It was three pages. Not bad, I thought, walking back to the bathroom. Usually, the more pages the better the scene. Then I read the character name: Sexy Babe.
“Oh, no,” I muttered as I joined Jason.
“What is it?” he asked through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“My character. It's Sexy Babe.”
“The role’s not even big enough for a character name?”
I scanned the material, just two lines in a three-page scene. This was bad. I was supposed to be reading for guest star roles, leads in pilots, break-out parts in edgy independent movies, not two lines as a nameless bimbo on NCIS. “I may not have worked in a while,” I said, insecurity filling every pore of my being. “But I'm not doing another bit part.”
“Hey,” Jason said, “look at the bright side; at least it’s not Sexy Babe #2.”
The bright side, of course. I’m good at looking at the bright side. In fact, I’ve got a deep well of eternal optimism. I just have to remind myself to tap it.
“No, Jason,” I said. “The bright side is realizing that this must be some kind of mistake. Someone must’ve sent me the wrong sides. I’ll just call Lucas when the agency opens and straighten it all out.”
I stepped on Jason’s medical scale, reached to adjust the weights, and then stopped. “Who weighs 94 pounds?”
“Who, what?”
“Weighs 94 pounds. The scale is set at 94 pounds, it’s usually set at either 185ish, your weight, or 105ish, my weight. Hey, I know,” I said, trying to be funny. “You’re probably banging the model next door. She looks like she weighs 94 pounds.”
“Really,” Jason said, as he stepped back into the bedroom and started getting dressed. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Okay, about a hundred things wrong with that answer. First, no man could not notice how skinny Melody was. She was five-foot-ten, all legs, tits and ass. Second, she traipsed around the backyard in a band-aid sized bikini doing weird Tai Chi exercises every morning. Third, Jason may be gorgeous, but he’s not a very good actor, so he could’ve definitely used a take two on the “Really, I hadn’t noticed,” delivery. And now that I thought about it, he looked guilty as hell.
Then it hit me. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Whoa, that reading was even worse than “Really, I hadn’t noticed.” Now I was sure. “Jason, stop lying to me. Why don’t you just man up and admit you’re sleeping with her.”
This was where he was supposed to sweep me up in his arms, tell me how stupid I was being, how much he loved me, and then shut me up with a passionate kiss. Instead, he looked at me and said, “All right, I’m sleeping with Melody.”
His words seemed to hang in the air in front of me. I’d asked for the admission, hoping he wasn’t sleeping with her. But actually hearing him say the words hurt more than I could have imagined. I didn’t know what to say, what to do next.
“In fact,” Jason said, filling the awkward silence. “I think I may be in love with her.”
Any confusion I felt was suddenly washed away. “Wait,” I said. “You think you’re in love with another woman yet you screwed me ten minutes ago?”
“I was trying to find the right time to tell you.”
“Yeah, tough decision. Do I dump Grace before I fuck her or wait until I’m done.”
“See, I knew you would turn this around on me.”
“What?”
“That you’d find a way to blame me.”
“I do blame you. Hello! You’re fucking another woman!”
“Because…” He trailed off like the rest of his sentence was obvious.
I tried to think of what would come next and drew a blank. “Because, what?”
“Think about it,” he said, staring hard at me. “It’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“I’m not the one with intimacy issues.”
“So you’re saying that if I didn’t have intimacy issues, you wouldn’t have cheated on me?”
“There you’ve said it. And I forgive you.”
“You forgive me?”
“What we had was great, Grace. Awesome, even. But it’s time we moved on.” He grabbed his keys off the counter. “I’m going to the gym. It might be best for everyone if you were gone when I get back.” He walked out the door.
Okay, Jason was a jerk. I knew that. But for the last six months he was my gorgeous jerk.
And I always knew Jason was just an in-between guy – the guy after my last less-than-perfect boyfriend and before the long-dreamed-about Mr. Right. But still… Ouch.
Oh, and the worst thing – I weighed 109.
I burst out Jason’s front door fifteen minutes later. My arms were filled with the detritus of our six months together. A box filled with make-up, tampons, toothbrush – you know, that stuff. I balanced a pile of clothes on top of the box and tried to talk into the cell phone wedged into my shoulder. “Sexy Babe? Come on Lucas, it’s got to be some kind of mistake.”
Lucas Abrams was my agent. We hooked up when I first got to town –- yes we slept together and no, I didn’t. Actually it was more a fling than a thing; he came to a showcase where I performed a scene from Carnal Knowledge. He’d just been promoted to an agent at Pinnacle Artists after making the “mail room to assistant” odyssey. He liked my work, and signed me. We went out that night to celebrate, had too many Cosmos, and ended up back at his place. We both admitted it was a mistake in the morning, agreed our working together was more important than our sleeping together, and we’ve been platonic ever since.
“Actually,” he said. “The fax was a mistake.”
“I knew it.” I reached my seven-year old red Miata convertible, dumped my crap in the back seat, and took proper hold of the phone. “I mean, you promised me no more bit parts. So when I saw --”
“Not that kind of mistake,” Lucas interrupted. “More like the ‘you’re not a client anymore so we’re not sending you out on auditions’ kind of mistake.”
“What?”
“Times are tough, Grace. Too many actresses, too few parts. So the partners have decided to trim the client list.”
“If this is a joke, it is so not funny.”
“No joke. Look, I fought for you, I did. But the partners just looked at the bottom line. Each year you’ve booked less and less work.”
“But we’ve been so close! I almost landed that Cameron Crowe comedy six months ago. And you said I was the second choice for the CBS pilot.”
“I was being nice, Grace. You were a bust in both auditions.”
“What?”
“You’ve got tons of talent, don’t get me wrong. But you’re just not the same actress I met five years ago. It’s like the passion’s been sucked out of you.”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to learn two or three parts a day, drive all over town auditioning –- seeing the same actresses trying out for the same roles –- and almost never getting hired?”
“I do. But you used to be excited to have all those auditions. Now you dread them. Does that tell you anything?”
“It’s hard not to get discouraged, Lucas. But I’ll do better, I promise. Give me another chance; I’ll be the new improved Grace Taylor, you’ll see.”
“I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands. Stop by anytime to pick up your head-shots and demo reel.”
“Lucas, no, please…”
“Prove us wrong, kiddo. Go out there and become a star.” He hung up.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry on the drive home. I made it twenty feet. Tears of anger, frustration and humiliation poured down my face. I was crying so hard traffic was a blur so I turned on the windshield wipers. They scraped uselessly against the bone-dry glass and when I realized how stupid I was, I started laughing.
Then my old optimism came roaring back. Hey, it’ll all work out, I told myself. I had tons of actress friends who would be happy to introduce me to their agent. And guys hit on me all the time.
So fuck Jason Settles. Grace Taylor was available again and Hollywood was full of hot guys.
It was about a fifteen-minute drive from Jason’s house to my apartment in Westwood. Or should I say, apartment about to go condo.
Would you pay $560,000 for a 400 square-foot, one bedroom apartment in a thirty-year-old building? Me neither. Never mind the fact I had no money and lousy credit. The apartment was shabby, the walls were paper-thin, the refrigerator rattled, the toilet ran, and the shower stall smelled like rotten cheese.
My lease was up and, since I wouldn’t buy the shithole, they were kicking me out. I had twelve days to vacate the premises. To be honest, I hadn’t even started looking. I was kind of hoping Jason would ask me to move in with him.
Idiot!!
I heard the phone ring inside the apartment. I was holding the box in one arm and the armload of clothes in the other, but I managed to dig my keys out of my purse and let myself in. I dumped my stuff on the chair and dove for the phone like a lifeline. “Be someone I know and love.”
“Will I do?” I recognized the voice instantly. Madison Stone, one of my best friends. We met at an audition for the TV show, House, both reading for a newlywed who’s got a brain tumor and only Dr. House’s quirky brilliance can save her. If I was the Girl Next Door, Madison was usually cast as the Drop Dead Gorgeous. Madison had incredible red hair, a killer body and this oozing kind of sexuality that usually left guys tripping all over themselves. And, if she’d been a better actress, she could have been a star. But to be honest, and she was the first to admit it, Madison was a little stiff. She always seemed to be “acting,” was never able to disappear into the role. But she worked it. She was in two different acting classes, and a cold reading workshop. Madison did book a lot of print work and enough commercials to keep her in a nice apartment, let her shop at Barney’s, and treat us to hundred-dollar lunches at the Ivy.
“Oh, thank God, Madison. You won’t believe the day I’m having. Jason dumped me and my agent fired me.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I never liked Jason, though. None of us did. But your agent is a different…” Madison tailed off. A beat later her voice was louder, angry. “What the hell are you doing here?” She was talking to someone else in her apartment.
“Madison, who’s there? Are you all right?”
“Get away from me.” She sounded scared now. Near panic.
“Madison!”
She screamed. Then I heard what sounded like a punch, followed by another scream, shattering glass, the thud of the phone hitting the floor, and then the line went dead.
Oh shit. I quickly called her back, but it just rang. And rang. Not good.
Madison only lived a couple of blocks away, so I thought about running over there and rescuing her, then got real. I’m an actress, not the Bionic Woman. I called 911. It was busy. Ten-fifteen on a Thursday morning and 911 is busy! I called again. Busy. Goddamn L.A. I grabbed my purse and bolted out the door.
I started running. If I cut through the alley and caught the light on Santa Monica Boulevard, I could be at Madison’s in a couple of minutes. And while I may not have been the Bionic Woman, Madison and I did take a self-defense class from Charlie Wang’s Women Empowerment Academy.
I reviewed Charlie’s Five and Five. The five target areas: Eyes, Nose, Throat, Jaw and Groin. The five attacks: Palm Strike, Throat Strike, Head Butt, Elbow Blow, Knee Kick. Charlie was also a huge proponent of mace. We drilled using it when attacked from the front and attacked from the rear. On graduation day, we each got a diploma and a four-ounce can of mace. I’d never fired it in anger, so to speak, but it was in my purse and ready to go.
I looked for help as I bolted out of the alley and raced down Kelton Avenue. No cops, anywhere. No hunky guys standing around who might want to help a lady in distress, either. The light blinked from yellow to red as I got to the intersection. Screw it, I thought, and I darted into the street. Screeching brakes and blaring horns greeted me, but I made it across Santa Monica unscathed and stopped in front of Madison’s building. There was an exterior staircase leading to the second floor landing and Madison’s apartment.
I pulled out my cell phone, tried 911 one final time and couldn’t get a signal. I had a copy of Madison’s key, part of Charlie Wang’s Buddy System. I grabbed it and started up the stairs. When I reached the apartment, I put my ear to the door, heard nothing. Tried to look in the window, but the drapes were drawn.
I thought about knocking. But if some evildoer was inside, I was afraid they would just shoot me through the door. So I unlocked the door, traded the key for my can of mace and slowly stepped inside.
The living room was empty, but a complete mess. Stuff was tossed everywhere. I inched forward, peeked into the kitchen. Madison was sprawled on the floor. I rushed to her, blood dripped from a gash on her forehead. She was either dead or unconscious.
“Madison!” I whispered urgently. I put two fingers to her carotid artery –- I played a nurse on an episode of The Mentalist and the technical advisor had taught me how to do it. The pulse was strong, thank God. “Madison,” I whispered again. I looked for something to staunch the bleeding. There was a dishtowel on the counter. I grabbed it, but when I pulled it, I realized it was sitting under a nest of copper measuring cups. They went flying; with a loud clang, they hit the floor.
There was a thud from somewhere in the apartment, then the sound of running footsteps. Crap!
I whirled toward the kitchen door, the mace aimed in front of me. A man burst into the kitchen. Big, mean and ugly. Not him, the gun in his hand. He was short, but all muscle, with a pockmarked face and maniacal eyes.
As he raised the gun, I sprayed him full in the face. He screamed and dropped to his knees, his hands clawing at his eyes. I bent over Madison, tried to get her to her feet, but she was still out and dead weight. No way I could pick her up.
Then the thug, still frantically rubbing his eyes, got to his feet. He was recovering fast. I reached out to spray him again, but he knocked the can out of my hand.
Shit!
He dove at me but I darted to my left and he missed. Then I made a beeline for the door.
I half ran, half fell down the stairs. As I hit the ground, I looked back to see the thug flying out Madison’s apartment after me. I hurtled myself into the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard waving my arms, screaming, “Help! Somebody help me!”
WE HOPE YOU’VE ENJOYED THIS EXCERPT FROM SEXY BABE. IT’S AVAILABLE NOW AT AMAZON.COM OR A BOOKSTORE NEAR YOU…
BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE…
HERE A PREVIEW OF ONE MORE NOVEL BY JAMES L. CONWAY,
In Cold Blonde…
PROLOGUE
She was hot.
A California girl, with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, emerald green eyes and lips bathed in Revlon’s Raspberry Mousse. The dress was by Calvin Klein, bright red, notice me red. It clung to her skin, served up the swell of her breasts, stopped at the top of her muscled thighs. Too short for most women, it looked perfect on her. Her long tanned legs curved down to a pair of Manolo Blahnik fuck-me pumps, her toes were painted to match her lips. And she had something else, attitude. She walked in long, confident strides, almost a swagger. She was on the prowl and tonight, this bar was her jungle.
If you’d glanced at your watch when she walked into Havoc, L.A.’s hottest body exchange, the little hand would have been on the one and the big hand just past the six; 1:32 a.m. to be exact.
Late, so the herd was cut by now, most everyone paired off and flirting. I say most everyone because one of the universe’s absolute truths is that there are always more single guys in a bar than single girls. And tonight’s loser was Colin Wood. He’d gotten to Havoc late, about 1:15, after all the available nubiles were taken. Frustrated, he’d ordered a Jack on the rocks, figuring he’d down it quickly and head home. He’d been working late, stuck on location in Redondo Beach, shooting in an abandoned power plant. Colin was an actor. Not a star, but a working actor; tall, ha
ndsome in a John Cusack sort of way, getting eight to ten jobs a year. Enough to pull down about 150 G’s, including residuals. Enough to get recognized every so often, though no one could ever place his name. Enough to usually get him laid when he went clubbing. But not tonight; tonight he was too late. Frustrated, he finished his drink, dropped some money on the bar and turned to the door. And that’s when she walked in.
Heads swiveled as she crossed the room, some drawn by her beauty, others just sensing her, well, sex. Colin could almost feel the regret as a lot of the now occupied guys reconsidered their hastily chosen partners. And to Colin’s delight, she moved down the bar and took the stool next to him. “London or Paris?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” Daisy, Gatsby’s wet dream, might have had a voice that was full of money; this babe’s smoky timber sizzled sex.
“For our honeymoon. London or Paris?”
She actually smiled. “Does that line ever work?”
“No. But there’s a first time for everything.”
She appraised him slowly. Her green eyes drinking in his tousled brown hair, hazel eyes, freckled nose, dimpled chin. “Too hunky for a real job,” she said. “Model or actor?”
“Brain surgeon.”
An appreciative smile. “Too quick for a model. That means actor.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“For breeding, probably not, but most actors are shallow, self-absorbed egomaniacs who think an intelligent conversation starts and ends with me, me, me.”
“Then, let’s focus on the breeding part.”
She laughed, and then she cocked her head to the side, tucked her chin into the palm of her right hand and said, “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Let’s focus on the breeding part.”
Yikes, Colin thought. Does she mean what I think she means? “Do you mean what I think you mean?” he asked.
Dead and Not So Buried Page 31
