a @#!$ short story

I... just... grrrr.... this is all the Fic Chicks' fault. Them and Joe. I hate you all with a passion that cannot be expressed in words alone. I do... I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really do.

Hello, my name is Neurotic. For some strange reason, my best friend insists on calling me Jill. Stupid dolt. We were way behind schedule and she can't even get things like my name right.

"Jill! Where the hell have you put my fucking black shirt?"

"In the frickin' paper-shredder; do your own laundry, ya big girl's blouse!"

"Bitch!"

"Cunt!"

"I love you, dude."

"Right back atcha, babe."

That's CJ. I'm not allowed to divulge the meaning behind the initials. Her parents thought that by giving her a girlie-name, they could avoid the whole tom-boy thing that happens when you have a single girl with two boys on either side. She started making her second eldest do her chores for her by the time she was seven. She started beating on her eldest one at around eleven. I won't even go into detail about the two younger ones. Let's just say that when this piece of insanity called a production company came off the ground, we didn't have to go far to look for grunt work.

CJ popped into the livingroom with a jump and a twirl. Why am I friends with this woman, really? She's bloody Aphrodite. No one should have boobies that big and happy at thirty.

"What do you think?"

"The same thing I think every night, Pinky."

All together now: "Try to take over the world!"

"No, really." CJ picked at some imaginary lint. "Is this going to wow the investors? Or should I go for something with more elegance?"

I tried not to yawn. Bless her deranged heart, but CJ is a classicist. The outfit– get ready for this– was a black pantsuit with a black shirt. Granted, the shirt had a neckline that would get her arrested in Arkansas but still. We'd grown up on the west coast. This was California, for frick's sake!

"Can I please get your interested in a colour?" I said. "Like beige. It doesn't have to be a real colour. Just please, God, wear something other than black."

"I am." She pursed her lips. "My undies and garter belt are red."

That's my best friend, that is. Lord love her.

Whereas CJ was supposed to comfort the investors with her sophisticated maturity, I was supposed to be the sign of creative genius. I kid you not. Just because I happen to be allergic to black and white and am fashion-clueless, I'm supposed to be this artist. It's huge laugh. She's the bloody director with vision. I just pick up the messes she leaves behind and reorganize them into chronological, alphabetical, colour-coded piles. So she can mess them up again. Because I like to. See above note about neuroticism.

"Okay, okay, okay." CJ took out a cigarette from her purse and stuck it in her mouth. She knows better than to light it up in our apartment. It took five washes for the smell to come out of the couch. I beat her with a soup ladle. To this day, she walks around me when I'm trying to cook soup. I bet it's unconscious. That makes me happy.

"Okay," she repeated, taking a deep breath. "So we're ready?"

"We are ready," I confirmed. Flipping through my scheduler, I recited, "Trevor's sending the limo in half an hour. We should get to the studios in forty-five minutes. It'll may take five minutes to get to the top floor even with an express elevator but we should be outside their doors by two o' clock. Knowing them, they'll want to have lunch at–"

"Yes, yes, yes, I know all of that. I just wanted to know if we were ready! Yeesh!"

"Fuck you. I'm just doing what you're paying me to do. Ungrateful wrench."

"Psychopathic nerd."

"Love you, dude."

"Right back atcha babe." She inhaled on her unlit ciggie and frowned. I grinned. Yes, I'm a carnivorous, grease-eating, deep-frying, fast food junkie but I don't smoke. I'm going to die in a quickly in a cholesterol induced heart-attack not a slow, lingering death by emphysema.

Back home, using a limo was a big thing. In SoCal, your waiter probably has one as a second car. We weren't being pretentious, just normal Californians. That was an oxymoron.

CJ sashayed her way into the limo, looking every inch the up and coming director that she was, even with her shitload of bags and binders. They proceeded to fall all over the sidewalk and the floor of the limo. She was used to that though– physical coordination and CJ don't mix too well– so while she picked them up, I scrambled in with my shitload of bags and binders in perfect order and my butt in the air. Vehicles are just not made for short people.

"Oh, hey, Jill." She popped her head into the interior of the car. "I think I forgot the budget calculations. Would you be a dear and grab them?"

I rolled my eyes. "Where?"

"Kitchen counter? Maybe? Or my room. Might be my bathroom, too; I was reading--"

"Christ, never mind, I'll find it." I threw the other door open.

There was a revolting crunch accompanied by a high-pitched yowl and a thud of a butt hitting the asphalt with considerable force.

"Oh, bugger!" I rushed to see what damage I managed to wreak, bracing myself for an argument. And stopped. And wanted to slam my head into the road so I could make a hole to crawl into an die. "Oh, bugger me ‘til I bleed."

"I dinnae think that's too good an idea tae have two people bleeding, aye? If it's no' gun shots, LA medics aren't likely tae answer."

One note about this wee Canadian import: I am a celtophile. I think it was Adrian Paul in the Highlander TV series. Or maybe the romance novels I used to sneak between my business management classes that had bare-chested, kilted manly-men with a swooning maiden in their arms. I love anything Scottish. I own a miniature claymore. I liked our Catholic school uniforms because they were plaid. I think I became resolved to be CJ's best friend because she of Scottish descent.

"Uhhh... yeah."

Yes, folks, that's me grunting.

"Are you all right?" CJ came around the back to help Billy Boyd up. My victim was Billy Bloody Boyd. Where was that hole? "Do you need us to call a medic? Maybe the dry-cleaners?" She eyed his taco-stained shit.

"No harm done." He brushed off the salsa and guacamole with his clean hand. The other one clutched the remaining broken pieces of his taco. "It was an accident, aye?"

Shoot me now. That accent was going to turn me into mush.

"Are ye all right?" He turned his eyes on me for a nanosecond. Green eyes. Bugger. "Ye look a mite shell-shocked."

"Uhhh... no." Fuck, that's it. I was going to jump into traffic. Witty, Jillian! You're supposed to be witty!" "I don't have a shell."

Ah, hell.

He grinned, all big white teeth and pretty pink lips. "I didnae like the taco, anyway. Too salty." He popped what was left in his mouth, his cheeks puffing out as he chewed. "Besides, taxis dinnae allow ye tae eat inside them any more. I'm glad I dinnae have tae walk long in this heat."

"Then the least we can do is give you a ride to wherever you were going." CJ elbowed me into consciousness. "I'm CJ. This is Jillian."

"Hello." He stuck his hand out in front of me. Pretty hand. Oh, I was supposed to shake it! Warm hand. Rough hand. Long fingers. Nice nails. "Billy."

"I know." By this time, I'd already made so many social and verbal faux-pas I figured one more couldn't hurt.

His smile twitched for a second. "I'm glad."

I wish I could relate some sort of fun, romantic, harp-filled story about what happened afterward but I can't. Because we dropped Billy off at his friend's apartment, we were late for the meeting and the investors had a golfing lunch without us. I pointed out, at length, the sins of getting out of schedule and the chances that we were going to be begging in the streets within the hour. Miffed, CJ suggested going back to Billy's friend's place to invite them out for a beer and gripe. Lager and angst with total strangers before three in the afternoon. Because CJ's like that.

Ends up Billy and Dom, being from the UK, were well-used to the idea of pints at any time of the day. They even suggested a wee pub tucked away in the very edges of Beverly Hills. I was so hyped from getting out of schedule that I forgot Billy used to decorate my screensaver and swore my way through afternoon tea.

When that was done, all four of us returned to our apartment and swore our way through two movies and a jumbo pack of Doritos. Billy splashed salsa on me "to even things up, aye?"

And when that was done, we went back out and swore our way into the VIP line of a night club.

What happens after that, I'm not telling. What, you think you've got some fucking pass into the intimate portions of my bloody life now? Bugger it all, get one for yourself, you manky gits! Yeesh.

I will say one thing. The movie that the investors skipped lunch for was picked up by Alliance the next day and made quadruple its budget. So suck on those bloody apples, you silicone-nosed, fake-baking, Tiger Woods wanna-bes.

And another thing. The kilts? So fucking worth it.