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Miller Briggs is a dashing Scottish actor caught in a hurricane of his own making -- a drug problem, an unfulfilling career, friends who use him for photo opportunities, and a complicated engagement with...
Every morning at the reasonably early hour of 11 o'clock, the day began with a click and a mechanical whirr as the polished metal blinds around the house lifted in unison and flooded the stark, modern rooms with honey-colored light. It was always a pleasant way to awaken, graduating from darkness to golden late-morning sunshine. This morning, though, Miller Briggs was awake well before eleven.
He lay in his aptly-named California King bed, staring at the gold-flecked ceiling. When the sunlight caught the shavings of gold, it transformed his bedroom into a glittering lair. He liked to imagine he was one of the Goonies discovering "One-Eyed" Willy's den of treasure with Chunk and Sloth.
Today, it held no charm. His phone vibrated on the nightstand for the fifteenth or fiftieth time. Summer was calling, or more likely Summer's assistant was calling. He rolled out of bed, strode to the expanse of windows, opened the glass doors and stepped onto the patio. The tiny tiles beneath his bare feet, arranged to paint a coral reef dotted with clown fish, were warm. When he renovated this house, his interior designers warned him the mosaic patio was impractical, expensive and would require constant repair. They were right, of course, but it was worth it: he liked the Nemo fish.
A helicopter flew past. Probably a news chopper tracking another car chase. Miller approached the edge of the property, a sharp precipice ringed with a waist-high glass fence and the requisite infinity pool. The Hollywood Hills unfolded before him, an ocean of cedar and palm trees. In the distance, the skyline of Los Angeles stood sentinel.
He grew up in Los Angeles and knew its neighborhoods by heart. He had driven down every street, partied in every gated mansion, gone to every restaurant, drunk in every bar, done a line in every men's room, puked in every gutter. There was no mystique anymore. He felt like he and Los Angeles were a couple who'd been together for eternity and knew all each other's secrets. That intimacy didn't draw him in; rather, it just bored him and pushed him away.
Behind him, a cleared throat.
"Good morning, Silvia," he said.
His publicist answered from the kitchen door. "She's called me nine times. Take care of it."
Miller nodded and kept his bare backside to her. As much as he dreaded talking to Summer, he was far less interested in listening to Silvia. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall. Her face was smooth and apple-cheeked, her expression almost sweet, but her eyes were steely. From a distance, she might have been forty years old, but her hands and neck told different stories. Miller assumed she'd crawled from her mother's festering maw wearing vintage Chanel because he'd never seen her in anything else. Even at his fabled rodeo-themed 30th birthday party with guests daring to ride live broncos and bulls, she'd worn a designer ensemble.
She earned her reputation as a barracuda, worked her endless connections and helped promote him. People saw his movies, clamored for interviews, and paid him attention because of Silvia. He owed her his career and they both knew it.
"The car is on its way," she said, stepping closer until he could practically taste her coffee breath. "Be shaved, showered and ready for picture time."
Miller peered over the wall of his estate to the scrubby juniper and rocks below. If he threw himself off, would he die? With his luck, he'd simply roll and emerge from the thicket, naked and bronzed, somehow even more handsome. Silvia would spin the story from an unseemly suicide attempt to the dashing rescue of an injured bald eagle hatchling.
"I don't want to do this." He hadn't said it aloud before, but now he had. Good. That meant he couldn't take it back.
She exhaled. "Too late now," Silvia said as she sipped strong, black coffee from her teak travel mug.
"It's gone too far, Silvia," he said. "You said the world wanted me with Summer. Then the world wanted me engaged."
"The audience enjoys a show," she explained, "so we give them a show."
"It's not a show," Miller said and blinked into the sun. "It's my life." He was aware that the sound of the helicopter was louder now and the aircraft seemed to hover directly overhead. From the window of the circling helicopter, the long lens of a camera emerged.
"My idea," she continued. "Oh, don't look stunned. It's what your fans want. You'll be on the cover of every mag tomorrow." She waggled her fingers in the direction of his nakedness. "They'll have to blur that part out."
"Silvia, I don't know if I should hate you or be afraid of you."
"Who says you have to choose?" she asked. "The headlines will be delicious: 'Miller Briggs, naked and savoring the final days of bachelorhood.'
Miller asked, "What about savoring his privacy?"
"I can't tell if you're joking or not. Go on and get ready."
