A Spy Is Born

by Emily Kimelman

  "I guess I'll have a lot of free time," I say.

  “Nah.” Temperance shakes his head. Will I be working for him right away? “The production will continue with a new director. You're going to be fine, Angela."

  I search my reflection in his sunglasses, wishing I could see his eyes. His voice is assured, though. He is not worried about me. But maybe that's because he does not care about me. Maybe it's because I am just a weapon to him—a piece of equipment to be used and discarded like any other. An asset.

  "That's good news, I guess," I say about the new director.

  He nods. "I told you I'd take care of you." Temperance tips his head. "Call me if you need me."

  My brows raise. “I don’t have your number.”

  “It’s in your phone.”

  Of course it is. “Will you call me?" I sound like a lovesick teenager. What the hell?

  He smiles, slow and seductive—I’m a mouse, and he is a teasing cat. "When I need you. But you can call me anytime. I want to help you. The American government is now invested in your success. You need anything, just let me know. Even if you don't think I can help."

  Archie pulls on his leash, and I follow him, Temperance trailing behind me. "Really? So, I just keep living my life."

  "That's right."

  “Where is the catch?”

  Temperance laughs and shakes his head. "You want to help your country, and we want to help you. It's all working out just the way it should."

  "Okay." I say it slowly, doubt clear.

  "Don't worry," he says. "Just concentrate on today, on each step. They will have a new director by the end of the week, and filming will continue. Work with your trainer and memorize your lines."

  He's my acting coach now?

  "Okay," I say again, glancing down at my watch.

  "You need to go," Temperance says, reaching into his pockets and pulling out my car fob.

  I stare at it for a moment, and he shakes the chain, stirring me to take it. "Thanks," I say again.

  He sips his coffee and nods. "See you soon, and remember, call me if you need me."

  I nod, and he turns, walking away from me, back across the pet relief area, into the shadow of the apartment complex and disappearing around the corner.

  My phone beeps—my alarm telling me I need to leave.

  Scooping up Archie, I head to the garage. My car is in my spot, the dim, florescent lights overhead exposing scratches and an ugly dent in the back bumper.

  I open the passenger door and place Archie’s bag on the seat. He pops his head out, but doesn't try to escape—he likes it in there. Feels safe, probably.

  I go around and get behind the wheel of my fancy sports car. Pushing the button to start the engine, I take a deep breath. Here we go.

  It was all a dream.

  As I pull out of the garage into the bright LA day, that line becomes easier to believe. My entire life feels like a dream—and has for some time. Starring role in a movie, fancy car, plush apartment. Now add in dead director, secret agent…what's real about any of this?

  My grandmother's voice resounds in my head. "They will come for you. They always come for us."

  I shift gears, speeding up on a straight of way. They are not coming for me. I am them now.

  Chapter Five

  The click of the cameras is like the chatter of bugs in brush. I give them my shoulder, letting my long hair brush down my exposed back and smile, more with my eyes than my mouth. Like the femme fatale I play in the film.

  The full-length, black shimmering gown slips across my skin, making me feel that much more seductive. That much more wanted.

  My publicist, Jeremy Talons, nods and smiles from the side, his phone gripped in his hand. I shift, giving the crowd of photographers another angle, keeping my chin down, body angled to show off the dip of my lower back and the swell of my ass. The last nine months of filming and training have brought me up to peak physical shape.

  "Over here! Angela!" They yell for me, and I slowly, carefully, evenly, draw my eyes across the forest of lenses, connecting with each one, watching them click, feeling the power they offer and letting it in.

  "Okay," Jeremy says, stepping forward. He takes my arm, and I duck my head as I move down the line with him. "We have Jamie Novis from Celebrity Fit TV," he says quietly as we step up to a woman dressed in a full-length emerald green gown, standing next to a camera man. She gives me a giant smile that creases her heavy makeup, and I return it.

  "Angela Daniels," she enthuses. "I love your dress. But more than that, I love your arms." I laugh good-naturedly…what a silly thing to say. Aren't we having so much fun right now? "So, I've heard the workouts for this shoot were grueling."

  I nod, my hair sliding over my shoulder, “Yes, it was super intense. I worked with Synthia Taylor every day to stay in top shape, and I had to give up all my favorites."

  "Like what?"

  "I'm from Kansas, and we love our barbecue—I haven’t had a bite since January."

  She laughs and nods. "So what have you been eating?”

  I tell her about tofu, green leafy veggies, and broths…bone broths. We laugh at more ridiculousness.

  Jeremy takes my arm, and we move down the line.

  Harold Jaspers from HLTV is the first reporter to bring up Jack’s death—a tragic massive heart attack. The reporter’s eyes get all serious right before the question, so I have a moment to prepare, to put on the expression I've practiced for this moment. "What was it like, losing your director so early in the shoot?”

  "Well, Harold—" I put my hand on his arm, and his eyes light. He’s getting something good here. "I really admired Jack. Everyone did." Harold nods, his brow drawn down, drooping under the weight of the sadness, the grief of such a loss. "He taught me so much in the short time we worked together. It was just so sad, to pass now, when he still had so much to offer."

  "I've seen the movie,” Harold says, and I nod. Yes, Harold, you're important enough for an early screening. "And you're amazing. What a powerful female character you play."

  "Thank you." I bring a soft blush to my cheeks by thinking about a dumb comment I made at a party years ago that still stings. “I’m so happy to have had the opportunity to play this role.” Badass chick in tight leather, kicking ass…cliché. But how can we show women's strength without also revealing how tight her ass is?

  The strength of the single mothers of the world, the struggling waitresses and endangered teenage girls, are hidden in dreary dramas that no one goes to see. We don't see them as strong. Maybe one day I'll win an Oscar for my portrayal of an unattractive woman surviving, and Harold will ask me about my strength in that film…but more likely he’ll ask me about my intentional weight gain and makeup job.

  I pull my attention back to him. He’s asking about the replacement director, and I am smiling, talking about how talented he is and what a wonderful film we made. "I'm really lucky," I say, the words coming out on a gush of emotion that I practiced for two weeks with Mary. Harold loves it; he laps it up like Archie going after the frozen peanut butter in his chew toy.

  My publicist’s hand at my elbow ends the conversation and moves me down the line until we are in the theater, where Mary is waiting for me. "You did great, honey."

  "You saw me?"

  "Jeremy texted. Let's talk after-parties,” she says as we step into the theater. "I have several options for you..." I zone out as she goes on about where I need to be seen and with whom.

  My eyes catch on a broad back. Is that Temperance? The man turns, and it's not him. My heart is pumping though, sending adrenaline through my system.

  I have not heard from Temperance since he gave me a cup of coffee that first morning. Several nights, late, when I was being haunted by that dream that never happened, I’ve thought about calling him…just to see if he's even real. But time has passed, and the nightmare has faded. As long as I get in my training, my yoga, and my work, I'm fine.

  I’m great, actually.

/>   A hand stretches across my bare lower back, and I jump, startled. Mary grabs my arm as I bump into her. "Sorry, love, didn't mean to scare you." It's my costar, Julian Styles. "We're sitting together." He puts his hand onto my lower back again and points to the row of seats.

  "Enjoy the show, honey. I'm going to make some calls, and I'll see you after," Mary says, raising on her toes to kiss my cheek.

  She rushes off before I can even reply. Julian ushers me into the aisle, and I sit in my assigned seat, arranging my long skirt around me. The fabric bunches up and flows over Julian's tuxedo-clad leg. I try to pull it off, and he just shakes his head. "No worries. I don’t mind."

  I smile at him, and he grins back. His star power is dangerous…enticing. Mary suggested I date him. But, I am not dating at the moment. Julian flashes his dimples at me, and I wonder if I should reconsider my position.

  The theater darkens, and the screen lights. A tribute to Jack begins to play. My skin grows clammy, and my fingers fidget in the folds of my skirt. Julian leans over, bringing his lips close to my ear. "You okay?" he asks.

  "Yes, of course."

  Julian reaches down and winds his fingers through mine, stilling them. I let him, let him believe it's just normal grief, not guilt or repressed memory that makes me shake. I have to believe it too.

  As Jack's accomplishments flash across the screen—clips and snippets from his long filmography—I take in measured breaths, pushing one thought through my mind.

  It was just a dream—a nightmare. It never happened.

  By the time the movie starts, I've convinced myself again that none of it was real. Now I’m ready to enjoy the movie I spent most of the last year making. My first major role. The film that will make me a star.

  The after party is loud, and the drink in my hand is cold. I sip the strong vodka and smile at Julian, who’s leaning over me so we can hear each other above the noise. His hair falls across his forehead, and his dark blue eyes sparkle.

  Mary, a ways behind him, is involved in another conversation but gives me a small knowing smile. She approves.

  My heart beats faster as I think about her sending me off to Jack's that night. Did she know what was going to happen? Could she have guessed? Julian leans closer, his lips brushing my cheek. “Want to get out of here?"

  "Let's stay a little longer." I turn my own mouth to his ear. "I've only had one drink."

  "Yes, I know.” His hand cuffs my elbow loosely. "I don't want you to drink anymore."

  He leans back to catch my eye. He wants me sober. A thrill runs over my body, and a shy smile pulls at my lips. It’s coy, and I note it—this is a good smile, authentic and subtle. Perfect for a close-up. I take a mental snapshot of this moment to use for later.

  Maybe Julian Stiles—heartthrob, drop-dead gorgeous, pretty damn good actor—is also a pretty darn good man.

  "Okay," I say. He grins, those dimples of his setting loose a flock of butterflies in my stomach.

  Julian’s hand moves down my elbow, and he intertwines his fingers with mine. He pulls me forward, and I put the still mostly-full martini glass down on a passing waiter’s tray. "I have my car,” Julian says as we move through the crowd.

  Mary watches us go, giving me that smile again. It almost makes me stop. The fact that she wants me dating Julian is annoying. I may need to fire her. Should I ask her if she knew about Jack?

  Knew what? That was just a nightmare.

  I squeeze Julian’s hand. Because he's here, now, and this is not dream. This is reality. I just left the screening of my first big movie.

  As we step outside, the world explodes with flashes of cameras. I almost stumble, but Julian is holding me tight. He smiles for the cameras. People are yelling questions, but Julian doesn't answer. He’s used to this.

  We move through the crowd, and Julian speaks with the valet, handing him the ticket.

  Julian leans in. "You'll get used to it, love,” he says.

  That smile comes back, the genuine one. I look up at him in the strobing lights of the paparazzi’s flashes. They are capturing this moment—seeing the reality that I like him. It's authentic. It can help sell tickets.

  His car pulls up, a black Bentley with tan leather interior, classy and super expensive. Julian opens the front passenger door for me. I get in, arranging my skirt so he can close the door.

  Julian climbs in behind the wheel and pulls into traffic, using his turn signal. A good driver.

  "Want to come back to my house?" he asks.

  "Where do you live?"

  “I’ve rented a place out in Malibu.” That’s a long drive, plenty of time for me to fully sober up. "Don't worry." He looks over at me, his famous sparkling blue eyes sincere. "I don’t expect anything from you—just looking for a quiet place to talk. So we can get to know each other better. Somehow, that seems easier now that we’re not both absorbed with making the movie." A short laugh escapes, and he cocks his head before turning his eyes to the road. "What?" he asks.

  "Sorry, it's just—you’re acting like such a gentleman."

  He shifts as we get onto the highway, turning to me and flashing a smile. "Don't all men treat you like a lady?"

  I just shake my head, looking down at my hands nestled in the black folds of my skirt. "Not exactly."

  He moves into the left lane, accelerating. “I actually have some insight into what it’s like to be a woman in this business. My sister, you know, she's an actor, too. We’re very close.”

  “Right, I’ve heard that.” His sister is not nearly as big a star as Julian but has had some interesting roles in indie films. She’s tall and thin and shares his dimples, but with green eyes instead of blue.

  "She's told me stories." His hands tighten on the wheel. "Even told me some stuff about Jack.” My lips go numb, and I don't respond. "Not to speak poorly of the dead or anything, but I heard the guy was a real jerk." Julian shifts again, the engine purring with delight as we speed up.

  "Yeah," I say. "A lot of people in this business are jerks.” I glance up and see the turnoff for Malibu.

  “We could go to your place instead,” Julian suggests. “I'm happy to hang out and leave."

  "I think that's a better idea,” I say, giving Julian the address.

  "Thanks for the invite,” he smiles, changing lanes and speeding toward my apartment.

  I open the door with my key fob, and we step into the darkened living room. The landline phone rings as I flick on the light.

  “Just a moment,” I say, passing into my bedroom. Almost no one has this number. Just my grandmother and Mary. The white rotary phone blares again—I love the weight of it, the look of it, its incredibly loud ring. The whole thing harkens back to an era when phone calls were important.

  “Hello,” I answer, curling the cord around my finger, my eyes landing on Archie’s crate where he is still fast asleep. Quite the watchdog I’ve got.

  “Angela.” His voice is a deep rumble, a tiger’s purr. It’s Temperance.

  "Oh, hey," I say. So he is real.

  “How are you?" he asks.

  "I have a guest.”

  Temperance chuckles softly—the butterflies in my stomach dip and whirl at the sound. "I know. That's why I'm calling. You need to get rid of him."

  "Excuse me?" What is he, my father?

  "Get rid of him. We need to talk." The line goes dead. I return to the living room. Julian is looking around my apartment, at the white couch with its artfully thrown pillows, the flat-screen TV and the array of vases on the mantel. None of it mine, all of it rented.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "But you have to…have to go. That was my grandmother…” Ugh, when did I become such terrible liar.

  Julian's brows arch. "Everything okay?"

  “Yes, I’m sorry… I just need you to leave.”

  Julian takes a step toward me. His tie is loosened, hanging casually around his neck, and the top button of his white shirt is undone, exposing the dip at the bottom of his throat. Seriously sexy. Julian
smiles softly, offering just a hint of dimple. "Can I see you again sometime?"

  "I don’t think you have a choice.” I raise one eyebrow. “Aren’t we going to be doing a massive press tour together in the coming weeks?"

  "I mean just the two of us. Can I take you to dinner?"

  That smile is sneaking back onto my face—the real one. He seems so sincere. He is so cute. "Sure," I say, trying to hide the smile. "I'd like that."

  He nods, smiling, and starts to move toward the door. I follow in his wake. Standing on my threshold, he leans back in, catching my eye. “I hope everything is okay.”

  I nod, guilt at the lie sending the butterflies into a circling pattern. “Thanks.” He hesitates for a moment and then steps into the hall. I close the door behind him, leaning my forehead against it. How can I enter a relationship with someone when I’ve already had to lie to him before we’ve even gotten started?

  I take a few breaths, my eyes closed, breathing in the scent of wood and the last wisps of Julian's cologne. Should I change out of this dress? It makes me vulnerable while also providing protection—hard to run in, but gives me an air of untouchability. The low neckline does expose enough to make any man hungry for me, which gives me a certain kind of power.

  I've got on jeans and a T-shirt when the knock comes. My hair is still up in a complicated twist, a few loose strands tickling my neck and cheeks for effect, and my makeup is still thick, showing off all my best assets and hiding any flaws. But the gown now hangs on my closet door, the full skirts spilling out onto my bedroom floor, far too ample to be contained.

  I answer, affecting an air of nonchalance. I'm not afraid to have a master spy in my apartment. This is totally normal for me—a figure from a nightmare strolling into my living room and turning to close my door. Temperance puts a finger to his lips, telling me to stay quiet. I give a small nod, adrenaline seeping into my system, raising my heart rate and sending fluttering waves of nausea through me.

  He moves smoothly across the carpet, his footsteps silent. I follow him into my kitchen. Temperance glances around quickly before going to my table, pulling out a chair, and climbing onto it. Reaching up, he takes the cover off the recessed light and holds it out to me. I step forward, taking it. Temperance reaches up past the bulb and pulls out a small something with wires sticking out of it. He slips it into his pocket and then holds out his hand for the cover again. I hand it to him, and he puts it back, his eyes never meeting mine.