Audrey
PLAYLIST: CAN’T BUY ME LOVING / LA LA LA — RAUF you need to decide. If I may advise—“
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him as I get up. I can’t deal with this shit. I left for Hollywood the first chance I got, and my father agreed with it because it brought in money and recognition. Connections, PR, and everything else he expected.
At least, that’s the belief I left him with.
But in my heart, I am the untamable, the black sheep with dreams so mediocre my father would have imploded if he knew.
I always planned to follow my dreams the moment he is gone, and now—now he left me with everything I never wanted: Responsibility and corporate hell.
Because he managed to have his fucking ass murdered.
As I said, abso-fucking-lutely not.
“You cannot walk away from this,” says another of the suits, warningly.
“Or what?” I ask derogatorily.
“Or it will all break into pieces,” says the man.
I laugh in disbelief. Like I care.
“Then let it break,” I say, “Couldn’t care less.”
“So you don’t care about the 750.000 employees losing their jobs? The over 5000 companies losing their funding? The 19.3 million private individuals losing their houses? The 40 million people relying on the Whitney-Morgan Foundation funds?”
I freeze as I stare at him.
I swallow hard because hearing those numbers out loud makes it suddenly so real. I never had any interest in what he did. My sister was the good girl doing whatever our father said and she was the one he deemed to take over.
My sister. Who died.
My head twitches briefly, and I roll back my shoulders, because the thought of her—of knowing what happened and that I just left and never looked back—
My eyes get watery. I need to drive this thought away.
I left home over a decade ago, when I was sixteen, as I made my way to Hollywood. I didn’t know about anything that was going on. My sister and I, we had a fallout and I—I didn’t know—Not what he did—not what—
Stop thinking about it! I tell myself, but the more I try, the worse it gets.
Guilt consumes my insides and constricts my breathing.
Because I left.
I left and never looked back.
My stomach is close to turning just thinking about it. My fists clench.
Not now, I tell myself as I lose my fight with the tears, and they roll down my cheeks. Not in front of all these people who already think I am a stupid Barbie.
Many people have called me fragile or impossible to deal with because I always cry the moment pressure is put on me. Or I have to deal with a superior. Or get angry. Every time I feel anything. Responsibility. Anger. Happiness. I always cry, and I hate everything about it.
All these men in their suits stare at me; I can feel their judgment with every cell of my body and it makes things even worse. They think I am not fit to run a multinational corporation. And I am not.
I am an actress. Someone who steps into roles because that’s what she’s good at.
One of the suits walks over to me and hands me his pocket square, wordlessly.
I take it.
Wipe away the tears.
Take a deep breath in.
I can’t be the reason so many people lose their existence.
Some might call me arrogant, but those who know me well know I am not built that way.
My father was entitled beyond, and I always hated him for it.
My mother, ohhh, I’d really like to punch her in the face one day.
But the family I found L.A., they know. They know the real me.
A stitch in my chest, because I’m here all alone and they’re there. It brings back so many memories of the past. I mean L.A isn’t all sunshine and roses; the industry is a different hell, but at least it was a chosen one.
A chosen hell that taught me many things. First and foremost, that I am not going to let a bunch of slick men dictate what I can and can’t do.
What was the line I said when Phoenix, the role I played in a dystopian movie?
“You might have taken everything from me, but there is one thing you can never take, and that’s the knowledge of what it took me to get here. You can crush me all you want, but I’m Phoenix. I burn, and I rise again. You’re just a small man.
I close my eyes for one brief moment.
Small men.
I rise.
I survive.
I open my eyes again.
“Where do I sign?”
Contracts are put in front of me; I have to sign endless documents.
After signing the last one, my hand hurts. The mere paperwork gives me an idea of what I am about to step into.
I survive, I tell myself.
I rub my eyes because I am exhausted.
“Is there anything you need?” someone asks me. What I need is to leave this building and get into my car, far away from all of this. But that is something I can’t tell anyone.
What I can do, is reclaim power. Phoneix rising from the ashes.
“Yes,” I say, drawing myself up. “Get me an org chart across all companies, organize a meeting with all acting CEO’s for tomorrow, fly them in, I don’t care. I want to speak to them personally, and headquarters will be moved to L.A.”
I hate being in New York. I hate everything about the city. I am an L.A. girl, always have, always will, even if the industry is as rigged as it can be. But at least it’s warm there. Being here goes against everything I am, with every cell of my body revolting.
I look into puzzled eyes.
“It is impossible to move headquarters to L.A, at least not this fast—“
“I am not going to stay in New York any longer,” I say. “This is Whitney-Morgan; it’s not that we don’t have offices everywhere. Don’t try to fool me,” I say harshly, but I don’t care. Others have called me a bitch before, because I am one, at least to those who don’t respect me.
“I may not be deemed fit by you to run this firm, but let me warn you, I have more life experience than all you hobbyless book fuckers in one. You work for me now, so you do what I tell you to, and that is headquarters in L.A. and a meeting with the CEOs tomorrow at noon.”
With that, I slam the pen onto the desk, get up, and walk away.
A man in functional wear follows me from the moment I exit the room.
“Fuck off,” I tell him.
“Can’t,” he says in an efficient tone. “You run Whitney-Morgan, you need protection.”
I stop, turn, draw myself up. I am tall, but because of my blonde hair and slim figure, everyone mistakes me for being a fragile princess. But I am not. I cry. But I am everything but fragile.
“I don’t need a bodyguard in fucking L.A. I won’t need one here. You will back off, or you’re fired,” I say. “You work for me, not the other way round.”
Gladly, he doesn’t attempt to follow me again.
I get out of the building.
Slip into my car.
Close the door.
It’s the first moment where I feel like myself again.
I close my eyes.
I am not made for the corporate world.
I am not made for any of the things I do.
Being the actress everyone admires.
Being in the middle of everything.
Being pushed around for even more publicity.
I hate, hate, hate everything right now.
I take a deep breath in.
The scent of the Mustang is the only thing that calms me. The car that had been my sister’s.
What I need right now is to forget whatever just happened.
Meaning to recklessly speed my beauty over concrete, preferably in a race. I
I take my phone.
“It’s me,” I say. “Please tell me you know someone in NY.”
“What’s up with you?” asks Luke. He and his boyfriend are my family, because they were the ones who took me in when I was lost and caught me when I was falling before I crashed.
“Don’t even ask,” I say. “I need to steam off.”
Luke chuckles. “Sending you a spot. Whatever you do, don’t provoke anyone, and least of all don’t challenge the top dog.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“It’s a her, Cass. Just don’t.”
“Can’t promise,” I say with a chuckle.
“Addy,” says Luke.
“Where’s the fun? You know I like to touch the untouchable. What’s up with her?”
“I don’t know, never met her, but Tommy tells me to let it go.”
“Tommy?” I ask.
“Hi darling,” says Tommy. “And you will just listen to us once. She’s bad blood. Just tell them you’re with me.”
Sounds exactly like what I need right now.
“I’ll try,” I say, laughing as they both groan. “How’s L.A? I’m missing it every second.”
“Everything’s alright,” says Luke. “Throttle is the happiest cat on the planet; he’s spoiled beyond.”
“I hope so,” I say. Throttle is my elderly tripod cat, who I once found under a dumpster after I hid from the cops after my first race in L.A.
and he has been with me ever since. He’s old, probably blind and doesn’t hear much anymore, but I love him in ways I never thought possible.
Being without him feels awful. I hate leaving him behind.
“You know we love him like we would our child,” says Tommy.
“I do,” I say, and add, “Just don’t fuck in my bed,” because there is some noise coming through the speaker…noise of a blanket being pulled.
“We won’t,” says Luke, and I hear some more rustling.
I groan.
“Seriously,” I say, shaking my head.
“Throttle is in your bed with his filthy paws after using the litter box; we’re family, who cares?”
“Throttle cleans himself thoroughly with his tongue,” I say, and regret it the moment I said it.
“Mhhhm,” says Luke, sniggering. “We too.”
I can’t even be angry, because while one part mad, I also have to laugh as an image appears in my mind.
“Urgh,” I say. “You two!!”
And suddenly, part of the dread in my chest disappears. They are family. That’s what family does.
“I expect to be coming home to a freshly made bed,” I say.
“You will,” Luke says. “Have a good time.”
We hang up and pull up the location he sent me.
I also loosen my hair, wiggle through it to mess it a bit, and put on a cap, so the bangs fall into my face and the rest is hidden by the cap. I don’t know the people here and don’t want to be recognized straight away.
I drive all the way through Manhattan, through a tunnel into Brooklyn.
The Mustang is a beauty, purring dangerously around me. I wonder how she’ll do in a race.
The area gets more industrial: old buildings with graffiti on them, construction fences, small one-way streets, and many exit ways. I check the area and clock it, just in case a quick getaway is needed.
I turn into Ferris Street.
Behind a green fence lights are dancing and loud music trails into my ears as I let down the window.
I roll up to a gate.
I am stopped by two guys with guns in their hands. I know the scene, and I know protection is needed.
“Who are you?” one of them asks.
“Addy,” I say. “One of Tommy’s.”
They whisper to each other, nod, and open the gate.
I drive into the empty lot, now filled with cars of all different kinds.
What I recognize momentarily is that it’s mostly classics, except for a Nissan GTR.
Back in L.A., we have a lot more plastic cans—at least that’s what I call the imports.
My heart will always beat for the classics, and it feels like coming home as I roll down between them.
People look at me more than I’d like.
Do they recognize me?
I park the car at the end of a line and get out, carefully assessing the situation.
“Beer?” asks a male voice from behind as I close the door.
“Sure,” I say, turning, only to recognize the man as the guy I once won a car from.
“Dominion,” I say. “Long time no see.”
He holds out the beer for me to take.
“What brings you to the city?” he asks. “Last time I checked, you were back in L.A.”
“Still am, needed some air,” I say shortly, taking a sip.
“Is she yours?” I ask, tilting my head toward a blue 1986 Porsche.
“She is,” he says. “Took me years to recover after your little stunt.”
“I told you to rest it,” I say and laugh. “Your mouth was too big.”
“Apparently,” he says, opening the back of the Porsche to show me the motor.
“She is a beauty,” I say as I take a closer look at the motor. “I see you went all in with the Steve Wong.”
“I have,” he says. “Forged pistons, too. Rebuild it to a 3.4.”
“Nice,” I say and slide my fingers down into the motor to check the leads. I have a special love for older Porsches. “She’s not even leaking a tiny bit.”
The love I have for classics is something beyond anyone else can imagine. Their scent. Their sound. Their rawness. Nothing else comes close to this.
“Took good care of her.”
“So who’s racing tonight?” I ask.
“Not me,” he says. “Not against you at least.”
I laugh. “I heard no one dares to touch a certain Cass; sounds about my league.”
“Don’t do it,” he says. “You’ll lose everything you have.”
“I’m willing to take that bet,” I say with a grin. “Which one is hers?”
“The black Challenger Hellcat over there—” says Dominion, pointing to a group of people standing apart from the other cars, locked in a heated, closed-off discussion. I don’t even have to ask who Cass is.
A very muscular yet smaller, tomboyish woman with a tousled, layered bob that gives her the very masculine look, underlined by the black functional pants, a hoodie, and a leather belt. She has a beer in one hand and is boxing one of the men standing next to her with her free hand.
I can see what Tommy meant with ‘don’t touch her’. She is like the leader of a group of Rottweilers. And exactly the thrill I need for tonight. I love to challenge types like her—the untouchables.
Not for me. One of the only perks of growing up believing you own the world and having this hunger for pure thrill.