The Last Virgin in Texas Read online

  That’s the weird thing out here. People you don’t know talk to you like you’ve known them your whole life. They say shit like, “Oh, Tucker, I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s the work coming on the new film?”

  You haven’t seen me in ages because you haven’t seen me ever. We’ve never met before you fake piece of shit.

  The truth is, I’m kinda sick of the whole damn thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong. The money is fan-fucking-tastic. I basically get paid to say a few words in front of a camera and keep my body in top-notch shape. I get flown around the world in private planes and have eaten at the finest of restaurants. On a weekend out in L.A., I’ll toss back hundred-dollar shots all night long and never think twice about it. I’ve got someone who does my cooking, someone who cleans my house, a person who buys all my clothes, and I swear to God, if I wanted one, I’m pretty sure I could hire somebody to wipe my ass.

  The trade-off for all that privilege and the obscene amounts of money I get paid for doing basically nothing? My life is not my own.

  My contract with NBS, the network that airs Sins of the Father, allows me to make as many films as I want when I’m not on set for the show. That was a tough battle to win, but after the breakout success of the first season, the season in which I got bare-ass naked on film and it aired with a rabid fan response thanks to a strategically placed shadow, they gave me some leeway in my contract for season two. The downside is, I go where the network wants, when they want me there.

  I’m making my way through the crowd, politely nodding and saying, “Thanks for coming,” to everyone who wishes me a happy birthday when a woman catches my eye. She’s short, shorter than every other woman in this room by six inches at least. She has her hair pulled back in a thick braid of white blonde strands. She’s wearing a strappy little dress that nips in at the waist.

  It can’t be.

  My fingers stretch on instinct, craving the chance to touch soft skin. My mouth waters in anticipation of being close to the sweetest taste I’ve ever known.

  I’m a man possessed as I make a beeline for the woman that I don’t believe can be, but who I hope against all odds is the one I’m both excited and terrified by the prospect of seeing after all these years. As I get closer, she turns, then faces me, smiling. I’m met with the deep brown eyes and silicone smile of an actress in her early thirties.

  It’s not her.

  My eyes were playing tricks on me, I suppose.

  Or my heart was, maybe.

  I look past the sycophantic screenwriter who’s trying to tell me about his latest screenplay, and across the room to where Jared is charming a studio suit. He is made for this world. He can navigate the politics and the bullshit like nothing I’ve ever seen. He catches my eye and tips his chin up. He points to the back of the ballroom, and I follow him.

  “Dude,” he leans in conspiratorially. “I saw Stacey Lee checking you out. You tappin’ that, bro? I’ll be pissed if you are. She would get you the TV icon square on your bingo card, and I don’t have that one yet.”

  We started the stupid game when we were in high school. It started off with things like, kiss a redhead, get to second base, make out with a girl on spring break. Over the years, I realized that the whole thing basically reduces women down to categories to be checked off a list, and dropped it out of guilt, but he’s never given it up. Now he has things like, fuck a star from every network, join the mile-high club, and punch someone’s v-card.

  Okay, so maybe I joined the mile-high club, but that was just a matter of opportunity, not part of some asinine game.

  “I’m not sleeping with Stacey, no.” I shake my head and scoff. My show is a reboot of a short-lived series from the late eighties. Stacey starred in the original as an ingenue and plays the FBI chief in our version.

  “Okay, bro. Well, that’s a good thing, cause I got you a little birthday present.” He wriggles his eyebrows and hands me a hotel keycard.

  “You booked me a room? Thanks, I guess. I can book my own rooms, though. I make more money than you do,” I reply, grinning with satisfaction at my little dig. He hates it when I say that and hates it even more that it’s true.

  “Is that any way to treat your best friend? The guy who threw you this awesome party and got you an amazing gift to go with it? Ungrateful cocksucker.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Sorry, sorry! Thank you for throwing me this epic party. You are my best friend. It would suck out here without you.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “And I mean that.”

  “That’s a much better response. Now, get the fuck outta here and go enjoy your present. Let me know how you like it.” He smirks and walks back to the party.

  I flip over the little folder that holds the room key and see the number for a room I know must be on the penthouse floor. Sick of the crowd and thinking it’s a good excuse to slip away, I pocket the keycard and head up to the twentieth floor of the landmark hotel.

  When the key connects with the pad on the outside of the door, the lock mechanism whirs and I turn the gold tone handle, stepping inside. In the living room of the suite is a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and a box of condoms…extra-large.

  Not sure why he assumed I’d have company, but at least the dumbass got me the right size.

  There’s a gold foil note next to the box of condoms that reads:

  Happy twenty-fifth birthday to the best friend a guy could ever have. Thanks for taking the leap with me to come out here. I’m glad we never looked back. Have fun with your gift. – Jared

  I stand, for a moment, reading the note. He may never have looked back, but I sure as hell did. When the days and weeks wore on into months, things moved so fast. I wanted to call Gretchen. I wanted to go see her, despite what Jared had said. The longer I waited, though, the more certain I was that if she hadn’t called me, she wouldn’t want to see me. I couldn’t get that last night out of my head. Her standing there, frozen, when I told her I loved her.

  I shake the thought. I’m tired. I’m that kind of tired that sinks down in your bones. I know that rehashing the past won’t change a damn thing and doing it when you’re as mentally exhausted as I am right now could be a slippery slope. I decide to take a shower and call it a night.

  When I walk into the bedroom, I find out what the condoms are for. There, sprawled across the champagne-colored silk comforter of a massive California king-sized bed, are three exquisite young ladies. One blonde. One brunette. One redhead. Apparently, I took longer than expected to arrive, because they’ve already started without me.

  How Jared pulls this shit off is beyond me.

  “Hello, ladies.” I walk toward the bed, picking up discarded clothing as I approach.

  “Hi, Tucker,” the blonde says.

  And there it is again. This girl doesn’t know me from Adam but talks to me like we’ve met a dozen times.

  “We were getting restless. Sorry we couldn’t wait, but we’d be happy to catch you up,” the redhead says as she squeezes the brunette’s tits.

  I blow out a long sigh.

  “Thank you for the generous offer, ladies, but I’m going to take a pass.” I hand them their clothes. “I’m going to go take a shower. I’d appreciate it if you’d see yourselves out. Have a good night.”

  They look at each other, bewildered, then shrug and begin getting dressed with disappointed looks on their faces. They don’t give a shit about me, personally, but they loved the idea of fucking a celebrity. Besides, at least one of them was bound to ask me for a part in my show the morning after. I know this because I’ve been here before. There’s nothing new under the California sun.

  After the shower, I lay in my now empty bed, sleepless. I tuck my hands behind my head and try to pinpoint exactly what’s been wrong with me lately. I turned twenty-five today. I’ve been out here just over five years. I’m a lucky bastard. I know this. I’ve got a life most guys would give their left nut for. Still, there’s something missing.

  I think about all the folks back home—fol
ks who really do know me and have known me all my life. I wish I could see some of them again. Seeing them, though, comes with its own set of problems. I rarely get to sneak into town without the press getting a whiff of it, and I’m not willing to wreak havoc on good people for my own selfish reasons.

  Still, I feel a pull—the kind of pull that only your hometown holds over you—drawing me back to Texas…drawing me back to her.

  Seven

  “He doesn’t look excited, Ryan. Why doesn’t he look excited?” Sloan, the talent liaison at the network looks at Ryan Werling, the Vice President of Programming and speaks about me as if I’m not sitting five fucking feet away from her. “We thought he’d be so excited.”

  Sloan takes a step closer. She puts her hands on her knees, leaning toward me to speak to me.

  “Tucker? Tucker, why aren’t you excited?” She asks louder than she needs to in her nasally, valley-girl voice.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, Sloan.” I shake my head. “And I’m not high, or stupid. You don’t have to speak to me like a child.”

  Everything about me is all grown up, sweetheart. I chuckle to myself at that thought.

  “You did hear what we said, then?” She turns back to Ryan. “He heard what we said, Ryan.”

  The whole thing would be comical if it weren’t more than just a little sad.

  Growing frustrated, I speak up. “I’m sitting right here, Sloan. Of course I heard you. I’m just not sure I like the idea, that’s all.”

  “It’s Barbara Banner, Tucker. Barbara. Banner. She has interviewed every living president in the last twenty-five years. She has interviewed both Prince Harry and Prince William. Tom Hanks, Tom Cruise, Tom Ford, John Glenn…,” she trails off, moving her hand theatrically through the air as she paces.

  First man to orbit the earth. I’ve gotta admit, that’s good company to be in.

  “Explain to me again why she wants to interview me?” I mean, I’m a movie and TV star, I get it, but I’m one of thousands of celebrities in Hollywood from which she could choose.

  “He wants to know why, Ryan,” Sloan says to the man who is only focusing about half his attention on what’s going on in his office, reserving the rest of his focus for his phone.

  “Her series this year is all about homecomings. She wants to bring you back to…where are you from again? Tennessee? She wants to bring you back to Tennessee…visit your hometown…”

  I correct her before she has the chance to put me on a plane to a place I’m not even from.

  “Texas. I’m from Shiner, Texas.”

  “Right! Texas!” She claps her hands together. “Wonderful! So, you’ll go to Moonshine…”

  I swear to God this woman has the attention span of a gnat.

  “Shiner. I’m from Shiner, southeast of San Antonio,” I clarify.

  “He’s from Shi-ner, Ryan,” she says glancing over her shoulder. “So, yeah, you’ll go there, and take her on a tour of your old stomping grounds. Interview some locals who,” she makes annoyingly exaggerated air quotes with her long, bony, well-manicured fingers, “Knew you when.”

  “I don’t suppose I have any say in this, do I?”

  “He’s still not excited, Ryan.” She glances over her shoulder again.

  Suddenly, Ryan tosses his phone down on the desk and stands. Sloan sucks in a tiny gasp of a breath. Ryan walks over to me and sits on the edge of the coffee table opposite my chair. He’s tall, fit and looks like he could star in one of the network’s hits himself. He’s no artist, though. This guy is all business.

  He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees, bringing his hands together and looks me square in the eye.

  “Tucker, Barbara is a legend in this industry. An icon. A force. She called me, personally, and asked to interview you. You don’t want to insult one of the top journalists of our lifetime, do you?”

  “No, sir,” I reply, feeling suddenly like the naïve kid from Texas that first walked onto this production lot years ago.

  “If you don’t do this interview, with the most sought-after television journalist in America, she’s going to think it’s personal. It’s not personal, is it, Tucker?”

  He says my name with the heft and purpose of a gangster volleying an offer I can’t refuse.

  “No, sir. It’s just about me wanting to keep my past in the past…I’d like the folks back home to keep their privacy intact.”

  “I understand your concern.” He nods graciously. “You understand what an economic boon a media presence brings to a small town, though, right? I mean, your local hardware store, the beauty salon, the diner…”

  His words are a punch in the gut.

  The diner. Gretchen.

  “They all see a huge uptick in business when Hollywood comes to town. You want that opportunity for the people back home, don’t you?” His expression is earnest.

  Gretchen has been on my mind more than usual lately, for some reason. Hell, I even thought I spotted her at my birthday party the other night, but it wasn’t her. Now he’s asking me to go back to the scene of the crime—the hometown where I left all the pieces of my broken heart so many years ago.

  “I guess that all makes sense.” I concede.

  He leans forward, slapping his palm on my shoulder as he stands. “Good man. We’re all set, then.” He walks back to his desk. “Sloan, set it up.” He says it without looking at her, turning his attention to his computer.

  “I’ll set it up, Ryan.” She smiles at me as I turn to walk out.

  “Oh, and Tucker?” Ryan calls out.

  I pause at the door. “Yes, sir?”

  “Get Berringer on camera too while you’re there. I know he’s with another network, but if he argues, just tell him I said Mexico.” He drops his gaze and turns his attention back to his laptop.

  “Yes, sir.” I close his office door behind me.

  I’ve got to remember to ask Jared what sort of shit he got himself into in Mexico that the VP of a network he doesn’t even work for had to bail him out.

  Jared may enjoy the Hollywood fast lane far more than I do, but that part stays strictly out of the press. When we started filming Mineral Deep, Aaron and the studio both wanted to handle our media presence and personal brands very closely from the get-go.

  “Two nice guys won’t sell,” Aaron told us. “One of you needs to be a bad boy. Women just love a bad boy.”

  I looked over at Jared who was grinning ear-to-ear. “Guilty,” he said, making us both laugh.

  “No, no, no. You don’t look the part,” Aaron said. “You don’t smolder. Tucker, you’re more angular, your hair is darker…you’re going to be our bad boy. Jared, that makes you the nice guy. America’s hot guy-next-door. You’ll be the guy every woman in the country wants to marry…and Tucker, you’ll be the guy they want to have a weekend sex-fest with. It’s a perfect story. Two hot guys, best friends since childhood, one sweet, one dirty. That I can sell!”

  And sell he did.

  Problem is, years later, I’m still living down all the fake stories and setups in the press that painted me as a womanizing partier. Do I like the ladies? I do. Have I had my share of on-screen romances with gorgeous women that have led to off-screen fun? I have. I’ve also dated a few women seriously. It’s hard to date actresses, though, or anyone in the industry, really. Too many competing priorities.

  Now Jared, on the other hand, has fucked his way through the state of California, then took that show on the road on an international scale. He did a one-season arc on a cable show called Deep Cover, where he played a navy seal on loan to MI-5. He literally fucked a woman from every inhabited continent during that filming season. Drinking. Partying. Drugs. You name it, he’s tried it. It all stays out of the press, though. Aaron makes sure of it.

  If only the good ticket-buying public knew the guy they dream of marrying off to their daughters was not at all the man he appears to be. They’d be equally floored to learn I like to spend my Sundays doing crosswords, p
racticing Tai Chi on my deck, and watching Jeopardy.

  That’s the thing about Hollywood, though. Nothing is as it appears to be.

  My friends and neighbors back home are about to learn that lesson, I’m afraid. I just hope, when the shit show is over, they can go back to their real lives unscathed.

  That’s something they can do, that I can’t.

  The studio who owns my ass is about to turn my whole fucked-up world upside down and bring the entire town of Shiner along for the ride.

  Eight

  Zach is cute. He’s really cute. We’re sitting in a restaurant named, appropriately, The Pumphouse, in Victoria. The food is good, the river view is kind of nice, and the guy sitting across the table from me is charming and funny.

  This online dating thing might not be as bad as I thought.

  Cute Zach is giving me warm fuzzy feelings, and I am starting to feel like a lip-lock will definitely be happening at the end of the night.

  He tells me about his work—he’s a lender at First Farmers’ Credit. I tell him about my little diner. His family are over in Goliad, but he transferred to Victoria when he got offered a better job.

  “You like dancin’?” He asks when he pays the check for our dinner.

  “I like it fine,” I reply, staring up into his eyes as I bat my eyelashes—a move Maisie taught me.

  “Whaddya say we head over to The Dance Hall?”

  “Let’s go.” I smile, glad I wore my boots with the little floral dress I’m sporting tonight.

  I follow him a few blocks over to a place that is blaring country music so loud, we can hear it from outside. The exterior looks like a big, aluminum barn and inside, it’s packed with people line dancing, drinking beer, and trying hard to pick up members of the opposite sex.

  He pulls me out onto the floor where we do a boot scoot and the electric slide. When a slow song comes on, couples start dancing together, and he wraps me up in his arms, pulling me close.