The club’s sauna is almost empty right now. The large circular room can accommodate about twenty people, but only four familiar faces are sitting sweating with me. Raphael Wyden, who is running for a senator seat. Harrison Bates, an Oscar-winning Hollywood actor worshipped by hordes of screaming fans and, damn him, hasn’t starred in one of my productions yet. Leonard Walton, a billionaire who founded so many companies in his twenties I lost count. And then there is Sady, the tatted chef whose real name is still unknown to the public, but since he opened The Jail, the most famous restaurant in LA, he’s rose to stardom. Eyes closed, towels tied at our waists, no one speaks, but everyone is attentive to who enters and leaves this place.
For all intents and purposes, the Hunting Club of Los Angeles is a hunting club. One of those places registered as a sports association that unleashes the ire of environmentalists, more than anything in a city like this, where respect for the environment and animals is almost a cult. The thing I like most about this place is that none of us has ever picked up a rifle or any weapon in our entire lives—that I know of anyway. We are not hunters. It’s the perfect cover for a private all-male club where only the richest and most influential can be a part of by invitation.
No one approaches this place, thinking it is a den of bloody cavemen. Because of this, it is perfect for establishing relationships with people who value the discretion of conversations. And if someone shows up to sign up for a hunting trip, we decline with a polite “we’ll let you know.”
Sweat drips down my face, and I finally begin to relax when the door opens, letting some light filter through an otherwise dim place. The sound of heels stepping firmly on the floor makes me open my eyes. Only when she is in front of me, do I realize the figure I’m struggling to recognize is Tracy, and she is halfway between furious and bored. Her long hair descends on a shoulder in a low braid, softening her face a little.
“What the hell is she doing in here?” Raphael, sitting a few feet away, gives voice to the thoughts of all those present.
“Tracy, what are you doing here? And above all, how the hell did you get in?” There is a counter along the entrance of this place with a person checking everyone twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
My assistant doesn’t even sweat about my tone.
“I told the mannequin at reception that they were towing your cars, and he immediately rushed out to check,” she explains with such naturalness that it makes me smile.
I chose her precisely because nothing stops her. If I ask her to bring me the moon, she asks me when I need it. A counter and a polite little boy certainly doesn’t scare her.
“Can we have some privacy?” one of the men complains, annoyed.
Tracy turns to him slowly, like a predator before the attack. “Sweetheart, don’t worry. I’m a lesbian. Your virtue is safe with me.”
I smile at her uninterested attitude and stand to walk out. Outside, I scan around to find a private place where we can talk since I only wear a towel. The problem is that this place is not designed for women. Everywhere you turn, half-naked men are coming out of the pool, sweaty after being in the gym, or high at the bar counter of the club. There is a reason why women are not allowed: men here can allow themselves to relax without having to maintain the appearance being a public figure requires of us.
“Don’t worry about finding a place to talk. It’s fine here.”
“Can you explain what you’re doing here? Couldn’t you send me an email?” If she came all the way from the office to Beverly Hills in the middle of late afternoon traffic, it must be something urgent.
“It’s Dakota,” she sighs.
My stomach writhes in a nervous spasm. Dakota Anderson is Hollywood’s rising star and the leading actress in our most successful show, Hunters of Shadows, where she plays the part of a supernatural hunter trying to save the world from demons and vampires. She is also a thorn in my side.
“Please, not again. Not when I’m sweaty and with a towel tied at my waist,” I implore her as I lean against the wall behind me.
Tracy lifts a corner of her mouth, unable to hold back a smile. She is aware of how much it bothers me to be caught off guard when I can’t hide behind my tailored suit and the cold expression of The Butcher.
“The whole PR office is waiting for you at the studios. The paparazzi caught her drunk again at a pool party this afternoon with tits half out. It’s all over the gossip sites.” She gives me the news with the funeral tone of a doctor who announces the patient’s death to the family.
Dakota is a brilliant leading woman, one of the best of her generation. She is twenty-three, young and wild, and loved by the public, who almost idolizes her, but has a considerable problem with alcohol. And the newspapers have a field day with something like this.
“Can you see her nipples?” Something like that could force me to shut down the show and fire her.
In the golden world of Hollywood, you can kill someone by driving drunk and walk away with it, but if you show a nipple in public, your career is over.
“No, but I think it’s the least of your problems at this point.” She glances at me, trying to weigh my reaction.
I inhale deeply and try to calm the desire to go and pick up the girl and shake her until she starts to act like an adult.
“Give me time to shower, and I’ll see you there.” I shake my head and walk down the corridor.
“Hurry up. They are on the warpath.” The pity smile on her face makes me understand how critical the situation is.
