that’s not what this is about, what is this about? We’re not really in a relationship, so you can’t be breaking up with me, right?”
“Right,” she said. “It has to do with a certain offer that has been made to me regarding a new project in the works.”
“A new porn project?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “A new porn project.”
“Someone wants you to come out of retirement and slam some schlong on camera again?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she said.
“Is it those assholes that sit on the board with you?” he asked. “You have controlling interest, remember? They can’t compel you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“It’s not them,” she assured him. “I have every one of those pricks by the balls. They don’t even jack off without an okay from me.”
“Then what’s the issue?” he asked. “You don’t need to go back on camera if you don’t want to, right? Mary Ann Cummings Studios is fucking raking it in since you brought back plot to porn. You can’t sell those videos fast enough.”
“That is true,” she said. “And under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t even consider going back on camera. I did my time spreading my legs under the lights. But this offer involves getting it on with someone familiar to me and ... well ... not only does it sound kind of fun to do, it’ll be pretty lucrative as far as profit goes.”
“Yeah?” he asked, wondering who she was supposed to fuck and for how much.
“Yeah,” she said. “Do you remember Rodney Carver. You met him at the Adult Film Awards a few years back.”