Unlikely (14 page)

He opened the door to reveal a striking blonde, impeccably dressed. Without a shirt, he suddenly felt very exposed.

She gasped, but quickly regained her composure. Her hand shot out to shake his.

“I’m Sophie’s sister, Selena. And you are
…” she trailed off expectantly.

“Ryan Becker.” Remembering his manners, he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. Why don’t you come in and let me go put a shirt on,” he said, spying his red knit polo dangling from the edge of the coffee table like a matador’s cape. Suddenly, he saw what she would see first and scooped up their various clothes scattered around the room haphazardly and sprinted to the bedroom. “Sophie’s in the shower. She’ll
…I’ll, um, let her know you’re here,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Selie smirked. “I’ll just make myself right at home.”

Sophie was toweling her hair dry when Ryan slammed the door and unceremoniously dropped their clothes on the unused bed. “Your sister is here,” he announced.

Sophie closed her eyes for a long moment. She slowly lifted her lashes, looking at him, resigned. “I gather you’ve already met her,” she said, looking down at his bare chest. He nodded, rubbing a hand across his pecs self-consciously. “Great. Okay. Well.” She exhaled a long breath. “Let’s just get this over with.” She pointed her small index finger at him. “You, put on a shirt and charm her. I’ll get dressed.” She shook her head. “It’s just one big family reunion today, isn’t it?”

Ryan emerged, fully dressed, every hair in place, this time the confident attorney. Selie had poured herself a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon. She was sitting at the dining room table flipping through a fashion magazine. She must have brought it with her. He’d never seen a magazine in Sophie’s house. “Sorry about that earlier. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand yet again and settling in a chair across from her. “Sophie’s told me a lot about you.”

Selie looked up from her reading and glanced at him pointedly, her blue eyes cool. “I’m sorry, I can’t say the same.”

Spying the dog, Ryan scooped her up. “Have you met Sasha?” Selie gave the dog a couple of quick cursory pats. Clearly, she wasn’t the dog lover in their family. “We found her on the one-oh-one—that’s how Sophie and I met.” He put the dog back on the floor and Sasha went back to her survey of the floor looking for whatever it was dogs looked for.

Selie’s eyes sparkled
with interest. “So…you’re the suit. Then I can say, Sophie’s told me a little about you too. Tell me you’re not a lawyer.”

What was it about the Reids and “suits”? He
had an honest job like so many other people. They acted like he ate kittens for lunch. Ryan glanced over to the bedroom, hoping Sophie was coming out soon to save him from this odd conversation.

“I am. I’m in the corporate department at Equia.” Turned out Selena knew several of his attorney colleagues and they talked a little shop, Ryan feeling far more comfortable on this topic.

Sophie finally emerged from the bedroom, hair gelled severely, in full gothic makeup, dark eyes and lips, and with a ring in every body piercing. She had become so natural with him that he’d forgotten about this particular armor she wore.

She hugged her sister around the neck quickly. Ryan could see the resemblance between the women. He would agree that Selena was more of a classic beauty, but he found Sophie’s clear gray eyes and red-gold hair far more alluring. “What in the heck brings you by?” Sophie asked before settling across the dining room table, arms wrapped around her knees, bare feet propped on the chair cushions.

Selie smirked knowingly. She quirked an eyebrow the same way Sophie did. “You weren’t answering your phone all weekend.”

“We were in Big Bear, hiking and stuff. I just turned it off.” She looked around the very quiet house. “Where’s Madeline?”

“She’s at home with Rob. She needs all the daddy daughter time she can get.”

“Mmmm hmm.” Sophie nodded. They looked at each other communicating without words from years of practice. “No, I’m not doing it.”

“C’mon. You don’t have to
do
anything. I’ll just put both our names on the invitations and all you have to do is show up a little early. I thought we decided it was time.”

The silence stretched between them again. Ryan looked back and forth between the sisters, their faces both stubbornly set.

“I hate to butt in, but what are you guys talking about?”

Selena patiently explained their father’s lifetime achievement award from the bar association and the party their mother wanted them to host.

“I think you should do it,” Ryan said unequivocally.

Selie smiled. “I agree with your boyfriend here. He’s a smart one, a definite keeper.”

“He’s not…we’re not…” Sophie protested.

Ryan tried not to visibly react to her words, though they stung. He thought they
were
something to each other after this weekend. But if she didn’t think so, that was another conversation for another time. Definitely not something they should talk about in front of her sister.

Selie appeared to be looking meaningfully at something, and Ryan and Sophie both looked in the direction in which she was staring. Ryan had
left Sophie’s underwear hanging from the tall stool abutting the kitchen during his speedy clean up. He stood and grabbed for the white cotton briefs before stuffing them in his pocket.

“I must have misunderstood. I just assumed
…” Selie trailed off.

Sophie wished fervently that she was in a cartoon and could use a pencil to draw a trap door that would open in the floor and swallow her whole. “If you can promise me it won’t be an entire evening of them talking about what I should
really
be doing with my life, I’ll do it. Get Mom to promise me that, and that she’ll run interference with Dad and I’m on board.” She banged her hand on the table with finality. “Those are my conditions. Plus they will not say
anything
about how I’m dressed.”

“Deal.” Selie stuck out her hand across the table and Sophie shook it. “I’ll make sure Mom agrees. I’ll e-mail you the details. It’ll either be at the club or their house, we haven’t decided, but it’ll be formal.”

“Of course. They wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her family acted like they were from prim and proper Boston, not laid back California. But she’d learned a long time ago it was best to go along.

Selie looked at her slim diamond and platinum watch. “Hey, I’ve gotta go before Maddy convinces her father to buy her a pony. Walk me to my car, sis.”

It was so obvious her sister wanted to quiz her on the semi-dressed man who had appeared in the living room. Selie leaned against her Mercedes E-Class sedan, the car so clean that she was not worried about getting a speck of dirt on her white polo dress. Sliding her fashionably oversized glasses down her nose, she pierced Sophie with her blue eyes.

“A little stove-top stuffing?”

“You are not funny.”

“So?”

“It’s just a little fling.”

“With a suit? This is so out of character for you, I don’t know whether to applaud or have you committed.”

“A girl’s got needs, and can’t always be picky.”

“You should bring him. Mom and Dad would love him.”

Sophie gagged. “I’ll be there
alone
. No need to subject him to their scrutiny. It’s not like we’re serious or anything.”

“He looked serious.”

“He looked half-naked.”

“Mmmm.” Her sister nodded non-committally. “I’ll e-mail you. You should come by and see Maddy one of these days. She loves you, you know.”

“Yeah, quirky aunt and all that. I’ll definitely stop by if I’m off this week. I know I don’t always show it, but I love being her aunt. I miss her too.”

She hugged her sister, more heartfelt this time. Selie pulled away and Ryan came down the walkway with the phone pressed to his ear.

“I have to go,” he mouthed, while yessing the person on the other end of the phone.

Suddenly cold, despite the warm weather, Sophie hugged herself. Ryan gave her a brief, distracted kiss, and slid into his car. He waved, preoccupied, then pulled away from the curb.

Walking toward the house, Sophie rubbed at the goose bumps along her arms. The sex was great. Really, really great when she relaxed. So why did no-strings sex leave her feeling so bereft?

Strike. One word dominated print and television news. The Sunday night TV anchors spun hair-raising tales of the effect
s a strike by the I.A.T.S.E. could have on the industry and local economy. If productions shut down, they warned, thousands of local residents could lose their jobs and the metropolitan economy billions of dollars.

Sophie was deeply ashamed of herself
for neglecting the business side of her job. Caught up in the whirlwind of sex and screaming orgasms with Ryan, she hadn’t been keeping on top of what was going on right in her own backyard. Okay, she’d definitely been on top of Ryan after an episode in the backyard. But she hadn’t been keeping an eye on industry gossip or the trades. Despite the dire predictions from the press, she wasn’t too worried about an imminent strike.

Every union in Hollywood renegotiated their contracts every three or four years
—the writers, the directors, the actors, even the Teamsters. Strikes rarely happened. When contracts were set to expire, the local news stations rehashed the same old sensationalist stories on what a strike could mean to the local economy. At the last minute both sides met at the bargaining table, hashed out, and signed a new contract very much like the old one. Almost always.

Her phone rang, shaking her from her reverie. Maybe she needed a new ringtone. This damned Snoop Dogg was going to give her a heart attack.

“Hey, Sam,” she said, eyeing the caller ID. She tried not to sound let down.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you since Friday. You haven’t been answering.”

Sophie had turned off her phone in order to focus completely on Ryan and his promise to make it a weekend she would remember. Too bad
he
hadn’t blocked out the outside world. They could be together right now, making up for a lifetime of missed orgasms.

“You’re still not answering now,” Sam said, jarring her into the present.

“Sorry. What’s going on?”

“Umm. The strike, Sophie. Have you watched the news, looked at the papers? I know we were sort of joking about it a few weeks ago, but it looks like it’s really going to happen this time. Our contract expires at midnight
—
tonight
. I’m hearing that we won’t have to show up for calls on Monday. I’ve talked to a bunch of people and they’re really worried about putting food on the table or making it through the holiday season without a paycheck.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions until we get the skinny. Has local
706 called a meeting?” she asked, attempting to soothe Sam’s fears. The last thing she wanted was a bunch of frenzied co-workers on her hands—when they had no individual decision making power. “Even though the union has strike authorization, the leadership promised they’d come back to us to get our input on whether to strike.”

“I understand all that. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a lot worried,” Sam was working himself up, on the edge of hysteria. It was a sad day when she was the coolest head in a group of artists.

“Look, let me see what I can find out. Can you wait until tomorrow morning?”

“I don’t think I can sleep. Can you call me back as soon as you find out anything, no matter what the time?”

Sophie agreed, ending the call.

Months ago, she’d taken on the task of strike captain, should negotiations falter. She scrounged through the pile of call sheets, make up, and art supply catalogues on her desk, until she found the phone tree for Local 706 and made a few calls. The good news was that she wasn’t too late. Union reps had been calling everyone but hadn’t gotten to the R
's yet. A strike vote meeting started in a couple of hours.

The auditorium was buzzing with frenetic activity when Sophie eased her way down a crowded row to the one available seat she could find. The meeting started out with a slick, music enhanced PowerPoint presentation of all the demands the union was making: pay keeping pace with inflation, limiting the number of hours a studio could demand from them, and requiring larger contributions to cover ever escalating healthcare costs. From the murmurs of assent, it was clear that everyone agreed with the union’s agenda.

Disagreements started when it was time to decide how to reach those goals. About half the members were ready to put down their brushes, pick up their placards, and strike. They vowed to push the producers and studios to the wall, holding out for the best possible deal, no matter how long they had to strike or what they had to sacrifice to get it. The other half were ready to compromise or do whatever it took to stay on the job and keep the paychecks coming in.

The meeting lasted long into the night, but after a lot of discussion and some yelling, the first group won out. Though it was past three o’clock in the morning, Sophie stayed after most members left, meeting with leadership. They briefed her on the job of strike captain, and she left at four determined to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before her strike duties started at eight on Monday morning.

She’d volunteered to captain a daily four hour shift rotating weekly between studios on the Westside, in Hollywood, and in the Valley. The union assigned her to Equia first. Some sleepless union volunteer delivered signs to her doorstep, and she put them in her back seat before she took off. After a trip to her favorite coffee shop for a triple shot pumpkin flavored cappuccino, she crawled down the 405 in her car and arrived at Equia’s gates at eight o’clock for her first picket line.

Sophie led the small crowd in chanting the best protest she could create on the spot.

For the first two hours, they yelled, “What do we want? Health care! When do we want it? Now!” The last two hours she switched to, “Put down your brushes! Pick up a sign!”

They weren’t great, but that
was why she wasn’t a writer. The Writer’s Guild slogans had been much better during their last strike.

To some extent, the other unions were honoring their strike and not crossing the picket lines. The suits, however, were driving through as if she and her fellow strikers weren’t there at all. She’d stepped out of the line to chug another coffee someone had brought when a sleek Acura pulled up to the studio’s guard gate. Whether her stomach plummeted because she was thinking about their nights together or her shock that he would dare cross her line and think he could hop in her bed later, she didn’t know.

Though the armed guard was advancing upon her—they weren’t allowed to interact with those crossing the picket line—she couldn’t help herself.

The tinted window glided down silently, and a sunglass
-wearing Ryan appeared. She saw his golden hair first, his obscured eyes next, then the sexy mouth.

“Lady, you’re gonna have to move back,” the guard said, one hand on his baton, the other on his gun. His badge identified him as Sean O’Rourke, deputy chief
of Equia security.

“It’s okay, O’Rourke,” Ryan said to the guard. “I know her.”

“You’re crossing the line?” she asked, incredulous.

“It’s my job. I’ve got no choice,” he said bluntly. Then his demeanor softened. “I’m a lawyer, not studio management or a producer,” he explained. “How are you doing? You okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t think the strike will go on too long.” She gave him the same pat response she had given Selie and Holly. Truth was, she was scared she wouldn’t be able to hold out more than a month or two without seeking help from her family. She would hate to do that after all her years of self-sufficiency. Sophie glanced at the cars lining up behind him, honking their horns. “Well, if you’re going to go in, I guess you should go,” she said, resigned.

He looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, the window slid up as soundlessly as it had come down, and his car moved through the gate.

“Who’s that guy?” one of the picketers asked.

“You friendly with the suits?” another said.

“He’s a friend of a friend,” she lied. She knew she should tell the truth, but she had a reputation to maintain with her colleagues. It had taken her a long time to earn their trust after they discovered she wasn’t from a hardscrabble background. She had to work with these people every day on different sets. By admitting to a relationship with Ryan, they might think she was abandoning their cause.

She was handing over her sign and debriefing the afternoon strike captain when her phone blared “Sexual Seduction.” Maybe a Bach concerto would be less jarring. She vowed to download a better ringtone when she got home.

“Come to lunch with me.” Ryan said without preamble. It wasn’t a question. It was a command.

She didn’t like dictators. “I’m tired. I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I have to go home and let Sasha out,” she told him.

“I’ll meet you in twenty minutes at Craft,” he said, naming an upscale restaurant in Century City, before disconnecting the call.

The…
gall!
The unmitigated gall! Sophie had half a mind not to show up. That would show him. She was determinedly driving along the San Diego freeway north toward the Valley when she found herself exiting at Santa Monica Boulevard. She pulled up to the restaurant on Constellation Boulevard and handed her keys and handed off her car to the man in the red vest and bowtie in exchange for a flimsy claim ticket.

Damned car culture. It would serve her right if someone drove away with her car one day. She looked into the half-empty restaurant and spotted Ryan, his nimble
thumbs flying across the Blackberry keys. Well maybe she hadn’t stood him up, but he would surely pay. She was ravenous and would happily have an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert on his tab.

She pulled the brim on her baseball cap low and pushed her bug-eyed glasses all the way up her small nose, celebrity style. She ignored the exquisitely turned out patrons who sniffed at her t-shirt and shorts. Let them think she was a devil-may-care celeb. It was far better than having a fellow striker from nearby Fox studios recognize her as what she was
—a traitor.

Even with most of her face covered and her red-gold hair spilling helter-skelter from her baseball cap, she was enchanting.

Remembering his manners, Ryan stood when she approached the table.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said as they both sat.

She picked up the menu, pulling off her glasses to study the offering. “I didn’t plan to, but I thought I should explain to you why we’re on strike.”

“Sophie, I know why you’re on strike. The same reason any union goes on strike: to get more from so-called ‘management,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers. “Whether the more is more money, more vacation time, or more health care doesn’t matter.”

Her face grew red with barely suppressed indignation. He checked himself. Now would probably not be the time to mention that she looked sexy as hell or put her hand on his growing erection, though he would love to see her fierce eyes go soft and her jaw grow slack as he stroked the anger from her body.

“Ryan, this is my livelihood. It does matter.” She began, her escalating voice unchecked. “Housing prices, gas prices, food prices, everything is astronomical here in L.A. My fellow union members are trying to raise kids in and around the city. Movie ticket prices go up, DVDs are selling like hotcakes, and cable is exploding. We deserve a cut of that pie. Without us, the show couldn’t go on. Have you ever seen an actor without make-up? With their hair scraped back in a greasy ponytail?”

He nodded, though unadorned celebrities were not forefront in his thoughts. Her face, sans make up, with her hair naturally soft and curly, waking from sleep, flushed with passion beneath him, flashed in his mind.
She
looked just fine without makeup—just creamy skin and freckles.

“Without us they couldn’t prance down the red carpet looking like a million bucks or do magazine spreads, much less high-definition close ups. They’d look like they do in those horrible tabloid photos.” She wrinkled her cute little nose in disgust. “Without us, it
kind of ruins the fantasy.”

He nodded again, trying to focus on what she said and not how kissable her lips looked. She paused when their server approached the table. He ordered a beet and goat cheese salad, then threw caution to the wind and got a steak. Sophie ordered several oysters to start and the twenty-nine dollar imported Hawaiian blue prawns.

Ryan tried to listen as she talked about health care, pensions, and retirement and the future of unions in the world. He really, really tried. He was sure he caught some things she said in between her pursed lips slurping oysters like a pro, her tongue darting out to catch the Tabasco sauce that caught in the corner. She ate her shrimp with the same enthusiasm, butter and lemon dripping from her fingers. Before she could pick up a napkin, he gave into impulse and pulled her buttery index finger into his mouth, sucking the sweet liquid off slowly.

Sophie pulled her finger back as if she’d been singed by fire.
Her rapid breathing and budding nipples belied her words.

“I can’t believe you did that. We’re having a serious discussion here.”

If she were a cartoon character, steam would have been coming out of her ears.

“But you’re really hot when you’re passionate about something,” he said honestly.