Emily

Chapter 5: Amy Spencer

I had quit smoking when I was 21 because my agent demanded it. She threatened to cut off my contract with her if I smoked just one more cigarette, so I never smoked again. Until that day.

"Chris, you'll love this idea," Janet said to me. "A sex tape. You and Blaineley."

"No," I told her.

"Chris, listen to me. This is how celebrities get noticed again," she kept saying. "You and Blaineley are hot, but you could be hotter. You two make a sex tape, get it 'stolen' and released on the web, and you'll have all of Hollywood talking!"

"Not doing it," I said sternly.

"Just think it over," she said as I hung up.

I knew she was right. Hollywood is a fickle mistress; one minute you're hot, the next, you're not. This industry has been known to chew up and spit out an untold number of young dreamers who wanted the glitz of The Industry: movie premieres, Oscars, parties, fame, tabloid talk, that sort of shit. But that's only the surface of Hollywood.

Beneath all the glitter and gold lays the ugly, ignored side of Hollywood. Actresses who sleep with directors for lead parts, actors who snort cocaine just to relax from a twelve hour shoot of the same scene over and over again, women sticking their fingers down their throats and puking their lunches just to lose ten pounds lest the tabloids accuse them of being fat, list goes on. It's a cruel industry, and one I wouldn't want anyone to enter.

And one I could never live without.

I needed a smoke. I hadn't craved a smoke in fifteen years, and suddenly here I was, puffing a cig like it was giving me oxygen. I was sitting alone in the room I shared with Blaineley in her house. She and I hated the accomodation, but it was all for the movie, for our careers. She came in, an angry look in her face.

"Hope you ain't got a problem with me smoking," I said to her. "Did you get a call, too?"

"Pass me a cig," she said to me, sitting down on the bed next to me. I passed her a cigarette; she lit it herself. "I'm not doing it."

"Something we agree on," I said to her. She and I smoked together for a few minutes in silence.

"I've never had to sleep my way to the top," she finally said, a cig in her hand and a scowl on her face. "I got where I am by my talents."

"Seriously?" I asked her, a smirk on my face.

"Yeah!" She yelled at me. "Look, I may have shown skin in my youth, but that was when I was a hungry kid doing direct to bargain bin movies! I clawed my way up and paid my dues! I got where I am by my own hard work!"

"Bargain bin movies?" I jokingly asked. "You did those?"

"What, and you didn't?" She asked. "I seem to recall 'Greatmington' being Direct to Video!"

"It had a limited theatrical release in Alberta!" I said defensively.

"Yeah, three local theaters!" She said, laughing. We sat in silence for a minute or two, just smoking.

"Why are you in this situation?" I asked her. "You clawed your way up, why aren't you still up?"

She took a puff of her cigarette, frowning. "Because I'm almost forty. That should tell you all you need to know."

"Plenty of women over forty still get plenty of jobs on Hollywood," I said to her. "Helen Mirren, Julianne Moore..."

"Those are A-Listers, Chris. Like it or not, we're not A-Listers. As we grow older, we lose more and more job opportunities," Blaineley bitterly said. "Until you wake up and realize the only jobs you can find are either as old mothers or grandmothers, and the jobs you used to get are now being offered to twenty something bimbos who sucked cocks for a living before they found that one cock that could lend them a better gig."

"That was oddly specific," I chuckled. "Are you speaking from personal experience?"

"Shut the fuck up," she said to me, glaring daggers. "I don't have to answer to you or anybody."

And with that, she left in a huff. I chuckled a bit and turned on the TV. Celebrity Manhunt was on, Blaineley's old show.

"Good evening, celebrity manhunters! This is Josh Brollin!" Said the male host of the show. He always sucked; in fact, he once had his own show and it tanked BADLY. The guy just never had my charisma or charm.

"And I'm your host, Amy Spencer!" The young girl next to Josh couldn't be any older than twenty. She was wearing a low cut tank top, gold earrings, and WAY too much makeup. You could see her cleavage on TV; she had a nice, healthy pair of double D's, if you catch my drift. And from how they jiggled, you could tell they were natural.

Suddenly, what Blaineley said made sense. She couldn't get her job at Celebrity Manhunt because they replaced her with this girl.

"So today, we caught Britney Spears out shopping!" Amy said as a picture of Britney Spears came up. "But look at her! What a zombie! Bri, honey, when you go out in public, you owe it to everyone looking at you to wear makeup!"

I rolled my eyes at that line. A girl CAKED in makeup criticizing a woman for not looking pretty without wearing makeup, it was just sickening to me. Say what you want about Blaineley, how she sent Bridgette out to Siberia and all, but at least she wasn't some hypocrite!

"And OMG, check out this B!" Amy continued as a picture of Rihanna came up. She was sitting on the beach, wearing a bikini. "Riri, we love your music and all, but you gotta watch what you eat, girl! Cut back on the cake!"

I turned off the TV. At that moment, I saw Emily at the door. She walked in and sat beside me.

"Wow, why would she say that?" She asked me. "I thought Rihanna looked beautiful."

"Well..." I couldn't find the words I needed to tell her.

She looked at her own stomach. "Maybe I should cut back on the cake, too? I love cake, but maybe I it'll make me fatter than I already am. Do I look fat yet?"

"No, no you don't," I said to her. "Listen, that's just some garbage show on TV, OK?"

"But that was Mildred's old show," she said to me. "Why would Mildred work on a bad TV show?"

At that instant I saw Blaineley, who had returned. She stood at the doorway, her eyes wide with terror. I was in quite the rough spot.

"Well, in show business..." I gulped. "Sometimes shows go in one direction, but the people in charge, called executives, they want to go another direction, you know?"

"But why?" Emily asked me. I could see Blaineley at the door, sweating bullets, hiding from her sister.

"Because..." I thought about what I should say for a good ten seconds. "Executives aren't always the smartest people, but what they say is what goes. And sometimes they screw up. And so they turn what was otherwise a good show into garbage."

"That sucks," Emily said. She coughed a bit. "You smoke?"

"Well..." I gulped. "When I'm stressed. It's this movie, you know?"

"In health class, they told us smoking was bad for you," Emily said. "You know that, right?"

"I do, and they told you the complete truth," I said to her. "Smoking is bad."

"So why do you do it?" Emily asked again.

"I don't know," I said to her. "I don't even remember why or when I started. I guess it's just something that happens, you know? You start for some ridiculous reason, and by the time you realize what's going on, you find you can't go a day without a puff."

"That sucks," Emily said. "Never start, right?"

"Right, because it's not easy to finish," I said, my head hung low.

"Right," Emily got up. "Catch ya later, Chris. I'm off."

And with that, she left. She greeted Blaineley as she walked through the door; Blaineley then sat next to me.

"Thanks for that," She said to me. "She's a good kid."

"She is." I replied. "Thirteen."

"What?"

"That's when I actually started smoking," I said to Blaineley. "Thirteen years old. Mom gave me my first cig to calm me down before a big photo shoot."

"I started at twelve," Blaineley said. "Beauty pageant. Got first place. Judge offered me a cig after he and I had a 'chat', if you catch my drift."

"Holy shit," I said, my eyes widened.

"I quit when I was seventeen," she said. "Started again at 25, cut it off again at 30. And here I am again. Cig in hand, smoke in lungs."

"It burns a bit," I said.

"Wish it'd burn me," Blaineley said in a whisper. She got up, walked to the door, closed it, and locked it. She then sat down next to me again. "Chris, nothing personal or anything, but if you wanna fuck me hard, I'll let you."

I didn't want to. I wasn't horny, and Blaineley wasn't that hot, or ever was. I guess I just didn't want to turn down the free pussy? But I still did her. I did her rotten. Don't know if I made her cum, don't particularly care if I did. I just care about how I felt afterwards.

I wasn't disgusted or anything, or maybe I was? My spit tasted like ashes; from her or from the cigs? Probably both. I smelled bad. I was tired but not satisfied. I got up, walked to my phone, and saw that I had an email. I opened it; it was from Amy Spencer herself.

She was flashing her tits, asking to meet me in private. I knew her game, though. Blaineley got up, looked at my phone, and snorted.

"Wow," she said. "She has nice tits; way nicer than mine. But damn, this girl has ZERO self respect."

"Right," I said.

"You planning on meeting her?" She asked me.

"No," I replied. "In fact, I'm thinking of doing a bit of improv."

I typed in a reply:

Amy, you're a beautiful woman, and any guy would be happy to have you. But right now, I'm happy with Blaineley, and between us, it's getting a bit more serious. So please, stop asking to meet me in private, because it's not happening.

Before I pressed SEND, I 'accidentally' chose to send this email to a 'pal' of mine who worked at Gawker. As I pressed SEND, I chuckled.

"Now THAT was improv!" Blaineley said as she bopped my shoulder.

A day later, Amy's picture was circling the net. Everyone from 4Chan to Reddit, Perez Hilton to Buzzfeed was commenting on Amy's behavior. A week later, Amy Spencer was a nobody again, desperately clinging to what little fame she could get her grubby hands on. She released a sex tape, too. And me? I earned new fangirls, thanks to my 'chivalry'.

I would feel sad for them, I really would. But that's Hollywood for you.