Dating You / Hating You
Page 55
A small laugh moves through the group.
“Understatement of the decade, am I right?” he adds, looking at the assembled crowd of agents and staff. “But none of that matters, because this, right here? This is what it’s all about: seeing my team around me, ready to really show the world how it’s done. Now more than ever we need talent that can do it all—TV, film, media—and they need a team behind them that can do it all, too. That’s why I have you all here together, where you can learn to cheer each other on and become unstoppable. How do we do that?”
“As a team,” someone says, and Brad nods.
“That’s right. Not two individual companies, but as a team.” Brad stops to look around before waving me to the front of the group. “Now, come on up here, Evie. You’ve done a great job as event planner. Tell us what we can expect for the night. Dazzle us.”
Carter looks to me, frowning.
“We have a welcome dinner in the lodge,” I tell them, glancing at my watch, “in about forty-five minutes. That should give everyone time to drop off their things and get sorted. The real fun starts tomorrow at ten.”
At my side, Brad nods enthusiastically. “Can’t wait. Now, I can tell you guys are chomping at the bit to get rolling! Let’s go check in, team.”
Looking up, I meet Carter’s eyes. His expression is grim, his mouth a slash of disapproval.
Brad claps me on the back, shooting me forward toward the doors of the lodge. “Lead the way, kiddo!”
Sweet hellacious hellfire, this weekend is going to be a doozy.
• • •
When we all split off with room keys in our hands, I could be a CIA agent the way I covertly watch which way Carter goes (and also maybe which direction Kylie goes, too, celebrating internally when they turn down opposite halls).
I wheel my small suitcase behind me to 207, a few doors away from Rose. Inside, it’s gorgeous, with an enormous bed in the middle of a spacious room, and a breathtaking view of the lake beyond a wide balcony. I mentally high-five Kylie for securing such a great deal with this place and walk outside to get a better look at the view.
It’s never cold enough for the lake to freeze over, and so deep blue water laps gently against frost-covered rocks at the shore. The trees are brilliant green speckled with white, and for just a moment—a tiny, perfect inhale—I am absolutely giddy to be here.
Knowing I have a few minutes, I step back inside and pull the files Jess gave me from my bag. Jess’s recordkeeping is usually flawless, but when I glance over the retreat vendors she mentioned, I see what she meant: I don’t recall most of them, either. I’m in the middle of sending her a note to verify some of the entries with Kylie when my phone buzzes on the table with a text to me—and only me—from Brad:
Please arrive to the lodge restaurant early to ensure everything is in order.
I give myself exactly three deep what the actual hell is up with Brad? breaths before I find my purse and my key and head downstairs.
• • •
As it happens, dinner is lovely. Or at least it is after Brad thanks everyone again for coming and asks me to get in front of the group and explain what we can expect on tonight’s menu. I move from my seat, but the tension in my spine over being treated like his assistant—or an event coordinator—is slowly ratcheting tighter.
“I’m happy to explain the menu,” Carter interrupts, beginning to stand.
Brad shakes his head. “Let Evie do it.”
I hear Brad’s message loud and clear aimed at me: You’re my puppet. You’ll do this if you want a job come Monday.
Slowly, Carter sits down, his face red. I give him a little nod and smile, grateful for his attempt at least, and rattle off the basics. Salad. Meat. Potatoes. Green beans. It’s really nothing in need of explanation. Carter was smart to insist we go with traditional on our rather limited budget, knowing that they probably prepare it pretty nicely up at the lodge. We’d also selected a white wine and a red wine, and we run out of both before we’re done with the salad course.
Thank God for the cash bar, I guess?
Forks and knives scrape and screech across porcelain as everyone chows down. We are at a small handful of long tables in the center of a cavernous private room, but I can’t really accept blame for the oddity of this, since it was on Brad’s list of demands that we take our meal here, together. Like a team.
A fire roars in a stone fireplace so enormous I could probably stand inside, and there are seven waiters milling timidly around the room, hoping they can be helpful in some way but unwilling to ask too often. It’s the Brad Kingman Effect. You don’t even have to know who he is to be mildly afraid of him.
Carter is at my left during dinner and it’s strange to be in a room full of people and sounds and yet still be so aware of him. His arm brushes against mine as he cuts his steak, as he reaches for his wine, as he adjusts his napkin below the table. Is he trying to touch me? The more wine I have, the more my brain screams YES! to this question, and I start trying to reciprocate a little, leaning closer, resting my left arm lightly on the table so he has easier access.
Subtle stuff. I am a seduction ninja.
I’m so focused on what Carter’s doing and saying and how amazing he smells that I’m somewhat startled when a few of the waiters start clearing plates, and I look down to realize I’ve barely touched mine.
The party transitions to the outdoor patio, where heat lamps glow from each corner and strings of paper lanterns frame a view of the lake just beyond.
Brad rarely lets go enough to really get drunk at these things, but when he does he’s one of those intoxicated people who seems to have a volume knob attached to his drinking arm. By the time ten o’clock rolls around, most of the group is pretty tanked, but Brad isn’t just tanked, it’s like he’s hooked up to some PA system.
Don’t get me wrong; fewer people have better stories in this business than Brad Kingman, and sober, he’s as sealed as a two-hundred-year-old grave, so we’re all—even the ones who hate him—pretty enthralled. Tonight he is really on a roll.
Some highlights:
His wife paid for college by stripping. (I’m sure Maxine, the studio executive, would be thrilled he’s shared this.)
He watched one of the most famous actors in the history of film (five Academy Awards, to be exact) “do some blow off a hooker’s ass in Vegas.”
The first time he met one of the industry’s most powerful producers, said producer was so high he fell asleep in his salad, woke up, and pretended nothing had happened. He finished the meeting with shredded carrots in his hair and a smear of French dressing along the entire left side of his face. The movie they were discussing went on to win four Academy Awards and two Golden Globes, and made nearly a billion worldwide.
After some more stories, it’s midnight, the outdoor bar has closed, and my wineglass is empty. A passing server offers to find me a refill, but it’s a perfect excuse to mosey to the bar inside, where it’s quiet and warm, and get a few minutes to myself.
The bartender comes over and leans on the bar expectantly. “What’ll it be, gorgeous?”
“Whatever your best red wine is,” I tell him, reading his name tag. Woody. “I was drinking the pinot outside, but I think they ran out a while ago.”
Woody smiles, revealing a top row of perfectly white, even teeth . . . with one front tooth completely missing. It’s such an odd paradox, I am instantly fascinated. Was it pulled? If so, why? How could one tooth be so bad when the others are perfect?
“Understatement of the decade, am I right?” he adds, looking at the assembled crowd of agents and staff. “But none of that matters, because this, right here? This is what it’s all about: seeing my team around me, ready to really show the world how it’s done. Now more than ever we need talent that can do it all—TV, film, media—and they need a team behind them that can do it all, too. That’s why I have you all here together, where you can learn to cheer each other on and become unstoppable. How do we do that?”
“As a team,” someone says, and Brad nods.
“That’s right. Not two individual companies, but as a team.” Brad stops to look around before waving me to the front of the group. “Now, come on up here, Evie. You’ve done a great job as event planner. Tell us what we can expect for the night. Dazzle us.”
Carter looks to me, frowning.
“We have a welcome dinner in the lodge,” I tell them, glancing at my watch, “in about forty-five minutes. That should give everyone time to drop off their things and get sorted. The real fun starts tomorrow at ten.”
At my side, Brad nods enthusiastically. “Can’t wait. Now, I can tell you guys are chomping at the bit to get rolling! Let’s go check in, team.”
Looking up, I meet Carter’s eyes. His expression is grim, his mouth a slash of disapproval.
Brad claps me on the back, shooting me forward toward the doors of the lodge. “Lead the way, kiddo!”
Sweet hellacious hellfire, this weekend is going to be a doozy.
• • •
When we all split off with room keys in our hands, I could be a CIA agent the way I covertly watch which way Carter goes (and also maybe which direction Kylie goes, too, celebrating internally when they turn down opposite halls).
I wheel my small suitcase behind me to 207, a few doors away from Rose. Inside, it’s gorgeous, with an enormous bed in the middle of a spacious room, and a breathtaking view of the lake beyond a wide balcony. I mentally high-five Kylie for securing such a great deal with this place and walk outside to get a better look at the view.
It’s never cold enough for the lake to freeze over, and so deep blue water laps gently against frost-covered rocks at the shore. The trees are brilliant green speckled with white, and for just a moment—a tiny, perfect inhale—I am absolutely giddy to be here.
Knowing I have a few minutes, I step back inside and pull the files Jess gave me from my bag. Jess’s recordkeeping is usually flawless, but when I glance over the retreat vendors she mentioned, I see what she meant: I don’t recall most of them, either. I’m in the middle of sending her a note to verify some of the entries with Kylie when my phone buzzes on the table with a text to me—and only me—from Brad:
Please arrive to the lodge restaurant early to ensure everything is in order.
I give myself exactly three deep what the actual hell is up with Brad? breaths before I find my purse and my key and head downstairs.
• • •
As it happens, dinner is lovely. Or at least it is after Brad thanks everyone again for coming and asks me to get in front of the group and explain what we can expect on tonight’s menu. I move from my seat, but the tension in my spine over being treated like his assistant—or an event coordinator—is slowly ratcheting tighter.
“I’m happy to explain the menu,” Carter interrupts, beginning to stand.
Brad shakes his head. “Let Evie do it.”
I hear Brad’s message loud and clear aimed at me: You’re my puppet. You’ll do this if you want a job come Monday.
Slowly, Carter sits down, his face red. I give him a little nod and smile, grateful for his attempt at least, and rattle off the basics. Salad. Meat. Potatoes. Green beans. It’s really nothing in need of explanation. Carter was smart to insist we go with traditional on our rather limited budget, knowing that they probably prepare it pretty nicely up at the lodge. We’d also selected a white wine and a red wine, and we run out of both before we’re done with the salad course.
Thank God for the cash bar, I guess?
Forks and knives scrape and screech across porcelain as everyone chows down. We are at a small handful of long tables in the center of a cavernous private room, but I can’t really accept blame for the oddity of this, since it was on Brad’s list of demands that we take our meal here, together. Like a team.
A fire roars in a stone fireplace so enormous I could probably stand inside, and there are seven waiters milling timidly around the room, hoping they can be helpful in some way but unwilling to ask too often. It’s the Brad Kingman Effect. You don’t even have to know who he is to be mildly afraid of him.
Carter is at my left during dinner and it’s strange to be in a room full of people and sounds and yet still be so aware of him. His arm brushes against mine as he cuts his steak, as he reaches for his wine, as he adjusts his napkin below the table. Is he trying to touch me? The more wine I have, the more my brain screams YES! to this question, and I start trying to reciprocate a little, leaning closer, resting my left arm lightly on the table so he has easier access.
Subtle stuff. I am a seduction ninja.
I’m so focused on what Carter’s doing and saying and how amazing he smells that I’m somewhat startled when a few of the waiters start clearing plates, and I look down to realize I’ve barely touched mine.
The party transitions to the outdoor patio, where heat lamps glow from each corner and strings of paper lanterns frame a view of the lake just beyond.
Brad rarely lets go enough to really get drunk at these things, but when he does he’s one of those intoxicated people who seems to have a volume knob attached to his drinking arm. By the time ten o’clock rolls around, most of the group is pretty tanked, but Brad isn’t just tanked, it’s like he’s hooked up to some PA system.
Don’t get me wrong; fewer people have better stories in this business than Brad Kingman, and sober, he’s as sealed as a two-hundred-year-old grave, so we’re all—even the ones who hate him—pretty enthralled. Tonight he is really on a roll.
Some highlights:
His wife paid for college by stripping. (I’m sure Maxine, the studio executive, would be thrilled he’s shared this.)
He watched one of the most famous actors in the history of film (five Academy Awards, to be exact) “do some blow off a hooker’s ass in Vegas.”
The first time he met one of the industry’s most powerful producers, said producer was so high he fell asleep in his salad, woke up, and pretended nothing had happened. He finished the meeting with shredded carrots in his hair and a smear of French dressing along the entire left side of his face. The movie they were discussing went on to win four Academy Awards and two Golden Globes, and made nearly a billion worldwide.
After some more stories, it’s midnight, the outdoor bar has closed, and my wineglass is empty. A passing server offers to find me a refill, but it’s a perfect excuse to mosey to the bar inside, where it’s quiet and warm, and get a few minutes to myself.
The bartender comes over and leans on the bar expectantly. “What’ll it be, gorgeous?”
“Whatever your best red wine is,” I tell him, reading his name tag. Woody. “I was drinking the pinot outside, but I think they ran out a while ago.”
Woody smiles, revealing a top row of perfectly white, even teeth . . . with one front tooth completely missing. It’s such an odd paradox, I am instantly fascinated. Was it pulled? If so, why? How could one tooth be so bad when the others are perfect?
