Make-Believe Cowboy

FITZ KELLERAN WANTED TO VAULT over the side of his Ferrari 360 Spider convertible, the way a thirty-four-year-old movie star should, but all he could manage was a creaky-kneed wobble out the door. Had he ever been this tired? Oh, yeah...last night. Same time, same place, same worn-out reasons.He braced himself against the leather upholstery for a moment and let waves of disgust break over him. Disgust with the rock music throbbing from the balcony of his Malibu mansion and the strangers framed in the tall windows, sipping his booze. Disgust with himself for the music, the moochers and his careless tolerance of it all.God, what a mess. He sure had a talent for it. But someone had to keep the fast food on all those tabloid press tables. Might as well be John Fitzgerald Kelleran.He straightened and winced at the catch in his lower back. Bucking hay wasn't the kind of exercise regimen Hollywood trainers recommended. A soak in the hot tub would loosen him up a bit, but he'd still be feeling some twinges come tomorrow morning.Good. He welcomed the pain. The little creaks and cramps, the dried sweat and streaks of dirt, the specks of alfalfa and manure that clung to his work shirt and jeans made him feel somehow cleaner and more alive, morerealthan he'd felt in a long while. Gramps had always said there was nothing better for the inside of a man than the outside of a horse.Samantha, his current lover, would hate it. She'd take one look, one whiff, and toss her $10,000 rhinoplasty in the air."No romp in the hay tonight for this cowboy," he muttered, shoving the car door shut.And did he really care? Not anymore. She'd siphoned off enough celebrity from their relationship, and he'd satisfied his craving for her particular flavor. Time to rustle up the backbone to end the affair. Later tonight, when they didn't have an audience, he'd--No, not tonight. She'd headed into the valley at noon to tape her guest spot onThe Tonight Showand dine with her new agent, basking in the glow of her televised glory. No, he wouldn't dim her spotlight. Not tonight."Damn." Fitz angled his wrist beneath the beam of a security lamp and squinted at his Rolex. Too late to catch Leno's opening monologue, but he'd sure better catch Sam. If he didn't, there'd be hell to pay. Up-and-coming starlets demanded close-up focus on every detail of their self-absorbed lives. Tonight, for one last time, he'd play the supporting role.He took a deep breath, chuffed it out and shouldered his way through the exotic tiled entry."Dude.""Hey, Max." Fitz nodded a greeting at Sam's yoga instructor and edged past him, swinging by the wet bar to snag a Corona."Fitz. Finally." Burke Elliot, his personal assistant, perched on a bar stool, looking more stressed than usual. If Burke would ditch the type-A routine and the college prof glasses, his version of tall, dark and British would cut a wider swath through the single-and-available female population.But Burke lived to nag, and he was just getting revved up. "I was wondering when you'd get around to checking in," he said. "Greenberg's been calling, nonstop."Myron Greenberg, Fitz's pit bull of an agent. Probably itching to crack a few bones and suck the marrow out of the Eastwood project. "I was out at the ranch."Burke's nostrils twitched. "Something told me that might be the case."Fitz had once passed an empty afternoon trying to imitate the precise level of disdain conveyed in Burke's nasal twitch, but had failed to perfect it. "Didn't want the cell phone to spook the mare I was working with. Guess I forgot to turn it back on.""I'm quite sure I don't need to know the details." No one knew the details, and that's the way Fitz wanted to keep it. His ranch, his legacy. His escape from reality and his link to the past, all tangled up in a few tumbledown acres near Thousand Oaks. He wasn't sure why Gramps had hung that millstone around his neck when he'd died last year. BuMcLaughlin, Terry is the author of 'Make-Believe Cowboy', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373713721 and ISBN 037371372X.