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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...
The hired car slipped through the tree-lined streets of the Hollywood Hills without a sound. In this neighborhood, the homes hid behind gates and garages. There wasn't much to look at. Inside the luxury sedan, there wasn't much to say either. Miller's hand slipped into his pants pocket and fiddled with a small vial. The smooth glass container and ribbed plastic top were familiar as were the contents they held .
Silvia sat beside him on the backseat bench, texting ferociously.
As they drove toward Summer's home in Laurel Canyon, Miller felt the lasso tightening. He felt as though he were a metal shard being pulled toward a magnet. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't slow it down. For someone whose screen persona was one of post-apocalyptic treasure hunter, Secret Service bad-ass and vampire-battling astronaut, he had never felt so powerless.
It was suddenly so warm. He swallowed hard and tried to still the internal tumbling rapids in which he was drowning. He tapped on the smoky glass that separated the passengers from the driver. A man's voice answered from the sound system, "Help you?"
Miller asked, "Pull over, mate?" Silvia looked up with wide eyes. "Not feeling well," Miller replied. The car slowed and nudged against the curb, dried plants scratching the tires and undercarriage. As it stopped, Miller pulled on the handle of his door, frantic to be out. Just out. Free. It was locked. Why was it locked? The driver released the latch and Miller pounced from the car. The fresh air was like medicine. He took two steps to the rear of the car and leaned against it, gulping air and wiping droplets of sweat that sprung from his hairline.
Silvia emerged from the car, phone still in hand. "Are you alright?" Fortunately, she didn't remind him that this was a very important appointment, people were waiting, Carmen Noor was a world-renowned photographer, and the publicity would translate to worldwide ticket sales of his upcoming movies. He knew all that. Right now, he didn't care.
He nodded. "I need a minute."
She retreated to the car and shut the door behind her. Miller was desperate to stop his heart from hammering. Stop. It's okay. You're okay. You're okay. He concentrated on steadying his breath and focused on a point in the distance, as his therapist had advised. He scanned the horizon and saw the Hollywood Sign. He trained his eye on the D. That would have to work.
Again, the car's door opened. He knew Silvia couldn't give him a moment of peace.
"Apologies, sir," said the driver. He held a bottle of water in his outstretched hand. Miller took it with a shaking hand and mumbled his thanks. The driver, a slender black man about Miller's age, gave a rueful nod of understanding. Miller doffed the top of the bottle and drank the water as though he'd just finished a marathon. You're okay. You're okay.
Miller shrugged out of his blazer and welcomed the juniper-scented breeze that danced up the slope. "I can take that," the driver suggested. Miller handed him the coat, grateful to separate from the warm, scratchy bundle of fabric. "I've put the cool air on blast," the man continued. "Ready whenever you are."
The driver returned to the driver's seat and shut the door. With only a moment of privacy, his hands moved over the jacket, squeezing and searching. There. The wallet. He fished the leather billfold from an inner pocket and opened it. Nothing interesting: a black AmEx card, a bank card, a driver's license and insurance card. About three hundred dollars. A punch card to a place called Sweetness on Sunset. He'd check on that later.
Into an empty pocket in Miller's wallet, Essex Renfro slipped a small plastic disk no larger than a quarter. Glancing in the rearview and seeing Miller was still preoccupied with his thoughts, he closed the billfold and returned it to the jacket. He then laid the jacket carefully across the passenger seat. After another minute, Miller returned to the car and closed the door.
Pressing the intercom button, Essex asked, "Good to go, sir?"
Miller declared they were. The time for sweaty palms had passed. He was the Alpha Male, not the hand-wringing, self-doubting Omega. He had run with the bulls in Pamplona and surfed the legendary waves of Sharks Cove in Hawaii. He wasn't about to be derailed by something as fucking mundane as a wedding. As the car returned to the road like a ship gliding out to sea, the would-be groom watched the Hollywood Sign disappear behind a stand of chitapla trees.
Fifteen minutes later, the car swung into the circular drive in front of Summer's house. Her assistant, the ever-helpful Josette, was waiting on the cobblestone walk and wearing her customary pinched expression. Silvia opened the door, stepped from the car and smoothed her pink Chanel skirt. Josette greeted her with a broad smile. As soon as Silvia passed, Josette's smile fell like a blighted soufflé.
The driver exited the car and exchanged a few words with Josette. She nodded and led him into the house where someone would pay him for his time. Grateful for the solitude, Miller fished the vial from his pocket and carefully unscrewed its top. The bowl of the slender silver spoon emerged from the fine white powder. He brought it to his nose and, deftly holding one nostril closed, inhaled sharply. Cocaine felt like neon. Like breathing the bright lights of a Christmas tree. His dad always called it "Colombian marching powder" and extolled its limitless energy. It worked differently for Miller: it was as relaxing as a warm robe after a warm bath.
He returned the vial to his pocket and wiped his nose with a few tell-tale sniffles. He didn't know why he bothered to hide his habit: no one would be shocked. Literally, no one. In fact, it would be more surprising if a celebrity existed who didn't use a little recreationally.
The car door was yanked open, startling Miller from his momentary drowsiness. Josette glared and informed him, "You're in deep shit, dude."
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