Famously Bad Excerpt
Chapter One
Note to self: Dramamine and champagne don’t mix.
The boat swayed back and forth, and with it my stomach lurched. The ferry was a solid three-and-a-half-hour trip, and it hadn’t even left the dock yet.
The dread of a bad mistake roiled my gut—although, that could have been the lurch of the boat. I wasn’t supposed to be here alone. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. My eyes fluttered closed and my lashes tickled the tops of my cheeks as I rested my forehead to the cool window.
Maybe it’s not too late? Maybe I could get off this damn boat, hop on an airplane and be back in Los Angeles by tomorrow morning. I pulled out my phone to check how much a last-minute plane ticket from Croatia back to the United States would cost when my best friend Lainey’s message was flashing on the screen. It was as if she could read my thoughts and anticipate that I was going to turn and run in the opposite direction of adventure.
Girl, you’ve got this. Have SO much fun on your honeymoan sexcation! I wish I could have gone with you.
I cringed, reading her text and responded quickly, letting her know I had made it on the ferry. Why in the hell did I ever admit to my best friend that I’d never had the big ‘O’ with a man. Yes, I can make it happen myself, especially if I had my battery-operated boyfriend with me. But that same reliable vibrator was worthless when I was with a man. It was like, my brain locked up and I wasn’t able to release.
She had just assumed after I’d gotten engaged that the first orgasm came and went… no pun intended. But when James called off our wedding, I admitted the truth to her. While I was laying in her lap, still in my wedding gown, I said the words: six years with the man, and I had faked it every damn time.
That’s when she concocted this plan—my Honeymoon—or honeymoan as it became affectionately coined. Since I had maxed out my credit cards to pay for it as my wedding gift to James, Lainey convinced me there was no reason I shouldn’t take the trip. Alone.
And not come home until I’d had my first orgasm.
It was a stupid idea. The freaking worst idea that Lainey had ever had. And for whatever ridiculous reason, this weekend, I found myself boarding a plane to Croatia with a Costco sized box of condoms and my trusty vibrator in tow. Lainey had me convinced that this was my version of Eat, Pray, Love. Or in my case, Eat, Weep, Fuck.
It was hard to believe that just last weekend, James and I had been standing under an arch of roses, holding hands in front of a pastor and every friend and family member I’ve met since birth as he released his hold on my fingers and shook his head saying, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
I’m sorry. I can’t do this. What in the ever-living hell? Who does that to someone? Who goes through four years together, plus a two-year engagement, only to call it off the moment you’re supposed to say I do?
My seasickness was overtaken with a whole other sort of sick. Pain and embarrassment twisted in my gut.
His parents had insisted on paying for everything throughout the planning process. Every flower. Every caterer. Which was for the best because just about every wedding idea I’d had was vetoed by them. It hadn’t even felt like my wedding by the time I was preparing to walk down the aisle. There are expectations of a Langley wedding, I was told. And my rustic chic barn wedding with a pig-pickin’ wasn’t going to cut it for the attorney general’s son.
But my honeymoon… that was mine. And I was determined to pay for it. The Langley’s could have their garden wedding. They could have their seven-tiered cake with fondant. I was paying for my own damn honeymoon.
And God was I ever paying for it—and not only with the credit card I had maxed out, but with blood, sweat, and tears. So many tears… mostly in private. Even still, I wasn’t about to let the non-refundable reservations go to waste. And maybe that was why Lainey had been able to convince me of this sexcation idea. Letting three thousand dollars of reservations flush down the toilet was too much for me to stomach.
Now here I was, the only person in the first-class cabin on a ferry, alone. Sans husband. Vibrator tucked neatly into the outer pocket of my luggage. Sipping a bottle of champagne and toasting to my loneliness as I ventured across the Adriatic Sea to the small island of Korcula, Croatia.
No one understood why Croatia was my choice for a honeymoon. But if they had seen the photos I had seen and heard the stories from my parents about how magical this little country was? I touched the two wedding bands I had soldered together and linked to a chain necklace. Even if I couldn’t have my parents with me at my wedding, my honeymoon was my homage to them. My dad had died when I was a teenager—Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Just a couple years ago, my mother joined him after getting hit head on by a drunk driver. My throat clogged up and I took another sip of champagne, hoping it would settle my stomach and calm my emotions.
Spoiler alert: It didn’t. When was I going to learn? Booze does not help seasickness.
There was a small knock on the first-class cabin door and an attendant entered.
“Mrs. Langley?” he said in a heavily accented voice.
I groaned. “Actually, it’s Ms. Cochran.”
“Oh,” he said with a quick glance at his clipboard, which no doubt said Mrs. Langley on it. Thankfully, he let it go. “I’m just coming in to tell you that we have one other first class guest coming in just a moment. I hope this is satisfactory.”
I nodded, doing my best to give him a smile. “Of course.”
“Right this way, Mr. Whitley,” he said. Rolling Burberry luggage, a man entered behind him—no, not a man - a freaking god. He had long, light-brown wavy hair that looked about three weeks due for a haircut and muscles that strained against a soft looking army green t-shirt. And crystal blue eyes that immediately locked onto mine.
Eyes that made my breath push from my lungs.
Eyes that made my stomach tight.
Eyes that made my breasts tingly and made my heart do some little skip thing in my chest.
When I finally forced myself to take in more than just his eyes, I realized, he wasn’t just a man in first class with me. He wasn’t just Mr. Whitley. He was Pierce Whitley. Pierce fucking Whitley who starred in every blockbuster hit for the last three years.
He grinned at me. A friendly grin. A sexy grin. And gave a nod. “Hello,” he said, reaching out his hand to me. “I’m Pierce.”
My phone buzzed with a text message, but I didn’t bother checking it. It had to be from Lainey… and holy hell. She’d kick me in the vagina if she knew I stopped talking to this man in order to respond to her text. Instead, I stood up to introduce myself and just as I did, the boat rocked. I lost my balance and my phone flew out of my hands, landing on the floor of the boat by his feet.
I blushed and bent to pick it up as the boat rocked again. I gripped the railing on the wall, bracing myself and clutching my stomach as another wave of nausea hit me.
“I got it,” Pierce said, bending to retrieve my phone. He picked it up, his eyes falling to the lit screen.
His brows briefly dipped before a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he was holding back a laugh. “You must be Emma?” he said, his eyes darting briefly to the phone before looking back up at me.
The sound of my name rolling off his tongue sent spirals of excitement down my spine. I cleared my throat and slid my hand into his firm grip, nodding. “That’s me,” I said. The skin on his palm was soft and his hand entirely enveloped mine, gripping my knuckles in a firm, but tender shake. Just the feel of his hand clutched around mine had my heart pounding in my chest and my stomach twisting, aching for more of that buzzing excitement surging up my arm from where his skin was pressed to mine.
He gave me a sharp tug, pulling my body flush against his and I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes from that position. His smile twitched higher. “You let me know if you need any help with Operation First Orgasm.”
My jaw went slack and I felt the color drain from my face.
“What did you just say to me?”
Instead of answering, he released my hand, stepped back and placed my phone into my palm where Lainey’s next text was blaring in my face.
Operation Emma has her first orgasm has officially commenced! V-town is open to the public!
I was going to kill her.
The engines of the boat kicked on and we embarked on our ride, pushing off the dock. The sudden lurch made my stomach roll upside down on itself.
“Oh, God,” I whispered. Heat rushed up my body and I felt like an active volcano, ready to blow at any moment. The front hull of the boat hit a wake and it sent me forward. I landed my hands on my knees.
“Emma?” I heard him say from somewhere above me, but he sounded far away. So, so far away. And before I could rush to the bathroom, I puked all over his Burberry luggage.
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Have you read CALLBACK (Book #1) in the Silhouette Studios series yet?
Callback Excerpt
Chapter One
Marly
“WHEN MY CAREER goes to shit, under no circumstances are you to allow me to go on a reality show. Got that? No Celebrity Survivor or sad MTV seasons about how far I’ve
fallen.” The other end of the phone line was heavy with silence. I
could practically hear the grinding gears in my agent’s brain. I waited, gripping the steering wheel with blanching knuckles. I was good at this game. Good at silence. Good at waiting. I smirked, holding the wheel steady and passed a slow driver in the middle lane. Eventually, Kyle said, “Marly, I think you’re over-reacting. Stop planning for doomsday when you
haven’t even stepped into your audition yet.” True. But planning was what I did. It was who I was. I
flicked a glance to the spiral bound turquoise planner in the front seat beside me. My travel buddy. Without that planner, I was lost. I swallowed, the sight of it bringing bittersweet memories of my dad. “I hope for the best, but plan for the worst, Kyle,” I recited Dad’s words, ignoring that vicious, painful ache behind my ribcage and the gaping hole in my heart since his passing.
“Don’t I know it,” Kyle muttered. “You ever heard of self- fulfilling prophesies?”
“Having a plan isn’t going to cause a disaster.” I tossed a quick look over my shoulder before swerving into the next lane
and slipping off the exit ramp. “Who am I meeting with again? It’s not just some ‘producer’ with a camera in a rent-an-office, is it?”
An audition at Silhouette Studios should mean I’d be safe from that sort of audition. As one of the largest production houses in Los Angeles, it should mean that I was stepping into a professional audition, where nothing out of line was expected of me. This wasn’t some B-Movie audition with a greasy guy named Chet filming me on his cell phone. It was a top three studio. It should mean I could trust them.
But I know better. It only takes one burn from a candle to be wary of all fire. And sometimes, the more powerful the person, the more they don’t believe the rules apply to them.
“No, no. Today is the real deal. You’ll be meeting with the casting director—Nicole Stevens of Stevens Casting. Probably a couple of producers, the director. There’s nothing to be wary of with this one. Trust me, you’ll see.”
“You can’t trust everything you see—even salt looks like sugar.” Another Dadism.
Kyle sighed again. He was the king of sighs. “But Marly, you should know—”
“Let me guess ... the producer expects a blow job under his desk in exchange for the part? Don’t worry, I have a plan for that, too. And it involves my foot being lodged so far up someone’s ass, I could file my toenails on their tonsils.”
Kyle grunted. “Jesus, Marly. Graphic much?”
I sneered. It should be a ludicrous statement. It should be such a ridiculous notion for a proposition like that to happen at a huge Hollywood production studio ... except that it had happened to me already. Twice.
Shame and guilt burned hot in my stomach and my grip on the wheel tightened. What the fuck did I have to feel guilty
about? I had done the right thing. I refused him, shoving his hand away from beneath my skirt and walking out of that audition. Without the part. Without the callback. But with my dignity. Even with being a well-recognized face in this town, it still wasn’t enough to halt the advances. To sway the rumors. Maybe it wasn’t happening despite my well-recognized face, but because of it.
From the other end of the phone, Kyle sighed again. “Do you really think I would knowingly send you into an audition where they expect sexual favors?”
I opened my mouth to answer—of course not—and yet, nothing came out. My throat felt tight, my skin hot and prickly and my ears flushed in the way they always did when I lied. Kyle was a good agent. I liked him. He had always had my back in the years we’d been working together. I did trust him ... to an extent. So why couldn’t I just say that?
My silence earned me another sigh. “Thing is,” Kyle said, “you don’t have to trust them. But you do have to trust me. And those propositions should stop now that you and Omar went public with your engagement.”
I smiled while cutting across three more lanes of traffic to take the next left. Omar Blake. My best friend and “fiancé,” according to US Magazine’s latest report. Our plan had worked perfectly. Omar needed a beard and I needed directors to stop thinking I would use my vagina as some sort of magical ticket into Hollywood. “That’s true,” I replied. “Nothing’s happened since we announced our engagement.” The diamond on my ring finger caught a gleam of the Los Angeles sunlight, nearly blinding me. My mother’s ring. Once more, my heart squeezed with memories so faded, that I almost couldn’t call them memories anymore. “Then again,” I sighed, “I also haven’t gotten any parts since the announcement, either.” Omar, on the
other hand, was in the final stages of callbacks for a huge franchise movie deal. At least six movies contracted and potentially more within the franchise. He needed that deal. Especially after he’d spent most of his savings to stop his jackass ex-boyfriend from outing him to the press.
“Well, this audition could change that. It’s a great role— buzz around town is that it has Oscar potential.”
The yellow light in front of me changed to red and I slammed my foot onto the brakes, screeching to a stop. Damn— that came out of nowhere. Butterflies fluttered around my belly at the thought of being in a film well-regarded by the Academy. I loved my romantic comedies, but I wanted—no needed to show people the kind of chops I had. Back in my college days, I had played Antigone and Lady Macbeth. I had brought audiences to tears with my parts in the Laramie Project. I swallowed, turning into the Silhouette Studios lot, easing off the gas as I approached the guard. “Hold that thought, Kyle,” I said into the ear piece, then leaned out the window. “Marlena Taylor,” I said to the guard. “Here for my meeting with Stevens Casting.”
“Yes, Ms. Taylor.” He scanned a list on a clipboard in his hands before he pointed beyond the first few buildings in front of us. “Studio Eight. You’re gonna go straight and take a right at the water tower, follow that road down to the end.”
“Thank you.”
“Marly,” Kyle pulled me back into the conversation. “As I was saying, you know the film’s about Dominant/submissive lifestyles, of course—in the same vein as Secretary. But it requires nudity. Lots of it.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s fine, Kyle. I don’t have a problem with tasteful nudity.”
“Full frontal?” He gulped on the other end of the line. “Look. I know it’s not my place. And as your agent, the last thing I should be doing is trying to talk you out of an audition. But as your friend, I have to say ... maybe it’s something you should think about considering the rumors Jack started—”
“Jack doesn’t get that kind of power over me,” I snapped. Jack Seaver. The ass I gave my heart to while filming Bridesmaid Retreat. When I ended things with him, he smeared my name all t
hrough Hollywood with awful rumors that I’d offered sexual favors in exchange for my leading role in his movie. And Los Angeles, being the town it is, believed him. “This isn’t porn, Kyle. It’s a film—an Oscar-worthy film. Nobody berates Julianne Moore or Jennifer Connelly for nude scenes.”
Kyle’s voice wavered on the line. “I know you pretty well, Marly, and I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the backstabbing and whispers happening at Hollywood parties behind your back. I’m just worried for you, that’s all.”
My inhalation was shaky at best and the single butterfly in my stomach was now in full flight. “I’ll be fine, Kyle.” Catching my reflection in the rearview mirror, I realized I almost believed it myself. Leaning forward, I wiped beneath my eyes where the smoky eyeliner had smeared a touch too much, then pinched my shimmery cheeks. When I was done, I hardly recognized the woman behind the thick coating of makeup. Long, thick lashes blinked back at me in the rearview mirror.
And what if you aren’t fine? I squeezed my eyes shut, closing the proverbial curtain to my reflection. That little voice of doubt had been whispering for a week since I got the script for this audition.
What if I’m only auditioning for this role to step out in front of the rumors? Because maybe if I show my tits and ass on screen, directors and producers will stop asking to see them in
person? I rolled my eyes in spite of myself, pulling into a parking space.
Yeah, because that’s how sex works. People see you in movies and stop fantasizing about fucking you. “This film is an amazing opportunity to show studios that I can do more than be a cute airhead on screen.”
“You’re right,” Kyle said, his voice shifting into something harder. Business-like. “It’s an amazing opportunity and you’re a talented actress. Show them your vulnerable side. Just keep your nose clean in there. No sarcastic jokes, no flirting. Nothing. Keep it kosher.”
I nodded, looking up at the tallest building in the lot. My butterfly-filled stomach flipped and a chill ran down my spine, despite LA’s latest heat wave. Oh, God, keep it together.
Role Play (Silhouette Studios) Page 39
