could take or leave it.
“Time and place on the back,” Nate said.
She flipped the card. 11 p.m., Score was written in bold Sharpie. Score was a trendy bar in Santa Monica, she knew. “Eleven is late.”
“Doctor Nite hours,” Nate said. “Get used to it.”
“I will. You bet. Whatever it takes.” She flicked the card against her chin, her heart racing, her skin overheated, sole to scalp. This scrap of paper held the key to her future. Everything depended on this meeting. The job. Her documentary. Her career.
Well, maybe not everything, but this was big. In her pitch to the We Women Cable Network, she’d mentioned exclusive interviews with Doctor Nite, knowing that would pique the acquisitions manager’s interest. Now she had to get the damn interviews.
“So this project you want him for is about dating?” Nate asked, looking doubtful. “Doesn’t sound like you.”
“I needed a change of pace after the foster care piece,” she said. She’d devoted two years to the project, living on Top Ramen and dreams, begging favors from film school friends, selling her second camera, her extra computer and every spare piece of equipment to pay postproduction costs.
It had been her first major project since she left TV news. Her San Diego network had sponsored several small projects, all well received, but Childhood Lost took top honors at two prestigious film festivals. She’d floated on air.
Then slammed to the ground when she couldn’t find a buyer. Everyone loved it, but it was “too local” for public television and “too dark” for commercial networks who seemed to be buying only lurid exposés or feel-good pieces. Without big-buck backers, Childhood Lost sank like a stone to the bottom of the sea of lost documentaries.
How could a movie change the world if the only people who saw it were her film school profs and die-hard fans?
She’d vowed her next project would be commercial from the get-go. Drinks out with her two best friends, Becca and Dana, had given her the idea for a movie about the dark side of the player lifestyle.
Becca had just broken up with her boyfriend of two years because, at thirty-seven, he claimed to be too young to get serious. Dana had lived through a similar scenario six months before. Jillian’s own breakups had been amicable, but between the three friends, they knew a dozen other women who’d been victims of the Peter Pan syndrome—guys who refused to grow up and commit.
As they commiserated over margaritas, Doctor Nite had appeared on the bar’s plasma and guys all over the place lifted their beer and woofed approval, and the idea was born.
Soon Jillian was frantically scribbling notes on napkins for Peter Pan Prison: How Men Who Play Pay.
Bare-bones grants from a social-psychology foundation and two women’s groups had funded interviews with therapists, matchmakers and sociologists, along with women who’d dated Peter Pan boys and some longtime bachelors she’d snared outside a strip club. She’d obtained promotional footage from the Doctor Nite show, too. Now all she needed was in-depth interviews with the man himself to nail the sale to We Women.
On the screen in her cousin’s studio, Donegan was flirting with a top-heavy blonde. “I love this bit,” Nate said.
“You’re a fan of the show?”
“Are you kidding? Doctor Nite is great.” Nate was a good person with a kind heart, but he was single and twenty-eight, exactly the show’s demographic.
“You don’t think marriage is a crime against men, though, do you? You want to settle down one day?”
“If I can’t avoid it.” He grinned.
Lord, if Nate bought the Doctor Nite philosophy, lots of other decent guys did, too, which made for a terrible trend.
She studied Doctor Nite. She could see why women liked him. Even with the sound muted, she picked up his strong masculine energy. He had expressive eyes, and a smile that tugged at you, invited you in. Infectious and appealing and—
“Oh, I get it,” Nate said softly, “You’re into the guy.”
“God, no,” she said, startled to feel her face flame.
“That’s cool, JJ. Sometimes I forget you’re a woman.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, though she took pride in being one of the guys when she worked. In high school, when being overweight had rendered her sex-neutral, it had been hell. Fat girls were friends, not girlfriends.
Now being one of the guys served her well, kept any residual sexism at bay. She went by JJ and used the androgynous J. James as her credit line, and was as far from girlie as she could be. She carried her own equipment and never shied from intimidating shoots.
“Good luck with him,” Nate said, studying her thoughtfully.
“Thanks. I’ll need it.” Getting the job was just the first step. She had to get Donegan to trust her enough to talk about his secret loneliness, the inner emptiness of his way of life.
She’d always been lucky getting honest answers to the boldest questions. She believed people responded to her bone-deep curiosity. Everyone longed to be understood, after all. Would Brody?
Watching him on the monitor, she felt a shiver of excitement. If her plan worked and she sold the movie, it would mean a big career leap. She’d have a name. Funding would fall into her lap. Not that fame or money was the point.
This piece was for Becca and Dana and all the women—and men, for that matter—crippled by the idea that just as a woman couldn’t be too thin, a man couldn’t be too single.
“You keep the DVD,” Nate said with a wink. “Enjoy.” Her cousin thought Jillian had a thing for Doctor Nite. Please. She took the DVD all the same. Research.
EVEN IF SHE HADN’T known what Brody Donegan looked like, Jillian would have known where he was by the crowd swarming his huge table in the raised central area of Score.
Designed to look like a bachelor pad from the Fifties, the club was furnished with zebra-striped chairs, low white and black leather couches, with a huge fire pit in the lounge and faux animal hides on the floor. The walls held framed nudes, the music was Sinatra and the signature drink a gin martini—shaken, not stirred. Perfect hangout for Doctor Nite.
Every seat at Donegan’s long table was filled and people crowded around it, everyone talking at once. The women jutted their breasts forward, the men laughed boldly. Like mating birds, the males showed beak and claw, the females preened and flounced, hardwired to perform this primitive dance.
Jillian understood the drive, even if she didn’t like it, and would use it to appeal to Brody. Instead of her usual jeans, chambray shirt and cargo vest, she’d worn a tailored white blouse that emphasized her tan and offered a sliver of cleavage, snug black slacks and heels high enough that her arches ached the instant she slid them on.
Why did women willingly endure this agony—not much better than ancient foot binding? Supposedly, spike heels enhanced a woman’s sexual features—lifting her butt, lengthening her legs, tilting her breasts forward. Jillian had worn them so she could meet the six-foot Brody
