to abuse this situation in any way, it will not work out to your advantage in the end.”
“Damn, and I thought I was blunt,” I responded caustically. If she was going to a bitch, she had better be able to take what she could dish.
The eyebrows arched again. “It’s my job to sift through the bullshit and get to the point.”
“And I’m sure you do your job very well. I have no intention of abusing anything. I know you don’t have to trust me, but I also don’t have to like you.” Awesome, Cris . . . off to a rip-roaring good start in the world of Hollywood.
“Fair enough. Don’t do anything stupid and we’ll get along passably.” She looked away from me again with dismissive arrogance.
I pursed my lips in irritation. This evil preying mantis thought I was a gold-digging skank out to capture as many moments as I could sell to the highest bidding paparazzo. I wasn’t even going to go through the trouble of trying to prove her wrong. I was certain that she believed unfailingly in her ability to accurately judge others. She was not going to let a tiny Puerto Rican girl prove her wrong. After years of fighting to make everyone like me, I’d realized that sometimes it was just impossible. You can’t fight a war with a psycho and expect to win anything but battle scars. Win the battle, lose the war kind of stuff.
As the elevator doors opened onto the highest floor, I gazed about, and the nervousness returned with a vengeance. Two burly-looking security guards dressed in black stood on either side of large double-doors directly in front of me. I felt like a kid in my Che shirt and jeans. They nodded to Melissa and opened one of the doors. I shot the security guard on my right a look that must have made him feel bad for me because he winked and smiled kindly. I returned the gesture. At least now he might hesitate before dragging me out of the suite at the first mistake I made and tossing me unceremoniously onto Peachtree Street.
Thomas was deep in amused conversation with another man whose appearance almost made me laugh out loud. He looked like an absurd cartoon character who wore tight, black pants and a grey turtleneck sweater that hugged his small body. He had dark brown facial hair on his pointed chin that was cut in zigzag patterns up his jaw line. He wore many rings on his fingers and a large watch that sparkled even from halfway across the room. Zorro meets Liberace. Excellent.
Tom turned when he heard the tapping of Melissa’s heels on the marble in front of me.
“Cris!” There was no way to ignore the broad smile on his face when he saw me. I grinned back at him in an effort to hide my awkwardness and discomfort.
“Che?” Zorro asked with puzzlement as he stared at my shirt. “¿De donde sos?”
“Puerto Rico. My father’s originally from Cuba.” It was a lame explanation for why I wore a shirt with an Argentinean Marxist’s face emblazoned on it, but he asked.
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you were from my homeland, not with that ass . . . it’s good to know I can still tell the difference,” Zorro said with the flamboyant air I had come to expect from an incredibly secure gay man. I’d bet money on it. His accent was cultivated in a manner that was especially meant to impress exoticism on anyone foolish enough to believe in its full authenticity. He most likely spoke English better than many people born and raised in the States. In spite of all his affectations, I was going to like this guy who smiled at me while scrutinizing every last detail of my appearance.
“Cris, this is Esteban Alvarez. He’s in charge of making me look decent,” Thomas said with a comfortable grin in Zorro’s direction.
“And it’s incredibly fucking hard. He’s impossible to work with. Such a man. Jeans and T-shirt type . . . no taste at all. Well, at least you’re not a disaster. He wasn’t lying about that. We are going to need to work on your wardrobe, though.” Esteban drawled and
“Damn, and I thought I was blunt,” I responded caustically. If she was going to a bitch, she had better be able to take what she could dish.
The eyebrows arched again. “It’s my job to sift through the bullshit and get to the point.”
“And I’m sure you do your job very well. I have no intention of abusing anything. I know you don’t have to trust me, but I also don’t have to like you.” Awesome, Cris . . . off to a rip-roaring good start in the world of Hollywood.
“Fair enough. Don’t do anything stupid and we’ll get along passably.” She looked away from me again with dismissive arrogance.
I pursed my lips in irritation. This evil preying mantis thought I was a gold-digging skank out to capture as many moments as I could sell to the highest bidding paparazzo. I wasn’t even going to go through the trouble of trying to prove her wrong. I was certain that she believed unfailingly in her ability to accurately judge others. She was not going to let a tiny Puerto Rican girl prove her wrong. After years of fighting to make everyone like me, I’d realized that sometimes it was just impossible. You can’t fight a war with a psycho and expect to win anything but battle scars. Win the battle, lose the war kind of stuff.
As the elevator doors opened onto the highest floor, I gazed about, and the nervousness returned with a vengeance. Two burly-looking security guards dressed in black stood on either side of large double-doors directly in front of me. I felt like a kid in my Che shirt and jeans. They nodded to Melissa and opened one of the doors. I shot the security guard on my right a look that must have made him feel bad for me because he winked and smiled kindly. I returned the gesture. At least now he might hesitate before dragging me out of the suite at the first mistake I made and tossing me unceremoniously onto Peachtree Street.
Thomas was deep in amused conversation with another man whose appearance almost made me laugh out loud. He looked like an absurd cartoon character who wore tight, black pants and a grey turtleneck sweater that hugged his small body. He had dark brown facial hair on his pointed chin that was cut in zigzag patterns up his jaw line. He wore many rings on his fingers and a large watch that sparkled even from halfway across the room. Zorro meets Liberace. Excellent.
Tom turned when he heard the tapping of Melissa’s heels on the marble in front of me.
“Cris!” There was no way to ignore the broad smile on his face when he saw me. I grinned back at him in an effort to hide my awkwardness and discomfort.
“Che?” Zorro asked with puzzlement as he stared at my shirt. “¿De donde sos?”
“Puerto Rico. My father’s originally from Cuba.” It was a lame explanation for why I wore a shirt with an Argentinean Marxist’s face emblazoned on it, but he asked.
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you were from my homeland, not with that ass . . . it’s good to know I can still tell the difference,” Zorro said with the flamboyant air I had come to expect from an incredibly secure gay man. I’d bet money on it. His accent was cultivated in a manner that was especially meant to impress exoticism on anyone foolish enough to believe in its full authenticity. He most likely spoke English better than many people born and raised in the States. In spite of all his affectations, I was going to like this guy who smiled at me while scrutinizing every last detail of my appearance.
“Cris, this is Esteban Alvarez. He’s in charge of making me look decent,” Thomas said with a comfortable grin in Zorro’s direction.
“And it’s incredibly fucking hard. He’s impossible to work with. Such a man. Jeans and T-shirt type . . . no taste at all. Well, at least you’re not a disaster. He wasn’t lying about that. We are going to need to work on your wardrobe, though.” Esteban drawled and
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