Hollywood Dirt
Page 44
I couldn’t break. Not for a man who didn’t deserve it, not for a man who would split town even faster than me. We were both, when filming wrapped, getting out of here. There was no point in seeking out good in a man like that.
I watched his truck turn at the end of the drive and accelerate off, toward the Kirklands’.
CHAPTER 51
He was stupid. He should have never gone there. He should have sent Ben or Don or some other lackey. He certainly shouldn’t have showered and shaved and put on fuckin’ cologne, like he was a teenager heading on a first date.
He hadn’t expected her to be outside, and certainly hadn’t expected her to be working. Really working, her shirt sticking to her, chest heaving, arms dirty and strong and beautiful. And she had been beautiful, her hair wild, barely contained in a ponytail—her shorts showing off the full length of those legs. It was all he could do, when picking her up and putting her on that tailgate, not to crush his lips to hers, to pull off her shorts and wrap her legs around his waist.
And that was the problem. He wanted her. In some primal way that didn’t make sense. He’d never been tempted—not in the years with Nadia—to look at another woman. Had spent the two weeks before Quincy sampling every type of woman out there. None had reduced the sting of Nadia’s actions. Now he’d spent a handful of moments with Summer, in the one situation where he shouldn’t touch anyone, should be behaving and celibate and focused on work, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Figured it would happen with a woman who didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in him. Worse, who seemed to dislike him.
It was ridiculous. The whole situation, from start to finish. He took the curve out of her driveway too hard and the truck bounced, Cocky squawking from the back, Cole’s head hitting the window with a smack. He glanced back at Cocky and slowed down, pushing thoughts of her away as he reached for his phone and for a distraction.
“Don,” he spoke into the phone. “Where are you at?”
CHAPTER 52
If Media Training was my first hint at what being an actress was all about, I was toast. Toast charred past the point of edibility, brittle and crumbly on a plate destined for the trash.
Brecken Nichols came down from Atlanta, her blue suit strolling through the humidity like she had all the time in the world though, by my watch, she was already fifteen minutes late. I waited, impatiently, next to Ben, watching her approach and summing up everything I needed to know about the woman.
She had one of those monogrammed bags slung over one arm – the big floppy kind, packed with enough items to keep me alive in the desert for weeks. Bright red lipstick, the kind Ben would have shot me dead over, her dark hair up in one of those poufed ponytails that Heidi Klum pulled off but I looked ridiculous wearing. Brecken didn’t look ridiculous. She looked pulled together. Perfect. Her brows, one which raised critically as she approached, were thick, her eyes sharp and well framed in makeup that must have taken her all morning to apply. This was not a woman who hit the snooze button and picked up after her pets. This was a woman who lunched in fancy restaurants, filtered suitors based on their bank balances, and who looked at women like me as snacks. I slid one hand in the back pocket of my new jeans, and felt, before she even opened her mouth, the scorn.
“God please tell me Wardrobe didn’t dress you in that.” The words huffed out of her as she stopped before me, her head slowly tilting down as her eyes trailed from my head to my shoes, a long moment passing as she scrutinized my sneakers. They were Nikes. Brand new. She didn’t seem impressed.
“I dressed myself.” I offered the obvious fact in a friendly tone, while my inner thoughts imagined an additional dozen cruder responses. “I’m Summer Jenkins.” I stuck out my hand, and she stared at it.
“Never introduce yourself,” she finally snapped, moving past my hand and tugging open one of the wide double doors. “They should know who you are, they will know who you are. Understand?” She didn’t wait around for a response, her heels clipping down the hall before us, and I grabbed Ben’s arm, squeezing it so tightly that he yelped.
“Be nice,” he whispered. “And come find me when it’s over.” He darted away, my grip on him lost in some twist of his arm, his skinny legs skittering across the parking lot without a backward glance.
I turned just in time to see Brenda dip into a room on the right. Letting out a breath, I stepped into the building and trudged after her. Never introduce yourself. Of all of the pompous, ridiculous behavior… I stepped into the room and watched Brecken flip on a row of switches, lights illuminating in quick succession, all shining down at one empty chair. Mine.
“Sit,” she said brightly and wheeled out a camera, lining it up into place, her hands quick and efficient. “Let’s begin.”
Media training was a fairly simple, if not painful, process. I sat on a chair, then a stool, then a couch, and answered questions that Brecken threw at me. Sometimes she sat across from me and had me face her. Other times she was behind the camera and had me look into it. She said ridiculous things and then scolded me when I giggled. She asked off the wall questions and then picked at my stumbles. She knocked over a lamp and then lectured me over flinching. And after every take, she’d pull me around and we’d watch the video and she’d pick out my mistakes.
From Brecken’s expressions and my own ears… I was bad. Really bad. And I didn’t even have a speech impediment to blame.
I watched his truck turn at the end of the drive and accelerate off, toward the Kirklands’.
CHAPTER 51
He was stupid. He should have never gone there. He should have sent Ben or Don or some other lackey. He certainly shouldn’t have showered and shaved and put on fuckin’ cologne, like he was a teenager heading on a first date.
He hadn’t expected her to be outside, and certainly hadn’t expected her to be working. Really working, her shirt sticking to her, chest heaving, arms dirty and strong and beautiful. And she had been beautiful, her hair wild, barely contained in a ponytail—her shorts showing off the full length of those legs. It was all he could do, when picking her up and putting her on that tailgate, not to crush his lips to hers, to pull off her shorts and wrap her legs around his waist.
And that was the problem. He wanted her. In some primal way that didn’t make sense. He’d never been tempted—not in the years with Nadia—to look at another woman. Had spent the two weeks before Quincy sampling every type of woman out there. None had reduced the sting of Nadia’s actions. Now he’d spent a handful of moments with Summer, in the one situation where he shouldn’t touch anyone, should be behaving and celibate and focused on work, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Figured it would happen with a woman who didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in him. Worse, who seemed to dislike him.
It was ridiculous. The whole situation, from start to finish. He took the curve out of her driveway too hard and the truck bounced, Cocky squawking from the back, Cole’s head hitting the window with a smack. He glanced back at Cocky and slowed down, pushing thoughts of her away as he reached for his phone and for a distraction.
“Don,” he spoke into the phone. “Where are you at?”
CHAPTER 52
If Media Training was my first hint at what being an actress was all about, I was toast. Toast charred past the point of edibility, brittle and crumbly on a plate destined for the trash.
Brecken Nichols came down from Atlanta, her blue suit strolling through the humidity like she had all the time in the world though, by my watch, she was already fifteen minutes late. I waited, impatiently, next to Ben, watching her approach and summing up everything I needed to know about the woman.
She had one of those monogrammed bags slung over one arm – the big floppy kind, packed with enough items to keep me alive in the desert for weeks. Bright red lipstick, the kind Ben would have shot me dead over, her dark hair up in one of those poufed ponytails that Heidi Klum pulled off but I looked ridiculous wearing. Brecken didn’t look ridiculous. She looked pulled together. Perfect. Her brows, one which raised critically as she approached, were thick, her eyes sharp and well framed in makeup that must have taken her all morning to apply. This was not a woman who hit the snooze button and picked up after her pets. This was a woman who lunched in fancy restaurants, filtered suitors based on their bank balances, and who looked at women like me as snacks. I slid one hand in the back pocket of my new jeans, and felt, before she even opened her mouth, the scorn.
“God please tell me Wardrobe didn’t dress you in that.” The words huffed out of her as she stopped before me, her head slowly tilting down as her eyes trailed from my head to my shoes, a long moment passing as she scrutinized my sneakers. They were Nikes. Brand new. She didn’t seem impressed.
“I dressed myself.” I offered the obvious fact in a friendly tone, while my inner thoughts imagined an additional dozen cruder responses. “I’m Summer Jenkins.” I stuck out my hand, and she stared at it.
“Never introduce yourself,” she finally snapped, moving past my hand and tugging open one of the wide double doors. “They should know who you are, they will know who you are. Understand?” She didn’t wait around for a response, her heels clipping down the hall before us, and I grabbed Ben’s arm, squeezing it so tightly that he yelped.
“Be nice,” he whispered. “And come find me when it’s over.” He darted away, my grip on him lost in some twist of his arm, his skinny legs skittering across the parking lot without a backward glance.
I turned just in time to see Brenda dip into a room on the right. Letting out a breath, I stepped into the building and trudged after her. Never introduce yourself. Of all of the pompous, ridiculous behavior… I stepped into the room and watched Brecken flip on a row of switches, lights illuminating in quick succession, all shining down at one empty chair. Mine.
“Sit,” she said brightly and wheeled out a camera, lining it up into place, her hands quick and efficient. “Let’s begin.”
Media training was a fairly simple, if not painful, process. I sat on a chair, then a stool, then a couch, and answered questions that Brecken threw at me. Sometimes she sat across from me and had me face her. Other times she was behind the camera and had me look into it. She said ridiculous things and then scolded me when I giggled. She asked off the wall questions and then picked at my stumbles. She knocked over a lamp and then lectured me over flinching. And after every take, she’d pull me around and we’d watch the video and she’d pick out my mistakes.
From Brecken’s expressions and my own ears… I was bad. Really bad. And I didn’t even have a speech impediment to blame.
