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And he looked great in every one of them.
As he tilted back his head and laughed at something Belinda said, Fleur felt a flash of jealousy. Belinda knew exactly how to talk to a man. Fleur wished she could be like that, but the only men she found it easy to talk to were the ones she didn’t care about, like the actors and wealthy playboys Belinda and Gretchen wanted her to be seen with. She had almost no practice talking to a man she wanted to impress. She dived under again. If only she could have had her first lust-crush when she was sixteen like other girls. Why was she always such a late bloomer? And why did her first crush have to be on a famous playwright–movie star who had women hanging all over him?
She surfaced again in time to see Belinda swing her legs over the side of the chaise. “Fleur, come entertain Jake while I get a cover-up. I’m starting to burn.”
“Stay where you are, Flower. I’m coming in.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, and dived into the pool. As he surfaced at the far end and swam toward her, she watched the play of muscles in his arms, the way the water streamed over his face and neck. He put his feet down next to her. His crooked-tooth grin was irresistible, and something inside her ached.
“You got your hair wet,” he said. “I thought New York glamour girls only looked at the water.”
“Shows how much you know about New York glamour girls.” She dived under, but before she could get away, a hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her back. She sputtered to the surface.
“Hey!” he said with fake outrage. “I’m a hotshot movie star? Girls don’t swim away from me.”
“Maybe not ordinary girls, but hotshot glamour girls can do a lot better than an egghead screenwriter.”
He laughed, and she made it to the ladder before he could stop her.
“Not fair,” he called out. “You’re a better swimmer than I am.”
“I noticed. Your form stinks.”
But it didn’t stink bad enough to keep him from climbing up the ladder right after her. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Flower Power, but you don’t seem all that happy to see me today.”
Maybe she was a better actress than she thought. She picked up a towel from a chair and wrapped herself in it. “Nothing personal,” she said. “I had a late night.” Because she’d stayed up reading his plays. “I’m also a little worried about the scene I have with you and Lynn tomorrow.” More than a little. She was panicked.
“Let’s go for a run and talk about it.”
She’d been running nearly every day since she came to L.A., and he couldn’t have suggested a better way for her to work off some of her nervous energy. “Good idea.”
“Mind if I steal your little girl for a while?” Jake called out to Belinda, who’d just returned to the patio wearing her lacy cover-up. “I need to make room for those steaks.”
“Go ahead,” Belinda replied with a gay wave. “And don’t hurry back. I’ve got a new Jackie Collins I’m dying to cuddle up with.”
Jake made a face. Fleur smiled and hurried inside to change into shorts and running shoes. As she sat on the side of the bed to tie her laces, the book she’d been reading dropped to the floor. She looked down at the page she’d marked just that morning.
Koranda holds his personal mirror up to the faces of the American working class. His characters are the men and women who love beer and contact sports, who believe in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage. In language that is frequently raw and often funny, he shows us the best and the worst of the American spirit.
A critic in the next paragraph said it more plainly:
Ultimately Koranda’s work is successful because he grabs the country by the balls and squeezes hard.
She’d been reading Jake’s plays as well as a few scholarly articles about his work. She’d also done some research on his social life, which wasn’t as easy because of his obsession with privacy. Still, she’d discovered he seldom dated the same woman more than a few times.
She met him at the end of the driveway where he was stretching his hamstrings. “Think you can keep up, Flower, or should I get a stroller for you?”
“That’s so weird. I was getting ready to bring out a wheelchair.”
“Ouch.”
She grinned, and they took off at an easy trot. Since it was Sunday, the army of gardeners who kept the unused front lawns of Beverly Hills immaculate was absent, and the street looked even more deserted than usual. She tried to think of something interesting to say. “I’ve seen you shooting baskets by the parking lot. Lynn told me you played in college.”
“I play a couple of times a week now. It helps clear my head to write.”
“Aren’t playwrights supposed to be intellectuals instead of jocks?”
“Playwrights are poets, Flower, and that’s what basketball is. Poetry.”
And that’s what you are, she thought. A dark and complicated piece of erotic poetry. She had to be careful not to trip over her feet. “I like basketball, but it doesn’t exactly fit my idea of poetry.”
