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" she asked, showing remarkable restraint.
"I said okay." I didn't tell her that I'd gone into my trailer and cried afterward. I was worried I was going to get fired from this film, then my career would be over.
I couldn't let that happen.
I grimaced and took another sip of my margarita. "The thing is, my ass is my ass. It likes to be a certain size. Starving myself for the next two weeks won't make it a whole lot smaller."
"Your bum is perfect," Tori said. "I'm so tired of the people you work with. And the press? It's sick, the things they say about you. If I thought you would, I'd tell you to quit."
"I'm not quitting." First of all, I wasn't a quitter. I wanted to be a successful actress, and when I wanted something, I pushed everything else to the side, worked hard, and got it. Second, I had to support my mother, and she was expensive.
Still, after the past few weeks, I would have taken a long vacation to Cabo if I could've. Just the other day, my photo had been on one of the gossip websites. In it, I was heading into the gym with a scowl and a big bag thrown over my shoulder. The headline read: Lowell B Takes Fight Against Fat to LA Gym.
I groaned inwardly, remembering all the remonstrative texts I'd gotten from my agent when that went viral.
My problems were mounting. There was my ass to deal with. The press were hounding me, and I was apparently unable to smile at them.
On top of that, I had a new movie, Hearts Wide Open, coming out at the end of the summer. With the recurring pictures of me heading to the gym, the producers had reached out. They wanted me to "slim down, tighten up, and dress appropriately sexy" for our upcoming promotional events.
I'd had a few things to say about that. Then the producers had a few things to say back, which included phrases such as "breach of contract" and "never work with this studio again."
I'd called my agent, Shirley Feener, who'd advised me to shut my mouth immediately. And to hit the gym with a smile and buy some appropriately sexy clothes. So I had a press junket coming up, and I wasn't happy about it.
"It's been a rough couple of weeks," I mumbled.
Tori pushed another margarita toward me.
"I really shouldn't," I mumbled again. After a nanosecond of hesitation, I changed my mind and chugged some of it.
"I'm driving," Tori said, holding up her seltzer in salute. "Drink up, girl."
I did as I was told. I was practicing that, and I needed all the practice I could get.
* * *
"Oh, fuck me," Tori said an hour later. She pulled the car over.
I was pretty hammered at that point, but I was alert enough to notice the blue flashing lights all around us.
"Huh? Whad'd you do?" My voice came out thick and foamy, tequila and a sudden burst of adrenaline roiling in my stomach.
"I think I might have forgotten to update my registration," she said.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I said, annoyed with her and that we were being pulled over. "Are you sure you went to Stanford? Y'all need to keep up with things." I gripped my seat. I wasn't sure, but it seemed as if maybe the car was spinning a little.
An officer came up beside us, peering into the car with a flashlight. "License and registration, please."
Tori fumbled in the glove compartment and shakily handed him her papers. The officer looked at them briefly then shined the flashlight directly in my face.
"Hey, I thought I recognized you. You're that actress." He looked at me for a beat. "I just saw a picture of you online. Didn't do you justice. You're much prettier in person."
I glared at him. "Am I s'pposed to say thank you? For thass ass-backward compliment?" I sounded slurry and mean. The car was definitely spinning now. Or maybe it was my head—I couldn't be sure.
Fucking margaritas.
"Um, I didn't mean any disrespect, miss," the officer said contritely.
Tori was frozen next to me. "Lo"—her voice held a warning tone—"he didn't say anything wrong. He was actually being nice. Just be cool."
