Hollywood Strip

by Shamron Moore

  “And … action!” yelled the director. One of the crew members cranked Evan’s “Keep It Sexy,” an acoustic guitar–laden tune with a thumping backbeat. Callie performed as instructed, looking like an ethereal sphinx. The cameraman glided back and forth on the dolly, panning over her body and zooming in on her face.

  “Cut! That’s it, Callie, you got it. Can I get last looks, please?”

  She felt someone staring at her, and it wasn’t the people fluffing her curls and powdering her face. A man with rich dark hair stood several yards away, arms folded across his broad chest. He wore a mischievous smirk and his eyes were carnal. She turned her head several times to sneak a look at him, much to the frustration of the makeup artist touching up her lipstick. It was impossible to ignore this creature; he was the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on.

  Jeremy called out from his chair. “Okay, guys and gals, this time we’re rolling film. And … action!”

  Callie tried to focus but was distracted by Bedroom Eyes. She fantasized about dragging him back to her trailer and writhing around with him on the floor, naked and sweat-drenched. She hadn’t had sex in six months and was tired of celibacy. Her most recent relationship had been with a maturity-challenged twenty-one-year-old psychology major and had lasted all of two weeks. She was beyond ready to wade into the waters again. Bring on unbridled passion and toe-curling orgasms! her brain chanted.

  “Cut! You’re dynamite. Give me one more for backup. Ready … and—”

  “Jeremy, hold it. Let me see the playback.” Bedroom Eyes walked past Callie, his brow furrowed. He examined the footage on the monitor and shook his head. “It’s not sexy enough. She should change into something else, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, Evan, we can do that. Wardrobe, can you take Callie back to the trailer and see what else you can come up with?”

  Callie caught the wicked glint in Evan’s eye and flushed. Dirty boy.

  Scott, the stylist, led her to the wardrobe trailer and combed the racks of clothing. He grabbed a micromini and held it up to her body, biting his lower lip in concentration.

  “What do you know about Evan?” she asked. “Is he single?”

  “Ooh, we have the hots for him, do we?” Scott bounced from one clothing rack to another in search of the perfect outfit. “I have no idea what his status is, but I’d jump all over that, too. Yum. What are we going to put you in? Hmm … I hate it when they scrap my entire outfit, those bitches. Here, try this on. If Evan wants sexy, we’ll give him sexy.” He handed her a purple gown with a plunging neckline. The dress fit her like a sausage casing and she felt self-conscious. Scott slid an armful of bangles on her wrist. “If this doesn’t make Evan want to jump your bones, then I give up. Even I’m getting moist and I like clam as much as a vomit sandwich. March out of here, sister, and work it like a champ.”

  Bedroom Eyes was in deep conversation with Jeremy. His concentration shifted when Callie strolled back to the set. “Now, that’s more like it. By the way, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced. I’m Evan.”

  Callie mumbled her name, spellbound by the intensity of his eyes. Her brain, spitting out one filthy thought after another, was in overdrive and ready to explode. Jeremy interrupted her reverie, anxious to resume work. “Is that sexy enough for you, Evan?”

  “It’ll work,” Evan said with a wink.

  “Great. Let’s knock this out, everyone.”

  The set quieted and filming recommenced. An hour later, the scene wrapped amongst a smattering of applause from the crew. Piece of cake. Child’s play. She could definitely get used to this.

  Evan called her name as she was about to go back to her trailer and sign the necessary paperwork.

  “So, tell me—what’s your story? Boyfriend? Don’t tell me a girlfriend?” he said. His voice was deep and sensual, a British accent audible.

  “No and no. Free as a bird, the way I like it. And you?” she asked.

  “Same. I’ve got a lot of filming left but I should be off by eleven. Join me for a bite to eat.”

  “I’d love to, but I have other plans.” Callie ardently wished she didn’t have to waitress that evening.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “How about Wednesday, then?”

  “That sounds nice. Do you like sushi?”

  “Doesn’t everyone in L.A.? It’s a prerequisite. Katana is my favorite. Does nine work for you?”

  “Nine is fine. Until then…” She grinned and turned on her heel. He admired her ass as she wiggled down the hill.

  7

  “José, can I get an extra side of gravy?” asked Callie. She looked at the clock for the tenth time that hour—4 P.M. Two hours until her shift ended and five more until her date with Evan.

  “Did you ring it up?” José, the short-order cook, flipped a hamburger on his griddle. His forehead was dotted with sweat.

  “Not yet, I will in a minute. Everyone wants everything all at once and I can’t get caught up.”

  “I gotta see a ticket. Adam said don’t give out no nothing until you guys ring it up.”

  Callie filled a ramekin with Ranch dressing. “I’m the only one on the floor right now, José, and I’m in the weeds. This guy asked for a side of gravy ten minutes ago and I forgot it.”

  “Sorry, muchacha. No ticket, no gravy.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Callie dashed to the computer. Waitressing challenged her patience. Knee-deep in customers and the only thing the cook could worry about was a seventy-five-cent bowl of slop. Couldn’t she just be on a set again, participating in something artistic? There was nothing creative in slinging hash. Her job in Michigan—working as a dental assistant in small but affluent Farmington Hills—wasn’t nearly as frustrating. In fact, she enjoyed working on people’s teeth and the employee discount that came along with the job. (She prided herself on keeping her pearly whites in pristine condition.) But if she wanted to audition for gigs during the day, she was left little choice but to work nights. And the only people who worked nights, of course, were hookers and waitresses.

  Callie had thought of nothing but Bedroom Eyes for the past three days. She hated to admit just how intrigued she was by him, but her interest was thoroughly piqued. She cleared grimy plates and refilled sodas with the vigor of a zombie, so sidetracked was she with intimate Evan details. How rare did he like his steak? Which side of the bed did he prefer? How did he want his women in bed?… When Wednesday rolled around, her hormones had reached lunatic level. She felt distracted, crazed with desire. When six o’clock finally struck, she was ready to tear out of Harry’s like a bat out of hell, but she had at least an extra hour attending to menial side-work: wiping down ketchup bottles, stocking sugar bowls, and rolling sets of silverware. By the time she arrived home, she was left with little more than an hour to primp for her date.

  Velcro rollers bobbed on her head as she raced around the three-hundred-square-foot apartment in search of the perfect outfit. Sexy but simple—she didn’t want to come off as though she were trying too hard. Candice sat Indian-style on the living room floor with her laptop and a can of Diet Pepsi.

  “This guy, Evan, is a pretty big deal in Europe,” said Candice between gulps. “It says on Wikipedia he’s had four Top Forty hits. He’s an only child, like you, Cal.”

  “I’m impressed, tell me more. How old is he?”

  “He just turned twenty-eight. Oh, no!” Horror was etched on her face.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “He’s a Leo. This could be a problem. Damn those Leos. Cocky pricks.”

  “That’s silly. Astrology is a bunch of bunk. Just because Lars is a Leo…”

  “And Trey and Kevin and Duke, too.” Candice scowled. “Of all the men I’ve dated, every one of the main players has been a Leo. I am lion, hear me roar. And let’s not forget the last guy in Michigan you dated for a minute. He was one, too. But Lars has them all beat.”

  Callie swiped her lashes with mascara. “Speaking of the devil, h
as he still been calling?”

  “Yes, and I refuse to speak to him. He can go to hell in a handbag, especially after the way he behaved on Friday with Carrot Tramp. Whatever, it’s old news. I’m moving on to greener pastures. Did I tell you I have a call-back for a film tomorrow morning?”

  “The Jim Carrey flick? Yeah, you told me. I have an audition tomorrow, too, at one o’clock. One of the leads in a horror film.”

  “A lead, really? How did you manage that?”

  “I submitted myself. Threw a headshot and résumé in an envelope and dropped it off at the casting office.”

  Candice rubbed the lip of her soda can against her chin. “I should ask Doug if he can get me in to read for that. Hmmm…” Doug Starr represented both girls.

  Her face bathed in concern, Callie turned from the mirrored medicine cabinet and faced Candice. “Honesty time, so give it to me straight: What do you think of my nose?”

  Candice studied her friend’s features before answering. “There’s a little bump on the bridge, like Jessica Simpson’s, but it’s not big. It’s cute and suits your face.”

  “I’ve never been a fan of hers or my bump,” sighed Callie. “I guess it doesn’t really matter, though, since I don’t have the money to fix it.”

  “If you’re really serious about it, you should look into getting one of those cards aimed specifically for surgery. I know a girl who’s paid for a boob job, veneers, you name it. You pay a little each month and it’s totally manageable. As a matter of fact, something came in the mail the other day from one of those companies.”

  Callie searched the pile of envelopes on the kitchen counter and located the letter. “Caring-Thru-Credit has preapproved you for an account with a five-thousand-dollar limit,” she read. “That’s not enough for a nose job, though, is it?”

  “I’ve never had one so I have no idea. I’ll ask Jackie, she’ll know. We’re going to a club later. Hopefully there will be a fine assortment of meat in stock.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “You look hot, mama.”

  Outfitted in skinny jeans and a slinky camisole, Callie climbed into a pair of pumps and tucked her crocodile-embossed clutch underneath her arm. “Thanks, and I’m late. The story of my life. Wish me luck.”

  Candice jumped to her feet and gave Callie a peck on the cheek. “Have a blast and remember: don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

  8

  Katana bustled with hipsters in head-to-toe black, ready to mack-down and mingle. Callie inquired with the hostess if Evan had arrived; he hadn’t. Nerves raw, she ordered a mojito. Men had never made her nervous in the past, but there she stood, palms damp, with gelatin knees. She caught a whiff of tobacco from the nearby patio and walked outside in search of a smoke. A friendly bystander offered her a cigarette. Taking a thick drag, she observed the restaurant-goers and wondered if they, like her, were L.A. transplants.

  And, suddenly, there stood Bedroom Eyes, looking succulent as ever. She inhaled his musky scent as he greeted her with a strong embrace.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked her.

  Callie’s stomach growled as if on cue. “Famished. This place looks fantastic.”

  “It is. I’ll go see if our table is ready.”

  They were seated at a cozy table on the patio. Evan stared at her from across the table, eyes flickering mischievously. “So, what’s your story?”

  “You beat me to the question. I was just about to ask you the same thing,” she said.

  He rested his elbows on the table. “All right, I’ll go first. You want specifics? I’ve been a singer, professionally, for nine years and I’m slowly branching out in producing, working behind the scenes. I split my time between London and L.A. I like my coffee black, my beaches powder white, and find brunettes with long legs to be ridiculously sexy. How’s that for an abbreviated bio?”

  She blushed and reached for the bowl of edamame. “Why London?” she asked.

  “My mother’s originally from the UK. When I was a kid, she divorced my dad and we moved across the pond. London’s my home. Plus, my son is there.”

  “I never would have guessed you’re a father. How old is he?”

  “Riley’s five. London is great, but the weather here is pretty unbeatable.”

  “Tell me about it. Where I’m from, if we get two sunny days in a row, it’s only through an act of God.”

  “Which leads me to my next question: Where are you from?”

  “I moved here fourteen weeks ago from a Detroit suburb. I worked as a dental assistant for a few years and modeled on the side, but what I really wanted to do was act. Always have. Actually, let me take that back. I took gymnastics classes every week as a little girl, thinking I was going to be the next Nadia Comneci, but I broke my ankle during a tumbling exercise. While I was recuperating, I watched movies all day long and decided I wanted to be an actress.”

  “And what movie was the deciding factor?”

  “Gilda. But, obviously, if I wanted to be in movies, I couldn’t stay in Michigan. There was really nothing to keep me there, anyway. My grandmother, that’s about it.”

  “What about your parents?” He swirled the Pinot Noir in his glass.

  “My dad’s dead and my mom is … how do I put it? We’re two entirely different species. Like night and day.”

  “That’s how my father and I are. Definitely not cut from the same cloth. I haven’t spoken to him in years. The last I heard he was living with a woman in Buenos Aires. Let’s get some chow before we keel over from hunger.”

  Evan instinctively knew what she would enjoy and ordered with abandon—yellowtail, eel, tuna, Kobe beef—and his take-charge attitude appealed to her femininity. Whenever one dish was a bite away from being consumed, another heaping serving arrived. She had never tasted sashimi and she enjoyed sampling the various types he chose.

  Evan regaled her with tales of his travels. After originally starting off as the lead singer in a boy band, his career took him from Australia to Iceland and everywhere in between. He had visited every continent at least once and performed for millions of people over the years. Callie was struck how he didn’t possess an overly inflated ego, unlike others she’d met who weren’t half as accomplished. He could almost be described as a gentleman, but his devilish eyes betrayed him. The last of their plates were cleared and he said, “I live off of Sunset Plaza, right around the corner. Would you care to join me for a nightcap at my place?”

  Were birds equipped with wings? She couldn’t refuse.

  Callie followed his icy Carrera up the sinewy canyon road. His residence was a vision of modern architecture—lofty ceilings and rooms displayed incredible views of the city. She marveled that his home was everything her apartment was not.

  “How does Vueve sound?” Evan asked. He popped open a bottle and handed her a flute. Holding his gaze, she placed the champagne on the granite-slab countertop without taking a sip. They stood so close, she could feel his breath on her face.

  “I want you inside of me,” she breathed in his ear. She slipped her hands under his shirt and ran her nails along his back. Evan gave her the longest, hungriest kiss she had ever experienced before feverishly tearing her clothing off and pulling her into the bedroom. Callie’s six-month dry spell had finally come to an end.

  9

  Nympho Cheerleaders Attack! Callie read the script’s title and chuckled. The plot of the low-budget horror film was farcical. Mildly entertaining, at best. She sat in the lobby, waiting for her name to be called, going over her lines. The audition couldn’t be that difficult; the role of Layla, a bisexual college girl, wasn’t exactly Blanche DuBois. Hell, it wasn’t even Nomi Malone. But it was one of the leads in a low-budget film backed by a powerhouse studio and that was enough to excite her.

  Focusing on the role was difficult—she kept replaying her debauchery-filled night, the multiple rounds of passion. Evan had not disappointed. The sex was intense, unbridled. She left his place at ten in the morning, bleary-eyed yet exhilarated,
and returned to her apartment. Duty called. She showered after downing three cups of coffee and felt tip-top, but her mind was in another place. She couldn’t stop thinking about him—those rock-solid arms, the way his body quivered when he was about to orgasm, the ravenousness of his tongue … Concentrate. Nothing like a man to complicate things. She tried to dismiss him but his memory nagged her like a premenstrual woman.

  “Callie Lambert, you’re up,” said a woman, holding the sign-in sheet. Callie followed her into a small, musty-smelling room. Daniel Joyce, a slight, fey man in his forties, was seated next to a video camera operated by his pink-haired assistant, Rocket.

  “State your name, height, and weight for the camera,” said Daniel.

  “Callie Lambert, five foot seven, one hundred and twelve pounds.”

  “And if you could show us both profiles and do a three-sixty.”

  She pulled her hair back from her face, displaying first her left profile, then her right, and slowly turned around.

  “Rocket’s going to read with you. She’ll be Kiki. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Callie cleared her throat and said in her best snarl, “I’d rather be dead than a homicidal maniac like you, Kiki.”

  “You’ve been itching to be in my shoes for years, bitch.” Rocket’s voice was devoid of emotion.

  “Oh, you think so? I’m too good for you and your cheerleading team. I ooze class and you drip trash. I’ll tell you this: no longer will I sit on the sidelines while you steal my thunder. Your time here is finished. Hell hath no fury like a cheerleader scorned!” Callie spit the last line.

  “Good job. Thanks, Callie,” said Daniel.

  She was thrown off by the abrupt dismissal; there were two more pages’ worth of dialogue between Layla and Kiki—surely they couldn’t be finished with her yet. “You don’t want me to finish the scene?”

  “No, we have a lot of girls to get through today. We just want something on tape to show Tom, the director, so he can get to call-backs as quickly as possible.”