Free Love Bites by Adrienne Barbeau Page A

so screw their own client Matthew. Needless to say, Matthew’s not with them any longer.
    That was the same agent who made an appointment with me to discuss a series idea he wanted Anticipation to produce. He handled the writer and Jeff Bridges, who was interested in starring. The writer and I made a date to meet at the agent’s office, but when we got there, his secretary said he was tied up on a conference call and it might be a bit of a wait. We waited. A half hour later, she tried to persuade us to reschedule the appointment because she said he was going to be on the phone a while longer. I rarely go to an agent’s office to begin with, they come to me, so I was already beginning to steam. I said we were there and we weren’t going anywhere, we’d wait. A half hour later, I got a call on my cell phone. It was the agent. He said he was in Aspen, Colorado, at the Comedy Festival and he’d gotten hung up and was really sorry, but he was going to have to reschedule. I told him he’d better look for another studio to “reschedule” with because I wasn’t interested in wasting any more of my time. The writer went home, hopefully to change agents, and Maral drove me over to Universal, where I was meeting Ron Myer at the commissary. And guess who walked in? Aspen—my ass.
    I regaled Peter with a couple more industry stories, and then the Doobie Brothers came up on his iPod and we took turns trying to hit Michael McDonald’s high notes. Peter won.
    We sang all the way to our next stop, which was a funky little outdoor restaurant in Glendale, with a four-piece band playing Armenian music and Peter’s friend SuzieQ doing a belly dance. I loved it.
    I noticed Peter was careful not to get too close to me when he opened the car door, which was good; the smell of him only weakened my control all the more. He was worried about getting burned, and I was worried about doing the burning. If I didn’t concentrate, I’d be changing in the middle of the parking lot.
    He smelled like fresh rain. Like green apples and comfort. Like “come lay your head on my breast and let me crush you to me”—whatever that smells like. I write horror films, I’m not so good with romantic descriptions.
    He looked great, too. In black pants and a black David Bowie concert tour T-shirt with a beautiful dragon graphic and Japanese writing on it. It must have had Lycra in it, because it hugged every muscle on his chest, just the way I would have liked to.
    SuzieQ was in the middle of her set, dancing to a guitar, a clarinet, a dumbek, and an oud. The host led us to a round table away from the dance floor. I suspected Peter had requested it because it was one of the more private spots on the patio. Peter ordered meza—a large plate of appetizers SuzieQ could share with us (and no one would notice if I didn’t eat)—yalanchi, souboereg, tourshou, keufteh, little squares of lahmajoon, and taramasalata, hummus, and tabouli for scooping onto pita. I felt like I was back in the old country again.
    “Did you remember I was from Armenia when you decided to come here?” I asked. Very few people know my real nationality. As far as the public is concerned, Ovsanna Moore is third-generation Hollywood royalty. My “grandmother” came over from Europe in the early 1900s, and until “I” arrived, my “mother” had me going to boarding schools in London and Paris. Certainly no one except Maral and my clan knew my real name—Ovsanna Hovannes Garabedian.
    “I wish I could say I did. That would make me pretty thoughtful, wouldn’t it?” He used three fingers to pop a stuffed grape leaf in his mouth. “But the truth is, SuzieQ suggested it. She’s here every other Tuesday. And she likes having friends in the audience.”
    She was great fun to watch in her two-piece outfit: a push-up bra that barely covered her nipples and gave her generous breasts plenty of room to bobble; and an ankle-length, low-cut skirt made of a gauzy fabric sheer enough to see