Zach
“I need you here,” Neil says as soon as I dig my phone out from my purse and press answer. “Now.”
I blink hard, trying to focus on my boss, who’s breathing like a bull about to strike from the other end of the line.
“Wait, what?” I ask with a hefty pant, freeing my fingers from knotted curls of the man eating me out for breakfast.
Wiggling out from under his tongue, the room straightens when my body finally catches up with my brain. The futon groans beneath me as I spring from its hollow frame, pressing the phone to my ear with my shoulder.
“The label gave the go-ahead to film Somnium’s fall tour without consulting the band or some shit,” Neil snaps. I can practically hear him pacing. “Now I’ve got a group of suits waiting for this project to move forward, but it can’t until we sign an updated disclosure clause.”
“I scrapped that weeks ago.” I locate my panties, tangled in a throw blanket that has a picture of a wolf howling to the moon printed on it. “You told me to.”
A pile of my one-night-stand’s sweaty gym shorts and tees are pushed aside and scattered in my frantic search, but my bra is nowhere in sight. Neither are my pants.
“Well, un-scrap it,” Neil barks. “If you don’t show up before we lose this contract, I swear to every deity you worship that you’ll never work with producers again.”
I choke on my swallow, twirling the teardrop-shaped vial at my neck. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t cha think?”
“Look, if you want to run out here with the big dogs, Zach, you need to stop making excuses for them to treat you like their bitch. DHR at nine o’clock.”
The line goes dead before I can point out the obvious misogyny of that backhanded statement, or the fact that he’s currently doing said very thing by treating his thirty-two-year-old employee like I’m still that na?ve new girl from Wisconsin.
Neil means well, even giving me the idea to present myself as faceless with my father’s inherited namesake when I came out to LA nine years ago.
I never cared that my name was Zachary as a girl-then-woman, but the rest of the world seems to.
Neil said presenting myself like this would prevent any ‘pish-posh’ of my female gender clouding an executive’s judgement when hiring me as a cinematographer.
It helps, right up to the moment when people see my boobs, then all of a sudden they feel deceived by having only my credentials speaking for my aptitude, as if the fact that my name is Zach and not Brenda makes all the difference. Sad thing is—it does.
I stare at the screen. It’s quarter to eight, and I’m on the other side of the city.
“Damn it.”
Discovering Somnium last summer saved me, both financially and metaphorically.
Their music is the first thing that made me want to try life again, believing there’s something worth staying for after the car accident.
This documentary’s my one shot to get close to them.
To see if this connection, him, is real or all in my head.
I begged Neil for this. Even though the elusive band showed absolutely no prior interest in having us film their tour come September, Somnium’s my project. Which meant my ass on the chopping block if this goes to shit.
Scanning the disastrous living room of last night’s entertainment, my pants are still missing, but my sweater dangles from a finger like bait on a hook. The cute surfer boy I hooked up with raises an accusatory brow.
“Are you serious?” His forehead crinkles in blue-balled frustration.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” I mutter, snatching it up.
Not bothering to find my bra, I tug the sweater over my head. Bar remnants cling to it, booze triggering my hangover nausea. I wrinkle my nose as I shove my arms through the sleeves. Digging through my purse, I check that my wallet, phone, and keys are all there.
“Aaron—”
“Ian,” he corrects, tugging on one of his dirty t-shirts.
“Ian,” I repeat, already halfway to the bathroom on the search for my pants. “That was my boss.”
I flick on the light and catch sight of myself in the water-spotted mirror.
My dark curls are a ratted mess along my shoulders, and my makeup is smudged everywhere except where it should be.
Setting my purse atop the cracked, tiny square counter, I splash cold water on my cheeks, jolting me fully back into my body.
A sigh leaves me when I spot my jeans crumpled next to the shower.
“If I don’t show up, I’m gonna lose the opportunity of a lifetime,” I explain, wiggling my way into the denim. “I can’t miss this. No matter how great your tongue is.”
Ian grins, his ego inflating with his bulky chest as he leans against the doorframe. “So, does that mean I can hit you up sometime?”
“No,” I say, grabbing my purse as I duck under his arm and make my way to the mound of shoes in front of the door.
Unzipping my pleather, off-brand combat boots, I reluctantly slip my bare feet into them and dart toward the bus stop.
The bus is pulling away, but I slap the metal siding as my stomach somersaults from the cardio.
A questioning sneer twists the driver’s red-painted lips while I fish out my wallet to scan my metro card.
The bus lurches forward so hard I nearly face-plant into the pole in front of me, and an older woman raises her knitting needles to her lips with a gasp. My phone screen lights up as I unlock it, brightness stabbing me.
8:02 a.m.
“Shit,” I whisper, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead.
I’m running late through general fucking life.
Brakes squealing like a tortured pig, the bus slows at the next stop. I’m not going to make it to DHR by nine unless I hijack the bus and pray no one notices. The doors hiss open, letting in a blast of exhaust.
I need my car.
Hilarious, considering I went twenty-some years without a license. But after the accident, if I wanted reliable transportation, I had no choice but to get one and start driving myself.
Just as the bus doors close, I hit the stop request button. The driver gives me a wrinkle-rimmed glare in the rearview mirror that implies ‘you’re a pain in my ass,’ but the doors reopen.
Dodging a couple walking their husky, I sprint down the sidewalk as people stare at me like a crazy person with no coat in March, as though forty degrees is cold. After an eternity, I’m cramping all over, but my apartment building looms ahead.
There seems to be a permanent microwaved-tuna aroma in the second-floor hallway. I gag on the nauseating scent, made more pungent by my hangover. My stomach is about to burst when I reach my door.
The lock unclicks grudgingly. I kick the door open and trip over a basket of clothes that I swore I’d fold last week after bringing them up from the laundry room.
“Dammit!”
Untangling myself from the heap, I toss the vodka-soaked sweater from last night aside and grab a random bra from the wrinkly pile. Scurrying to the bathroom, I put the dreaded padded thing on, imprisoning my boobs once more for the sake of professionalism.
After a swish of mouthwash, I slide on a touch of mascara, adding a quick smudge of liner before swiping on some deodorant.
A pastel-pink blouse hangs off the bathroom door, minimally wrinkled from last week’s use.
I toss it on, fumbling with the stupid tiny buttons at the cuffs, making sure the tattoo on my forearm is covered, because women with a half-sleeve of ink somehow blare ‘incompetence’ to the corporate world like a neon sign.
“Good enough,” I whisper, slicking my hair up into a ponytail. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”
Snatching a black, v-cut vest from the basket on my way out, I race to the private lot where Cherry Bomb awaits.
It’s way too expensive for off-street parking, considering it’s no more than a cracked slab of concrete with faded markings and a rusty fence for security.
The car’s broken lock screeches when I hit the button.
I throw my bag onto the torn passenger seat, slam my door shut, and jam the key into the ignition.
“Don’t you dare,” I grit as it sputters, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache.
The old engine catches on the next turnover and I exhale shakily, throwing the faithful car into drive.
8:34 a.m.
If I hit every green light, break a few minor traffic laws, and pray to every deity Neil mentioned, I might, might, get there.
“Okay,” I mutter, kissing my necklace for good luck from Nicole as I pull out into the street, “let’s make a miracle happen.”