Page 18 of The Producer: Aaron

I can’t help but try to hide a smile. She is entirely different from the proud and determined young woman who stands up to me in every conversation.

“Sorry, I realize I made a mistake coming down, but now I’m here, I might as well talk about it,” I admit.

She pretends to be shocked, leaning a hand on her chest. “Mr.I-am-perfectjust admitted he was wrong?” she teases.

I raise an eyebrow and bite my cheek to not smile again. I have a reputation to maintain, for Pete’s sake!

“It won’t happen again, believe me.” I pull an amused smile from her. “I came to tell you that, if you agree, we’ll send out an official press release explaining that you came to live in my house because of a crazy stalker who threatens you. We can pretend you’re safe by having guards and cameras inside the residence.”

I study her as she frowns and looks at me as if I were a perfect idiot.

“Literally less than twenty-four hours ago, thirty strangers entered your house destroying the pool because I opened the gate with an app on my phone. You don’t have security guards in your house. And shouldn’t I have gone to the police instead of asking my boss to be a hero?” she asks, puzzled.

She’s right, this explanation is full of holes, but I count on Sharon’s skill to direct the conversation elsewhere and confuse the gossip magazines until the story deflates.

“They will not verify these details. They will focus on the crazy stalker. We will make you look like the victim, and no one will ask questions.” I downplay it, but I see that she is hesitant.

She shakes her head. “Okay, if you say it works, I trust you. You are the genius of these things. I’ll follow your lead. At least now I have a slightly more credible lie than the broken plumbing to give to Serena.”

I furrow my brows and study her. “Did you really tell your friend something like that? You know there are people paid to repair certain damages, don’t you? There is no need to wipe out a neighborhood and rebuild when a light bulb burns out.” I teaseher a little for her naivety.

It amazes me how she holds conversations much more maturely than her age and stands up to people who, on paper, have more authority than her, but then gets lost when making excuses with her peers.

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms to her chest. “She caught me off guard. I wasn’t ready!”

I shake my head and smile before letting her return to her job and call Sharon to give her the green light. Walking out of the set, I notice one of the trailers where they keep all the stage costumes for the show. I knock on the door and wait for someone to come. When the girl with green hair and eyebrow piercing opens the door, her eyes almost jump out of her sockets.

“Mr. Steel! Is there a problem? Can I help you?” she almost stammers.

I smile, trying to reassure her, and this seems to surprise her more than my presence here. Do I instill so much fear in people that I upset them when I smile?

“No problem. When Dakota comes back to change, I just wanted to ask if you can take a look at her boots. I noticed that she has wounds on her feet, and I was wondering if you can do something to make her more comfortable,” I explain as tactfully as possible without making it appear as an order, even though my instinct is shouting at me to fire her for not having checked herself.

“Really? She has been using them for months. She never told me they hurt her!” she says, outraged, and I can only read honesty on her face. Not that it justifies her lack of attention to her job, but at least it’s not total indifference.

“I don’t think she told anyone. I just noticed the blood stainswhen she removed them,” I explain and realize how absurd I sound. When does a producer ever notice the feet of the actresses who work for him?

“I will definitely check as soon as she comes back. Thank you for pointing it out to me,” she replies, embarrassed.

I smile at her and she seems disoriented again. As I leave, I give her a wave of my hand, a gesture that sends her into complete confusion. For Pete’s sake, I am not a bloodthirsty tyrant.

***

The dinner with the investors was filled with a bunch of jokes about the fact that I have “young meat” around the house at my disposal. Apparently, all straight males over forty believe I have fucked Dakota on every surface of my house. It was challenging not to punch them at the umpteenth joke or how they addressed women like they were a piece of meat.

I put the keys on the entrance table, enter the study on the ground floor where I keep my whiskey collection, and pour two fingers of Glenmorangie Signet into a glass. I lay my eyes on the box containing the fifty-four-year-old Singleton and sigh of relief, thinking back to last night. The kids could drain a forty-five thousand dollar collectible bottle and not be able to discern it from the Jack Daniels they find at the pub. I close the alcohol cabinet and, without turning on the lights, go upstairs to finally take off my tie.

There is no noise, no lights on, not even filtering from under the door of Dakota’s room. I wonder if she went out because, even though it is past midnight, she doesn’t work tomorrow and would have every right to go out with her friends and have fun.

I enter my bedroom and put my tie on the bed with my jacket. Unfastening the shirt’s buttons, I open the door that leads onto the terrace overlooking the pool. I sit on one of the armchairsand relax, sipping the whiskey while watching the city lights in the distance. I will never tire of this view. I chose to build here just to enjoy this show every night, to feel like I have the world at my feet.

The phone buzzes in my pocket and when I pull it out, I notice the Instagram notification I set on Dakota’s profile. If I have to keep an eye on her, her social media accounts will give me an immediate preview of her life. The post is a close-up of her face, taken in dim light, with those innocent eyes and sulky lips that make her the forbidden dream of every man on this earth. She is breathtakingly beautiful.

The caption below the photo is one of those approved by Sharon. She insinuates an outing with friends, but I recognize those pillows behind her. I look down at the pool and find her in her red bikini, focused on the same view I’m enjoying. She’s put a bag of what looks like the frozen peas I asked the housekeeper to buy last week on her feet.

She’s twenty-three years old. It’s Friday night. She should be out having fun instead of pretending with her fans. I sip from my whiskey and watch her looking at the phone, maybe hoping someone will call her. I don’t know. She is one of the rising stars of Hollywood, adored by millions of young people like her; yet, she is here alone, with a melancholy look and signs of fatigue from her work on her feet. I wonder if she has any friends to hang out with, apart from Serena, who always seems to get her into trouble? Los Angeles can be beautiful but also cruel. It can make you live big dreams but at the same time make you die of loneliness.

I sip from my whiskey and lean out, resting my elbows on my knees watching as she stands and approaches the pool stairs, slowly slipping into the water and savoring every moment. She dives. I follow her as she swims to the other side of the edgeand re-emerges with her eyes closed and lips parted to catch her breath. She puts her hands in her hair to remove the water, letting me glimpse the curves of her breasts behind that bikini that adheres to them like a second skin. I am hypnotized by her movements, her pale skin, and the pout of her lips.

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