DISCLAIMER: The following story is a fan fiction and in no way represents or is meant to represent true accounts of events. I do not know Jake Gyllenhaal or any other celebrities represented in this story and I do not want to imply that I do. I do not know Mr. Gyllenhaal or any other celebrity - therefore I do not know any details of his or their private lives or sexuality. If you are offended by erotica concerning homosexual behavior or are underage in your community, please do not continue reading.
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JAKE SAVED ME, PART 2
The slam of the door woke me up. The sun was blinding over me, streaming through the windows. I only had my underwear on, covered in beach towels. My head was throbbing and my stomach was churning. I was in the back of a truck.
It all came back to me - The night before, the drinking, the water and the drowning. Well, near-drowning. And Jake Gyllenhaal saving me.
I bolted up, my head crackling with pain. I couldn't tell where I was - a parking lot, right off the PCH, I was guessing. I couldn't have been asleep that long.
I had to get out of there. I frantically searched the back of the truck - where the fuck was my tux? I guess I could make a break for it with the towels, but then I'd be stealing Jake Gyllenhaal's towels. Oh, there it is - the pants were still damp, but that's all I needed... except shoes. Whatever - gotta go. I laid down and squirmed into my pants, sand chaffing everything. I scrambled around, grabbing my shirt and jacket, then crawled to the door. And it was locked. I tried it again. I yanked it as hard as I could. I was freaking out. It didn't work.
"Shit! Come on, come on now. Let me out."
I glanced to my right and nearly threw up - Jake was on his way back to the truck with a brown box in his hand. He probably called the police. Super. I'm the crazy suicidal drunk he saved, he's got me captive in the back of his truck for my own safety, and now they were going to come and take me away. Maybe I'll get to be on Entertainment Tonight, at least.
I sat back, resigning myself to seeing him, talking to him. I realized I was sitting there in just dress pants, so I swung a towel over my shoulders. This was going to be awkward.
He looked up and saw me sitting there, the humblest grin I could muster stretched across my face. He gave me a wry smile. He tried the back gate, saw that it was locked, then used his key to open it.
"Hungry?"
"Hey."
He held the box out to me.
"I got you some fish tacos and some water."
"Thanks." I didn't know what to do. I just sat there.
It felt like 45 minutes later. It was actually about 4 seconds when he said,
"Well... do you want it?"
I shook myself out of my stupor.
"Yeah, thanks. Yeah." I took the taco out of the box and grabbed the bottle of water.
Jake sat down on the tailgate, reached into the box and grabbed another taco for himself.
It actually tasted pretty amazing. I was starving. I sat in the back of the truck and lost myself in the taco.
"You can come up here - you don't have to sit back there."
His voice was so smooth I couldn't take it. We were going to have to talk - about what happened, about who we were, who he was. I'd rather have stayed in the back of the truck.
"Sure. Yeah."
I scooted over to the tailgate, sitting Indian style next to him. I pulled the towel closer around my shoulders, trying to cut the cool morning breeze off my chest. I opened my water and took a deep swig.
"Don't choke on that."
So of course I did, shocked at his humor. Water dribbled down my chin and my chest, as I coughed through my sore throat.
"Sorry." He sounded genuinely concerned. He handed me a brown paper napkin.
I took it and dried my chin.
"It's fine. That, that was funny. I deserve it, I guess."
"Naw. I'm Jake, by the way."
"Yes, you are."
He gave me a half smile.
"I'm Brandon." I put my hand out to shake his.
He smiled wider and shook my hand. I smiled back, chewing and swallowing hard.
We went back to eating, sailing through that first uncomfortable silence every meeting certainly must have.
In two more bites the tacos were gone. Nothing left to do now but talk.
I could feel him glance at me before he spoke, then back out toward the ocean. The tension blew in with the breeze.
"You O.K.?"
I thought I would play it off, let him just think I was a drunk. I thought about telling him the truth, the truth to a total celebrity stranger. I settled for the middle ground.
"Yeah. I just had a bad night. Did some drinking. Too much drinking, actually. Slept on the beach. Got caught up in the tide."
I wasn't sure what he was buying out of that. When I looked over at him he was looking at me, listening with those sad eyes that went beyond anything that I was saying.
"Bad night. We all have 'em," he said. His eyes knew exactly what I meant.
"Yep."
Awkward silence number 2. He turned back to the ocean.
"Let me guess. Girl trouble."
And so it begins, I told myself - the opening of the wound.
"Not exactly." I really didn't want to do this. I took a swig of water.
"Boy trouble?"
Again with the spitting and chocking.
"Um, yeah, actually," I coughed out. Where did that come from? I'm a lot of things, but definitely not flaming.
"Sorry. It's none of my business."
"No, it's nothing. Really."
"Really?" He looked at me with those eyes again, and I could even see concern in them, down in the deep blue, concern for someone he had just met. He was a saint.
"It really is nothing. Absolutely nothing. My ex and his big bag of bullshit - it all just amounts to nothing worth hurting for, right?"
I think I was convincing myself more than Jake. And I think he knew that. That smile creeped up again.
"Fuck 'em," he said, almost like a secret, hard and quiet at the same time.
I couldn't help smiling wide.
"Fuck THEM." I replied.
He let out a goofy giggle that made me laugh out loud. The tension of the morning melted away, and we could speak freely.
"What do you do, Brandon?" "Besides helping celebrities brush up on their CPR?"
He laughed. "There's a growing market for that."
He can handle the banter. This won't be so bad after all, hopefully.
"No, I work at Sony as a development assistant. But that's not the dream job."
"What's the dream job?"
"Writing. Screenwriting."
He shook his head.
"Oh, god. Do you have a script on you now? Was this whole morning a ploy to get me to read it?" He was kidding me. I think.
"No, no."
"How many other celebrities have you enlisted to save you, then pitched them your work. Be honest."
"You were my first."
"Hopefully the last." Why did that sound loaded to me? It was heavier than everything else he had said. I didn't laugh right away, so he kept up.
"Person that saves you from a near death experience, I mean. I hope someone would save you - I just mean I hope you aren't ever drowning in the ocean. Again."
"You were the first person to save me, and you'll be the last. Thank you, by the way."
He turned sheepish at the gratitude, looking down at his hands.
"No biggie." He had rolled his foil taco wrapper into a ball and was fidgeting with it in his hands.
"For the tacos, I mean. Really great tacos."
He smiled, the weight in his mind shifting.
"No problem. My treat."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He slid one between his lips, then offered me the pack.
"Want one?"
I took one without a word. He held out the lighter for me, and I reached over and cupped his hand as I lit up. He moved the lighter to his cig in one smooth move, then snapped the zippo closed. We sat there in the sunlight breathing smoke, letting the nicotine un-kink our nerves.
"I've got to get going," he said, smoke rolling out of his nose like a dragon. "You wanna ride up front this time?"
We made our way down the PCH and back to the hotel in Malibu. We found my car - an old, beat-up VW convertible that I loved more than my mother - and he pulled in next to it. The parking lot was deserted.
Awkward silence number 3.
"Thanks again. For everything." I hoped he knew what I meant, and that I really did mean it.
Jake looked away from me and down at the wheel, then turned quickly toward me and leaned forward. He reached down in front of me and opened the glove box, pulling out a pad and a pen.
"I don't ever give out this number, but I'm giving this number to you, get it?"
I looked at him, confused. He was scribbling on the paper.
"I mean, this is my personal number, so keep it quiet, O.K.?" He handed me the paper.
"Got it."
"Give me a call if you wanna hang out. Maybe go surfing." There was that thoughtful smile again. "If you just need somebody to talk to."
"Thanks." I certainly appreciated it.
I gathered my things and opened the door, the metal hinges squeaking with age. I climbed out of the truck and shut the door, looking back at Jake through the open window.
"See ya around," I said. Yeah, like on all the red carpets I'm on.
"Bye." He waved and smiled and pulled away from my car, his truck rumbling loudly as he took off across the parking lot.
I threw my stuff in the back and climbed over my bad door into the driver's seat. I couldn't believe this day. I put my face in my hands and yelled as loud as I could. All of Malibu had to have heard it.
I slid my hands down. On the RPM gauge (which didn't even work), I had a picture of me and James in front of a Hawaiian waterfall, smiling up at the camera. I sighed.
The piece of paper with Jake's number on it sat crumpled in my lap. I reached down and picked it up, unfolding it. It was just a number, but it was also evidence of what I had gone through that morning.
And there it was, his number. And above it Jake had written:
Fuck 'em.
I smiled and slipped the paper into my dry pants pocket. I grabbed the picture off the dash and threw it behind me, not caring if it even stayed in the car.
"Fuck 'em."