A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 8 - Margot Robbie
The energy on a Martin Scorsese set was a different animal entirely. It wasn't the frantic, comedic chaos of *We're the Millers* or the grim, youthful intensity of *The Hunger Games*. It was a controlled, high-voltage current of creative power, a place where legends weren't just present; they were being made in real-time. For Osiah Morse, serving his third tour as a Production Secretary, it was like being promoted from the minor leagues to the World Series. The logistics were more complex, the personalities more volatile, and the stakes infinitely higher. He was no longer just learning the ropes; he was expected to be an expert, a silent, indispensable cog in a machine powered by pure cinematic genius. His previous experience had paid off, earning him a reputation as a man who could handle the unhandleable, which is how he found himself in the belly of the beast: the New York set of *The Wolf of Wall Street*.
He was in the middle of reconciling a mountain of per diem receipts—a Sisyphean task of matching crumpled paper to names on a call sheet—when a familiar, slightly frantic energy buzzed near his desk. He didn't even have to look up.
"Osiah Morse, as I live and breathe," a voice boomed, a perfect blend of sarcastic wit and genuine affability. "Are you the one holding all the money? Because I have some very creative receipts I need you to lose."
Osiah leaned back in his chair, a genuine smile breaking through his professional facade. Jonah Hill stood there, a chaotic whirlwind of a man in a ridiculously expensive suit, his eyes gleaming with the kind of manic joy that only came from working with a living idol.
"Jonah. Last I heard, you were too famous to talk to peasants in the production office," Osiah said, standing to give him a quick, firm handshake.
"Are you kidding? This is where the real power is," Jonah whispered conspiratorially, leaning over the desk. "The AD is just a figurehead. You're the shadowy cabal that actually decides if we get bagels or donuts. So, what's the verdict? Donuts?"
"I'll see what I can do," Osiah deadpanned. "Lunch?"
"Hell yes, I'm starving. They only let me eat steamed chicken and kale. It's a tragedy."
Their friendship was one of those weird, happy accidents of Los Angeles, a city built on such things. They'd ended up in the same improv class years ago, back when Osiah was still grinding through his film courses at USC and Jonah was a young writer-actor trying to find his footing. It was a weekly workshop where they were supposed to be finding their characters but mostly just tried to make each other break. Osiah, never the spotlight hog, was the perfect straight man, his deadpan delivery the ideal launchpad for Jonah's manic energy. They'd run into each other randomly over the years—in coffee shops, at auditions, once at a crowded industry party where they spent a good ten minutes critiquing the terrible hors d'oeuvres from a quiet corner, a shared moment of cynical observation in a sea of desperate networking. Seeing him here, on the cusp of a career-defining role, felt like seeing a brother about to get drafted by the Yankees.
They grabbed sandwiches from a nearby deli and found a quiet spot on some equipment cases, the sounds of the set a distant hum. Jonah was practically vibrating.
"Dude, I can't even... it's Scorsese," he said, taking a huge bite of his pastrami on rye. "Like, Marty. I keep expecting to wake up. I fought for this role, man. I heard he wanted to meet, and I was like, 'No, I'm auditioning.' I wasn't going to be the guy who gets a part because he's the 'fat funny friend' from *Superbad*. I had to show him I could act my ass off."He shook his head in disbelief. "And the set... it's pure chaos, but it's like, organized chaos. Leo and I, we'll be in the middle of a scene, and Marty will just yell, 'Go! Just do something!' and we're off. We're just riffing, making shit up. Some of the funniest stuff in the movie is just Leo and I trying to crack each other up."
"You're killing it, man," Osiah said, meaning it. "You're not just the funny guy anymore. You're an actor."
"Thanks, man. It means a lot. What about you? Still climbing the ladder? Last I knew you were a PA on some superhero thing."
"Slowly but surely," Osiah confirmed. "Secretary on *Rapture-Palooza*, now here. It's a step. I'm learning the machine from the inside out. Watching people like you and Leo, seeing how it all works. It's research."
Jonah nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Smart. Very smart. Speaking of research..." A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. "I've been hearing some interesting whispers around the crafty table."
Osiah's stomach tightened. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Something about someone in the Production Office with... magic hands." Jonah wiggled his eyebrows for effect. "Some of the PAs were talking about it. Said it's the best-kept secret on set. Said you can, and I quote, 'unknot a shoulder like a motherfucker.'"
Osiah let out a weary sigh. He should have known. The rumor was more persistent than a case of herpes. "It's just a massage, Jonah. Deep tissue. I learned it in college."
"Bullshit," Jonah shot back, laughing. "I know your skills, my friend. I remember that improv class. Remember that scenario? The one where we had to comfort our dad who just got laid off?"
Osiah did remember. It was a ridiculous exercise in emotional vulnerability. He'd ended up giving a shoulder rub to a bald, fifty-year-old accountant named Gary who was playing his father.
"Dude, you had Gary weeping," Jonah continued, his eyes wide with the memory. "He was a mess! He was talking about his dog that died when he was twelve! You didn't just rub his shoulders, you unlocked his childhood trauma with your thumbs. That's not a massage, that's sorcery." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, is it true? Are you the set's secret weapon? The guy who makes all the stressed-out actresses... relax?"
Osiah looked at his friend, at the genuine, unadulterated curiosity in his eyes, and decided to just lean into it. There was no point in denying it anymore.
"Let's just say I'm very good at my job," he said, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "Both of them." He saw Jonah's eyes widen and quickly added, "Don't make it sound scandalous. It's just a useful skill."
Jonah was about to press him further, his curiosity piqued, when a shadow fell over their impromptu lunch spot. They both looked up to see Margot Robbie approaching, a vision of effortless glamour in a perfect dress that somehow managed to look both elegant and lethal. She carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who knew she belonged, a bright, sunny presence that was a stark contrast to the grey New York day.
"Am I interrupting a secret meeting of the minds?" she asked, her accent a crisp, melodic blend of Australian and something else, something she'd picked up on her meteoric rise. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she glanced between the two of them. "You two looked like you were having far more fun than anyone should be allowed while eating processed turkey."
"Not at all," Osiah said, his calm demeanor a perfect counterpoint to Jonah's sudden, visible shift. Jonah, who had been relaxed and expansive moments before, now sat up a little straighter, his sandwich forgotten in his hand. He was suddenly keenly aware of the suit he was wearing and the fact that he was, in fact, Jonah Hill.
"We were just... uh," Jonah stammered, his usual rapid-fire wit momentarily short-circuiting. "We were just talking about how amazing it is to be on a Scorsese set. You know. The history. The... the... Marty-ness of it all."
Margot laughed, a light, musical sound that put him instantly at ease. "Oh, the Marty-ness. I'm well acquainted with the Marty-ness. It's terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. I still can't believe I'm here." She leaned against the equipment case next to them, her posture casual. "I feel like I got lucky. I read for the role of Naomi, and then I heard Marty wanted me to improvise with Leo. I just thought, screw it, and went for it. I figured I had nothing to lose."
"That's not luck," Osiah said, his voice cutting through the air with a quiet authority that made both of them turn to look at him. "That's skill. And talent. And that's one hell of a ballsy move to make in front of Leonardo DiCaprio and Martin Scorsese."
Margot's smile widened, a flicker of genuine appreciation in her eyes. "Thank you, Osiah. It's nice to have it validated as 'ballsy' instead of 'career-endingly stupid'."
"Oh, I've heard the rumors about your audition," Osiah continued, a playful glint in his eye. "Heard you slapped the hell out of Leo. I always wondered if that was just set lore, something to scare the newbies."
Margot's laugh was louder this time, a full-throated, genuinely delighted peal of laughter. "Oh, it's true! I'm afraid I can confirm it. The poor man never saw it coming. He was just supposed to grab my arm, and I just... slapped him. The look on his face was priceless. I thought for sure I was going to be sent back to Australia in a cardboard box."
Jonah, who had been watching the exchange with a look of dawning comprehension, finally found his voice again. He pointed a finger at Osiah, a huge grin spreading across his face. "See! This is what I'm talking about! You're a walking rumor mill! You hear everything! First, it's the magic hands, now it's the secret history of Leo's face-slapping. What's next? Are you going to tell me you know who really killed Jimmy Hoffa?"
Margot looked between them, her expression a mixture of confusion and intrigue. "Magic hands? What are you two talking about? What rumors?"
Jonah leaned in conspiratorially, his nervousness completely gone, replaced by the joy of a good gossip. "Oh, you haven't heard? Our friend Osiah here is the set's secret weapon. He's a miracle worker. Apparently, he gives these... massages." He said the word with a reverence usually reserved for religious relics. "The kind of massages that make you see God and forget your own name. The female crew members have been whispering about him since day one. They say he can unknot a shoulder just by looking at it."
Margot's eyebrows shot up, her gaze now fixed on Osiah with a new, undisguised interest. She looked at his hands, which were currently resting casually on his knees, and then back up at his face. The air around them suddenly felt a little thicker, a little warmer.
"Is that true?" she asked, her voice a soft, curious murmur. "Are you the one who's been making all the sore backs disappear?"
Osiah just shrugged, a slow, deliberate movement. "I picked up a skill back in college," he said, his voice a low, calm rumble. "Turned out to be a pretty helpful skill."
The simple, understated confession hung in the air, far more potent than any boast. Jonah's eyes lit up with the fire of a man who has just had a wild theory confirmed by the source himself.
"That's it! I knew it!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger at Osiah. "Dude, you have to do me. Right now. My back is killing me from all that 'Marty-ness' we were just talking about. All that hunched-over, coke-fueled stockbroker posture is a killer. I'm a hundred percent sure you're the real deal after what you did to Gary in that improv class. That man was a changed human being. He tried to adopt you, I swear."
Margot, who had been watching the exchange with a growing sense of amusement and fascination, clapped her hands together softly. "Oh, I'm in! I want one too!" she chirped, her earlier skepticism completely evaporating. "My feet are absolutely murdering me. These heels are a form of medieval torture, I'm convinced. I've been standing in them for twelve hours a day. I swear my toes have gone numb just to escape the abuse."
Osiah looked from Jonah's eager, pleading face to Margot's hopeful, brilliant smile. He knew, with a sinking certainty, that his quiet afternoon of logistical planning was officially over. He was on the clock now.
"Alright," he sighed, a gesture of theatrical resignation. "Jonah, you're up first. My trailer, in fifteen minutes. And for God's sake, try to relax."
"You're the man!" Jonah cheered, already looking ten years younger.
An hour later, Osiah finished with Jonah. The actor was a puddle of blissed-out goo on his couch, muttering about seeing colors and questioning his entire career path. Osiah packed up his bag, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and promised to see him on set tomorrow. He then made his way across the lot, the evening air cool against his skin. He found Margot's trailer and knocked softly.
The door opened, and she was there, already changed into a pair of soft cotton shorts and a simple t-shirt. The powerful, stockbroker Naomi was gone, replaced by a fresh-faced young woman with tired eyes and a grateful smile.
"Thank you for this," she said, her voice soft. "I wasn't exaggerating. I think my feet are actually plotting against me."
"I'll handle the uprising," Osiah said with a small smile, stepping inside. "Just lie down and get comfortable. I'll take care of the rest."
Margot's trailer was a reflection of her personality—bright, airy, and impeccably stylish, with splashes of color and personal touches that made it feel like a real home. She settled onto the plush velvet sofa, propping her feet up on a stack of silk pillows. Osiah knelt on the floor in front of her, taking one of her feet in his hands. It was delicate, high-arched, and the skin was soft despite the hours spent in torturous heels.
The first touch was electric. His thumbs began to work on the ball of her foot, applying a firm, knowledgeable pressure that seemed to bypass the skin and go directly to the bone. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. It wasn't pain; it was a profound, immediate release. He worked his way down to her arch, his fingers finding the tight, strained ligaments, and the gasp turned into a low, throaty moan.
"Oh my god," she breathed, her head falling back against the cushions. She didn't seem the least bit embarrassed by the raw sound of her pleasure. If anything, she leaned into it, her body relaxing, surrendering to the sensation. "That's... that's incredible."
He moved to her toes, gently squeezing and pulling each one, a methodical, intimate act that sent shivers up her spine. By the time he moved to her other foot, she was a puddle of blissful contentment, soft moans punctuating the quiet air of the trailer. But as his hands worked their magic, a new kind of energy began to stir in her. The moans became lower, more deliberate. She watched him, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded, a slow, confident smile spreading across her face.
With a fluid, sinuous motion, she skillfully withdrew her foot from his grasp. She didn't pull away completely. Instead, she extended her leg, pointing her toes directly towards his face. The movement was deliberate, an invitation that was both bold and incredibly sensual.
"You know," she began, her voice a husky purr that vibrated with a new, potent energy. "Everyone talks about the magic hands. And they're not wrong." She wiggled her toes, her painted nails a flash of color in the soft light. "But I have a theory. I think you might be the ultimate package. I think you have a magic tongue, too. And maybe... even more."
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He guided himself to her lips, and she took him in, her tongue swirling around the head, cleaning him with a devoted, worshipful attention that was both tender and incredibly submissive. She was serving him, completing the act, and in her utter surrender, she found a final, quiet peace.
When he was clean, he pulled away and lay down beside her, pulling her into his arms. She snuggled against him, her head on his chest, her body still trembling with the faint, lingering aftershocks. They lay there for a long time, a tangled, sweaty heap of limbs, their ragged breaths the only sound in the small trailer, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something more.
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