West Coast Love Read online

  “You kidding? Absolutely not.” I grin, then heave a breath. This is where it gets tough, when I’m too chickenshit to say anything. My hope is for Victoria to take the lead here, because I don’t want to be the asshole.

  But she keeps quiet, too.

  Fine. I guess I’ll be the one to break this up now, but as I open my mouth, the head in my pants takes control of my voice box and brain, and says, “Should we exchange numbers?”

  At the same time, she says, “Maybe you can text me sometime.”

  What am I saying?

  Obviously, the opposite of everything that makes sense, because a sheepish yes escapes from me. I dig my phone out of my back pocket. I log in to my contacts, and hand my phone to her. She types in her number, and then calls it. The muffled sound of violins and plucking strings fills the room.

  “Pachelbel’s Canon in D.” She grins, reaching to her side, and unearths her phone from under the blanket. The phone case is black with embossed silver arrows and compasses. She declines the call, then takes a tentative sip from her cup. “So, what’s next? Where do you go from here?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up here in Vegas this morning, too. My things—my home base, if you will—are in central California with my sister, where I try to stay between gigs. I’ll most likely go back there for a bit. Things are . . . kind of in flux right now.” I sigh away the uncertainty of yesterday’s audition and decide not to mention this morning’s callback. Why would they call me back before they finished auditioning other people? This could all be a lead up to one big disappointment: I was so damn bad, they wanted to tell me in person. “How about you?”

  She shrugs, eyes falling to her cup as she fingers the lip of the cover. “Find Ellie. The one thing for work, then back to Golden.”

  “Sounds good. I . . .” I look down at the bedside clock. Awkwardness has bloomed between us, and I feel like a high schooler who asked a girl on a date and doesn’t know how to say goodbye. “My thing this morning is at eight, so I’ve got to go.” I place a hand on her covered leg. “Stay, though. No rush.” As I lean in for a kiss, she straightens. A hint of a smile appears, starting with her cheeks, then moving up to her eyes. It brings with it relief, that yeah, there’re definitely no regrets. I’ll look back on this moment and remember a woman who gave me a fantastic night.

  I kiss her, with a gentle suck on her lower lip. Her tongue meets mine for our final goodbye.

  * * *

  Padding out of the hotel room ten minutes before my appointment, snippets of my night with Victoria flash through my brain like scenes from a movie. When I’m in the elevator, my thoughts are on how she took me in her hand and worked me until I begged for release. In the conference room hallway, I remember how I bent her over the bed to take her from behind. The cacophony of the crowd waiting their turn for their appointments only serves as a reminder of Victoria’s and my coordinated breaths and moans.

  I almost decide to turn around and head back to the hotel room to find Victoria and finish my thoughts with actual action, but a woman in heels steps out into the hallway and says, “Joel Silva?”

  It’s the assistant from yesterday who rolled out the cart of food, and her presence is essentially the ice-bucket challenge. My leftover erection properly diminishes, with both brain and body frozen. This opportunity can mean a brand-new course in this convoluted career path I’ve taken.

  I raise my hand to identify myself and follow the assistant into the same room I auditioned in, but this time there are only two people in the room, neither of whom were there the day before.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Silva, my name is Olivia Russell.” Her glasses are perched on her nose, and she’s sifting through paper. She stops at one that I assume is mine. “Thanks for your patience.”

  “It’s quite all right.” My voice cracks. My legs are spread apart, hands clasped together in front. I remind myself to unlock my knees. This is the big boss, the producer for this gig. The last thing I want to do is pass out, but I’m as nervous as a brand-new soldier at basic training. I’ve got nothing lined up after today, and besides wanting a new opportunity, I need a job.

  She peers above her glasses. “You had an impressive callback audition. I was one of the observers. Clearly, you have some raw talent in front of the camera.”

  “Thank you.”

  More crickets as the person sitting next to Olivia, a woman with a pixie haircut, leans in and whispers something in her ear.

  “Your resume says you also have quite a bit of technical experience behind the scenes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Camera, lighting, sound.” My insides lighten. They’ve at least looked through my credentials.

  “You’re open to travel? And if so, are you available the first week of September?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” My heart rate picks up speed, although I regulate my breathing. No need to get riled up.

  “We have something we think would be great for you, but we hope you will keep an open mind.”

  “Then you’ve got the right man, because I’m willing to do whatever you need me to do.” Without my permission, my mind travels to the area of my brain where my dreams reside—that I will become the next Anthony Bourdain. A much younger version, of course, and not quite the drinker, but definitely with the edge, the sarcasm.

  I don’t veer into this space often, because it seems too fantastical, too out there for me to achieve. But the exposure to different food and cultures, the travel, the freedom of expression . . . I might not be a talker, but I can philosophize about food.

  Did I do it? Did I show that in my audition?

  “We’re very glad to hear that. We’d like to offer you . . .”

  All of my weight shifts to my toes. The pause is about as dramatic as it looks on TV. My gaze is frozen on Olivia’s lips, focused on what’s about to come out of them. I’m like a guy waiting for my name during the final rose ceremony on the Bachelorette or one of the two up for eviction on Big Brother.

  “A job covering the BBQ festivals from Desert Willow to San Diego in early September.”

  My words blow out with the exhilaration that rushes through me, and a smile pushes its way onto my lips. “I’m your man. BBQ is my expertise. I’ve been smoking meat since I could walk.”

  Memories flood my mind’s eye. Of me keeping watch by the smoker in the backyard next to my father. My parents were older when they adopted Jocelyn and me, in their late forties, and instead of throwing the football around, my dad kept me at his side while he cooked. He was an example of patience, of dedication to his craft. With a cigarette dangling from his lips and the bill of his cap pushed down almost over his eyes, he taught me how to choose the wood, stoke the fire, season the meat, and have trust in time. In the low and slow of it.

  This gig is perfect. I can take snippets from my life and infuse them into my commentary.

  “Actually, Joel, we were hoping that you’d do the camera work for it.”

  Stunned by words that seem to be the opposite of the vision in my head, I lean in, ear turned toward them. “Excuse me?”

  “You were amazing in your audition, though you need a bit of polish. We regret to say that we can’t offer you the job of being our host.” She looks to her counterpart, and they nod eagerly. “But we don’t want to let go of you yet, and that’s why we called you back. We’d love for you to still be part of the project. Your work with the Paradise in the Making live stream was impressive, and we need someone who can be autonomous. This project spans eight days on the road with a four-person crew, and we’re looking for well-rounded folks who know enough about all the aspects of a project, both in front of and behind the camera. We’re confident you’re one of these people.”

  It’s like she has handed me a rejection sandwich—the meat of the no surrounded by the bread of all kinds of fluffy compliments and second-place prizes.

  Fuck no. I didn’t sign up for this.

  As if reading my mind, Olivia waves me fo
rward, and she slides over the contract across the table. My hands shake as I pick up the packet. The front page features the highlights, which includes the compensation rate for the eight-day job. My jaw drops at the offer—it’s generous.

  This is not what I signed up for, and yet, it’s a job. For now, I ask the easiest question. “Eight days?”

  “In an RV. We’re trying something new. A work-together, live-together scenario. Like a band on tour, if you will. The dates of the festivals line up nicely so you’ll have one to cover almost every day.”

  I nod, but it’s not in agreement. It’s more of an acknowledgment that yeah, I hear these words, but what the hell? Was I just offered a job I didn’t apply for?

  “Are you in? We’d like to know your interest up front. Unfortunately, we can’t disclose the host since we’re still doing the callbacks the rest of the morning. But as soon as we saw you and took a look at your resume, we knew you would be perfect for this job. Admittedly, it’s a ton of work. You’ll work and live it. After the day’s shoot, which has to be near perfect, it will be edited and shown through our website and our subscription channel that same afternoon.”

  Olivia’s straight to the point. Her deadpan expression tells me she’s not going to wait long for an answer. The job she’s offering might not allow for me to be the host, but it will put money on the table and finally place me on the food journalism circuit that I’m dying to be a part of. For eight days, I’ll be eating the best food on the planet.

  My trajectory has never been a straight line up. This might be an unexpected turn, but at least it’s movement in the right direction. I would be a dumbass to say no.

  “I’m in. Where do I sign?”

  8

  VICTORIA

  Despite being clearheaded and chipper, I’m working my way through what could be considered classic hangover food from the $19.99 buffet. Greasy bacon; crispy, salty potatoes; fried eggs; and buttery toast fan across my plate. A cold wineglass holding a fizzy mimosa, now only half full, sits above my meal. And across from me is my friend, looking the worse for wear, moaning.

  Ellie holds her head in her hands as if it weighs a million pounds. She’s wearing a tank today, and it shows off her impressive stained glass tattoo that starts at the top of her shoulders and slips under the tank’s racerback. The design is abstract, thick black lines and sharp angles, and is shaded in colors that remind me of the ocean: teal, dark blue, green, yellow, and orange. Face shadowed by her flat-billed cap, I don’t realize she’s noticed me staring until she says, “When it’s time for you to get a real tattoo, call me and I’ll take you.”

  I crunch down on my toast, intentionally loud and slightly annoyed. “You heard about that?”

  Her voice is hoarse and low. “I’m friends with Jake”—she lifts her head up and eyes me—“the owner of Golden Tattoo. He felt pretty bad about how things went down.”

  “Not bad enough to keep his mouth shut, apparently.”

  She sighs, arms now folded in front of her. “Hey, don’t get pissed at the messenger or the victim. It’s you who went in there and fell asleep on his couch.”

  “I was resting my eyes.”

  “Sure.” Ellie lengthens the word.

  I shove the rest of the toast into my mouth and cut up my fried eggs into little pieces, pressing the knife’s edge into the plate so it squeaks. Ellie leans further away from me, as if the sound is Kryptonite.

  “Brat. How can you even eat?”

  “How can you not?” I fork a piece of egg and potato into my mouth, a heavenly combination of salt and butter. I sort out the herbs the cook used in the potatoes: oregano, rosemary. Maybe parsley.

  “I swear, you are the most cerebral eater I know. If I wasn’t so happy to see you in a good mood because you probably got some last night, I would find it annoying.” Ellie smiles—though it looks more like a grimace—then wiggles her nose, seemingly tempted by the food on my plate.

  “Why thank you,” I retort, because heck yeah, I appreciate my food. Despite my eyes-bigger-than-my-stomach problem, I take my time and savor each dish. Give it time to melt in my mouth. Allow for the emotions to take hold, and usually write it down somewhere for my next blog post. Though I haven’t written in a while, the realization that I definitely have my appetite back, and that I did get some last night, makes me grin.

  I scoop up a piece of bacon with my fork and bite into the heavenly crunch.

  I love bacon.

  Ellie shakes her head. She doesn’t believe in cutting and forking food when it’s meant to be picked up. But instead of complaining about it, her expression turns curious. “So?”

  “So, what?” I take a long sip of my mimosa. The acidity of the orange juice is a perfect palate cleanser, the bubbles festive, reminding me of last night. Joel and I had sex three times. Three times! I truly thought anything more than once was an urban legend.

  I’ve been missing out.

  “I told you about my night, and now it’s your turn. That’s how it works.”

  Ellie ended up back in our room last night, sans Darrell. Her hookup stalled at second base, at 11 p.m. when he was called in to work for an emergency. This made my story the hotter of our two experiences—and, therefore, highly interesting and upside-down. Usually it’s me who has mellow nights. Unlike food and writing, my love life has been a series of letdowns. Ellie has told me stories over drinks that have been hotter than the erotic romance novels I have uploaded to my Kindle app for those late, lonely nights on the road.

  Speaking of which, I spin my watch around to check the time. A hand slips into my view, covering the watch face. “You still have a couple of minutes before we need to head to your audition. Give me the CliffsNotes.”

  I stuff my mouth with food to give myself some time to think about how to tell this story. I love Ellie. When she moved into Paraiso, she fit right in to our set of family and friends. I know I can trust her, but she’s as protective as my sister, a mama bear in every way. I keep learning that secrets never remain so in the Aquino clan, and the intrusion factor with my family members is high. That’s the reason I kept Luke from everyone during the months we were communicating. I’d only let it slip that I was “seeing”—in the loosest sense of the word—him a couple of weeks before I took off for Phoenix.

  Then again, I don’t want a repeat of the Luke situation, so . . .

  “Stop stalling, Vic.”

  “Well, I . . . we . . . Joel and I.” I startle as my phone buzzes—my alarm. I stand, picking up my tray of food to bring to the disposal area. “Can we walk and talk?”

  Ellie follows reluctantly. She has an obvious pained look on her face, as if it hurts just to walk.

  Heading to the lobby of the MGM Grand, I continue, “We spent the night together.”

  “Duh. I know.”

  “And . . . we slept together.”

  She shuffles to a stop. “Seriously?”

  The crowd parts around us as I turn. Ellie’s blinking back a look of surprise. I sigh. “What? You’re not allowed to judge me.”

  “Um—this is not the look of judgment.” She points at her face. “This is the look of surprise. I thought you were, I dunno . . .”

  “Did you think I was a virgin?” I pull her by the arm, not wanting to be late for this callback, and because I don’t want to have this conversation in the middle of a lobby. Joel could still be in the hotel.

  That would be hella awkward. I speed up my steps.

  “I mean . . .” Ellie lowers her voice, catching up to me. “Yeah. You’re like this kind of youngish—”

  “You’re only a couple of years older than me, Ellie.”

  “I know, but you’re like a young, young twenty-four.”

  “Are you saying I’m naïve?”

  “No. Innocent. Pure-ish.” With a wry smile, she croons, “And Joel’s older.”

  “I’m thinking he’s in the thirty to thirty-five age range.”

  “How did you come up with that?”
r />   “I added it up. He did some time in the Army—that’s how he knows Darrell. I assume he had to go to school to be a cameraman. And his job at Paraiso wasn’t his first. When he was introduced to us the first time, the producer said she trusted him and he was one of the best, which means he’s had some experience.”

  “Look at you—you thought about it. So, at the minimum, he’s six years older. But beyond that, since I truly believe age is just a number, I’m guessing he might be more experienced.”

  My cheeks burn at the memory of just how experienced Joel was last night. In thought, in words, in actions. Hands that showed no doubt. Confident lips that took me to the next level of bliss. A body that moved with such assurance that I forgot my own inexperience.

  “And he’s got that thing where he doesn’t talk much, but it’s way deeper than brooding. You’re the complete opposite. It’s like if they took a picture of that Myers-Briggs test, you’re in the upper-left-hand corner, and he’s in the bottom right.”

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” We walk down to the conference rooms, where people are sitting in chairs lined up in the hallway. They’re here, I assume, for their auditions, too. My mind flips to a completely blank page, and my body goes stiff. “Can we . . . talk about this later?”

  I spot a woman with a phone against her ear and holding a clipboard, and head her way.

  Ellie continues to chatter, her words as quick as a hummingbird’s. “Fine, but now I’m put in a messed-up spot. As your friend, I want to say ‘go girl,’ but the other part of me—the sisterly part—is not liking this. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. Wait here a sec,” I say to Ellie as I reach the woman. “Hi. I’d like to check in, please?” I give her my name and plop down in an open chair, while Ellie takes the one next to me.

  Ellie digs. “What do you mean by that?”

  It takes me a beat to get back into the conversation. “I don’t want you to worry. And, anyway, I won’t get hurt because I’m never going to see him again. Even if I did see him again? I’m not worried. Joel isn’t random. Day in and day out, the guy was in my sister’s house for the better part of two months. He isn’t a jerk, you know?”