Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) (2 page)

"Shall we begin?"

He nods to a single, solitary sheet of paper at the foot of his table. I guess those are the lines. Without saying another word to further incriminate myself, I make up the ten feet or so separating me and the script, pick it up briskly, and saunter back to my spot on the creaky floorboard, clutching the sheet before me tightly, hiding both my face, and my trembling hands.

The lines are standard-fare, vaguely dramatic stuff. I flick through them quickly to get a feel for it, before dropping them to my hip, and engaging my panel of judges with my eyes once again.

"Well, whenever you're ready for a simple reading, Chloe. If I may call you Chloe?"

He's satisfied by a simple nod.

"Good. We're assessing voice clarity, and quality. Don't worry about misspeaking, or misreading, just do your best."

Do my best. Right
. I clear my mind, cleaving all anxious worries and paranoid pretensions asunder, and focus on the first sentence.

"Jack, what a loathsome name, I've never liked it."

So far so good; not a single waver in my voice, despite my inner compulsion to tremor wildly in fear. I open my mouth to speak the next line, when I'm startled from my train of thought by the graying man on the right of the table, holding a similar sheet aloft and speaking deep and solemnly.
Oh
, I guess I’m reading alongside him.

"What do you care?" he reads from the next line, "You don't have to work with him like I do. You don't have to deal with him. And what does his name have to do with anything?"

Trying to shake the notion that these lines don't make any particular sense, I catch another glimpse of the third judge - yet to speak, or even look at me - content simply to sit slouched in his chair, following us line by line, and raising the occasional eyebrow.

"I'm just not comfortable with it, that's all,” I read aloud, trying my hardest to pronounce each word clearly, and ignoring the overbearing eyes watching me from all directions. "I mean, you can surely read a person by their name. I believe that."

"You believe all sorts of bullshit."

With every break in the script, I put my eyes back upon the man on the left, sitting completely motionless, almost as if he were trying to appear invisible. A shock of immaculately styled black hair makes him stand out from the other two like a sore thumb, and a set of small, expressive eyes scan each line of script aggressively. If only I weren't standing so far away, I might just be able to see what color they are.

"Don't belittle me, you're constantly - be, uhm, - belittling me."

My little mistake strikes the fear of failure into me once again, and I feel my heart drop to somewhere around my stomach, before rising back between my lungs with a reddening, blood-curdling rush of nerves. The anonymous man on the left raises an eyebrow. The man in the cap and sunglasses sits forward in his chair, and his partner on the right shoots me another self-assured smile, doing very little to ease my fears.

"I don't like being spoken to like that."

"I'm sorry, I just want us to be happy, I don't want any of this any more."

I narrow my eyes at the text before me. This script goes fucking
nowhere
. Only after straining my eyes at the words one final time do I realize it's not supposed to. They're assessing my emotional response, after all.

"Good," my co-reader announces, splitting the warm air with his thundering depth, "I'd hate for you to make this into a big deal."

"I know," I say, allowing my voice to croak a little, trying to feel something other than shuddering, eclectic nerves. "I love you."

In the corner of my eye, I see the man to the left drop his script to the table, crossing his arms, and looking sideward to the baseball-capped guy, without uttering a single word. I look up, dutifully waiting for the next line. It doesn't come.

"Chloe, thank you," says the baseball cap and sunglasses. I widen my eyes, furrowing my brow, and open my mouth to make some futile protest, before his graying companion repeats his words.

"Thank you, Chloe. We'll be in touch."

That's it
? That was barely two fucking minutes! With a clattering of steel chairs, the three of them climb to their feet, averting their eyes from me, apparently trying to pretend I no longer exist. One week of body-shattering nerves, half an hour of being cooked alive beneath the glowing aura of a room of blonde, gorgeously tanned stunners, and three minutes of jolted, stilted dialogue later, and I'm back below the fucking poverty line. I can already imagine my frantic chat to my sister, begging for enough money for this month's noodles.

I guess this is the point where I leave the room. Yet, strangely, I'm still here. My right leg trembles nervously beneath me; my lungs quickly dispersing of breath. I feel my face radiating to a lustrous crimson, and my fingers subconsciously furl themselves into my knuckles, tightening assertively. As much as I'm caught between a disheartening desire to run out of the building, and a childlike need to fly back to my calm place, I'm still standing here.

"Chloe," he repeats, finally noticing I'm still blighting their vision, "you can leave now."

"Look," I immediately bark back, in a voice so forceful I didn't even know I had it. "I can give a lot to this part. I'm ready, I can do it. You just need to give me a chance."

"We'll be in touch" he repeats, in a tone more annoyed than gracious.

"One chance!" I shout, losing all semblance of self-control, casting my nervous inhibitions to the fires of seething, raging disappointment. "Just one chance,
please
!"

Finally, I manage to tease something other than stern-faced anonymity out of that black-haired, silver-jacketed guy on the left; he smiles wryly, contorting the side of his mouth into a smug, sadistic grin. No-one says anything. No-one has to, I think I've made a big enough fool out of myself; any more agitation on their part would just be cruel.

I don't even remember pushing the doors aside, or the receptionist calling my name in a vain effort to calm me down. I fight back the tears that begin to well-up in my eyes, straining my vision and dulling the majestic brightness of the sun through the blinds, and pace straight out of the building. Even when I get outside I don't stop racing, relenting only when I throw myself into my car, slamming the door behind me. My hands shake, my mouth is dry; my head throbs from within like someone stabbed a freezing cold dagger into the back of my neck, and my heart beats loudly and unyieldingly, providing the percussive drum chorus to my seething break-down.

"Fuck, don't even fucking think about it Chloe, don't even fucking do it!"

Wrapping my knuckles around the steering wheel, and grasping it so tightly my knuckles turn white, I'm in almost the same place as last night, working myself into a frothy stupor over the bathroom sink. I strain my eyes, narrowing them gingerly, trying to avoid bawling my eyes out at all costs.

"Don't be fucking
weak
now!"

I listen to myself in disgust, bellowing orders to my nervous subconscious from the comfort of my own car. Then the thought occurs to me that I'm only the latest in a long, long list of aspiring actors to do the same, and the feeling of flooding, rushing tears in the corner of my eyes subsides. I let go of the steering wheel, and feel my knuckles cramp up; the skin of my palms burning slightly. My worst fucking audition: at least in the past I've had the presence of mind not to beg for clemency and then storm out.

I start the car, and begin the long drive back home, with a sullen, throbbing head ache.

***

"So," she asks tactlessly, with what sounds like a mouthful of popcorn. "How did it go?"

I should have known she was on the phone; I haven't earned my way out of an obligatory shout-down for last night's mirrored theatrics yet. I close the back door behind me with a pointed slam, doing my best to alert her to my presence, before dourly stumbling through the kitchen - complete with dirty pans and dishes piled as high as I stand - and make my way to the living room. Jesus, this place isn't any fucking better; packets of potato chips littering the carpet, plates and dishes scattered asunder, and a giant, admittedly enticing tub of ice-cream, the undeniable centerpiece within the room. I guess she did well in her finals then.

"Great! Excellent! I'm so glad!" she shouts at the top of her lungs, looking at me with unknowing eyes. I look back at her for a moment, lying leisurely upon the couch; a mirror image of myself, my identical twin sister. Her black hair is swept behind her shoulders in unkempt, matted clumps, and her pale skin reflects the golden sunlight radiantly. And then I find I can't stop looking at her. She's a picture of everything I should be this afternoon: thrilled with life, care free, without another worry in the world. I should be the one surrounded by ice-cream and popcorn, celebrating my new fucking film role. We should be celebrating together.

"Hey, ya know, I gotta go, my sister's back. I'll catch you later, yeah."

And with that, she hangs up, dropping the cell phone to the floor, lost amongst the garbage. Focusing two judgmental eyes on me, I can already tell what's coming.

"You know its no thanks to you that I did so well today. Despite trying your best to keep me up last night, I fucking did it. I passed."

"Congratulations," I reply, using every last bit of my acting talents to appear sincere, whilst keeping the swelling, burgeoning shame of failing my own personal test hidden within me. "You must be thrilled."

Carissa turns her head from me, looking up to the ceiling, balancing some invisible object on the end of her nose triumphantly. She shuffles across the couch, sitting herself down at the other end, allowing me the space to sit with her if only I can navigate my way past the various articles of trash that litter the path. I do so, and she finally looks back at me.

"In one year's time," she says with pompous relish, "I'll have passed my bar, and I'll be a fully fledged entertainment attorney!"

I'm happy for her. I truly am, even though I don't feel it. She's worked hard. Almost as hard as I have. And duly, she's going to be rewarded. And of course, my reward for diverging from the well-worn family path of law school is to watch her succeed where I fail. Can't you tell I've had enough?

"How about you," she finally adds, after a few more moments of incessant legal rambling, the likes of which I've heard a thousand times before from her. "How did it go for you today?
The big audition
?"

"I'm quitting acting," I sternly reply, more to myself than my sister, and without a second thought about the subject. "I've had enough. I quit."

"That bad huh?"

She has a way of making light of every situation, a strange talent for a lawyer. It's a fun attribute, and yet one I don't wish to suffer right now. She picks up the carton of popcorn with one deft movement, placing it into my hand, before looking back into me and narrowing her eyes, cunningly.

"You'll feel different in the morning."

How could we share the exact same genes, and yet be so different? Up until high school, we were never apart. She'd wear red, and I'd wear blue, and that's the only way we could be told apart. Today, it's much easier; she's the one wearing the carefree, giddy grin, and I'm the one looking far more morose. An easy identification if ever there was one.

"Look, Carissa," I bark at her, averting my eyes from hers, and holding the palm of my hand toward her, ready to defend myself from an avalanche of well-wishes and patronizing taunts. "I won't feel different. I haven't felt any different for six months. I'm sick of living like this, constantly worrying my way from audition to audition, wondering where the next paycheck is coming from. I'm done."

She's unrelenting, staring into me with the same, formidable blue eyes I have, fluttering her long black eyelashes at me in a show of unrelenting petulance.

"I'm telling you Chloe, you'll feel different in the morning."

I feel it once more; the rising, pointedly shameful fury that rushes through my muscles, aided of course by the mental image of that anonymous face - jet black hair and silver jacket - grinning slyly at the public spectacle I've become.

"Carissa!
I'm done!
Congratulations for you and everything, but we can't all be as relaxed about these things as you are."

"Hey, wait, listen to me!" she yells back at me as I spring to my feet, and try my hardest to dramatically storm off. But of course, I really am terrible at feigning anger. I can't go through with it, instead turning back around to meet her waiting, judging eyes, and listen to what she has to say. "What I'm
trying
to tell you is that someone called. Someone from the audition."

My heart sinks once again. I stand before her with my jaw open wide, and my eyes peering into her, hopefully and expectantly, awaiting the news she has to give me.

"Apparently he liked what he saw today. He wants you to go back in tomorrow morning for another audition." She closes her eyes, and gently taps her palm against her head, trying desperately to stoke the fires of her memory. "Red dress, that's it."

"They called the house phone?" is all I can think to ask, slightly shocked and bewildered by the news. I'm wanted?
I'm actually fucking wanted
?

"Don't shoot the fucking messenger next time, huh."

I pounce on her, wrapping her in my arms, squeezing every last breath out of her, grinning wildly.
You're the best messenger I could hope for, Carissa
. As she bats me off her slender body with playful closed fists, however, one more thing pops into my mind.

"Wait, what do you mean,
he
liked what he saw today? I auditioned for three people."

She blows her hair out of her face, and breathes heavy, struggling to regain the breath I hugged out of her. After several suspenseful moments, she answers.

"That's the message. He wants you to go in tomorrow. I wrote the address down on a notepad somewhere."

"The address?" I scratch my head, before planting my foot down on a half-eaten bag of potato chips upon the floor, arousing a loud
crunch
. Sort of reminds me of where I was an hour ago. "I have the address, I drove there earlier today, obviously."