“Vi, it’s a carrot. You need more than that.”
“I need to lose fifteen pounds is what I need.”
“Why? You’re studying to be nurse, not an actress. Be glad you don’t have the pressure of keeping fit if you want to keep a job.”
“What if I want to be a hot nurse?”
“You don’t need to lose weight. You need protein.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “You and your protein. Your dad and his protein. God, I swear if he hadn’t been Mr. Universe when he was younger, you’d have probably lived a normal existence.”
“Um, I hate to point out the obvious, but the reason I didn’t have a normal existence growing up wasn’t because of Mr. Universe.” I gave her a knowing look and took off the jacket I’d put on for breakfast with my parents.
“Oh, that’s right. It’s because he’s been a high-up executive producer in Hollywood for thirty years, and he makes you dress like you’re going to a high-stakes business meeting just to visit his house. My bad.” She laughed to herself.
“Don’t forget because I’m also an only child.” I grabbed a carrot, pointed it at her, and took a big, crunchy bite.
“Three strikes.” Violet came around the corner, flipped up my tight ponytail, and plopped onto the sofa to flip through Netflix. “It’s a miracle you know how to have any fun at all.”
“Who says I have fun?”
“You know what I mean. You like gardening, fixing up the yard, cooking…”
“I’d hardly call that having fun.”
“Okay, but you’re not a party type like half the kids of your parents’ friends. You’ve stayed true to yourself, on the right path, with a good head on your shoulders.”
“You mean I’m straightlaced?” I laughed, shaking my head at the irony. It was no wonder I’d been cast for the show.
It was another thing I took pride in. The fact that despite my father being part owner and an executive producer at Fluidity, his position hadn’t influenced the director’s decision to hire me. In fact, if anything, the director, Lyle Steinberg, had said he’d hired me in spite of who my father was, not because of it. Normally a production company brought in a director of its choosing and called the shots, but in this case, it was Lyle who’d come to Fluidity, giving it first dibs on the production of a show for which Lyle had been handpicked as the director. He’d been afraid that by hiring me, my father would try to stifle his creativity, but after he’d seen my audition, he’d said he’d never find an actress more perfect for the role of Lacey.
I slipped into my bedroom for a quick change into a tank top and worn yoga pants my father would never catch me in. Then, I returned to the living room to sit next to Vi. “Man, that was stressful.”
“What was? Changing your clothes?”
“Going home—well, my parents’ house. We start
Straightlaced
meetings and readings tomorrow, and my dad is going crazy.”
“Because he wants it to go well?”
“Because it
has
to go well. This series has to knock it out of the park, or else everything my father has invested in Fluidity over the past thirty years will be for nothing.”
“And you’re the show’s leading lady. No pressure.”
“Exactly.” At least it was a testament to how much my father believed in me, if he felt I could bring Fluidity back by leading the show. I couldn’t let him down.
“Well at least you’ll be far away from him for a while for filming. You deserve a break. Your dad, he’s just so—so…”
“Vi, don’t,” I said quietly, looking out the window at the tomato and basil plants just starting to hold up on their own. “My dad’s given me an amazing life for twenty-two years. I know everyone thinks he’s a huge asshole, but he’s not. He just doesn’t want life handed to me. He wants me to work hard for it, same as he did. So he comes across as a little…overbearing.”
“More like tyrannical. He’s a bully, Gwen. He’s controlling and—” Vi’s mouth snapped shut when I glared at her. “Okay fine. I know you don’t like it when I criticize him. But I just want what’s best for you.”
“That’s because you’re a great friend. Thank you.”
“Speaking about what’s best for you, what about your leading man? Do you finally know who’s going to play your leading man? Did they get that Blake Murphy guy from all those romantic comedies? I love him.”
“I honestly don’t know. The director, Lyle, sort of mashed together a cast last month, and I haven’t heard from him, so I really don’t know who’s working with who. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“So your dad doesn’t even know?”
I shook my head. “Lyle’s been holding things very close to the vest. It’s an unusual power dynamic for a director and production company, but since Lyle brought the project to Fluidity, and not the other way around…”
“Wow, so your dad really is out of loop.”
“Yup. I’m doing this one all on my own.”
The truth was, I was ridiculously nervous about how it would all go down but terribly excited at the same time. Dad wanted me to star in the show and help save his company, so on one hand, I was proud of myself. But on the other hand, the future of Fluidity Films was up in the air. Up to me. With only a mystery cast to help me make it rock.
I, for one, was ready. To start a new leg of my career. To prove to my dad I could be independent and responsible and counted on. To let the memory of Randall go, once and for all. To get a full night’s sleep and a fresh start on life in the morning. I let out a deep breath and turned to Vi. “Can your diet allow for one celebratory mojito with me this evening? I’ll even use fresh mint from the garden and your NutriBullet.”
Violet cringed. “Can you make mine with Stevia?”
I smiled and bounced up from the couch. “Anything is possible.”
Garrick
Monday morning, when I arrived on the Sun Studios lot, operating on a few hours sleep and two five-hour energy drinks, I checked my appearance in my rearview mirror. Except for the black eye, I saw the exact image I wanted to present: disheveled, medium-length, black-brown hair, warm, olive skin, impeccable threads, and chocolate brown eyes lit with cocky assurance. In truth, Payton was supposed to be a bit of a bad boy, so my battle scar might not be such a big deal.
I hoped.
I chirped the alarm on my car and headed to the front entrance. Inside the building, I gave a string of “good mornings” to the security guard, front desk lady, and a bunch of other people who welcomed me with big smiles and yes, curious gazes and even a wince here or there or a smirk when they saw my eye. Having filmed at the studio before, I knew my way around and quickly found the breakfast buffet room. Before heading inside, I pulled out my phone to check for messages one last time, since I didn’t want to be caught thumbing through my phone at work.
I sighed at another text from Britney followed by a new, pleasantly risqué́ selfie of Angela. I still wasn’t sure how they’d coaxed my number out of me, but I suspected it was when I was browning out in tequila. Not replying would only invite more texts throughout the day—I’d been through this before—so I grabbed the first lie that came to mind.
Had fun 2. Headed into a meeting. Text u later
.
Even though I wouldn’t.
Double-teaming had been fun for getting my kicks, but no way would I be hooking up while shooting this new show. Not because I didn’t want the paparazzi finding out, but because I didn’t want any random girls showing up on set. It had happened to me more than once, and it was embarrassing, not to mention awkward.
I copied the text and pasted it into Angela’s message as well.
On my own time, my whereabouts were always private, but sometimes during filming, it became public knowledge. Anyone could find me, and they had in the past, which still unnerved me. I even changed my number two or three times since last summer. I hoped I didn’t have to do it again.
“Is that real cream cheese?” asked a light-toned, sweetly feminine voice that still managed to hint at confidence. It was an alluring combination.
“I believe it is,” another woman replied in a lower tone. “Least they could do for dragging us out here at the ass-crack of dawn.”
I let out an internal chuckle.
Ass-crack. So true.
My attention snapped to the buffet table where two young women stood side by side, filling their plates with food. One towered above the other, tall and willowy, as though the lightest breeze could snap her in two. Her mousy blonde hair was pulled back into a disheveled bun. The sight of her struck a familiar chord, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen her before.
Pretty,
I thought,
but too wispy.
The second girl cut a slender yet curvier figure—the athletic and outdoorsy type—with long, dark brown hair. She wore fitted black slacks and a matching blazer. From where I stood, I caught a glimpse of the blonde’s face but couldn’t check out the brunette without making my presence known, something I wasn’t quite ready to do. I leaned against the doorframe and listened instead.
“Good,” the brunette said. “My bagel will be doused with it by the time I’m done.”
The blonde bit into a mini cinnamon roll, wiping the corner of her lip with her pinkie finger. “No kidding. Glycemic index be damned.”
I predicted this would devolve into a rant about shared hatred of calories and the task of staying fit. Women always discussed such boring subjects.
True to her word, the brunette began to smother her bagel with cream cheese—my kind of girl. “I normally wouldn’t eat this way,” she said, stabbing the cream cheese with the knife again. “My dad was a health nut when I was younger.”
The blonde cringed. “One of those granola types?”
“You could say that. If it was processed or pre-packaged, it didn’t set foot in our house. So whenever I see food like this, I get stars in my eyes for it.” She giggled.
The blonde laughed. “Trust me, I get it. My mom was the same, but I’ve been eating super healthy for so long now, I’m just used to it.” She ladled a heaping spoonful of fruit from a punch bowl onto her plate.
The brunette nodded. “My dad was pretty hardcore. Is hardcore.”
“About food?”
“About everything,” the brunette said, and the blonde just nodded and picked at a few pieces of fruit. “He was Mr. Universe, so yeah, you could say I have to watch what I eat.”
Wasn’t that contest presided over by a bunch of guys from Long Beach, selling workout equipment?
Note to self,
never meet her father without some serious prep time in the gym.
Not that I would.
Meeting parents was never part of the equation anymore when it came to my conquests.
“Hell of a thing to have on a résumé if he wanted to apply somewhere intergalactically.”
The brunette laughed. “Right?”
I suppressed a chuckle. Maybe these girls would make fun friends if nothing else. Not that I kept many close friends. Now that my brother was out of the picture, Liam was the next closest thing, and even before he hit it big, he rarely answered his phone. Sometimes it got a bit lonely inside my head. Then again, the solitary life was the safe life. Little to no risk.
I figured the blonde was around twenty-three, a couple years older than me and probably the brunette, who had a younger feel about her, though graceful and sophisticated too, as though she came from an upper class home and was accustomed to luxury. I hoped the enchanting sound of the brunette’s voice wasn’t a ruse. If her face held a fraction of the beauty, I’d be lucky to catch a glimpse of it.
I watched as the blonde gave the mystery girl a once over in her perfectly fitted clothing. “That can’t be comfortable,” she sympathized. “Aren’t we just reading today?”
The brunette shrugged. “My father discourages dressing for comfort almost as much as processed foods.”
The blonde raised an eyebrow. “Do you always do what your father tells you?”
“No,” the brunette replied quickly, almost self-consciously. “But let’s just say he plays a big part in my life.” She laughed quietly to herself. “I’m so sorry, I feel like you know way more about my father than you ever wanted to. I’m Gwen.” She held out her hand to the blonde.
Gwen.
I raked my mind for all the Gwens I knew in Hollywood. Was it Guinevere, another variation of it, or just Gwen? I needed to see her damned face for a complete picture.
“Erica,” the blonde replied, shifting her plate to her left hand so she could offer Gwen her right one.
“Oh.” Gwen’s voice lit up. “You’re the author. Erica Ellis.”
“Guilty,” the tall blonde confessed with a lopsided grimace.
Of course.
Erica Ellis, author of
Straightlaced
, the book our TV series would be based on. It sat on my bedside table with her face plastered across the back cover for months, collecting dust. I’d picked it up exactly once in all that time. I’d never been big on researching roles, preferring to jump into them with my own twists. Colleagues praised me for it. Evidently though, Gwen had done her homework.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you,” Gwen cried.
Erica shook her head. “I’d be a little offended if you had. I know I look different without the blowout and heavy make up. I really need to get that author photo redone.”