“Welcome to the team,” he says before he turns and leaves, surely forgetting me within the first four steps.
I’m fine with everything he said, but I’m wondering if I can talk him out of the black eyeliner he’s using.
As a professional courtesy.
✽ ✽ ✽
I have my own pop-up tent. It’s not an office, but it’s stacked with more supplies than I could ever hope to ask for. Anton told me I can take things home to practice scars and other techniques I’m not comfortable with. A couple actresses have ducked into the tent for touch-ups. I should recognize them, but I don’t watch much television or go to the movies that often. Even when I was still with Todd, it wasn’t an option. Too busy being perfect to have time for any of that.
No, I’ve avoided films and stayed with the classics. Cinderella, Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, and Rapunzel in her tower. I can relate to them. They make sense to me.
I’m plain like Cinderella. Sure, I could put on a fancy dress, play fairy godmother and make myself into a princess, but I’m more likely to be found mopping the floor. I have three little old ladies bustling around me in a constant frenzy of worry and love, like Aurora. I’m freshly freed from my prison like Rapunzel, and eager to take on the world like the Little Mermaid. Maybe once I was a believer in the love they found, but I’m afraid Todd stole most of that away.
This movie is supposedly a new age fairy tale, whatever that means. I’m guessing it means that it’s a thinly veiled reinvention of the stories I know too well. Hardly ground-breaking, but I don’t care as long as I get paid.
“Everyone listen up!” Anton yells at no one and everyone in particular. “Jay’s got an announcement.”
Little Jaimie McGuire, because that’s how I think of him every time I see him, raises his hands as if everyone is cheering for him, and he needs them to hush. That’s not the case. I doubt he realizes how crazy he looks.
“I know we took a big blow when Quinten backed out.” Murmurs from the crowd confirm this even though I don’t understand the significance. “We weren’t sure where we were going, or how to keep this film alive without our lead male. But we’ve had a bit of a windfall. This morning I received a call confirming that,” he gulps back emotion like this news could end world hunger, “Zane Alexander will be taking the lead role.”
After a deep pause, the entire cast, myself excluded, goes nuts.
“This will be interesting,” one of the actresses in front of me whispers to her companion. “Never a dull day with Zane.”
Like Alice peering through the looking glass, I’m left wondering, who the heck is Zane Alexander?
Chapter 4
I leave out the Zane part of the story when I tell Mona. Unlike me, she’s steeped in all things Hollywood. I’m sure she’ll know who he is and won’t waste any time in forcing me to watch every single one of his movies before tomorrow. Since I don’t know who he is, I don’t have a timeline for how long that might take.
Even without that tidbit, she has a million questions, and I have zero answers. She’s on board for taking care of Oliver and after a quick dinner, a bath for my boy, and two stories, he’s off to bed, and I’m buried in my notes and paperwork.
I make quick work of the legal forms. Hazard of a previous life. I understand legal speak more than the average person, I suppose. I sign every page, even the one detailing out the romance ban between crew members. But the notes on the movie, Happily Never After, are a different tale indeed. It’s a mess of intertwining plotlines, some familiar, others not so much.
Boy meets girl in small town, boy falls in love, girl doesn’t notice him because of his scarred face. Boy has a chip on his shoulder. Girl is arrogant and rude. There’s something about a mother, two sisters, some clique of mean co-workers, and a few other moving parts. New age fairytale must mean, we shoved all your favorites together, and hope you don’t notice we got confused along the way. After practicing the scars on my hand for an hour, I pop open my laptop.
I’d never admit it to anyone, but I want to know why Zane Alexander coming to Ridgedale is causing such a ruckus. I type in his name in the search bar and press enter. The next page fills with pictures, articles, and movie clips. My head spins at the onslaught. This guy is the real deal.
He’s also real handsome.
I click the first picture, and his eyes watch me through my computer. Smooth skin, a nose I suspect didn’t come to him honestly, teeth that are too straight to be natural, and gray-blue eyes that are as crisp as the lake in the dead of winter. I click through a gallery and claim interest because it’s my job to know the curves of his face. It’s ten pictures in before I imagine how my palm will feel on his cheek when I hold him steady to build his scars. It’s just twenty more pictures before I see us getting lunch at the shop on Main and laughing about my small town. Thirty pictures in, and I’m pretty sure he’d like a picnic with me in Pete’s meadow, maybe one day when shooting ends early, and I won’t tell Mona. He keeps his dark hair a little long, but not like Jay’s, just enough that I’ll feel it between my fingers if I run them through his hair. At forty pictures in, I see the caption, Hollywood Golden Boy Falls from Grace.
I click the article and every daydream evaporates.
Drugs.
Alcohol.
Vandalism.
Three stints through rehab.
Four lawsuits pending at this moment.
Probation.
Pending house arrest.
Bouts of rage caught on film.
He attacked his own car with a sterling silver shoehorn.
Eighteen months ago, he was supposedly fresh from rehab and trying to rebuild his career. During a scene, he became enraged and punched his director for calling him a loser. The attractive pictures vanish with these articles. He’s got a beard, thick and scraggly like spider’s legs. Once more, fresh out of rehab, this time having attended with his on again off again girlfriend Saphrina, ‘alleged coke addict’. I don’t have the heart to read the article about the two of them getting kicked out of The Oscars like Bonnie and Clyde. That comment from the set makes sense now. Never a dull day means rage filled outbursts, diva behavior, and possible drug use on set.
Apprehension fills my gut as I click off my light.
What have I gotten myself into?
✽ ✽ ✽
A quick kiss to my darling boy’s head before I leave isn’t enough to assuage my mommy guilt that I’m going off on this selfish adventure. I’m making ends meet, for the most part, with the odd jobs I pick up. Being gone from him for long hours is going to gut me. He’s discovering the world a little more each day, and I’ll miss it. Short of asking Mona to keep him inside and showing him only what he’s already seen, it’s inevitable.
I set my case on the table inside my pop-up tent. It’s a child’s toy chest next to the trove of supplies at my disposal, but it’s all mine, and it’s familiar. According to the call sheet, the schedule of the day’s scenes, we’re shooting the scene where Marina meets Paxton for the first time. Tabitha Schilling plays Marina and a quick web search this morning showed no skeletons in her closet, at least nothing like the cavern of bones in Zane’s.
“Hi,” a sweet voice says from behind me, “are you the new Glenda?”
One day they’ll learn my name.
Maybe.
“Yeah.” I motion to the chair beneath the lights. “I’m Finley. Go ahead, have a seat.”
Jay’s commands to the crew drone on in the distance. The damp air still holds moisture from the low overnight temperatures. The sun hasn’t crested the trees yet. Fall is no longer coming, it’s here. I rub my hands together to get feeling back into the places that have frozen. With a quick flick of my wrist, I unroll the set of professional brushes Mona bought me for my birthday. I thought it a foolish investment on her part, but I’m grateful because they help me believe I might actually be able to do this.
Marina’s character is supposed to be all sophistication, heavy m
akeup and smoky eyes. The notes show extra work around her eyes, something about being part of a magical race. I work quickly, because I have no idea how long it’s going to take me to work on Zane Alexander. Tabitha chatters on about how much she loves Ridgedale, and how the quaint feel of it keeps her in character, and she’s really feeling this vibe we have here.
I wasn’t aware of a vibe.
I’ve lived here most of my life and have felt rather vibe-free for the most part.
“Have you been to L.A. before?” she asks as I touch up her cheeks once more. “You’d love it. The nights never end. Everything is alive. It’s like energy is constantly coursing through the air.”
“Sounds dangerous,” I say before I can stop myself. She shoots me a hurt glance as if I just called her ugly. “The electricity,” I say, “you might get zapped.”
“Oh, no.” Tabitha lays a hand over mine. “That was a metaphor. You know, where you say something is like something else. It doesn’t mean there’s actually electricity in the air.”
She’s talking like I’m some backwoods hillbilly who doesn’t have indoor plumbing. My dry humor and sarcasm isn’t going to get me real far. To shut her up, I paint on her crimson lipstick. My joints ache with cold. I rub my hands together as she admires what I’ve done in the handheld mirror. Folding one palm over my hand, I blow hot air into the pocket I’ve created, then shake them to get blood flowing again.
“Do you like it?” I ask Tabitha. “I can go darker if you want, but I know they wanted you to look approachable.”
“It’s perfect,” she says without dropping the mirror. “I love it.”
I bounce a little to try to warm up some more. A light patter from the morning drizzle makes a little song on my tent. I draw in a breath and feel the burn of the cold in my nose.
“You look frozen,” a man says from my right. “You should wear gloves.”
I turn and freeze in a whole new way.
Zane Alexander.
I’m gawking.
My mouth hangs open, and dew settles on my tongue. I need to stop gawking before I freeze from the inside out.
I’m not star struck.
I’d have to care about films to be start struck. But Mona taught me when I was a kid that I shouldn’t bring up the bad stuff that a person does. I’m still struggling to teach that to Oliver. He always reminds the mailman of the time he put our mail in someone else’s box. Heaven forbid, but to my three-year-old, it was a travesty.
But that’s exactly what’s floating through my mind right now.
Drug addict.
Alcoholic.
Put a horseshoe through his barber’s windshield.
Shaved a path down the center of his head when an audition went bad.
I have so many questions to ask him. Like if he’s stable, or if I should be afraid of him, or how he’s managed to nab this part after every article I read had labeled him a self-destructed super nova.
Also. I’d like to know where he found a horseshoe in downtown LA.
There has to be a story there.
“Oh gosh, Tab, I think she’s frozen solid. Turned to a block of ice right before our eyes,” he says to the actress who’s still staring into the mirror like a modern version of Narcissus.
“No, sorry,” I jar myself free from my thoughts, “just zoned out.”
“But you are cold.” He steps out of the drizzle into my tent. “Do you need some gloves?”
My heart races. I don’t think I’ve ever been around anyone who looks like him. Not this attractive at least. This doesn’t naturally occur in a human. This is museum quality. Look and do not touch, or you’ll be tackled by security. He must have his own detail lurking somewhere.
“I can’t wear gloves while I work. I use my fingers too much.” Like an idiot, I hold up my hands so he can see the smudges of makeup all over them. Zane grins like it’s cute, but I know the truth. I look like Oliver when he finger-paints.
Trying to recover some dignity, I say, “I’ll be fine, I promise. Just take a seat.”
That would require Tabitha to move. She doesn’t take the hint, and not even one muscle twitches, except her thumb as it rubs over her plump red lips. Watching someone watch herself is awkward on a level I’ve never experienced. I glance at Zane, and he cracks another grin. That easy smile has me back to imagining picnics in the meadow faster than I want to admit.
“Hey Tab,” he says, “if I let you keep the mirror, can I have the chair?”
“Mmm-hmmm,” she says as she rises. “I need to get to wardrobe anyway.” She sets the mirror on my table, and the spell is broken. Zane eases into the chair, and Tabitha drinks him in like iced tea in the dead of summer.
“Have you been over there?” she asks him. “Wardrobe, I mean? Sometimes they can be such trolls. Are they cool?”
Zane’s hands rub over the front of his clothes. The fabric rustles while I collect what I need for his scars. “Seemed nice enough. I like what they put me in. Pretty comfortable compared to other roles.”
“Oh yeah, like your vampire movie. Those leather pants were hot,” she says. Obviously, both wardrobe and ‘New Glenda’ are forgotten by the leading lady because she’s scooted closer to Zane, still balanced on the edge of the table.
“They were literally hot,” Zane says. “I had to take breaks between shoots to air out.”
“That’s a different kind of state-mandated break,” I say to myself.
It doesn’t matter, I can say anything I want.
No one ever hears me.
Or sees me for that matter.
Her laugh is manufactured and forced, but still beautiful. As if she’s recorded it and pushes a button every time she needs it. I turn just in time to see that it comes complete with a gentle hair toss. In my head, I mock her and hope no one notices the face I pull.
“This look is rugged,” Tabitha says as she runs her hand up his thigh. My eyes bulge at how high her hands are willing to wander. “I mean, where did they find jeans like these? The stains look ground into the denim. They look roomy too.”
“Careful, I think she’ll climb inside,” I whisper under my breath. I swear Zane smirks at what I said, but it’s probably my eyes playing tricks.
It’s clearly an excuse for her to rub up and down his thigh like a cat looking to score some kibble. I set up on the table opposite of Zane, hoping one of them will sound a bell or whistle if I need to clear out and give them privacy.
“Paxton is a down home boy,” Zane says as I open the bottle of liquid latex I need to use for his scars. “I think they said one of Jay’s high school friends has been wearing these jeans for the past month to make them authentic.”
“Eww.” Tabitha covers her mouth as if the news is atrocious. “Have they been washed?”
I need to test the latex on his skin, make sure he won’t have an allergic reaction, but Tabitha is nearly in his lap at this point. I’m not sure how to get her to move. Calling “here kitty kitty,” seems like it might offend someone, even if she is a pretty tabby.
Zane’s authentic laughter rumbles from deep in his chest and bounces from between his lips. “It’s not the worst I’ve done, that’s for sure.”
“That WWII movie you did, Call to Arms, you were in the mud for nine hours, weren’t you?”
“Something like that,” Zane says. “But it’s part of the job. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Oh please, I do chick flick romance films, C-list at best,” Tabitha says. “You create art.”
As enlightening as this is, watching Tabitha slowly creep into his lap like a predatory jungle cat, I need to work.
“Ms. Schilling, I need to paint on Mr. Alexander’s scars now.”
“Go ahead,” she says, moving about a foot back. It’s not nearly the amount of room I need, but I stretch across her lap to drive the point home and grab the sketch Glenda left in her boxes. Using Glenda’s scars she built from latex and silicone, I begin matching them to where they belong on his ski
n. I press my lips together as I work. Mona says I’ve done it since I was a kid, sucking them back into my mouth until there’s almost nothing left of them.
His skin is as soft as I imagined it the first time I saw his picture. Except for the beard. The rough, unkempt beard is the only part of him I don’t find attractive at all. Probably for the best since I have to work six to eight inches from his face as I attach the scars. He tenses every time I touch him, not a lot, just enough that I notice his discomfort. Tabitha won’t leave, in fact, a few more people have come under the tent to watch me work.
Actually, it’s more likely that they’re trying to get close to Zane Alexander.
The guy has graced the cover of the most popular entertainment magazines, and I’m straddling his left leg, pressed against him while I’m gluing scars to his face and applying the four tattoos the writers wanted.
He answers questions graciously as they’re lobbed at him from his impromptu fan club.
“Zane what’s your favorite role you’ve done?”
“What’s your inspiration?”
“When did you know you wanted to act?”
“What was your first acting part?”
Zane answers them like a press conference, respectively:
“My favorite role is always the role I’m in.”
“My inspiration comes from the people who believe in me.”
“I wanted to act since I can remember. Always had a talent for becoming someone new.”
“I played one of the lost boys in Peter Pan in elementary school. I was terrible.”
That one earns him some laughter, as if no one could believe it was true. But everyone is terrible at one point in time. When I first started covering my bruises, I looked like a clown. No one is born good at everything.
Zane has a natural charisma about him. It’s obvious he’s practiced the tone of his voice, the lilt of his speech, the way he makes every one of them feel as though they’re best friends. It’s not exactly authentic, but he’s not the monster I read about last night either.
“Anything else, or can I give my attention back to this talented artist?” Zane asks the ever-growing crowd. They erupt in a series of calls and questions, and Zane’s hands come up to stop them. “Pick one more question. I’ll be glad to answer it.”
Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 3
