Pimp

Twenty

Angela moaned almost convincingly as Becker drilled her for the third time in two days.

Drilled.

Becker’s term. As he slurped all over her he promised, “Gonna drill you, my Brandi Love.”

Everything about him repulsed her. He was fake, wore aftershave that would restore hair on Paul Giamatti’s head. One thing he apparently wasn’t anymore was gay. He’d told his husband Ron it was over and asked for a divorce. Wasn’t the first time Angela had gotten a man to ditch his marriage and it wouldn’t be the last.

Becker had said, “I never thought I could love a woman again, but there’s something about you, baby.”

Angela was glad Becker was into her — so to speak — because she didn’t think the threat of going public about him at Bryan Singer’s pool party was enough to keep her on the project long-term. As Angela knew perhaps better than anyone — seduction was the most surefire way to get what you want in life.

Now in Becker’s California king bed, she said with absolutely no tone, “Oh give it to me, big daddy.” Making it sound much like Mary had a fucking little lamb...

But like most guys who bought their own bullshit, he said, “Whole lot more where that came from, cunt.”

Jesus.

“Oh, yeah, talk dirty to me when you drill me,” she said weakly.

Saved, almost, by the bell. The doorbell. He gasped, “Leave it.”

She made a face of grim reluctance, said, “Might be important, baby,” and shoved the dipshit off. He landed in a heap of withered dick and disappointment.

Angela threw on a faux silk robe. It matched the act she was peddling to Becker, all sheen and no substance. Opened the door to Bill Moss, who sniggered, “Come at a bad time?”

She had to eat this crap, smiled, said, “Lovely to see you, darling.” Get that Hollywood vibe of never actually using anyone’s name.

Bill swaggered in, flopped on a sofa, said, “Wet my whistle, bitch.”

Using the slur as a sly form of affection, as in, Gee, I’m so avant-garde.

Proving he knew nothing about women or avant-garde.

This was a different Bill Moss than the Bill Moss she’d met with at the Chateau. He seemed edgier, raunchier, nastier. Had success gone to his head already or was something else going on?

“You been drinking?” Angela asked.

“No, PIMPing.” Bill giggled. “Yep, scored some PIMP with my first check from Lionsgate. You know PIMP, the new wonder drug that knows how to take care of you. I don’t know how I ever wrote without it.”

“Lovely,” Angela said. “Does wonders for your personality.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Bill said. “Am I the only one horny tonight?”

On cue, Darren rolled in, having pulled on a garish pair of Bermudas and a T that read: BONO BLEW ME.

Bill said, “You look like a guy who’s had some coitus interruptus.”

Angela wisely decided to go make the drinks, saying with a cheeriness she faked, “Dry Martinis good?”

Bill was staring at Becker and nothing he was seeing gave him any joy.

“What is this,” Bill said. “Fucking Mad Men?”

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Angela said.

“No, thanks, I can party without the company of a couple of Hollywood shitheads,” Bill said. Then, “Just so as we’re all...” And, Jaysus fuck, made those air quotes. “...on the same page, Larry Reed is now our new producing partner.”

Becker was raging, shouted, “Fuck no, not that fucking cunt!”

Bill smirked, went, “Whoa, language, there’re ladies present.” Glanced at Angela. “Kind of.”

Repressing a sudden urge to scratch Bill’s eyes out, Angela said, “Why do you want Larry involved? After he fooked you over on Spaced Out? Had you write all those drafts on spec?”

“Let’s just say we resolved our creative differences,” Bill said.

“Bullshit,” Darren said. “Larry bought him off and there’s no fuckin’ way I’m going along with this.”

“I think we should sit calmly like civilized people and discuss this,” Angela said.

“Nothing to discuss,” Bill said. “Larry’s in or I’m out and Lionsgate’s already on board, wanna know why?”

Angela sighed, went, “ ’Cause they like, like you.”

He snapped, “Not like, fucking love, as in, I call the shots.”

Angela went to Becker, “He’s right, you know. Lionsgate loves him, so if he and Larry are a package, we’re stuck with Larry.”

“Larry’s a package all right,” Becker said. “Good choice of word.” He tried for a sneer, managed a poor man’s grimace, which made him look like a disappointed groupie, went, “So how’s the screenplay coming?”

Bill went up close to Becker, said, “All humility aside, it’s fucking awesome, a clusterfuck of ingenious writing.”

Angela forced a grin, went, “We’re blessed to have you, Bill.”

Bill smiled, all teeth and no cattle, went, “Finally, something we agree on.”