In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson Read online

  “What’s your name?” he whispered, looking into her flashing green eyes, admiring her soft lips. He couldn’t keep his eyes from roaming her face. Freckles spread out from her delicate nose all the way to her rosy cheekbones. She was gorgeous.

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She still looked confused. She closed her mouth and opened it again, “D―don’t you know my name?”

  Now it was Bobby’s turn to look confused. He was about to say something when he saw that the words on her T-shirt weren’t fuzzy anymore. As clear as day they spelt “Susan”.

  “Susan. Your name is Susan.”

  The girl smiled with relief, “Yes! That’s my name.” She seemed so happy about it, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  Bobby was thrilled. He’d discovered her name and her voice, which was young and clear and plain beautiful, like the rest of her. He couldn’t place her accent though; New York perhaps, but definitely American, like him.

  “You’re Bobby,” she said. “Bobby Anderson.”

  “Yes, that’s me. What’s your last name?” Bobby looked at her T-shirt again to see if it would give him the answer, but all it said now was “tired”.

  Bright lights.

  Faces looking down at him from above.

  Bright lights again.

  A woman smiling.

  A man frowning.

  “Mr. Anderson?”

  “Yes.” Ooh, what pain.

  “You fell, Mr. Anderson.”

  “What?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Oh Christ, Bobby.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Mr. Anderson has to rest.”

  “Five minutes. Just give me five minutes.”

  “Five minutes and I’m sending the nurse in.

  Door opening and closing.

  “Bobby! Holy shit! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  Bobby felt his head. It wasn’t wrapped in bandages, but there was a bump at the back. “What happened?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t know, man. Clarissa from makeup says you were walking out when you stopped, just stood there, and keeled over. You were lying on the floor for maybe a minute and nothing, no movement at all. So she called out, and I guess Neil called the medics.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the First Aid room they have here. I mean, you’re not, you know, concussed or anything, just a blow from the fall. You haven’t been out for long or anything either; but Jesus, what happened?”

  Boy, Patrick could ramble. Should he tell him about the beach girl? Had the moment finally come to confess all? “Where’s Lola?” he asked instead.

  “Lola? Now, Bobby, we have to have a plan of action. This is the second time something weird has happened on set. If you cause a bad buzz and this movie suffers because of it, you’re going to get burnt big time.”

  “Movie s—suffer?” Bobby sputtered, which made his head throb even more. “This movie is going to be something because of me.”

  “I know that Bobby, but those guys on top, the producers, they don’t have love for anyone. They only want to see a profit. You and I have got to come up with a plan.”

  “Well, you’re the manager. What’s the plan? Because I just got me into I don’t know how many magazines. You loved me this morning, remember?”

  “Sure, I remember, Bobby. But we still need a plan. And the plan, Bobby, is that you dump Lola.”

  “What?”

  “Hear me out here. You dump Lola and you tell the press that things haven’t been working out for a while and it’s been affecting your work.”

  Dump Lola? Just like that? On principle he would say no. He didn’t appreciate people telling him what to do. He’d had enough of that on his career climb up; now that he was up, he made his own decisions. On the other hand, when he thought about dumping Lola his brain said, why not? Why not dump Lola? He could finish this godforsaken movie and concentrate on Susan―what a beautiful name. The only place he wanted to be right now was with her; and the fact that he had to be in some cold First Aid unit with Patrick offended him greatly. However, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t just dump Lola because Patrick told him to.

  “When are we finishing the shoot?” he asked.

  “If you’re okay, they want to do it tomorrow. They’ve already stopped shooting today because of your ‘incident’.” Patrick made quotation marks with his fingers in the air. “And Neil is dropping bad jokes about you like a horse drops flies.”

  “Whatever!”

  “Whatever?”

  “Yeah. Tell Neil I’m fine now. Tell him it’s Lola if you want. I’ll deal with her when and how I want to.”

  “Sure man. Just say it and it’s done.”

  “What’s done?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said, “It’s done”. What does that mean? I’m not asking you to kill anyone.”

  “God! No, Bobby, of course not.”

  “Well, that’s how it damn well sounds.”

  “I just meant, you know, make your decision and I’ll back you.”

  “Of course you will. You’re my manager.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Now, again, where is Lola?”

  “How am I supposed to know, Bobby? With all due respect, I’m your manager, not your girl patrol officer.”

  “Well, didn’t someone call her when they took me here?”

  “I’m not sure. It wasn’t me. I came running, and you know where my concerns lie.”

  “Keeping things quiet?”

  Patrick laughed. “Just trying to protect you, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, I know that for sure. You’re all heart Patrick.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Lola?” Bobby had seen her car in the driveway, but the house was quiet. She usually had music playing at least. “Lola!” he called louder this time. Still no answer. Man, now he’d have to walk the house. Her cell phone was off and he’d never installed that intercom he’d been told was vital. Did he look like some intercom guy? He’d get an intercom when he had five kids to track down and not a moment sooner. But right now he wished he had the damn thing. “Lola!”

  “Miss Lola having a nap.”

  Bobby spun around and sighed. It was Rosa, his housekeeper, or maid, or whatever she liked to call herself; or perhaps she was his personal assistant. No, that was Lester. Or was Lester still called a butler?

  “Napping? It’s two o’clock.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bobby.”

  Bobby frowned. All right, it wasn’t Rosa’s fault. He shouldn’t take out his frustrations on her. “Thanks, Rosa. Can I have a cold beer?”

  “Coming up, Mr. Bobby.”

  Rosa scurried away and Bobby stretched out on the sofa.

  “Bobby?”

  “Susan?”

  “We should build a shelter.”

  Bobby looked around. He was on the beach and Susan was talking. He sighed with relief. Was this his dream now? No, he still felt that it was hers. He got up off the sand and stood next to her. She came up to his chest, like a kid. Bobby was used to the tall Hollywood type who came with stilettos and attitude. He decided that he liked the smallness of her.

  A shelter? This was new. Finally they were doing something. He wanted to talk more, ask her the rest of her name, but all he saw was her back as she strode off towards a dense coconut forest at the edge of the beach.

  “Susan!” But she didn’t turn around. I guess I’ll have to jog. No problem, that’s what gyms are for; for getting you fit enough so you can run after your dream girl.

  But running in dreams isn’t easy, or at least it wasn’t easy in this dream. His feet sank into the soft sand, and with each step forward Susan seemed to gain a mile.

  “Susan, wait up!” he called out pathetically. Why wouldn’t she wait? He could only see a bit of her red shirt now as it disappeared through the coconut trees. “Come on feet!” He encouraged himself. “Get going or you’r
e going to lose her.” And so he ran. Left foot. Higher, higher. Right foot. Run.

  Huffing and puffing, Bobby arrived at the edge of the coconut perimeter. “Susan!”

  “Over here.”

  Bobby spun in the direction of the voice and saw Susan sitting on a fallen tree.

  “A storm must have brought this one down,” she said.

  Bobby approached her. He could make out the letters of her T-shirt, but they didn’t spell “Susan” this time, or “tired”. What he read was “Wednesday”. Wednesday? So what? He didn’t want to know the day of the week. He wanted to know her name.

  “We can use this one,” she said.

  “Use it?”

  Susan frowned. “I can’t do this on my own, you know.”

  “Do what?” Was she still talking about building a shelter? How was he supposed to build a shelter? At first he had liked the idea of action—five seconds ago, before he exhausted himself running—but building a shelter was a monumental task, and with a fallen coconut tree? He wasn’t a carpenter, just a humble movie star. Besides, even he knew a carpenter needed at least a few tools, like a hammer, or some nails maybe, or even a knife―a knife would be good, but in retrospect, not for cutting down coconut trees.

  Susan didn’t look so good. Sitting there on that fallen tree, she appeared pale and sad. Had he done that? Was he making her sad? Fix this Bobby. “Susan?”

  She looked up and he wanted to die for her. To lay himself down and declare his last breath to her, like in the movies. She was so beautiful. Her eyes were like soft giant pools existing with the sole purpose to lose himself in, her skin there for him to touch, her lips… “Oh Susan,” he walked up to her and joined her on the tree trunk. He kept his gaze on her eyes, “You are so beautiful.”

  Susan lowered her lashes and a smile played with the corners of her mouth.

  Bobby couldn’t believe his luck. He had made her happy again. The reward he felt was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Even winning the Golden Globes last year hadn’t compared with this feeling of pure accomplishment. Well…

  “You think so?” she looked up at him, still toying with the idea of a true smile.

  “Sure. I think you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. What’s your name, pretty?”

  She laughed, “You know its Susan, and I’m sure you’ve met a lot of girls much, much prettier than me.”

  “No, I haven’t,” he said in all honesty. “What’s your last name?”

  But Susan shook her head and looked away, her expression blank.

  “Mr. Bobby?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your beer Mr. Bobby.”

  “W—what? My beer?” Bobby wanted to scream. Rosa had woken him. But, no, that wasn’t possible; the dream was already over. Susan had turned from him. He had slipped up again. He wanted to cry and shout and throw a fit. But he knew, with all his twenty-four years of experience that temper tantrums were never going to get him what he wanted.

  “I leave it here Mr. Bobby.”

  “Sure. Is Lola awake?”

  “Lola esta by the pool.”

  “Sure. Good. Thanks.”

  Dazed and disappointed, Bobby grabbed his beer and headed to the pool. It was the star feature of his mansion. He had practically bought the place because of it. His pool wasn’t one of those marble exotic over-the-top waterslide cherub fountain kind of pools.

  His pool was an elegant Olympic-sized oval starring a naked Venus de Milo at the far end. It was old Hollywood, and when he looked at it he felt a surge of pride. More than the house, it was the pool that made him feel like a real movie star. Not the kind of star who rose to fame one day only to be gone the next, but rather the kind that stuck around and became a permanent feature of Hollywood.

  Lola hated it. She had said more than once that it lacked just about everything. So-and-so had a bigger pool. His was Olympic! What was bigger than Olympic? So-and-so had a jet propulsion lane. If you have an Olympic sized pool you don’t need any jet propulsion, you just swim! So-and-so had glass walls, a glass bottom, a bar, for Christ’s sake! How could he have a pool with no bar? “I have a butler,” he’d said in his pool’s defense. But Lola had spelled it out for him that it wasn’t the same thing. Even poor people had a bar in their pools. Bobby didn’t know any poor people with a pool, so he questioned whether Lola’s perspective on life was accurate.

  She didn’t look like she minded his pool or his butler service much now, though. She was stretched out on a sun bed, bronzed back to the sky, a cocktail drink posed carefully next to her right hand, eyes closed, all her concentration directed towards the improvement of her golden tan. A perfect West coast specimen.

  “Lola?”

  No response.

  “Lola?”

  “I’m mad at you.”

  “I didn’t write that article.”

  “You should sue.”

  “Sue for what?”

  “Sue for what? Are you kidding me?” Lola looked up at him through her thick Cartier sunglasses. “They made me look like a fool!”

  Bobby sighed. Was this the right time? Probably not, but he didn’t want Lola in his house anymore. He should have dated her a bit longer before he’d allowed her this much entry into his life. What had he been thinking?

  “Lola, do you love me?” It was a simple question, but not something they’d ever discussed before. Of course she had blurted the excited, “Love you, baby!” when he’d bought her the gold Rolex, but he’d never had that “I love you” moment he kept acting out in the movies.

  For a second, Lola appeared shocked and Bobby felt instant gratification. But she recovered nicely and put on her coy face. She was about to swoon him and purr and tuck in her claws, but Bobby wasn’t having any of it. “Lola, please just get your things and get out.” He turned on his heels and headed to the garage. Lola was still trying to gather her words, but the shock was too much for her, and besides, Bobby had already disappeared.

  In the garage, Bobby found his favorite toy: his Lexus LFA, a beauty of a car that put him in a good mood no matter what. With the turn of a key, he was gone; and he wouldn’t be back until Rosa could confirm that Lola had left the building, for good. He didn’t even want to find a breath mint of hers lying around. He was glad that Lola didn’t love him. It made leaving her so much easier. Patrick could use the story to his favor. He could twist it however he wanted to; the truth was, Bobby didn’t care. All he wanted now was to finish filming and spend all his time with Susan, building shelters, or whatever she wanted. He yearned to make her smile again. He wanted to look into her eyes, and with some luck, he wanted to hold her, and kiss her, and more. Much, much more.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Come here Carl.”

  “Julie, I told you, I have to kill someone.”

  Samantha Tucker silenced Bobby with a kiss. It was suppose to be lips only, but he felt her tongue caress his teeth.

  “Samantha—”

  “Cut!”

  “Geez, sorry.”

  Samantha giggled and lowered her lashes.

  “Again! From, ‘Come here, Carl’.”

  Concentrate, Bobby. Just this last scene. Bobby wiped his hand across his forehead and tried to keep his eyes off of Samantha.

  With Lola in his life, it had been easier to focus on his work and treat Samantha’s flirting as a “thing”, but Lola had left and Susan hadn’t been dreaming of him. It was driving him nuts. And who was he kidding? Samantha wasn’t pulling big at the Box Office because of her college degree. She was hot. The tabloids were practically screaming for the two of them to become an item again.

  “Sorry, Bobby,” Samantha smiled and didn’t look at all sorry.

  “Back to your places!” Neil shouted.

  “Can you handle it?” Samantha whispered as she passed him.

  “Oh, I can handle it,” he said, but Samantha had already found her spot and was busy concentrating on her wrist bracelet as she waited for her queue. Women, B
obby thought. They were frustrating him from all directions.

  “Come here Carl!”

  “Julie, I told you, I have to kill someone.”

  Samantha moved in with her kiss, and this time Bobby was ready for her. Their lips met and he gave it his all. He would have even dipped Samantha if he thought Neil would go for it.

  “Jesus! Cut! Cut! Cut!”

  “Huh?”

  “Bobby, what the hell are you doing? Are you trying to give me my fifth ulcer? Should I check myself into the hospital now? What, Bobby? What? What’s it going to be? The hospital, Bobby? The Goddamn hospital? Tell me! Tell me!” The main artery in Neil’s neck twitched dangerously and his head looked as if it might explode from the exerted pressure.

  “You see?” the assistant said, staring Bobby down as he tried to calm Neil.

  Neil marched up to Bobby, little bits of saliva glistening on his lips. “You are supposed to reject her! This is the last scene. How are you supposed to walk off, the solitary man, if you accept her kiss? How am I supposed to finish this fucking film today?”

  “Chill.” Bobby couldn’t think of a better word. It was a mistake.

  “Chill? You want me to chill?” Neil spat out gobs of spit that landed farther afield than his lips now. “How Bobby?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Why not?” Neil echoed Bobby’s words, mock confusion on his face.

  Bobby felt as if he were back at primary school, faced with an impossible teacher-hates-student situation. But he could save this one. He was Bobby Anderson, after all. Samantha was just Samantha. He would show her. “I’m ready,” Bobby said, and went to his mark.

  Samantha’s eyes followed him, still smiling, still ridiculously sexy. He hated it and loved it at the same time.

  Bobby felt like calling out “action!” himself, he was that ready to finish this scene; but doing so would be have been a certain career death wish. He would just have to let Neil ride out his little temper.