The Madrid barbecue was exactly the kind of place Billy wanted to be. He stretched his arms, feeling the weight of a slender woman resting against one of them—a thin woman who seemed to breathe with a faint strain. The smell of grilled meat stirred him awake.
—You're awake —the girl whispered, one eye half-closed and the other barely open. She seemed detached from the ordinary world around her.
—What time is it? —Billy sighed.
—I have no idea, we barely slept last night —replied Shalow, trying to find some peace while she felt her heartbeat pulsing all the way from her chest to her ears. She was nervous, unable to breathe steadily or even think clearly, but Monica's words echoed in her mind: Billy is a generous man with the people around him, the refrain of that simple fame that no one could quite define.
Who could do anything but look at him? He was charming, with a fine nose, a strong jaw, and expressive eyes. His blonde hair fell over his face, making him look even more effortlessly attractive.
—Where's Monica? —Billy asked.
—Something about meat and weekend food —said Shalow.
—Yeah, that makes sense —Billy replied. It was something that usually happened. Normally, he was the one preparing the meat, but now it seemed Monica wanted to surprise him. That woman was sharp—clever and capable as always.
—What did Monica promise you? It must be something good if she let you stay here —said Billy.
Shalow lowered her gaze, a little nervous. It seemed difficult for her to speak out loud. Her words tangled in her mouth; for days, she hadn't been able to answer properly.
—It's... —
—Well, I guess if you're living here, it means you don't have a permanent place —Billy said, knowing how hard it could be for her, just as for others.
—I live in New York —Shalow replied, finally deciding to keep the conversation going. Billy's voice was calm, confident; his tone so soothing that from any angle, she could sense the ease he carried. Still, after the long night and the wine, she felt completely unsettled.
—Then you're welcome here. You can use a car. The SUV's mine, and the red sports car is Monica's. The Lotus is for weekend trips or vacations—that one's yours. You can take the orange Lamborghini; the black one's in repair, and the blue one we're selling. From now on, only the Lotus and the Lamborghini will stay in this house —said Billy, already imagining Hollywood filled with Lamborghinis, now that the iconic design would make a statement.
—Can I use the Lotus and the Lamborghini? —asked Shalow.
—They're yours —Billy replied.
He took a long shower, feeling the heat of the water ease his muscles. Lately, action scenes had given him an excuse to work out more—it was good for his health. The tension in his shoulders faded as his back muscles relaxed. Boxing had become a steady part of his life.
Billy's schedule marked the beginning of his kendo classes, where he'd train in all sword disciplines, starting with fencing—learning the stances, the movements—and later, a stunt double would teach him acrobatics, jumps, and how to wield a sword like it was second nature. What fascinated him was how people used their lightsabers, charged with emotion—fights fueled by hatred, love, passion, philosophy, and ideals.
Shalow stepped in, glancing at Billy's silhouette. There was a quiet freedom to the way he carried himself. She washed her hair absentmindedly; there wasn't much else to do. She sat for a while, clinging to the little dignity she felt she had left—but that didn't seem to matter anymore. To anyone. Not even to herself.
…
Monica stood by the grill—six burners, a steam capsule for slow-cooked meat. A three-kilo pancetta was cooking alongside bacon and a couple of extra cuts.
A woman helped her while she prepared some delicious Italian dishes in the oven: pizzas, cheesy paninis, vegetables with tomato sauce, a touch of pesto, and extra guacamole that Billy adored. The spread included grilled meats, potatoes, beans, tartar sauce, chicken, and soft-boiled eggs. She had wanted to make mashed potatoes, but Billy always preferred them boiled in salted water until they turned tender.
—The pizzas are ready! —shouted the woman in broken English. She was Polish, maybe thirty-five, blonde and lovely—not the cold stereotype of Eastern Europe, but a warm, fearless woman with bright eyes. Even Monica couldn't deny her charm.
—Take them out; the guests will be here soon —said Monica.
It was already one o'clock. She should have called Billy, but she worried he hadn't slept well. The guest list was unusual: JiWaitit, Winona, three of her model friends, Steven Spielberg, and his crew from DreamWorks—just a "casual lunch."
Billy came downstairs, his hair still damp and slicked back, looking effortlessly confident. Behind him was Shalow, yawning, wearing an oversized red shirt that reached her thighs, her hair half-covering her bright eyes.
—We have a meeting —Monica said. —In half an hour. Some of your partners are coming. Big lunch. —
—Right —Billy sighed. Over the past few months, they had been managing everything about DreamWorks Studios, looking for investors—some from Billy himself, others external—but one thing was certain: the company was already alive and moving forward. They carefully evaluated every project before launching it. Two studios needed close attention.
—How many kilos of meat? —Billy asked.
—Ten kilos of steak, two of burgers, three of chicken, three of roast tenderloin, and three racks of BBQ ribs. Half a sack of potatoes. The pizzas are ready and kept warm under the glass heater—four medium-sized ones —Monica sighed.
—Thanks for everything —Billy said, hugging her, wetting her shoulder with his damp hair while she laughed softly.
…
—Good to see you —Billy said, greeting Steven, who was there with George, as the new projects would now be collaborations.
—I've got a new movie —said Steven.
—What's it about? —asked Billy.
—Military, military, and more military—something fierce —Steven replied, saving the best details for later.
...