Hollywood Dirt
Page 24
Jesus. He stood quickly, setting his glass down on the table, and moved to the window, the location scout saying something. He didn’t listen; he rubbed at his face. He had to get his shit together. He had to stop thinking of everything wrong in his life. Maybe he needed a life coach. He dropped his hands and turned to the man, who had started speaking. “Start over,” he interrupted. “I wasn’t listening.”
The man—Wennifer? What the fuck was his name?—stopped talking, then started again, his eyes darting to the girl as he spoke. “Wait.” Cole held up his hand and turned to the girl, whose hands were reaching out, moving his glass onto a coaster. “Who are you? I mean, no offense, but why are you involved in this?”
Her eyes flashed and he, despite himself, liked it. Liked the fire in her spirit. Wished that Nadia had had more of that. Nadia’s fire was reserved for maids who didn’t show up on time, for contracts that didn’t give her points, for YSL when her dress for the Oscars didn’t fit properly in the chest. She’d rarely shared that fire with him. He’d always overlooked that, or seen it as a benefit. Now it just seemed like another red flag he’d missed.
“She’s been helping me.” The blonde’s mouth shut when the talent scout spoke, her glare shooting to him as she untangled her long legs and stood up, her face level with his chin, tilted up so that he could see full force the impact of her stare.
That was another thing that people rarely did. Looked him square in the face. People glanced away, looked down, nodded a lot. Fans were the exception, their hands and eyes reaching out incessantly, eye contact the golden ticket they all coveted.
This woman’s eyes did not covet his, they burned holes through his shell and found their way to his soul, pushing into every dark and insecure corner and finding them all disappointing. She stood toe-to-toe with him and growled out her retort. “You’re standing in my living room, sucking up my air conditioner, drinking my still water. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Masten. And I’m not involved in anything. Ben is my friend, he was here when your attorney called and bulldozed y’all’s way into our pool party.”
She was authentic Quincy, and he had to appreciate that, wished—for a moment—that Don Waschoniz, The Fortune Bottle’s director, was there to capture this moment, this spirit. She said “y’all”, and it didn’t sound forced, didn’t sound cheesy or contrived. It sounded sweet and dignified, her fire almost cute in its venom. He was Cole Masten, for God’s sake! She should be yanking down her bathing suit and bending over, not putting her hands on her hips and standing up to him. She’d be a perfect Ida—the female lead—a Coca-Cola secretary who strikes it rich alongside the rest of the investors. There wouldn’t even be acting involved; she just had to roll through makeup, stand on her mark, and speak the lines. He grinned for the first time in days, and she took a step back, her eyes narrowing. Ooh… a mean look. That translated even better. All Southern fight and attitude. If she could recreate that scowl and use it on the recipe scene, it’d be a slam-dunk.
“Get out.”
He laughed at her faint accent—not like the one that their extras had attempted—God those had sucked. They hadn’t known it; they had passed through their Californian ears just fine, but now he knew.
“I mean it.” She pointed to the door, her mouth set in a hard line. “Get out, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”
The talent scout moved nervously between them, patting Cole’s shoulder frantically, like a pat would accomplish anything. “She means it,” he whispered loudly. “She has guns in her coat closet.”
Cole took a step back, his eyes on her. “What was your name again?” he asked.
She growled in response, and he laughed again, letting the tiny gay man push him out the open door and into the summer heat.
Perfect. She’d be perfect.
Now, he just had to call Envision. Give Price exactly what she’d been begging for—a release from the contract. One problem solved in his first fifteen minutes in this town. DeLuca had been right to bring him here. On the ground, here in Quincy, he could get done the things that needed to get done. He could dig his hands in and distract his mind from everything Nadia.
The press wouldn’t love the loss—they would have to spin it the right way, to work with Minka on an exit strategy and PR campaign. And they might lose out on a few box office points, but his name alone would bring in the fans. And the blonde and her authenticity would be worth it. She was exactly what the movie needed.
CHAPTER 29
I realized the error of my ways as soon as the door slammed shut behind Cole Masten’s broad shoulders. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, should have behaved like a good little Southern girl and smiled politely. Cursed him to hell and beyond in my mind while showing every pearly white in my mouth. Showing emotion was something that should be done behind closed doors. Raw emotion was weakness, and I knew better than to show weakness, especially when dealing with a stranger.
I don’t know what came over me. The man and money behind The Fortune Bottle, and I had kicked him out into the heat because I didn’t like him asking who I was. It had been a perfectly reasonable question, even if it had been worded and voiced inappropriately. He was a stranger, a Yankee. He couldn’t be expected to know all of the rules that govern our Southern Society. And let’s jump straight to the meat of it—Cole Masten could ask any question any way he wanted. The twenty thousand in my bank account was from his pocket; he was the conductor on the Get Out Of Quincy train. It didn’t matter if I didn’t like him. It didn’t matter if the Actual Real Life Cole Masten disappointed every fantasy I had stashed in my fantasy bank. He was an actor. It was his job to be different than he actually was.
The man—Wennifer? What the fuck was his name?—stopped talking, then started again, his eyes darting to the girl as he spoke. “Wait.” Cole held up his hand and turned to the girl, whose hands were reaching out, moving his glass onto a coaster. “Who are you? I mean, no offense, but why are you involved in this?”
Her eyes flashed and he, despite himself, liked it. Liked the fire in her spirit. Wished that Nadia had had more of that. Nadia’s fire was reserved for maids who didn’t show up on time, for contracts that didn’t give her points, for YSL when her dress for the Oscars didn’t fit properly in the chest. She’d rarely shared that fire with him. He’d always overlooked that, or seen it as a benefit. Now it just seemed like another red flag he’d missed.
“She’s been helping me.” The blonde’s mouth shut when the talent scout spoke, her glare shooting to him as she untangled her long legs and stood up, her face level with his chin, tilted up so that he could see full force the impact of her stare.
That was another thing that people rarely did. Looked him square in the face. People glanced away, looked down, nodded a lot. Fans were the exception, their hands and eyes reaching out incessantly, eye contact the golden ticket they all coveted.
This woman’s eyes did not covet his, they burned holes through his shell and found their way to his soul, pushing into every dark and insecure corner and finding them all disappointing. She stood toe-to-toe with him and growled out her retort. “You’re standing in my living room, sucking up my air conditioner, drinking my still water. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Masten. And I’m not involved in anything. Ben is my friend, he was here when your attorney called and bulldozed y’all’s way into our pool party.”
She was authentic Quincy, and he had to appreciate that, wished—for a moment—that Don Waschoniz, The Fortune Bottle’s director, was there to capture this moment, this spirit. She said “y’all”, and it didn’t sound forced, didn’t sound cheesy or contrived. It sounded sweet and dignified, her fire almost cute in its venom. He was Cole Masten, for God’s sake! She should be yanking down her bathing suit and bending over, not putting her hands on her hips and standing up to him. She’d be a perfect Ida—the female lead—a Coca-Cola secretary who strikes it rich alongside the rest of the investors. There wouldn’t even be acting involved; she just had to roll through makeup, stand on her mark, and speak the lines. He grinned for the first time in days, and she took a step back, her eyes narrowing. Ooh… a mean look. That translated even better. All Southern fight and attitude. If she could recreate that scowl and use it on the recipe scene, it’d be a slam-dunk.
“Get out.”
He laughed at her faint accent—not like the one that their extras had attempted—God those had sucked. They hadn’t known it; they had passed through their Californian ears just fine, but now he knew.
“I mean it.” She pointed to the door, her mouth set in a hard line. “Get out, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”
The talent scout moved nervously between them, patting Cole’s shoulder frantically, like a pat would accomplish anything. “She means it,” he whispered loudly. “She has guns in her coat closet.”
Cole took a step back, his eyes on her. “What was your name again?” he asked.
She growled in response, and he laughed again, letting the tiny gay man push him out the open door and into the summer heat.
Perfect. She’d be perfect.
Now, he just had to call Envision. Give Price exactly what she’d been begging for—a release from the contract. One problem solved in his first fifteen minutes in this town. DeLuca had been right to bring him here. On the ground, here in Quincy, he could get done the things that needed to get done. He could dig his hands in and distract his mind from everything Nadia.
The press wouldn’t love the loss—they would have to spin it the right way, to work with Minka on an exit strategy and PR campaign. And they might lose out on a few box office points, but his name alone would bring in the fans. And the blonde and her authenticity would be worth it. She was exactly what the movie needed.
CHAPTER 29
I realized the error of my ways as soon as the door slammed shut behind Cole Masten’s broad shoulders. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, should have behaved like a good little Southern girl and smiled politely. Cursed him to hell and beyond in my mind while showing every pearly white in my mouth. Showing emotion was something that should be done behind closed doors. Raw emotion was weakness, and I knew better than to show weakness, especially when dealing with a stranger.
I don’t know what came over me. The man and money behind The Fortune Bottle, and I had kicked him out into the heat because I didn’t like him asking who I was. It had been a perfectly reasonable question, even if it had been worded and voiced inappropriately. He was a stranger, a Yankee. He couldn’t be expected to know all of the rules that govern our Southern Society. And let’s jump straight to the meat of it—Cole Masten could ask any question any way he wanted. The twenty thousand in my bank account was from his pocket; he was the conductor on the Get Out Of Quincy train. It didn’t matter if I didn’t like him. It didn’t matter if the Actual Real Life Cole Masten disappointed every fantasy I had stashed in my fantasy bank. He was an actor. It was his job to be different than he actually was.
