The partygoers at the Hilton made a Fort Myers retirement community look young. Everyone Callie encountered was a senior citizen, or on the brink of becoming one. She and Tyler scanned the table of dried-out hors d’oeuvres while Barbara fluttered about, air-kissing one crony after another.
“Everything here is old,” Tyler said incredulously. “The money, the people, and, good Lord, the food. Guess I’m on a liquid diet tonight.”
Callie wanted to enjoy herself but felt lonesome. That’s silly, she thought. She was in Las Vegas with one of her best friends, how could she be sad? Being surrounded by so many elderly people made her think of Grandma Esme; she missed her. And then there was the matter of her career, or lack thereof. In four months, she had auditioned for twenty commercials, one TV show, and twelve print gigs. Not one did she book. The music video was sheer luck. True, the trade show money wasn’t shabby—and it was flattering they chose her out of hundreds of models—but doling out face cream wasn’t exactly going to propel her up the entertainment ladder.
“The end of summer is always slow, babe. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen for seventeen years,” Doug had told her. But then, he repped numerous pretty girls, too many similar-looking types to keep track of. It was easy to get lost in the shuffle. And with her skimpy résumé, it was difficult obtaining a primo agent. Other than Tyler and Candice, Callie knew few people—before moving to L.A. she had never been to the West Coast. Had she made a colossal blunder by leaving behind her familiar surroundings to pursue a career she knew nothing about? Her mother and friends back home were quick to point out it was an insane move, a misjudgment she’d come to regret. But she’d rather follow her heart than wonder what could have been. Screw sitting on the sidelines—that was for suckers. She wanted in on the action.
A glowing head of hair caught Tyler’s attention. “That girl over there is gorgeous. Just look at those highlights! Wonder why she’s at this geriatric convention?” Callie almost dropped her glass when she saw the girl’s face—it was Gabrielle, wrapped in a cream, strapless sheath, all glowing skin and gravity-defying breasts. She clung to the arm of a much-older Asian man. “Skank, is that the girl you’re doing the convention with? She looks how you described her to a T. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—she’s so hot, she could even make me go straight.”
Callie guffawed. “Ty, please, you need dick the way a diabetic needs insulin.”
“That’s so true but I haven’t been laid since the Lusitania set sail; a woman is almost looking better than my right hand about now.”
Why didn’t Gabby mention she was attending the gala? Why so secretive? She did say an “old friend” was taking her out and that was true; her friend was certainly old. But it was odd.… Gabby seemed to be enjoying herself, laughing at the man’s jokes, looking at him attentively when he spoke. He clearly got a thrill from being seen with a beautiful, much younger woman. But what did she see in him? Callie considered saying hello but was uncomfortable. If Gabby spotted her first, that was fine—if not, even better. Too late, anyhow; she and the man had left.
Callie decided to call it a night, too, and wanted to say good-bye to Barbara but couldn’t locate her. “Thank her again for me,” she told Tyler. A bed—even one as uncomfortable as that at the Vegas Motor Inn—sounded nice. She could have peace and quiet and be alone with her thoughts.
Hours later as Callie lay in bed, the door creaked open and Gabrielle slipped in the room. She held her heels in one hand and tiptoed to the dresser, careful not to wake Callie. There was no need for her to be so quiet—Callie had tossed and turned for the last three hours, unable to sleep.
“Hi, Gabby,” Callie said, sheets pulled to her chin.
Gabrielle jumped. “Oh! You scared me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought I was being quiet.”
“You’re fine, I just can’t fall asleep. How was your night?”
“Pretty boring, actually. Dinner and a club, nothing special. What did you end up doing?” She grabbed a nightie out of the drawer.
“My friend Tyler and I went to a charity event at the Hilton.” She waited for a response. It was too dark to make out Gabrielle’s expression.
“That sounds fun. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Not especially. I left early. Tyler’s a makeup artist who works with this old soap actress, Barbara Hickey. She invited us. And man, is she ever a character.”
Gabrielle unzipped her dress and walked to the bathroom. “I love Barbara Hickey! She’s been on Son of the Hamptons for decades. I hear she’s a real trip. Boy, do I ever reek of cigarettes. I’m going to shower and hit the sack. Good night. I hope you get some sleep, hon.”
“Thanks. Pleasant dreams.” Callie lay restless in bed, pondering Gabrielle’s secrets. Finally, at four o’clock, sleep …
12
The clouds wafted by like strings of spun cotton and after a forty-minute flight, the plane landed in Burbank. Callie tapped her foot, anxious for the conveyor belt to spit out her luggage. Vegas had been a letdown, hardly the land of glamour she’d pictured. She’d seen women with more class pumping gas at the local Shell back in Michigan. The point of her visit, though, was to work. Mission accomplished. And then there was Gabby—meeting her was an unexpected pleasure and they had exchanged numbers before departing. During breakfast, Callie almost slipped and asked her where she had purchased her beautiful, creamy gown, but thought it wise not to mention the gala—it was too awkward. And, anyway, it was probably a bunch of nothing, Callie thought dismissively. She made a mental note to call Gabby later in the week. Gabby was a rarity, a combo of beauty and brains, and Callie wanted to keep in touch.
She pulled out of the parking lot and flipped on her cell; there was a new text from a number she didn’t recognize: What are you up to? You left your bra at my place. Ah, Evan … She responded saying she didn’t have any plans. Not that he’d be available; she was sure he was too busy to see her. But throwing a line out never hurt.
Your legs should be pinned behind your ears right now, he texted.
She shivered at the memory of him lying between her legs, clutching her hips as he kissed her inner thighs, removing her panties in a single forceful tug …
I want to wrap my cunt around your neck, Callie fired back. She slapped her hand over her mouth—where was this smut coming from? Never before had she spoken so filthy! But then, none of her previous boyfriends had been as uninhibited as Bedroom Eyes and her potty side hadn’t been fully unleashed. Brian Belsam, her longest relationship, was as sexually exciting as a ball of lint. She asked him once to spank her and he balked. Eight months together and he couldn’t indulge in minor S and M? He looked good on paper—a handsome six-footer, late twenties, with a solid job at Daddy’s law firm—but in reality, he was blander than instant pudding. She dumped him the next day. Bedroom Eyes, God bless him, brought out her inner slut. What was she to do but embrace her racy side? Her phone beeped again.
Get your fine ass over here, sexy. I want to drink you.
Her wheels squealed as she made a U-turn. The farther she raced down Sunset Strip, the harder her heart pounded. Fast, faster she sped. She couldn’t get to him quickly enough. One order of whore, served piping hot and delicious, coming up.
She found him lounging in bed, half naked, and pounced on him. “What have you been up to, stranger? I missed you.” She nuzzled his neck.
“What exactly did you miss?” said Evan.
“This.” She grabbed the bulge in his Hudson’s.
“Mmm,” he moaned. “And why haven’t you called me, again?”
“You didn’t give me your number. Besides, I just got back from a job in Vegas.”
“Vegas? Slinging pussy for high rollers again, is that it?”
Callie hit his stomach. “Exactly. Everyone else pays for it but you get it for free. By the way, ‘Keep It Sexy’ is everywhere! I must have heard it a hundred times this weekend. It’s going to be huge.” Callie was excited for Evan; not only had it been several ye
ars since he’d had a hit, he’d never before experienced a smash in the United States.
“It’s tearing up the charts. Completely unexpected. Certainly puts my record label back in my court. The album drops September twenty-first. You’ll have to come to the release party.”
“I’ll see if I can ease it in my schedule.” She straddled Evan and ran her hands over his sculpted limbs.
“What a little tease you are.” He ripped her top off and gripped Callie’s shoulders. Without much effort, he tossed her on her back. His lips tickled her breast and her nipple grew hard between his teeth.
“Fuuuuuuuck,” Callie panted as goose bumps spread across her body.
“Fair warning,” he growled, “I have an ambulance on standby. And I’m not stopping until the neighbors hear you scream.”
“Please. Pretty please, Evan, give it to me. I can’t wait any more.…”
13
Dr. Harlan C. Coop had practiced the art of plastic surgery in Newport Beach for sixteen years. He specialized in facial reconstruction and often traveled to third-world countries to repair cleft lips and other deformities for little to no salary. Callie was impressed with his credentials and, almost as important, he accepted Caring-Thru-Credit. He came highly regarded from Candice’s friend Jackie; she was thrilled with the nose he had carved for her the previous summer. A last-minute patient cancellation enabled Callie to schedule a consultation right away. She had never undergone surgery of any kind and the idea of an operation to appease her vanity left her slightly unsettled. It’s a free consultation, she thought. No harm in that. She could always back out of anything more.
A stern-looking man with a narrow face and bulbous eyes, the doctor listened to Callie describe what she disliked about her appearance. “It could be streamlined, to be sure,” he said, and lightly ran his fingers over her nose. “Are you looking to thin out the bridge as well or do you only want the bump shaved down?”
She hadn’t thought about changing the width of her nose. Was it necessary? Was a rhinoplasty ever necessary? “I haven’t decided. What do you think is best?”
“Well, this is the way I look at it: if you’re going to go through the procedure to begin with, shouldn’t you do everything you can to get the most aesthetically pleasing result? Why take your car in for just an oil change when it needs new brakes, too? In my opinion, it would look best if I reset the nose and took out the bump. It’s not a problematic nose—there’s no deviated septum or the like. The procedure isn’t very difficult. It would take an hour, maybe an hour and a half, max.”
“How do you ‘reset’ a nose?” asked Callie.
“By breaking it. That’s the easy part; it only takes a few taps. The healing time is longer—there’s more swelling whenever anything is broken—but that’s the only way to narrow it. The good news is you don’t need much done. With just a little tweak, you’ll see a subtle but substantial improvement.” The doctor spoke breezily, as though reciting what he ate for breakfast.
“How much is all this going to cost?”
“Bethanny handles all that. She’ll go over the cost in her office and I’ll tell her to give you a discount, too, since you came here by referral. Jackie had a nose similar to yours, actually, only more hooked.”
“I get it from my mom’s side,” sighed Callie. Although Virginia inherited a ski-jump nose, she passed her family’s prominent feature to her daughter.
Bethanny, a mousy-looking woman, handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s the price breakdown, including the fee for the anesthesiologist and the facility. This reflects the thirty percent discount Dr. Coop is giving you, also.” The grand total was six thousand dollars.
The cost wasn’t surprising—in fact, Callie had expected the figure to be higher. She could dip into her savings and use the new credit card for the rest. Plus, she had money coming in from the trade show—$850, after Doug’s cut. Life was too short to spend it being unhappy, she rationalized, especially when options were available. Every movie star she could think of had gone under the knife at some point in their career. How could they not when the camera magnified every feature and flaw? It was routine, like visiting the dentist for a cleaning. She worried about getting the necessary time off work, but no matter—she’d figure that end out later. Mind settled, she grabbed the fountain pen Bethanny dangled in front of her.
Person to be contacted in case of emergency. That was something Callie hadn’t considered. She filled in her grandmother’s name and pictured the older woman saying in a voice tinged with worry, “Honey, did you do something to yourself? You look different. No, it’s not your hair and it’s not your makeup, it’s something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it.…” Her mother’s reaction—if she noticed at all—would be less kind. Callie brushed that aside and focused on how photogenic her profile would be. The notion greatly pleased her.
14
“Hi, this is Rocket from Daniel Joyce Casting. We would like to see you for a call-back this Tuesday for the role of Layla in Nympho Cheerleaders Attack!”
Callie couldn’t believe her ears—Daniel actually liked her read! He wanted to see her again! It was a cheesy sleaze fest, but it was a call-back. “What time?” she asked.
“Four o’clock. Daniel wanted me to mention the director and producers will be there this time, so come prepared.”
Check. If auditioning for Layla meant swinging from a trapeze by her labia, so be it. She’d show up to the audition waxed and ready.
Callie expected five or nine or twelve girls waiting in the lobby, but there were none, and she was called in immediately. Three new faces greeted her when she walked into Daniel’s office: director Tom Johannesburg and the producers, look-alike silver-haired brothers, Will and Wendell Wilder.
Callie performed her scene—this time in its entirety—with the same gusto she’d packed in the previous one. Inhibitions were checked at the door and she let the diva in her loose, screaming, stomping, arms flailing. With a name like Nympho Cheerleaders Attack! what was the point in playing it timid?
“I want to give you one adjustment,” said Daniel. “For that last line, when Layla says ‘It’s always been my world and you cats are lucky just to live in it,’ try to make her more vulnerable and less bitchy.”
“Kiki is the bitch. Yes, Layla is cunty in her own way, but she’s kinder. We want the audience to be on her side, so there needs to be a certain softness that comes through,” added Tom, a hefty bear of a man.
Callie repeated her dialogue and Daniel nodded his head in approval. Tom, Wendell, and Will sat next to one another in silence.
“Great. Gentlemen, other than a body check, do you have anything else you’d like from Layla, here?” said Daniel. The Wilders shook their heads but Tom spoke up.
“The film features a few lesbian sex scenes and I have to ask if you’re comfortable with that,” said the director.
Although nudity didn’t intimidate her, she had never filmed a sex scene, lesbian or otherwise. The thought made her nervous, but she couldn’t afford to say so; the talent pool was too large. If she didn’t tell Tom what he wanted to hear, he’d move on to the next girl, and there were hundreds of actresses who’d gladly take her place. Can you make your nipples more erect? Yes. Is simulated cunnilingus okay? Sure. Do you mind providing a stool sample at the beginning of every scene until filming wraps? Why, of course!
“Absolutely, I’m comfortable,” she said.
“Great. So far there are only two, but we may add to that,” Tom said nonchalantly.
“The four of us will step out while you remove your top and bottoms for the camera—you can keep your underwear on, but take your bra off—since nudity is required,” Daniel said. The men shuffled off, leaving only Rocket and Callie in the room. She stripped to her G-string while Rocket stood behind the video camera.
“Show me your backside … turn left … now right … and face me where you started. Got it, thanks.” Rocket flipped the camera off and yawned.
&nbs
p; Callie looked at the clock and dashed through the lobby—her shift at Harry’s started in five minutes. “Shit!” she said. A female voice called out to her; it was Gabrielle, dazzling, per usual, in a sleeveless dress. She paced the hallway clutching a sheet of paper. “Hi, Gabby! Small world. Are you here for the film, too?”
“Nympho Cheerleaders Attack!? Yes, I’m reading for the role of Kiki. I don’t know if I can handle it, though; this is a little too Shakespearean for me.”
“Haha. Not exactly Oscar-worthy, that’s for sure. I read for Layla.”
“Wouldn’t that be something if we both get it? Not very likely, but you never know. How about we do lunch this week?”
“Sure, that would be fun. I’d love to chat but gotta run—I’m late for work. I’ll call you later. Break a leg!” Callie drove like a wily demon and made it to Harry’s in fifteen minutes—her personal best. Not bad considering it was rush hour and all the way in Sherman Oaks. Hopefully, Adam, the manager, wouldn’t notice her tardiness. Alas, that wasn’t the case. He was standing outside the employee bathroom when she scurried out in her uniform, street clothes in hand.
“Hello, there, Callie Lambert,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”
“Hi, Adam. I didn’t think my audition would take as long as it did. I called earlier to say I was running a little late. Kim didn’t tell you?” She clocked in and threw her clothes in an overhead cabinet.
“No. I never got the message. I covered your shift last weekend—which wasn’t easy since it was so last-minute. And this is the second time this week you’ve been late.”
“I apologize. If it makes you feel any better, Adam, know I’ll also be late to my funeral.” She flashed a sheepish grin.
Adam wasn’t smiling. “You’re on thin ice, Cal. I like you, but I like my job more. Table five just got sat. Don’t forget to pull your hair back.”
Hollywood Strip Page 5
