Queen of the Universe (In Love in the Limelight Book 2)

by Geralyn Corcillo

  “Yes,” I say, wondering what in God's name Ray—or Brian—is telling everyone about this part!

  “I'm outta here.” He pushes past me and races down the stairs.

  I follow him, my heart racing. I burst through the door into the sunshine and sprint to catch up to him. “I don't get it,” I pant. “You're a bounty hunter. Bounty hunters carry guns sometimes.”

  He looks at me, his brows all scrunched like he's trying to figure out a trig problem. “Did you say, 'bounty hunter?'”

  “Yes, bounty hunter. Sam Destry, the bounty hunter next door.”

  And just like that, relief sweeps the tension right out of his features and he almost smiles. He rubs a hand across his face. “That explains a lot. You've got the wrong guy. My name's not Sam. It's Arlen. Arlen Black.”

  Chapter 4

  LOLA

  “Of course it's not—”

  I choke on my words with such sudden force that I have to stomp like an angry bull to keep from doubling over. I can feel the red hot realization scorch its way up my neck. My voice can barely scrape out the words. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Arlen—”

  “Black,” I finish for him. My mind shifts into cataclysmic overdrive. “You're the handyman I hired to renovate my house.” I shake my head in a quick flurry to dispel thoughts of what I did and said in the past few minutes.

  Sincerity. Stick with sincerity. “I'm so sorry,” I say. “I really am. You must think I'm looney tunes.”

  Arlen Black just stands there looking at me, neither confirming nor denying. Good lord, the guy really can nail silence, in real life.

  I've got to tell him the truth. I am that desperate. My Sam is way too close to getting into his truck and driving out of my life forever. I don't have time to come up with anything else to use on him. His clock is ticking. I can feel it ticking, with every beat of my heart. My perfect Sam is getting ready to bolt.

  “I'm falling apart,” I say, embellishing but sinking easily into the role. “I let Ray go to the dentist today, and without him here to remind me, I completely forgot about our appointment.”

  “Yeah,” Arlen says, dragging a hand through his hair. “I got that much.”

  I press my fingers into the back of my neck and just look at him. “Have you ever wanted something so much that you obsessed over it, day and night? You couldn't think of anything else?”

  He pulls back a little, but his eyes skip back to mine. He looks tired suddenly. And pale. “Like what, for instance?”

  I sigh. “I've been trying to cast the final role for this show for over two weeks now. Sam, the bounty hunter. He lives next door to the main character Celeste. I can't seem to focus on anything else. Some actors are coming in to read this afternoon, and I thought you were one of them.”

  “You thought I was an actor?”

  He laughs, and the sound strikes me as almost bitter. It's without mirth, as though the guy doesn't know what laughter is for. And he's not in character. After all, I haven't given him a character to be in.

  He shakes his head. “I still have paint on my knuckles, for crying out loud.”

  “I thought it was so authentic. A man not afraid to get dirty while he works. It's perfect for the role. You're perfect for the role.”

  “Of a bounty hunter?”

  “For my bounty hunter, yes.”

  He just looks at me.

  “C'mon,” I say, jerking my head back toward the bungalow. “You came here about a job, so let's get down to business.”

  When I usher him into my office about a minute later, I give Brian a tight-jawed look that keeps the casting director quiet.

  “Here,” I say to Arlen, handing him some papers off my desk. “I want you to read this.” Then I close the office door, retrieve my own script off the floor, and turn to face Arlen.

  “This isn't a contract.” His voice is level and stony.

  “Of course it's not a contract,” Brian says. “We don't hire on looks alone.”

  Arlen barely spares him a glance.

  “Brian,” I introduce, “This is Arlen Black. Arlen, Brian.”

  “The casting director,” Brian explains.

  I hold my breath.

  “What?” Arlen looks from Brian back to me. “You can't be serious. This is NOT why I'm here.”

  His words slice through me, making me think he's about to hit the button that opens the floor and dumps me into an underground tank of sharks.

  I look very carefully at Arlen. Arlen, who is still here. Why else would he still be standing in my office, on a studio lot, if there weren't some part of him that wanted to be Sam?

  “Arlen,” I say. “You came here today to talk about a job. Here's one you would be perfect for.”

  “You're wrong.”

  “I'm never wrong. Not when it comes to knowing what will make a show work.”

  “She's right,” Brian chimes in. “And c'mon, man. In this business, you go for a part if someone wants you. Doesn't matter what show you came here to read for.”

  Arlen ignores Brian as he squares off to face me. “Are you NUTS?” He takes a step closer. “I mean it—are you? Not everything in this world is about your show.”

  Ah, if only that were true. “Okay, then. Prove me wrong.”

  “What?”

  “Prove me wrong. Read just one page. Out loud, with me. Show me that you would make a terrible Sam.”

  He's staring at me, not saying anything.

  “One page,” I say softly. “And then we can get back to business and talk about the house. But I just want you to read one page.”

  “I'm not an actor.”

  “Just one page.”

  “Then back to business,” Arlen says. “No games.”

  “No games. If this one page doesn't change your life, we talk about the house.”

  Arlen gives a sharp laugh. “Change my life? You must be a hell of a writer.”

  I shrug with one shoulder. “It's what I do.”

  “Okay, one page.”

  Commanding myself to stay composed, I nod to Brian and take my place opposite Arlen. “Ready?” I prompt.

  But Arlen doesn't answer. He's staring transfixed at the page.

  “Arlen?”

  He notices me then, but looks as though he just got off the train at the wrong station.

  Hmmm. Best way to deal with his stage fright is to ignore it. “I'll read the part of Celeste,” I explain. “So I'll start.”

  Arlen just blinks at me.

  “Here goes,” I say, then clear my throat. “I can't come over,” I read, “as you so charmingly put it, because I have kids to take care of.”

  Pause.

  Arlen looks up at me—and the almost hostile fierceness in his eyes slams into me.

  “Your ex-husband's kids,” he rasps.

  The chills he gives me almost knock me breathless as I say my next line. “They're my kids now.”

  Arlen doesn't miss a beat. “They can take care of themselves for an hour or two.”

  “An hour or two?” I read. “Is that what you're offering?”

  “Escape is what I'm offering.” He moves toward me, the force of what he's saying pinning me in place. “Escape into wild abandon, where you can forget about things long enough to remember who you are … and what you want.”

  Good God, it's like the words are coming from his heart and soul, even though I'm the one who wrote them.

  “There's no escape from my life,” I whisper, locking eyes with him.

  “Wrong,” He moves in closer. “You're as free as you choose to be.” He pulls me into him and kisses me.

  And I let him. Oh, man, do I let him.

  “Scene!”

  I jump away from Arlen, my office tilting around me. I grab the Evian from my desk, downing half the bottle.

  “Dude,” Brian scoffs. “I know the script calls for a kiss, but you generally stop before kissing the showrunner.”

  Arlen focuses on Brian behind t
he camera in the corner of the room. “You were recording this?”

  I take a deep breath. “I think we just found our Sam,” I tell Brian.

  “No,” Arlen says, crumpling the script page in his hand and letting it drop. “I can't do this.”

  Chapter 5

  LOLA

  I watch Arlen walk out of the office with a finality that would give Rhett Butler a run for his money. He doesn't hurry or slam. He's just so clearly finished. With me.

  Arlen's gait and pace so completely convince me that he's gone forever that I actually let long seconds pass before I chase him. Again. I cannot let this man go.

  I'm barreling to my office door when Brian snags me. “I knew you'd find Sam!”

  I push past his gleeful exuberance. “Let me go. I have to talk to him.”

  But Brian takes me by the shoulders, beaming into my face. “You did it! Where did you find him?”

  “I'll be back.” I break Brian's hold and charge after Arlen.

  “Wait!” Brian calls after me. “Play it cool or his agent will eat you alive!”

  I fly down the stairs and out the door just in time to see Arlen's truck pull away. Taking out my cell as I head toward the gleaming red of my Tesla, I dial the guards at the gate. I hop into my car and peel out of my spot. In less than a minute I pull up behind Arlen, whose truck is stopped at the gate. Arlen is talking to Lee in the booth. I get out of my car and approach Arlen's open window.

  “Arlen,” I say, unable to stop the smile.

  He turns his head to look at me, making me positively tingle. Caged animal. Everything about him—the power, the restraint, the regret, the anger—all of it warring in his eyes—screams caged animal. That is just so perfect for Sam!

  “Let me go,” he says in a quiet rumble.

  My knees almost give out. Again. “Arlen. You're Sam. It's incredible.”

  “No, I'm not. I don't belong here. And you're going to have to find someone else to renovate your house.”

  “Never mind the house.” I swallow and inhale deeply. “I chased you down to apologize for the surprise audition. I didn't mean for it to feel like an ambush.”

  “Forget it.” He turns his gaze to his rear view mirror, so he can monitor the guards circling his truck.

  Is he seriously trying to act like what happened in my office was no big deal? The way he said those lines. That kiss. Holy hell, that kiss. This guy was born to play Sam. I wrap my fingers around the top of the window glass. “Please, don't go,” I plead softly. “You have to know how great you were back there.”

  “You can't honestly want me in your show,” he argues quietly, not meeting my eyes.

  “Honestly? That's all I want. You're even better than I imagined you.”

  He looks right at me. “You did not imagine me. You might think you did, but you. Did. Not.”

  My mouth goes dry. I'm not even sure what he's saying, but his intensity sears right through me.

  “I am not an actor,” he says. “Let me go.”

  “Have you considered the salary you'd make? You'd earn a lot more than you do right now and you wouldn't have to work so hard.”

  “I like to work hard. And I don't need any more money than I already have.”

  He's lying. But about what exactly, I'm not sure.

  “You were willing to read,” I reason. “You must want this. On some level, you want this.”

  “I wanted to get through your damn horse and pony show so we could get down to business.”

  “And now I'm offering much more lucrative business,” I counter. “You're the right guy for this. The living, breathing incarnation of Sam. You don't have to change a thing.”

  “Thanks,” he snaps. “Good to know I'm exactly what you need just the way I am. But you and your show are not what I need or what I want.”

  I smile serenely at him, trying to channel the supreme rightness of his playing Sam. “You just walked into a dream job that's yours. Yours without even trying. Why are you having such a problem with that?”

  “Why don't you write in the backstory yourself, since you claim to be the one who imagined me in the first place.”

  I shake my head, trying to flick off his negativity. “I just don't see—”

  “That's right, Lola Scott. You just don't see. Not beyond your own little world and this ridiculous show of yours.”

  I step back, reeling from the insult. “It's not ridiculous. It's about a person's life switching direction. Someone trying to bounce back from disappointment and tragedy.”

  But I made a mistake. A big one. And Arlen's taking full advantage and immediate action. Now that my hands are off his window, he's rolling it up, shutting me out. Saying anything more will make me look foolish, with my words bouncing off the smudged glass.

  The guards look to me and I nod. The exit bar zings up, and Arlen pulls out of the parking lot and into traffic.

  I take a deep breath as I watch him go. Reason did not work on this guy. Nor did the allure of money or fame. I head back to the Tesla, my brain already whirring, working on another way to get him.

  But all the gears jam about two minutes later as I stride into my office and come face to face with Tom. Tom Glenn. Brian is nowhere to be seen.

  This is bad.

  The vaunted head of the studio summons people TO him. Not the other way around. Except when he has to deliver bad news. Then he can cut and run. My skin goes cold and my gut feels electrified. But I take a deep breath and send him my best I got this look.

  “Lola,” he greets evenly.

  “Tom,” I say, sliding into my chair behind my desk. “Have a seat.”

  He doesn't sit. “Lola, Wendy and I just had a meeting about the show. The studio's got millions tied up in this project. Wendy alone is worth—”

  “Every damn penny,” I say, leaning in with a tiger shark's smile. “This is going to be good.”

  Tom looks me in the eye, something he almost never does. Then he looks away. He's faltering, grasping for threads of his prepared speech. I've rattled him.

  He clears his throat. “I don't think we can continue to risk all this money on a rookie showrunner.”

  I let his words bounce off me like a badly thrown dart. “It's the best risk the studio's taking this season,” I assure him, hoping he can't see the thumping in my jugular. “I'm the one who got Wendy. She loved my script so much it convinced her to do drama after eight years on a sitcom.”

  Tom tightens his jaw. “But she won't stand by you, so don't think she will. Not when you can't deliver the pilot.”

  I open my mouth to speak but Tom forges on.

  “Do you know how highly strung she is?” he demands. “You said it yourself. Eight years on a top-rated sitcom and now drama. This is a HUGE risk for her. It's like you don't even get it!”

  “I get it. That's why—”

  “That's why I have to pair you with a veteran showrunner.”

  His words hit me hard in the chest, like an arrow thumping through my flesh and sucking all the air out of my lungs. This is the death knell. They pair me with someone long enough for the new guy to get the hang of the show, then I'm history. And my career? It really would be the end. The writer who couldn't even get her pilot shot.

  I have to keep fighting.

  “Tom,” I say, sitting up straight and tall. “It is crucial to the success of this show and the survival of Wendy's career that I find the right Sam to play counterpoint to Wendy's Celeste.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Yeah, well.” I stand up. “I found him.”

  “What?” Tom takes a step toward me, his face about a hundred watts brighter than it was five seconds ago. “You found Sam? Who is he? Why haven't I seen his audition?”

  “I just walked him out,” I explain, walking over to Brian's computer. I pull up the audition and set up the link to the monitor on the wall. “Watch this,” I say. I tap a few more keys, then go to stand next to Tom in front of the screen. “His name is Arlen Black.�
�

  My skin tingles as Arlen materializes on screen. Man, even the camera loves him. He starts speaking, and the power of his effortless intensity mesmerizes me, just as it had when I was standing right next to him, feeling his heat. I watch him take me in his arms and I try to catch my breath, but I'm suddenly unable to even exhale. When the screen goes black, I can't speak. I turn to Tom, beaming at him.

  Tom turns to me, his eyes huge and dazed. “You found him.”

  I don't think he realizes he's whispering.

  “You found him.” His voice gets louder. “You found him. He's perfect! Wendy's gonna love him! During that kiss, I could feel the ratings soar.” He steps back and looks me up and down. “Lola Scott. The writer who saves shows. I didn't really believe it until now.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “The writer who saves shows?”

  Tom smiles and shakes his head. “The showrunner who saves shows. Finding Arlen Black is the greatest save of your career.”

  Chapter 6

  LOLA

  I punch in the code and wait for my gate to open. I keep all the marauding thoughts at bay as I work to stay in control. I gun the Tesla up my long, dusty driveway, through the golden brush basking in the sunset of the Hollywood Hills. When the red-tiled roof of my Spanish Colonial comes into view, I'm itching to surge out of the car, run inside, and … damn. What's the next step?

  I feel the barest hint of panic whisper across the back of my neck. But it will come to me. It always does. It has to. It fucking has to.

  I need chocolate milk.

  Once I close the front door behind me, I launch myself into the kitchen. I make a bee-line to the fridge and pull out a bottle of chocolate syrup and the milk. In less than a minute, I'm gulping down my fix. I tip the almost empty glass upright and lick along the insides of the glass to get every drop I can.

  My cell phone buzzes in my pocket and a song starts to play—Colin's ring tone. Put me in coach, I'm ready to play—

  I answer the call. “Colin,” I breathe.

  “Lala,” he says, all cheer and warmth. “How's the pilot going?”

  “You know,” I say. “The sound and the fury ...”

  “Ah, Lala, you sound lonely.”