It's been a bit, but I'm still writing.
Wanted to assure anyone who is following me that I'm not planning on abandoning any of my stories. Just made some commitments, including this story as found on rarepairingsproject on tumblr. I'm posting it here in chapters for anyone who wants to read it, and as a way to tide over anyone waiting for "Queen's Servant" or "Lost Heroes", even "Original Sin" to be updated. Which they will be.
Hope you like it, please review.
Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson & the Olympians".
Like many Hollywood romances, it began at a very wild, wild party. Also like few (but still a surprising number) of Hollywood romances, it also began in the bathroom.
It took place at a swanky new manor, owned by some producer who wanted to break into directing, and with no expense spared. Unfortunately exorbitant spending paired poorly with a distressing lack of taste in fashion. Decor was garish, the music from a cover-band managed to be simultaneously the worst vibes of the '80's and still otherwise entirely forgettable, and the guest list was comprised the most desperate and the most dismissive people in show business. Naturally they waged an unspoken war of passive aggression against each other. Directors were beset on all sides by up-and-coming and has-been actors trying to make an impression for a role, the most needy hoping just for the vague promise of an audition. Actors were plagued by fans who gate-crashed, or more opportunistic sharks offering business cards, declaring themselves agents, co-producers, or vague titles of similar semi-importance. At least half were posers, and it took experienced players of the Hollywood game to sift through the dregs and dross. Writers and tech specialists just huddled together validating each other.
But the biggest deals weren't made with an exchange of cards and numbers, "your people call my people", more often it was an exchange of fluids. A few (or more) drinks, a bit of tongue with a kiss, a dozen rooms reserved for the sorts of depravities only the hyper-privileged would think of.
So, this 'love' story starts in one of the seven bathrooms, on a decidedly cheap and sour note.
The bathroom in question had a marble sink basin and steam shower, smelled like basil and lime scented candle (which was very different from either actual basil or actual lime) and a mix of regurgitated canapés and liquors. Beryl's poisons of choice for the evening included a few finger foods that looked to be puffed shellfish and lightly pickled cucumbers with a mix of white wine with tonic, and a cosmopolitan for both the taste and for the fancy glass they were served in since it paired well with her latest haircut. At the moment, she was poison of choice for a co-director or something with minimal responsibility and disproportionate power over an upcoming film. Even his name sounded fake, but Hollywood was full of assumed names and false faces so she didn't think much of it. Didn't think much of him either, but through the lenses of her cosmopolitan she could almost pretend his murky brown eyes were blue.
Couldn't pretend he was a better kisser.
The biggest problem right now though was the faucet digging into the small of her back. "Mm, not so fast-"
He broke off the kiss completely. "Don't ruin it by talking." Mr. Co-Director, she never got his name, resumed trying to French with a spastic tongue, hands fumbling up her dress until he reached her garters.
Beryl squirmed, trying to get comfortable, trying to get the least bit dignified. He only took her gyration for encouragement and pressed on his assault. This was supposed to be a much simpler romp, a chance to improve her chances for getting a call-back that was supposed to go to Nicole Kidman before she dropped out without warning. Had Beryl ever tried to pull a diva stunt like that she would've been blacklisted from any picture, but she wasn't a household name or married to a household name or even sleeping with a household name. Maybe this was an all-time low? Not like she hadn't done worse but...
She could try to get out of this with some basic dignity intact, without the torn dress and ripped stockings that was the defining mark of an amateur trying to start sleeping her way up to stardom, or the fading star screwing her way back into relevance.
"Get off," she demanded, trying to push him back with heel of her hand on his chest.
"I'm trying babe, stop talking about it."
Dammit if she didn't deserve some professionalism from this coked-up imbecile. Bathroom this nice, this roomy, there were options beyond necking and pawing each other like a couple of teenagers. She could've hung her dress up on the hook and he'd have gotten a glimpse of the new lingerie she had for feeling slinky, they could've gotten cozier on a few of the luxurious looking towels overtop the tiles, and then she'd have a chance to fix her makeup with a proper mirror to assess the state of her deshabille, but instead he had her pressed up against the sink so hard she thought it was happy to see her... and more impressive than him for that matter.
And still he wouldn't stop, and when she heard the rip of fabric that had to be from her dress, Beryl snapped. "Get off me!" And this time she kicked the jerk hard enough to get him stumbling into the shower stall.
"You goddam bitch!" He clutched his chest where she had kicked him with stiletto heels. "Don't you know how this works?"
"Yes, with me not working for you," she snapped back, smoothing out her dress and assessing the damage. Too high and ragged for her to play it off as a designed slit, maybe if she hadn't worn the stockings and suspenders, maybe if she had gone with the silver number instead of her aqua-blue chiffon instead. She may have been out of work and she may have resorted to these sorts of... arrangements to jumpstart her career, but she was established and she was used to the upper echelons of the business enough to have some class. At the very least serviceable technique. Not this loser.
Definitely was the cosmopolitan to blame. She wasn't drinking those again, maybe just martinis from now on.
Now Beryl Grace certainly hadn't been in a lot of major motion pictures, but she had been in enough to have soaked in the tired cliché that the put upon spunky heroine stood up to the bully and the bully backed down. Sadly this was a lie, as in the real world more often than not the coked up bully just waits waits for you to turn around and hits you.
The pain was sudden and it was tremendous, but the biggest worry Beryl had wasn't for her safety but for image. She had been struck, sucker punched really, in the back of the head hard enough she was propelled into the mirror hard enough to crack it. A piece of glass broke off and shattered in the sink, and Beryl was staggering blindly against the countertop, feeling the fresh welt on her head and a new cut slick with blood.
"You should've seen that coming, if you weren't so busy looking at your wrinkles." The rejected jerk muttered, making a poor attempt at a joke about 'objects in mirror closer than they appear' or something. Maybe he was nervous, maybe he realized he had gone too far. "Oh get up, you're not a good enough actress to sell this, you're fine-"
It all felt thick and runny between Beryl's fingers, and she felt like she was going to throw up (again), and what if she had a scar right on her forehead, makeup would never be able to cover that-!
"I said get up, you're fine!" Co-director coke-head demanded, grabbing a fistful of her hair.
Beryl wasn't hurt, surprised, or panicked enough to start doing the 'insensible' thing and scream, she had her career to think about and people finding out about this would just ruin any silver screen chances faster than if the paparazzi got pictures of her children. Single mother actresses were lucky to star in pinko off-Broadway plays. She struggled quietly as possible, biting his wrist and flailing with her arms, but all she managed was yanking off a cufflink with her teeth and nearly swallowing it.
"Sir?" That was a new voice... please don't let it be someone important, thought Beryl. Thankfully it wasn't anyone she recognized, and he was dark-skinned enough to be a waiter here. "Should I get help? The lady seems to need a change of scenery, maybe a hospital-?"
"Mind your own business, Kemosabe!"
"Tonto," Beryl's new rescuer corrected with a long-suffering sigh that had to be real, not acted out.
Wasn't what the jerk was expecting. "What?"
"Tonto called the Lone Ranger 'Kemosabe'," he explained patiently, "and it was a term of endearment so you probably didn't mean it that way. But honestly I'm still just relieved someone here didn't just assume I was Mexican. I'm still going to hit you now."
There wasn't another warning, Sir Lancelot in the cheap suit just decked the woman-beating jerk with a southpaw cross that gave Beryl a vindictive spark of delight. Mr. Bigshot with the little package landed by the toilet, fittingly enough, with at least two teeth scattering to make noise like dice on the tile floor.
Suddenly Beryl noticed that even though he was dark enough to be related to her gardener, and though dressed like he was late for a court appointment, her rescuer (wincing and clenching his bleeding left fist, erasing her doubts he really was human) was actually quite cute. More than passable for cute even. If he was one of the gate-crashing novice actors trying to make a lasting impression, he definitely made the wrong sort with this director.
Well, co-director, so screw that piece of shit.
"Thank you," she stage-whispered, turning on the most expressively vulnerable, grateful eyes she could for his benefit. But it was wasted, or so she thought, because he was already getting her a washcloth off the counter for her face. "Can you get me out of here? Please?"
"That's probably a good idea." He agreed fast enough that she knew she was right and he wasn't supposed to be here, and he made a much bigger impression than he had meant to. "Do you have any friends-?"
"Not here," she said quickly. Truth was she didn't have any friends in the whole state, let alone these strangers she was invited with here. She got them both walking out, holding on to his arm and keeping close so no one noticed her ripped dress. The washcloth? Well as long as there wasn't any blood seeping through she had a migraine and that was it. He matched her well enough that they managed to turn some hungry, jealous stares as they hastily weaved through the manor out towards the front gate.
"Do you need a ride?" He offered hesitantly, knowing how that must sound. His trepidation was endearing, the younger man was a lamb among lions in the Hollywood hills when he wasn't throwing punches at (semi-)important people.
Still she was lucid enough and with enough leftover anger and fear to act a little indignant in the face of perceived insult. "I'll be fine, I haven't had that much to dri-"
But he stopped her mid-lie, "I just mean you've a bonk on the head."
Bless him, he was actually concerned. That warranted some honesty. But just a little. "I took a cab," she admitted ruefully. She didn't tell him that her driver quit and she couldn't afford another.
He only smiled back, teeth very straight and even. "So did I," he laughed, looking relieved.
"Do you want to share?" She offered.
"No, that wouldn't... I live kinda far." He sighed. Definitely struggling actor. "And I have to get straight home for the sitter and everything-"
If she had been more curious, or genuinely interested about him beyond appearances, maybe Beryl would've asked him about 'sitter'; if he had a pet or a child, or if that child came with a spouse and if his wife was working too or if she was even still in the picture. But she didn't, she just helped flag down a cab, ripped dress good for showing a little leg. There was no doubt in her mind that there had to be a wife at one point, as she smugly noted he paid entirely too much attention to the exposed leg and garter to be anything but straight.
Cute and chivalrous and straight, in this town? What would they think of next? Then again, Beryl was spoiled by a glut of handsome, or outright gorgeous men, so she didn't think anything of it. Romance was ruined for tonight anyway, until he opened the cab door for her and gave an unsolicited "Tristan."
"Hm?"
"Tristan McLean, it's um..." He tousled his dark chocolate brown hair for lack of anything else to say, embarrassed.
"That's nice," she commented nonchalantly, slipping off her heels and tossing them in the backseat of the cab. Then, feeling charitable, "I'm Beryl-"
"Grace, Beryl Grace," he smiled slightly. "I know." He shrugged as if to say 'naturally'.
It did wonders for her ego. In a rush of gratitude and flirtatious mischief, she stood tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. It held a bit longer than she had anticipated, long enough for him to kiss back quite well, and she arched her back appreciatively before breaking away to climb in the cab.
"Catch you later," she promised, grinning. She shut the door and enjoyed the look of longing and blushing bemusement on his face. Then she paid the cabby and gave him her address, forgetting about it entirely, privately declaring the whole party a bust.
Truthfully neither of them thought much of it at all... that only changed with the latest tabloid photo. That changed everything.
