Chapter Two
Oh thank fucking God. It’s about time, I thought the damn plane would circle forever. It was all a dream. A horrible dream in which I’m not allowed to smoke. Vicious.
As the plane landed, Allara was already jostling the people around her to get to the overhead compartment. She fell three times on three separate people, due to the fact that the landing was rather rougher than she had expected it to be. It was actually one of the worst landings she had ever had to endure in all of her flying years. The few people left around her looked agitatedly in her direction as she all but ran to the front of the plane, only to find that they had not even taxied far enough in to connect the door to the makeshift hallway. She was sat down by one of the flight attendants and told rather sternly that she should not be out of her seat as the plane had not yet ceased motion. Sitting restlessly in the only open first class seats she resumes the staring at her purse, and longing for the cigarettes just inside the front zipper.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph it cannot possibly take this long! Don’t you people understand that I have not smoked in the past nine hours and am completely likely to jump up and kill every last one of you for the sole purpose of getting off this machine!
The ever distant voice of the flight attendant came through the speakers, a little louder but not noticeably so in the front compartment. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’d like to welcome you to Los Angeles. The local time is 3:45 a.m. and once again, thank you for flying with Delta.” Allara exhaled deeply, making it plain to those around her that she had neither the time nor the patience to deal with such trivial matters as thanking and local time. She then turned her attention to look expectantly towards the door, waiting for the copilot, or a flight attendant or whoever it is that does these things to come and open it. To her surprise, the flight attendant kept speaking through the failing PA system. “And now, can we all please give our pilot a round of applause. This was his first commercial flight.” Many people clapped, most sighed, Allara saw one elderly Indian woman in the back crying. Whatever, it didn’t matter. She had to get off the plane. The door was opened at an antagonizingly slow pace, and the old Indian woman was led off the plane first, as she was about to go into fits of hysteria. Then, Allara was past the pilot, copilot, chief flight attendant and airport staff in a flash. She did not pause long enough to hear the signature “Thank you, Uh huh, buh-bye now.” All that mattered was that she had her necessities and she was off the plane, the equivalent of being freed from a maximum-security prison to her.
Smoking room, smoking room, all I need is a smoking room. They do have smoking rooms in the terminals, right? There has to be one around here somewhere…Smoking room, smoking room.
It became a little chant in her brain, that was all she could focus on. She saw not the faces of the people around her, she ignored the beeping carts full of people, even the smell of coffee could not entice her into a nearby Starbucks. Whipping her head this way and that, the only thing that she wanted to come into view was a small glassed in room that was impossible to see into due to all the smoke that was already inside of it. There, she saw it, and fell into a full-out sprint. At that exact moment in time, if you had clocked her, you most likely would have discovered that she had broken a few world records on her way to that smoking room. She already had her cigarette box and lighter out before she hit the door of the room and the faraway smell of the second hand smoke had her in a nicotine craving frenzy. She sank gratefully into one of the aged, sticky, leather chairs while simultaneously taking her first drag in what had seemed like centuries. At once, her mind was cleared, her senses sharpened, and her desire satisfied. Maybe that was why she didn’t notice the man approaching her from the left, heightened senses seem to have that effect.
Oh. My. God. Finally…
Just as she was about to sink into the immeasurable pleasure of the cigarette, she was startled by a brief tap on the shoulder. Turning quickly, her raven black hair flew into the face of the tapping stranger. She was tempted to quote E. A. Poe’s “The Raven” but thought better of it, considering the fact that most people would probably edge quickly away from her, had they no idea what she was talking about. Besides, he was tapping on her shoulder, not her door. Allara was often prone to quoting her favorite poets, many of which wrote dark poetry.
The stranger was spitting out a mouthful of her hair while she was already rising from the chair to get a better look at him. “Who the fuck are you?” She spoke before thinking and her hand immediately flew to her mouth. She did not apologize though, she had to stop herself, actually. All the while reminding herself that she was Bitch from Hell and that no one was going to mess with her.
He’s the asshole that had the nerve to tap on your shoulder at four in the morning in a dim room in a Los Angeles airport. What are you, supposed to not be surprised? He should be explaining himself to you, you have no need to apologize. It’s his fault.
As he stood to his full height, after extracting her hair from his mouth, he held out his hand and opened his mouth to speak, but she had already sat back down and was speaking. “Oh, hi. Allara Evans.” She, too, offered her hand as he took the vacant seat next to her. Stealing a quick glance at him from under a sheet of her thick, black hair, she began to snicker. Finally, the dark stranger spoke.
“Um, hi. I just wanted to know if I could borrow your lighter for a moment.” He paused as if undecided about something extremely important. “What are you laughing at?” His voice was low and heavy, thick with a British accent. It was a pleasant sound and she enjoyed letting it fall upon her ears. She pulled a lighter from her purse with all the grandeur of a magician pulling a white rabbit from a hat and turned to him, a sly smile on her face. “Tell me, are you going to ‘flashy-thing’ me after this encounter?” All she got in return for her snide comment was a blank stare, an opening and closing of the mouth that somewhat resembled a large mouth bass, and finally a stammering reply which could vaguely be taken as “Wha- um, wh- well, um, what?”
Oh the poor man. You’ve confused him beyond repair now, smooth move Evans. Quick, explain yourself before there is no hope of turning back into the realm of normal conversation.
“I said, are you going to ‘flashy-thing’ me after this encounter? Have you ever seen “Men in Black,” Mr. Bloom?” She said it all fluidly, as if there were no doubt in her mind that she was speaking with the person she thought she was speaking with. “Because, you know, the only reason you could possibly have for wearing sunglasses at four in the morning is if you were going to erase my memory of this meeting with a brain neurolizer only seconds after you gained use of my lighter.” He still occupied the seat next to her with a silent, dumbfounded stare. She pointed to his glasses with a reproving look. “Glasses, Sherlock.” He whipped them off, and finally regained his ability to speak like a person without a speech impediment. “Thank you for letting me use your lighter.” was the first thing that came out of his mouth.
Oh he’s a genius, this one. No wonder he’s an actor, the only way he can speak intelligently is to say lines that others have given to him. Damn, I actually thought that this one was going somewhere, he was going to be special. Oh well, it happens, more often than I would like it to, but still, it happens.
“You’re going to have to forgive my ignorance, but how do you know who I am?” Again she donned the sly smile, was he this naïve as well?
“Well, the glasses were the first thing that tipped me off. Then there’s the fact that you have that ever-telling British accent, and you are wearing completely non-descript clothing.”
“I thought that was supposed to make me blend in, not become as obvious as a fuchsia elephant in the microwave.” She shook her head with mock sympathy.
“Aw, poor baby. This is L.A., fool. The easiest way to stick out is to appear halfway normal. I suggest that if you wish to keep your anonymity, then get some piercings, a few large and colorful tattoos, and regrow your Mohawk.” She turned her attention back to her cigarette, briefly forgotten in all the flurry.
Oh Lord. Try not to scare him. This could be a once in a lifetime chance!! Watch him carefully, don’t forget any of this. Focus on his eyes, that’s where most of it is.
Orlando became a bit disconcerted with her staring at him so intently; her own expressions were entirely unreadable. Allara did as she instructed herself to do and gazed deeply at his eyes. There was where she would find her reward.
Allara Evans was not at all surprised to bump into Orlando Bloom at the Los Angeles airport at four in the morning, she was not hyperventilating over the fact that he had spoken to her, and she refused to ask him for his autograph. Allara was an artist; it was part of what brought her to Los Angeles. Of all the things there were to immortalize in art, she adored working with young up-and-coming actors and actresses. She found that there were two main things that they tended to do. The thing that occurred most often was that they entered Hollywood completely unprepared for what was about to hit them, their emotions were as readable as a children’s book, and therefore easily distorted. The other thing that happened less often but just often enough to be fun, was that they would come into the business with complete and total distrust of everyone and everything. In such cases as these, they were a blank slate and she had to work hard to find any emotion whatsoever in their features. Orlando Bloom was interesting to her though, because he seemed to go through different phases of both. This chance encounter was one of the former, but after studying his behavior for a while, she expected it to slip into one of the latter in just a few minutes.
“Ah, I see. I suppose that while I’m at it, I should just go ahead and dye my hair pink? Would that be good?” He was not reacting positively to her cool demeanor; this was a first-time experience for him. Since “Lord of the Rings” became public, Orlando Bloom had never been able to hold an intelligent conversation with any of the female gender and was not expecting to do so now. In fact, it had taken all his nerve to walk up to this particular young lady and ask her for a lighter because he fully expected her to fall all over herself. It was only his deep craving for a cigarette and the fact that the only other person in the room was a rather irritable looking woman with a toddler.
“Yes, pink would be nice. Preferably neon pink.” She finished her cigarette quickly and was preparing to leave. She was stopped by his hand on her forearm. “Excuse me?” She wrenched away rather quickly and her tone became harsh.
“Well I was thinking, since you just got off a plane, you’re probably going to baggage claim, and I thought that perhaps you could accompany me.” He wanted to study this anomaly of a woman, and her sudden severity had only intensified his desire to continue speaking with her. Had he any idea of the verbal lashing he was going to get on the way through the deserted airport, he would’ve just left her there.
“Fine, we’ll go together, you look like you could use some protection.” She flashed him a malicious smile and exited the smoking room in a brisk manner. On the way to the baggage claim, he gathered up enough courage to ask her why she wasn’t surprised to see him.
“Oh I’m sorry, am I supposed to be falling all over myself just to meet this amazing specimen of a man, and am I supposed to be rendered speechless because he spoke to me, and is my heart just supposed to be a-fluttering because he wants to accompany me to baggage claim?” She eyed him with an icy glare, daring him to refute her. “I think not, Mr. Bloom.” Her statements were clipped, short, and held a dangerous undertone. She then added, in a low whisper, as if she were talking to herself but just loud enough for him to hear her, “ I hold no awe for second-rate, egotistical, unintelligent actors who only get along in life because they look good onscreen.” Her pace quickened and this being the first time he had been insulted by a woman in at least a year, excluding his sister and mother, he was left standing in the middle of the airport corridor, with nothing to say to her.
Evans! Stop godammit! You’ll never get anything good if you always leave him with nothing to say, the point is to open him up and get a look at his true feelings. Just because you’re a bitch doesn’t mean your work has to suffer. It’s a simple thing, an apology.
When he caught up to her, she was already at baggage claim, and she had not apologized, nor did she intend to.
“That was rather rude, if I do say so.” She gave him a scathing glare, that of the variety that make you want to sink into the floor and never return to the world of the living. He left her standing next to her carousel to go and find his own luggage, grateful for a little time away from her so that he could ponder what a strange entity she was. After he had gathered his bags, he returned to her carousel to see if she was still there. Looking a little forlornly at the moving carousel, now devoid of all bags, she sat on her one carry-on.
“So am I to assume that your luggage has not come yet?” Allara merely rolled her eyes and looked away. “I’ll take that as a no.” Another rakish glare was thrown at him from hooded eyes.
A dragging twenty minutes passed by in relative silence. Orlando didn’t explain himself, instead he sat down on the ground next to her and waited. When questioned about his ride and where he was supposed to be, he only said that it could wait and what kind of a person would he be if he left her alone at 4;30 in the morning in a large, deserted airport where god knows what could happen to her? She stared at her feet until finally exploding in a fit of rage. She leapt up from her position on the floor and began to savagely kick the side of the carousel to accent every word.
“WHERE…THE BLOODY…HELL….IS MY…MOTHERFUCKING…LUGGAGE?!” She continued her violent tantrum until pulled roughly back down to the floor by a pair of arms around her waist. When she got to eye-level with Orlando, she glared at him with a coldness the like of which he had never seen before. Again, she wrenched herself from his grasp, grabbed her lonely little carry-on and, turning her back on him, walked out to the warm early morning. Without even looking, she could tell that Orlando had followed her. “Oh Jesus, what is it with you? Can you not just leave me alone? Where is your ride? ” She pulled another cigarette from her purse and hunted for her lighter while muttering some unintelligible babble about stalkers.
“No, you see, I’m not in the habit of leaving young women in the dark in a strange city where anything can happen to them. I’ll wait with you until your ride comes.” After not being able to find her lighter, she just wanted to sleep. Throwing the cigarette down to the concrete, Allara stepped up to the curb and hailed a taxi, and turned to him, a look of triumph painted her dark features. “There, my ride is here. You can leave.” He looked at her, concern etched on all of his features. Unbeknownst to him, she was taking a mental picture and that would become the subject of many a portrait later on.
Oh my god. Can he not just leave me alone? I thought actors were begging girls to get away from them, and here I have one practically stalking me. I just want to go home and sleep…for once. And another thing, why is he so nice? He insists on being kind to me. I’ve tried everything I can to make him leave me alone….can he not take a hint? Is he that daft?
“Aren’t you staying with anyone? Why didn’t they come to pick you up?”
She could have told him the truth, that no, no one was going to pick her up. But for some reason, it was much easier for Allara Evans to fabricate a lie out of thin air than formulate all aspects of the truth in her mind.
“Yeah, I’m staying with my Aunt Beth. But I didn’t want her to have to get up so early, or stay up so late just to come get me. So I’ll just take a cab to her house.” His face still hinted at concern.
“So, how long are you staying in Los Angeles? I mean, is this just a visit? Are you going back east soon?” He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that a brief look of pain passed over her fatigued features. He dismissed it as a simple play of lights and shadows.
“I’m never going back.”
One last question danced on the tip of his tongue, but when he looked back to the place that Allara had been standing only moment ago, he found himself looking at the back of a speeding cab.
