Hollywood Dirt
Page 39
“So what should I be doing?”
“Waiting. Next week you’ll get an acting coach and have some media training. Have you signed the contract yet?”
I glanced over at the dining table, where the FedEx envelope lay, the hefty contract inside. “No.”
“Why?” he challenged.
“It’s eighty-two pages long. There can’t be anything good to say in that many pages.” I gave up on the knot and stretched the mess outta the exposed line, reaching over and snagging the envelope from the table. I studied the outside package, ENVISION STUDIOS printed in block on the return address form.
“Then get an agent like a good little actress and have them look it over.”
“For fifteen percent?” I laughed. “No thank you.”
“Then get a manager. That’s what everyone in LA who can’t get an agent does. Managers only take ten percent.”
“Still too much.” I pulled out the first of three contracts and skimmed over the initial paragraph, which was filled with enough thereafters and heretos to make my head hurt.
“Summer. Either quit bitching and sign the contract or pay someone to review it. Hell, pay a lawyer an hourly fee to review it. But do something. You’re running out of time here.”
I couldn’t just sign it. Not without knowing what it said. Not without knowing what I was giving up or agreeing to. “I’ll call my lawyer,” I finally said, dropping the contract back into the pack.
“And then you’ll sign it?”
“Depending on what he says, yes.” I tossed the contracts back on the table and tried to smile at Ben’s celebration on the other end of the phone.
“Okay, go. Call him right now.” If I could see him, I’d bet a hundred dollars he was doing a little shooing motion in the midst of the construction area.
“I will,” I promised, and hung up the phone, eyeing the mess of phone line. My next purchase: a new cord. Or better yet, a cordless phone. Really fancy stuff.
I needed to handle the contract; I knew that. I needed to have a professional review it; I knew that. It was worth paying an attorney; it was smart to pay an attorney. And I had one, one who had known me my entire life, one who would watch out for my best interests and do it for free.
I picked the phone back up off the base, took a deep breath, and called Scott Thompson. My attorney. My ex.
CHAPTER 46
Cocky seemed lonely. Cole sat next to the bathtub, in workout shorts and tennis shoes, and watched him. The baby rooster scratched at the Quincy newspaper and looked up at Cole. Tilted his head and opened his beak. Chirped out a tiny sound. Cole had turned the bathtub into his new home, the lamp plugged in and sitting at the left end, three layers of newspaper lining the bottom, the tub four times the size of Summer’s pathetic creation. He was bigger this week, his legs long with giant knobby knees halfway up. Early that morning, he had puffed his chest, white down fluffing out and strutted. Cole had laughed, his toothbrush in his mouth, mid-brush, and pulled out his phone. Tried to catch video of the action but failed.
Now, he pushed off the floor and bent over the tub. Scooped up the bird and held him to his chest, the bird’s feet kicking against his chest. Walking out the bathroom and thru the backdoor he set him carefully on the back porch. Stepping down the back steps, he looked back and saw the bird carefully follow ’til he got to the edge of the first step and stop, wobbling, his head tilting down at the fall, then back up at Cole.
“You can do it.” Cole patted his leg for encouragement, then felt stupid. He crouched down and clucked. The chick squatted, then hopped.
It turned out Cocky couldn’t do it. When he landed, his baby feet stumbled against the step, his head tipping down, hitting the step before he sat back, shaking himself out, his feathers poofing. Cole hurried to his side, lifting him up and whispering apologies, moving him safely down to the bottom, where the chicken ran into the grass.
100 pushups. His palms flat on the ground, the grass tickled his nose with every down pause. Everything was in place, everything on time, ready for next week. This moment of cohesion would be ruined the moment the crew and cast set foot in town. From that moment on, it would be pure, expensive chaos. That was the nature of the beast. A beast he loved, a beast that fed him. This would be the first time it would be a beast he paid, and not the other way around. But that was a temporary situation. Because once it hit screens, then his financial future would be set. The stakes were always high, but this was truly the movie that would define him. Success or failure. Billionaire or just another LA rich guy.
He finished the set and took a deep breath, resting on one palm, then the other. He switched his weight to his fist, then started a second set. It felt so odd, being alone. Here in Quincy was one thing; it was a hundred transitions in itself. Back home would be different. Back home—he paused on his seventieth rep. He didn’t even have a home anymore; Nadia had moved out of the hotel and was back, in their bed, no doubt with that prick beside her, on his sheets, in his shower, in her fucking arms. He finished the hundredth rep with a groan and rolled over, the grass warm and soft underneath his back.
He had to stop thinking. What was funny was that the one thing he wasn’t really thinking about was Nadia. And when he was thinking of Nadia, it was only to distract himself from thinking about the blonde and her stupid chicken. He felt an unsteady weight against his shin and looked down to see Cocky, wobbling in his steps, walking along his shin. He laughed and dropped his head back against the grass.
“Waiting. Next week you’ll get an acting coach and have some media training. Have you signed the contract yet?”
I glanced over at the dining table, where the FedEx envelope lay, the hefty contract inside. “No.”
“Why?” he challenged.
“It’s eighty-two pages long. There can’t be anything good to say in that many pages.” I gave up on the knot and stretched the mess outta the exposed line, reaching over and snagging the envelope from the table. I studied the outside package, ENVISION STUDIOS printed in block on the return address form.
“Then get an agent like a good little actress and have them look it over.”
“For fifteen percent?” I laughed. “No thank you.”
“Then get a manager. That’s what everyone in LA who can’t get an agent does. Managers only take ten percent.”
“Still too much.” I pulled out the first of three contracts and skimmed over the initial paragraph, which was filled with enough thereafters and heretos to make my head hurt.
“Summer. Either quit bitching and sign the contract or pay someone to review it. Hell, pay a lawyer an hourly fee to review it. But do something. You’re running out of time here.”
I couldn’t just sign it. Not without knowing what it said. Not without knowing what I was giving up or agreeing to. “I’ll call my lawyer,” I finally said, dropping the contract back into the pack.
“And then you’ll sign it?”
“Depending on what he says, yes.” I tossed the contracts back on the table and tried to smile at Ben’s celebration on the other end of the phone.
“Okay, go. Call him right now.” If I could see him, I’d bet a hundred dollars he was doing a little shooing motion in the midst of the construction area.
“I will,” I promised, and hung up the phone, eyeing the mess of phone line. My next purchase: a new cord. Or better yet, a cordless phone. Really fancy stuff.
I needed to handle the contract; I knew that. I needed to have a professional review it; I knew that. It was worth paying an attorney; it was smart to pay an attorney. And I had one, one who had known me my entire life, one who would watch out for my best interests and do it for free.
I picked the phone back up off the base, took a deep breath, and called Scott Thompson. My attorney. My ex.
CHAPTER 46
Cocky seemed lonely. Cole sat next to the bathtub, in workout shorts and tennis shoes, and watched him. The baby rooster scratched at the Quincy newspaper and looked up at Cole. Tilted his head and opened his beak. Chirped out a tiny sound. Cole had turned the bathtub into his new home, the lamp plugged in and sitting at the left end, three layers of newspaper lining the bottom, the tub four times the size of Summer’s pathetic creation. He was bigger this week, his legs long with giant knobby knees halfway up. Early that morning, he had puffed his chest, white down fluffing out and strutted. Cole had laughed, his toothbrush in his mouth, mid-brush, and pulled out his phone. Tried to catch video of the action but failed.
Now, he pushed off the floor and bent over the tub. Scooped up the bird and held him to his chest, the bird’s feet kicking against his chest. Walking out the bathroom and thru the backdoor he set him carefully on the back porch. Stepping down the back steps, he looked back and saw the bird carefully follow ’til he got to the edge of the first step and stop, wobbling, his head tilting down at the fall, then back up at Cole.
“You can do it.” Cole patted his leg for encouragement, then felt stupid. He crouched down and clucked. The chick squatted, then hopped.
It turned out Cocky couldn’t do it. When he landed, his baby feet stumbled against the step, his head tipping down, hitting the step before he sat back, shaking himself out, his feathers poofing. Cole hurried to his side, lifting him up and whispering apologies, moving him safely down to the bottom, where the chicken ran into the grass.
100 pushups. His palms flat on the ground, the grass tickled his nose with every down pause. Everything was in place, everything on time, ready for next week. This moment of cohesion would be ruined the moment the crew and cast set foot in town. From that moment on, it would be pure, expensive chaos. That was the nature of the beast. A beast he loved, a beast that fed him. This would be the first time it would be a beast he paid, and not the other way around. But that was a temporary situation. Because once it hit screens, then his financial future would be set. The stakes were always high, but this was truly the movie that would define him. Success or failure. Billionaire or just another LA rich guy.
He finished the set and took a deep breath, resting on one palm, then the other. He switched his weight to his fist, then started a second set. It felt so odd, being alone. Here in Quincy was one thing; it was a hundred transitions in itself. Back home would be different. Back home—he paused on his seventieth rep. He didn’t even have a home anymore; Nadia had moved out of the hotel and was back, in their bed, no doubt with that prick beside her, on his sheets, in his shower, in her fucking arms. He finished the hundredth rep with a groan and rolled over, the grass warm and soft underneath his back.
He had to stop thinking. What was funny was that the one thing he wasn’t really thinking about was Nadia. And when he was thinking of Nadia, it was only to distract himself from thinking about the blonde and her stupid chicken. He felt an unsteady weight against his shin and looked down to see Cocky, wobbling in his steps, walking along his shin. He laughed and dropped his head back against the grass.
