it’s not your business.”
My voice is cool now.
I’m not rude, just matter of fact. It’s just a way of my life. I have to
constantly try to keep people at arm’s length, out of reach and out of my
business. It’s a full-time job. Actually, it’s several people’s full-time
jobs. I employ an entire staff of publicity people for this very reason.
“Shall we?” I ask
politely, holding out my elbow to the girl. I’m a gentleman now, something that
women adore about me.
I’m an actor. I
can be whatever they want me to be, I morph into whatever role I’m playing,
whether I’m on-screen or off. On-screen, I’ve been a serial killer,
rapist, romantic, misunderstood, vampire and poet.
Off-screen, the role
I play the best is that of an asshole.
The girl smiles up at
me now and I can see that this one simple gesture took the sting out of me
telling her to mind her own business.
“Will you call me?”
she asks hesitantly as I help her into my slate gray Porsche.
“Probably not,” I
answer honestly as I close her door, still the gentleman. Gentlemen are
polite. Gentlemen use manners and most importantly, gentlemen are
honest. I’m almost always honest.
“Seriously?” she
stares at me as drop into the driver’s seat.
“Seriously,” I
nod. “Not because I won’t want to, but because this isn’t the kind of
life that would be good for you. If you were linked to me in any way, the
press would hunt you down, stalk you, photograph you, and pretty much drive you
insane. Trust me, it’s for your own good. I won’t call you because
I want to you protect you from that.”
Lie.
Okay, fine. I’m
not always honest.
And I’m not always a
gentleman.
I stare at the road
in front of me as I drive down the winding trail. The engine of my 911
revs around each curve as the tires hug the road.
“OK. That makes
sense,” the girl nods, buying every bit of my line of shit. “Well
then, can I call you?”
“That probably
wouldn’t be a good idea either,” I answer bluntly. “But it was nice being
together tonight, wasn’t it? I had fun.”
From my periphery, I
see her shoulders slump as she realizes what I’m saying. But what the fuck did
she expect? She handed me my coat and offered herself to me on a
platter. Did she expect a long-term relationship?
“Oh well,” she says
with forced brightness. “You’re right. It was fun. Can I at
least have an autograph?”
“Of course,” I tell
her. “It would be my pleasure.”
A few minutes later,
after we glide to a stop outside of the Shangri-La hotel where she works, I
scribble my name on a piece of paper and hand it to her.
“Thanks, Dominic,”
she murmurs, staring me in the eye. “If you change your mind, you know
where to find me.”
I nod and she gets
out. I barely glance in her direction before I drive away, although I
know that she’s standing on the sidewalk watching me disappear into
traffic. They always do.
Deep down, I should
feel guilty. I should feel bad. And once in a while, every once in
a blue moon, I do. But then I stomp the shit out of that emotion and put
it out of my mind.
These girls throw
themselves at me , not the other way around.
I’m only giving them
what they want.
It’s a public
service, really.
But none of them, not
one, will ever see the real Dominic Kinkaide. In fact, I’m not even sure
that he exists anymore.
I might’ve been
successful in drowning out his existence in a barrage of women, kink and
whiskey.
As I drive toward my
home overlooking Hollywood Hills, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling
it out, I see Amy Ashby’s name flash on the screen.
I sigh, debating
whether or not to answer it.
Yes, she understands
me… or at least, the part of me that is like her. The part that has to
shield itself from the public. And yes, I like that she’s bitchy and
tough. I admire it because I always know where she
My voice is cool now.
I’m not rude, just matter of fact. It’s just a way of my life. I have to
constantly try to keep people at arm’s length, out of reach and out of my
business. It’s a full-time job. Actually, it’s several people’s full-time
jobs. I employ an entire staff of publicity people for this very reason.
“Shall we?” I ask
politely, holding out my elbow to the girl. I’m a gentleman now, something that
women adore about me.
I’m an actor. I
can be whatever they want me to be, I morph into whatever role I’m playing,
whether I’m on-screen or off. On-screen, I’ve been a serial killer,
rapist, romantic, misunderstood, vampire and poet.
Off-screen, the role
I play the best is that of an asshole.
The girl smiles up at
me now and I can see that this one simple gesture took the sting out of me
telling her to mind her own business.
“Will you call me?”
she asks hesitantly as I help her into my slate gray Porsche.
“Probably not,” I
answer honestly as I close her door, still the gentleman. Gentlemen are
polite. Gentlemen use manners and most importantly, gentlemen are
honest. I’m almost always honest.
“Seriously?” she
stares at me as drop into the driver’s seat.
“Seriously,” I
nod. “Not because I won’t want to, but because this isn’t the kind of
life that would be good for you. If you were linked to me in any way, the
press would hunt you down, stalk you, photograph you, and pretty much drive you
insane. Trust me, it’s for your own good. I won’t call you because
I want to you protect you from that.”
Lie.
Okay, fine. I’m
not always honest.
And I’m not always a
gentleman.
I stare at the road
in front of me as I drive down the winding trail. The engine of my 911
revs around each curve as the tires hug the road.
“OK. That makes
sense,” the girl nods, buying every bit of my line of shit. “Well
then, can I call you?”
“That probably
wouldn’t be a good idea either,” I answer bluntly. “But it was nice being
together tonight, wasn’t it? I had fun.”
From my periphery, I
see her shoulders slump as she realizes what I’m saying. But what the fuck did
she expect? She handed me my coat and offered herself to me on a
platter. Did she expect a long-term relationship?
“Oh well,” she says
with forced brightness. “You’re right. It was fun. Can I at
least have an autograph?”
“Of course,” I tell
her. “It would be my pleasure.”
A few minutes later,
after we glide to a stop outside of the Shangri-La hotel where she works, I
scribble my name on a piece of paper and hand it to her.
“Thanks, Dominic,”
she murmurs, staring me in the eye. “If you change your mind, you know
where to find me.”
I nod and she gets
out. I barely glance in her direction before I drive away, although I
know that she’s standing on the sidewalk watching me disappear into
traffic. They always do.
Deep down, I should
feel guilty. I should feel bad. And once in a while, every once in
a blue moon, I do. But then I stomp the shit out of that emotion and put
it out of my mind.
These girls throw
themselves at me , not the other way around.
I’m only giving them
what they want.
It’s a public
service, really.
But none of them, not
one, will ever see the real Dominic Kinkaide. In fact, I’m not even sure
that he exists anymore.
I might’ve been
successful in drowning out his existence in a barrage of women, kink and
whiskey.
As I drive toward my
home overlooking Hollywood Hills, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling
it out, I see Amy Ashby’s name flash on the screen.
I sigh, debating
whether or not to answer it.
Yes, she understands
me… or at least, the part of me that is like her. The part that has to
shield itself from the public. And yes, I like that she’s bitchy and
tough. I admire it because I always know where she
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