Chapter 10
Gemma
It’s easy to see why Dylan’s so popular when he’s in his element like this. He stands out like a beacon, like the centrifugal force that everyone revolves around. He’s funny, charming, unpretentious, and everybody around him seems to fall under the spell of his twinkling eyes and rich voice.
Dylan doesn’t forget me, and he introduces me to as many people as he can – I end up meeting more stars than I would on a red carpet, but as more of them hear news of ‘Dylan’s Big Comeback’ and drop by to share a drink, a joke, and an old story, I find myself getting pushed out to the periphery.
I settle for nursing my wine as I watch Dylan get pulled towards the roulette table by a towering supermodel he obviously has some history with. More famous faces enter, and I begin to feel like the party’s going to get too big for the casino. It’s definitely a party now, and not ‘a few drinks and a few games.’ Raucous laughter and shouts come at me from every angle as stars used to stealing the limelight fight it out. Above them all, you can hear Dylan, conducting the crowd like a master performer, the people around him hanging on his every word, cued by his every gesture, following him like some weird party-prophet.
“Another one?” says a voice from over the bar. I turn to face the bartender – handsome enough to be a movie star in his own right, and smile before checking my watch.
“Shit. Is it really one in the morning?”
The bartender nods behind him towards the clock hanging over the bar, right next to the ‘No Photos’ sign. It’s one am alright.
“Somewhere you gotta be?” he asks, wiping the bar, more for something to do I guess than because it needs it – everything in the casino looks as clean and as expensive as a movie set.
“Bed. And so should Dylan.”
The bartender gives a cursory glance in Dylan’s direction, and almost as if it was cued, there’s another loud roar of laughter, following by the smack of high fives as Dylan wins the round of whatever he’s playing.
“You came in with him, right?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, “I’m his assistant. I’m supposed to keep him in line. Make sure he doesn’t do…well…whatever he’s doing now, pretty much.”
The bartender tuts and breathes in sharply.
“Good luck trying to get him away from the tables. Once he gets going—”
“I know. I’m well aware of how hard it is to keep him focused.”
“He’s focused – just on the wrong things, usually,” he quips, leaning over the bar. “You sure you won’t have another?”
“No,” I say, looking towards the crowd and wondering how I’ll push through. “The shooting starts tomorrow. I have to get him away.”
After a few moments the bartender stands up.
“Maybe I can help. I shouldn’t do this – and Dylan will probably hate me for it, but…”
I look up at the bartender, who swings open a section of the bar and steps through, winking at me as he does so.
I watch with eager anticipation as the bartender slides through the crowd with expertise. There are a few groans and laughs, then he emerges from the crowd with Dylan in tow. They walk towards me, Dylan’s smile plastered on his face.
“So where’s the phone?” he says, before catching sight of me. “Oh, I see.”
The bartender shrugs, and leaves us alone.
“Dylan,” I say, speaking quickly, afraid he’ll bounce right back into the crowd. “We have to go. It’s one am. We have to be on set in nine hours.”
“Yeah,” Dylan says, nodding and shuffling his feet. “I was…uh…thinking. Maybe you could go back now. You know, take the limo, the jet…and I’ll see you on set tomorrow.”
“No.”
“I just want to play a little bit more. You should come over, I’m on a hot streak!”
“No, Dylan, please, we—”
“Come on, there’s something fizzing in the air tonig—”
“No!” I shout, loudly, though it’s drowned in the buzz of the casino. “We have to go!”
Dylan sighs heavily as he looks back at the crowd, a few of them waving him over. He rubs the back of his head and I can see the struggle in his face.
“I can’t. You don’t understand. I haven’t seen some of these guys in ages. And besides, we’re celebrating! How many chances am I gonna get to celebrate a comeback? It’s a once in a lifetime—”
“There won’t be a comeback if you don’t turn up at the set tomorrow.”
“And I will.”
“You won’t, Dylan. We both know that,” I say, losing my patience. “Christ! Why are you so fucking stubborn?”
A dark fierceness fills Dylan’s eyes, and for a split-second there’s a power in his expression that feels a little intimidating.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? Look, these are my friends. You should try getting some yourself sometime, it might help you be less uptight.”
“Oh please. Friends? These phonies couldn’t give a fuck about you,” I say, nodding towards the tables. “They’re only latching on to you now because you’re back on track – or so they think.”
Dylan steps back and looks up, an angry smile on his face. I struck a nerve.
“Jesus! Are you for real? I’ve known these people for years, I’ve known you for all of… What? Three days? And you think you’ve got me all figured out?”
“There’s not much to figure out. These ‘friends’ are probably the reason you need a babysitter before they’ll let you anywhere near a movie set. Where were they when your career was being gossip column fodder rather than a movie actor? Or staying up and browsing BootyApp for that matter?”
Dylan snorts derisively.
“I have plenty of people I can call on, don’t worry about that.”
“I’m sure you do. The problem isn’t them, Dylan. It’s you.”
“Where is this coming from? Are you taking out your insecurities about your own shitty life on me or something?”
I don’t know where it’s coming from, the words are pouring out of me like hot lava; a mixture of long-suppressed emotions and frustration.
“You promised me this would be a few drinks,” I say, lowering my voice. “‘Responsible,’ you said. And now? Now it’s the same old shit. Skipping out on your responsibilities, because your ego can’t go ten minutes without needing to be stroked.”
“What the fuck does that mean? You’re just talking trash now.”
“That’s what it is, Dylan. That’s why you always have to be moving, always looking for some ‘fun,’ always picking up some girl, always looking for some trouble, always putting yourself in the middle of things – because if you weren’t, you’d have to be alone for more than two seconds.” I lean forward, towards him. “And you can’t fucking stand yourself.”
I can see the lines of his jaw moving as he clenches his teeth, hear the heavy, hot breaths that emerge from his nostrils like fire, and see the venom and danger in his eyes – but I don’t look away.
“I don’t need anyone,” he says, his voice falling like steel rods. “I don’t need this, I don’t need this fucking movie, and least of all, I don’t need a bitter little jumped-up assistant telling me how to live my life.”
I glower at him for a second, then turn my head down to the bar. I can’t let myself cry. When I look back up, he’s not there. I scan the room, searching for his distinctive frame in the mass of bodies, then look towards the bartender.
“Where did Dylan go?”
He shrugs, and I start moving through the casino, shoving and sliding through the happy crowd in search of the man I’m supposed to be watching at all times. After five minutes of checking every table, shouting out the question to anyone I recognize even vaguely, I give up and head for the entrance, where the girl who greeted us is standing in front of the coat check.
“Did Dylan leave?”
“Yes,” she says, “he just left a few minutes ago.”
“Where was he going? Was he with anyone?”
She eyes me suspiciously, and I realize I’m barking out the questions like a desperate fan.
“He left alone. I have no idea where he went. He just stormed out – didn’t even say goodbye. I figured he had to be somewhere in a rush.”
I march out through the lobby, scanning my head almost three hundred and sixty degrees. When I don’t see Dylan, I pick out my phone and dial his number. It rings through to voicemail.
“Dylan, it’s Gemma. Look, I’m sorry. Where are you? Please call me as soon as you can.”
After going back up to the hotel suite, and finding it as empty as we left it, I call him again. This time the line dies after only a few rings. I try again, but it goes to voicemail. I pace up and down the luxury room for a few minutes, checking my phone every minute as if I’ll miss something, then call again. Still straight to voicemail. Dylan’s turned off his phone.
I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head into my hands, breathing deeply for I don’t know how long, trying to regain my senses after the emotional high of screaming at Dylan.
My mind races with the possibilities. I imagine Dylan hitting more bars, getting completely wasted and turning up on the entertainment sites tomorrow. Or even worse, driving out into the desert and killing himself in a cinematic inferno. I imagine all the ways this situation could get even worse – though it’s bad enough already.
I try one more time to get through to him, but the harsh tones of a robotic outgoing message hammer home the knowledge that Dylan’s only interest right now is running away from all of this, from the movie, and from me.
So this is how my career ends. Stranded in Vegas, a pissed-off actor on the loose, and a multi-million dollar film project ruined – all because of me.
I never believed in happy endings – but this is something else.
TO BE CONTINUED…
What happens next?
Dylan and Gemma’s story continues in BOOTYCALL: PART TWO.
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