by Naomi Martin
“Xavier, you toad,” Renee snarls. “You should butt out of conversations that don’t involve you.”
He scoffs and turns to me. “Don’t let Renee give you a hard time. She talks tough, but the closest she’s been to a fist fight is watching it on pay-per-view.”
Renee’s expression burns with anger. “Why don’t you crawl back to your cave, you troglodyte?”
“And miss out on all this?”
“Yeah, like what are you even doing here?” Lacey chimes in. “Are you stopping by the personality store to pick up a new one?”
Xavier’s smile nearly steals my breath and his laughter is low, deep, and rumbles deliciously through my body.
“I am, actually,” Xavier replies. “It’s right next door to the vagina store, so why don’t we go together, Lacey, and you can replace yours. I hear it’s pretty worn out.”
“Screw you, toad!” Lacey’s scream echoes around the cavernous rotunda.
I hide my mouth behind my hand to keep from laughing out loud as Renee and her minions round on him, their eyes burning with hatred. As heads turn our way and whispered conversations start all around us, Renee quickly composes herself. With a flick of her head, she tosses her long dark locks over her shoulder and puts on an ice-queen façade, her face eerily smooth.
She glares at me, her eyes glittering with the promise of retribution. “Watch your back, bitch.”
As if they practice it, Renee and her two flunkies turn as one and stride away. They move to the other side of the rotunda, huddled together, obviously waiting for their name to be called so they can prove they “have what it takes.”
I’m left standing there with Xavier. He’s a couple inches shorter than Ryan, with blonde hair and eyes that shine like polished sapphires. His body is made of muscle stacked upon muscle, from head to toe—if he has an ounce of body fat on him, I would be hard pressed to find it. I mean, his biceps look thicker than my thighs. His skin is tawny, as if he spends a lot of time outside in the sun. Which I imagine he does, because I peg him as a football player.
“Xavier.” He extends his hand to shake mine. “Xavier Michaelson.”
“Let me guess, you and Lacey had a thing.”
He runs a hand through his wavy blonde locks and grins. “That obvious?”
“Little bit.” I laugh softly. “I’m Tatum. Greene. Tatum Greene. That’s me.”
I silently kick myself in the butt and stop talking when I hear the stammering, idiotic word salad falling out of my mouth. I’m mortified and feel my heat starting to warm my face—something that, as a redhead with skin as fair as snow, I won’t be able to hide.
If he notices my embarrassment, he’s kind enough not to show it. “Nice to meet you, Tatum. You here for the talent scout thing?”
“Yeah, I guess I am,” I reply. “How about you?”
He holds the bag in his hand up for me to see. “Actually, I was just picking up some new shoes. And I guess maybe a personality, too.”
I laugh. “I think your personality is just fine. If anything, I think those three need to buy new ones.”
He waves them off. “Just ignore them. Seriously, they’re total bitches who have nothing better to do than talk shit all the time.”
“Yeah, I got that impression.”
We stand there, staring at each other, for a moment that seems to get more awkward the longer it stretches on. I feel like I should be saying something to break the silence, but don’t trust myself to actually speak like a normal person. We both laugh, thankfully breaking the tension. Xavier’s smile is bright but almost shy.
“So, listen, can I get your number?”
My cheeks are burning and I can’t keep the stupid smile off my face. I finally look up at him, though, and nod.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Great.”
He hands me his phone and I plug in my number then hand it back to him. Xavier’s smile is as wide as a kid’s on Christmas morning.
“I’ll text you,” he says. “It was good meeting you, by the way.”
“Yeah, you too.”
As he walks away, I cut a glance over at Renee and her girls—they all roll their eyes and fake vomit then turn away, laughing and whispering to one another. I see Katie come out of the tent and she makes a beeline for me, a smile on her face. Renee and her friends all laugh a little too loudly to make it clear they’re talking about Katie. She ignores them, though, and steps over to me.
“So? How’d it go?”
“It was fun,” she replies. “He took some headshots and I read a few lines. He said he likes me.”
“I knew he would. Didn’t I tell you?”
The man comes out of the tent and calls my name. Katie laughs and pushes me toward him.
“Your turn. Now go.”
I laugh with her as I shuffle toward the tent. “I’m going, I’m going.”
Throwing my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I do my best to play off my nerves as I walk toward the tent. I know this isn’t going to amount to anything, but just the idea of getting back into acting again lights me up inside and fills me with a rush of excitement I can’t deny.
Chapter Eight
“Good afternoon…” His voice trails off as he consults his clipboard. “…Tatum. I’m James Markham, and I specialize in making dreams come true. How are you today?”
“I’m great, thank you,” I reply. “And I’m hoping to have my dreams come true.”
He laughs, clapping his hands. “That’s wonderful.”
He leads me to a small area off to one side of the tent, with a pair of chairs separated by a small, round table. He motions for me to take a seat and I do. He sits down across from me and takes a moment, looking like he’s sizing me up. I feel a little bit awkward under his scrutiny but try to push it away. This is all part of the process—if I’m ever going to be a serious actor, I’m going to have people scrutinizing me twenty-four hours a day. Which means I need to get used to it.
“So, why don’t we start with you telling me a bit about yourself.” His voice is high and sort of nasally.
“Well, I’m eighteen—I’m new to town and I’m about to be a senior at Sapphire Bay High,” I reply. “I’ve been acting for a while, school plays and all. I realized recently just how much I love it. My passion has never been higher.”
“That’s wonderful to hear. Having passion is a beautiful thing,” he says. “You’d be surprised how many people I see who want to be famous but don’t really have that passion burning inside of them.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I end up not saying anything at all. James Markham is kind of a strange guy. He’s tall and thin, with narrow shoulders and a pointy nose and chin. He’s kind of gangly, really. His hair is greying, and up close I can see it’s sort of greasy and slicked back. His eyes are green and his skin is sallow, pocked with old acne scars.
It’s not his looks that put me off, though. There’s just an air about him that feels off to me. I don’t understand it and can’t explain it, but something about him has me on edge.
James folds his hands and sets them on the table in front of him. “So, were you looking at the acting or the modeling side of things, Tatum? Because, let me tell you, with your looks, you would do well in the world of fashion modeling.”
I laugh, my face burning with embarrassment. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“That’s something we need to work on—your confidence,” he says. “You’re gorgeous, Tatum. You need to own that. You need to know you’re gorgeous.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, unable to force myself to meet his eyes. I know it’s meant as a compliment and a confidence-builder, but hearing him say it just sounds wrong to me. Coming out of his mouth, the encouragement sounds more suggestive than it probably should.
But then, I’m not used to guys laying on the compliments as thick as he seems to be doing. And I’ve never been good at accepting praise to begin with. Combine those two things and you have a recipe for
misinterpreting even the most benign of comments.
That’s probably it. I’m just overreacting. I keep repeating that to myself in my head like a mantra as I try to push away the negative thoughts that are twisting me into knots inside.
“H-how long have you been doing this? Being a talent scout?” I ask, just to fill the awkward silence.
“About twenty years.” He says it with a tone of awe, like he can’t believe it himself. “Time really flies.”
He laughs and I give him a smile in return. Running my fingers through my hair, I look down at the table, feeling awkward and unsure of myself.
“So, what would you think about modeling?”
I shake my head. “I’m more interested in performing, to be honest. Modeling just doesn’t hold any real appeal for me.”
He nods. “Fair enough.”
“So, has your company placed many actors?” I asked. “I mean, do you represent many actors currently working?”
“A good number of my girls are currently working.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Anybody I might know?”
He gives me a patient smile. “Confidentiality agreements prevent me from sharing my client list. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.”
“But perhaps you’ll be joining my stable of actresses.”
“I-I’d like to get my foot in the door of the industry,” I tell him. “I really do want to make it happen.”
“Excellent. Then how about you show me that fire and passion?”
I swallow hard at his words and feel my heart drop into my stomach. It sounds to me like there is more behind his words than he’s saying, like there’s some subtle subtext he’s trying to impart. It makes me think—and worry—about all of those casting-couch scandals that have been in the news.
I’m willing to do a lot to launch my career, but I definitely have limits and lines I absolutely will not cross.
Markham looks at me, his expression inscrutable for a moment, and then he erupts into laughter. He claps his hand, practically doubling over. I stare at him blankly, not knowing what in the hell he finds so funny. His laughter slows and he reins himself in.
“Apologies, it’s just the look on your face just now. It was priceless,” he says. “I know exactly what was going through your mind. I’ve seen that look before.”
“Oh? And what was going through my mind?”
“Let me just say I’m not like Harvey Weinstein, Tatum. This isn’t a casting-couch deal here. I promise you.”
His smile is easy and meant to soothe but it looks kind of creepy, to be honest. But I argue with myself, fighting against my natural distrust of people—men, specifically—and my own fluttering nerves. I feel like a bit of a train wreck right now, and I’m really regretting agreeing to do this. Not that Katie gave me much of a choice.
But if I’m serious about wanting a career in acting, I’m going to be dealing with guys who creep me out all the time. It’s probably better I learn how to sort out my own feelings and fears from the reality—as well as how to deal with guys who creep me out—sooner, rather than later. Especially since this thing with Markham is probably my issue, anyway.
“So how about we read some lines?” Markham suggests. “Let me get a sense of your skill with a script.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
He stands up and I get to my feet, following him over to the half of the tent that’s set up with regular and video cameras. He positions me in front of a backdrop that’s gray and marbled with streaks of white—like the kind you’d see in school photos, which I think is kind of weird. But then, he’s not in a regular studio, and maybe he can only bring stuff like this with him.
Markham hands me a script—it’s from a popular movie that I’ve seen a few times, and it makes me smile. He walks back to a tall director’s-style chair and drops down into it. A camera on a tripod stands next to him and he looks over at me, his hand poised over it.
“Whenever you’re ready, Tatum. Just start with the highlighted line.”
I clear my throat and try to remember the character—try to channel her. I think about the way Reese Witherspoon played her and then try to add my own spin to it. My own flavor. I pace back and forth, reading the script, absorbing the words, and come up with exactly how I’m going to make her mine. I close my eyes and let out a long breath and, when I’m ready, I turn and recite the monologue, barely even needing to reference the script.
When I’m done, Markham sits back in his seat and claps, a smile slowly stretching across his face. He nods, looking very pleased.
“Very fine work,” he says. “You have a real gift. A natural delivery, and you have a real presence, Tatum. A commanding presence. I’m very impressed.”
“Thank you.” I feel the heat creeping into my cheeks.
He purses his lips as he stands up and hands me another script. It’s from a movie I’m not familiar with and I take a few minutes to read through the lines, doing my best to pull the words into me.
“Now, I want to see the nuance and texture you can bring to a character.”
I nod and continue to read, repeating the lines over and over in my head, doing my best to develop a character on the fly.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Slowly, I start to recite from the script. It’s slow and halting at first, but I quickly gather steam until I’m suddenly in the character and the words come flowing out of me. I feel every ounce of pain and the torrent of emotions the character must have been feeling. And when I’m done, I feel a bit wrung out. Spent.
“That was incredible, Tatum. Really, that was superb. You’re a natural.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
He invites me to take a seat in the vacant director’s chair next to him. I do, and we sit and talk about characters and movie for about ten minutes. The conversation flows easily and the earlier misgivings I had about Markham seem to have evaporated, proving that it really was all in my head.
“Okay, I want to take some headshots now,” he says. “I’ll start putting your name into circulation and we’ll see what shakes out.”
“Wow, really?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yes, really. Now, just go stand over there in front of the backdrop. Take a seat on the stool, if you would.”
I do as he says and Markham walks over, positioning me how he wants me. His hands, though, linger a little too long on the small of my back and my upper arm. It’s just a beat, but it’s enough to send a chill running along my spine—and not in a good way. Compounding that feeling is the look in his eye. It’s salacious, and as his gaze slides up and down my body, I feel a greasy residue on my skin.
I try to put it out of my mind. I tell myself it’s all in my head—just like everything else. But, try as I might, I can’t quite shake it.
As if sensing my discomfort, Markham takes his hands off me and steps back, the smile on his face never faltering. He steps back behind his camera and makes a few adjustments to his lenses, then gives me a couple of orders to lift my chin and square my shoulders.
The flash of the camera is nearly blinding as he takes a series of shots, asking me to readjust after every couple snaps. He takes a few of me standing, looking over my shoulder, flirty, pouty, and sultry. I laugh because it feels a bit over the top and ridiculous.
“Great. That’s great,” he says. “I think I have what I need. You can relax.”
He walks over and hands me a clipboard, asking me to fill out the information for my file. I do as he asks and give him my information, feeling a wave of excitement washing over me. I know it’s silly and it’s a million-to-one shot that anything comes of this but still, the idea of getting back to acting excites me—which tells me that I’m on the right path.
Markham takes the clipboard back and scans the information. “Okay, I think I have what I need,” he says. “Let me just say, it was really terrific meeting you, Tatum.”
“It was great meeting you, as well.”
> He sits back down in his director’s chair and taps the pen against his thigh, scanning my information again.
“Listen, I don’t want to get your hopes up here. You know how this industry is.”
I nod. “Believe me, I don’t have any false hopes.”
And I don’t. Mr. Worley disabused all of us who were serious about pursuing a career in the industry of the notions of instant celebrity. He made sure we were realistic, had our eyes wide open, and knew that the number of people who made it was infinitesimal.
“Good.” He nods. “That’s good. You need to be realistic. That being said, you have something really special here. You are very special, and I will fight to get you the break you deserve.”
“Th-thank you, Mr. Markham. That means a lot.”
“James. Please,” he replies. “If we’re going to be working together, I think we should be on a first-name basis.”
I laugh. “James, then.”
“I should warn you, this isn’t going to be a fast process. You need to be in it for the long haul.”
“I am.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “Good to hear.”
Markham gets to his feet and I follow suit. He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, a strange light in his eye.
“Then I will be in touch.”
I hesitate for just a moment before I smile. “Great. That’s great.”
I turn and leave the tent, crossing the rotunda toward Katie, who is smiling wide. As I walk, though, my feelings are conflicted. Something about the way Markham looked at me there at the end, sent a cold chill rushing through me. It felt… intrusive. I don’t know any other way to describe it.
But I push it away, reminding myself once more that what goes on in my mind doesn’t always reflect reality. I know my own fears and insecurities sometimes lead me to the wrong conclusions and interpretations of things. And if there’s one thing I’m uncertain and insecure about, it’s my ability to make a career out of acting.
