Page 6 of The Producer: Aaron

Every time I come home drunk, I promise myself that it will be the last, that next time I will not give in to the temptation to “loosen up a little.” Then Serena convinces me to go out, or she comes with me to the parties like today, and I find myself in front of her exuberance, her ability to converse with everyone without appearing like an idiot, and I feel inadequate. If a shot helps to loosen my tongue it’s not the end of the world, but afterward, I find myself wasted without even realizing it.

“Take a shower. You stink,” she adds before leaving the room and disappearing down the hallway.

I look in the mirror again, and my cheeks flare with shame. I am wasted, pale like a rag, and my hair is plastered with what looks like vomit. I slip into the shower and let the water wash away the dirt, but nothing can take away the scorching humiliation that has fallen on me. Thinking about the shame my mother will endure reading those magazines makes my new living arrangements looks like a fair punishment.

***

When Tracy told me to pack a bag for tonight, I didn’t immediately realize she meant to take me to the man with my future in his hands right away. She didn’t even leave me time to dry my hair or eat something to absorb the alcohol I ingested during the afternoon. The winding road that takes me to the most famous hills in the world with the villas and their wealthy inhabitants doesn’t help to keep my stomach worn out by vodka and nervousness at bay. When I get out of the car, it is almost a liberation to be able to put my feet on the ground.

I stare at the villa in front of me. I’ve often seen pictures of this place in architectural magazines as one of the trendiest homes of the last decade, but those photos don’t do justice to this beauty. The angular lines of reinforced concrete and stained glass disappear, merging with the hill on which it is built. It gives you the impression that the earth has given birth to this appendix that integrates with the arid soil surrounding it. Its flowerbeds are dotted with shrubs that appear to have survived centuries of drought and heat in a city like Los Angeles.

It is a house that gives me the idea of solidity and robustness, almost a modern fortress suitable for hostingThe Butcher. It suits the personality of its owner, a man so powerful, he has set the terms among the sharks ruling Hollywood.

“It could have been worse” A knowing smile appears on Tracy’s lips.

The woman doesn’t wait for my answer but strides toward the front door pulling out a bunch of keys from her bag. Through the heavy glass that separates us from the inside, I can see the open plan of the living room overlooking the windows, the pool, and the view of downtown. It’s baffling how only a few people in this city of millions can enjoy a breathtaking view like this.

The house we enter is bright, made of white marble floors and matching color furniture overlooking a modern open kitchen with three sets of sliding doors that take you onto the pool and the garden. I look up at the ceiling and the glass railing of the stairs leading to the gallery upstairs, where I glimpse some paintings I recognize from the art textbooks I studied in high school. I’m not an expert on whether they’re authentic, but they don’t seem like those dollar prints found in museum souvenir shops.

“Here she is. Now the problem is yours.” Tracy’s voice brings me back to reality, and when I look down, I notice the imposing figure of Aaron Steel leaning against the marble counter of theimmaculate kitchen. Dressed in his dark gray suit that seems sewn on him, he looks even more intimidating than the few times I met him in the corridors of the studios.

His gray eyes rest on my face. His impassive expression doesn’t let any emotion shine through. I am so confused by his look that he may be about to scold me, spank me, or even choke me and bury my corpse in the garden and I wouldn’t realize what is happening.

“Thank you, Tracy. You can go,” he dismisses her with his authoritarian tone without taking his eyes from my face.

I sense the assistant moving next to me, and I hear the ticking of her heels on the white marble walking away until it disappears behind the front door, but I can’t look away from the man in front of me.

Aaron Steel exudes power, authority, and dominance. When he chains you to his gaze, the only thing you can do is breathe, making as little noise as possible. I feel my legs tremble, my hands clutch in a painful grip around the handle of the bag that holds my clothes, and my stomach tightens in a grip I don’t like. To say that I am nervous is an understatement. When I followed Tracy up here, I knew it would be an embarrassing encounter, but I didn’t realize how much. How can I share a house with a man who makes me tremble simply by looking at me?

“The rules as long as you live in this house are very simple: no parties, no hangovers, no loud music. If you spill something, you clean it. I don’t want to find your stuff tossed around. The rooms you are granted are your bedroom with the en suite bathroom, the living area–excluding my office–and the pool. A driver of mine will take you to the set every morning and pick you up to take you here in the evening. If you stay out in the evening, I demand to be warned. I’m not waiting for you until morning to turn the alarm back on, so come back at a decent time, or don’t come back at all. If you have any particular food preferences,leave a list on the counter, and I’ll let the housekeeper know to buy it. Do you understand?”

His voice is so authoritarian that it makes this whole accommodation look like a beautiful prison in Hollywood Hills. The anger that boils inside me in front of the arrogance he uses to rattle off his rules makes me forget that he is my boss. Indeed, he is the boss of my boss. He’s so high up the food chain I look like a goldfish by comparison. This, however, doesn’t dampen my fury. On the contrary, it feeds it.

“Am I allowed the one hour outside, or do I only get forced labor?” I blurt out without restraint. My voice comes out firmer than I expected, and the question seems to catch him by surprise. I feel my cheeks going up in flames. This is my boss, I shouldn’t say everything that crosses my mind out loud, but I’m not famous for handling my conversations well.

His eyebrows barely rise; it is the only reaction I can pull from him, but it is enough for me to understand that he is not used to someone who speaks her mind.

“Let’s make one thing clear right away. This is my house. You are my guest. These are the rules. If they don’t suit you, you can always leave.” His tone is threatening, and when he approaches with his imposing body, the anger almost disappears, giving way to shyness. Almost.

I look up at him and nail him in place. “I’m here because your show shuts down without me, and we both know it’s your best show. I’m not a stupid little girl who destroys your house, and I demand the same respect you ask from me.” Maybe this time, I crossed the line.

I hold my breath, sure the stretched silence is because he will fire me. While I have always been awkward in talking to my peers, growing up in an adults-only home has forged me from a young age to deal with people way older than me. In fact, I’m more comfortable standing up to my boss than flirting withthe cute guy at a party. With Aaron, I know how to handle the situation. Maybe I’m a bit too straightforward, but at least he is someone I can reason with.

“I’ll show you your room.” It is his only reaction after an extenuating silence, and I watch him as he walks away with his regal bearing toward the massive staircase that leads upstairs.

I sigh in relief when he shows me a room with a queen size bed in light tones and a window overlooking the pool instead of kicking me out of the house.

***

It’s been two hours since I locked myself in my room and hung the few things I took with me in the empty walk-in closet. No noise comes from outside. There is no one in the garden or pool, and I wonder if there is anyone in this house. The silence is so oppressive it makes me almost melancholy. At least in the apartment where I lived since this afternoon, traffic noise kept me company in the evenings when I was locked up at home reading.

Alcohol is giving me some peace, and the hangover is almost gone. The problem is that now hunger is making my stomach grumble. I wonder ifMr. I-make-the-ruleseven set up the alarm at the refrigerator. I open the door slowly, making no noise, and peek down the dark hallway, almost expecting to find him in front of me with his gray suit wrapping him like a glove and a gun in his hand to ensure I’m not going anywhere. But the house seems deserted, and I wonder if he went out. The more I think about this situation, the stranger I find that someone like Aaron Steel decided to babysit me for six months. I feel a little guilty. I haven’t seen the photos yet, but they must be awful to push him into considering such a drastic solution.

I retrace the steps to the kitchen and open the fridge, searching for something to eat. I have no idea if there is anything for me, but he can’t think of keeping me in this cage without feeding me.I find a plate of fruit cut into pieces and grab it without a second thought, then open the kitchen cabinets until I find a glass and pour myself some orange juice. I look at the counter in the dim light and feel the melancholy making its way into my chest without being able to stop it. This house may be a palace, but it’s as cold as one of those you see in the magazines. No one really lives here.

I grab the plate and the glass and walk out on the patio, sitting on one of the deck chairs around the pool, illuminated by the lights strategically placed in the water. I grab my phone, and for the first time, I find myself scrolling through the photos that portray me wasted by another pool just a few hours ago. They are photos that do not represent me, yet that is me, immortalized in one of the worst moments of my existence and shared so that the whole world can have an opinion about me.

I grab one of the strawberries on the plate, put it to my lips, accentuating the pout that mother nature has gifted me, and look straight into the camera lens of the phone as I have been doing for years. By now, I know every pose, every angle that enhances my strengths and hides my flaws. I show off my innocent but at the same time flirty look that makes me look sexy but never gross. I practiced it for months until it became natural, and I didn’t need to be in front of a mirror to strike the flawless pose. I have the complete feel of every single muscle of my face, the proper inclination of the head, and how much to open my lips memorized. If you want to work in Hollywood, this is what is required of you: perfection and an image to project to the public.

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