My jaw drops.
“What? Elise, you can’t be serious!”
“You said you would do anything for me.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would be trying to sleep with your boyfriend,” I scoff.
“Not sleep with him! Geez, I’m not that twisted.”
I suck in my lower lip to prevent myself from shouting out all the reasons I think she probably is twisted.
“You’re just going to pretend that you want to sleep with him. Big difference,” she reasons. Like she’s asking me to pick up her dry cleaning instead of attempting to seduce her boyfriend.
“Elise, I’m not going to hit on your boyfriend just to see if he’ll cheat on you. That’s ridiculous.”
“Dani, please. Please. You have to,” she begs. She reaches over the table to grab both my hands, squeezing them tightly. The look on her face is so pitiful that something inside me starts to give.
“I’m so close to falling in love with him. I’m right there, on the edge. But I’m so scared of being hurt again.”
Asshole Keith.
“I can’t take that kind of pain again. So if you could just do this small little favor . . .”
“It’s more than a small favor, Elise,” I insist in the gentlest tone I can manage. “This could end terribly.”
“No, it won’t! I’ll make sure of that. Honestly, it’s not a big deal. All you have to do is flirt with him a bit and see what he does. Then report back. Simple. Right?”
“I guess . . .” I trail off, not entirely convinced. “But, why don’t you get one of your other actress friends to do it? I’m not exactly temptress material.”
“Stop it. You’re gorgeous. You just don’t dress like you are. And you barely wear makeup. And you sometimes give off this intense, unapproachable vibe.”
“Anything else?” I mutter grumpily.
“Well, he’s absolutely not your type,” she says. I’m about to ask her what she thinks my type is, but I don’t get the chance.
“Look, I could get a six-foot-tall Olivia Wilde look-alike to go and flirt with Tate. But I could never trust her not to fall for him! Have you seen him?”
“No. Obtuse, living under a rock, remember?”
“Right! That’s exactly why you’re perfect. Besides,” Elise fiddles with her napkin, “there’s one really important reason why you are perfect for this.”
“What’s that?”
“I trust you. I know you’d never do anything to hurt me.” She grins. “I mean, you even said no to Mike Callahan for me!”
My resolve is starting to crumble. “Of course I’d never hurt you, Elise. Thanks for helping me survive out here.”
“Well, you can’t survive without friends.”
I take a deep breath and give myself one more second to change my mind. I don’t. “Fine, I’ll do it. But you have to tell me exactly what to do,” I say with a jab of my finger.
“I will! I will! I promise!”
“I mean it, Elise. I need your help if you want me to do this correctly.”
“I will help! I will! Omigod, Dani. You have no idea what this means to me!”
Elise gets out of the booth and starts jumping up and down while clapping her hands excitedly. I am less enthused, but let her pull me into a quick hug before she steps away to make her phone call, and I remember to get some vegan ice cream for Brit.
While I wait for the order, I watch Elise talking animatedly on the phone with her uncle. The longer the phone call, the more anxious I start to feel.
What if he says no? What if they already filled the spot? What if . . .
“All set!” Elise says cheerily as she makes her way back over to me. “Welcome to Hollywood.”
Chapter Five
My alarm rings incessantly, but I’m already wide-awake. I’ve been awake for an entire hour, just staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into. But it’s not the internship I’m worried about.
I’m not sure I can handle spying on Tate. Or testing Tate. Or whatever the hell I’m doing. At least I had the sense to Google him before bed. Just as I predicted: perfectly tousled golden hair, stunning blue eyes, and a boyish smile that I bet casting directors go nuts over. The epitome of a California dude. Elise was right. He’s the complete opposite of the tall, dark, artsy and brooding types I go for.
His smile seems too big for his face. It makes him look a little bit like a clown in most pictures. When he’s not smiling, his face is perfect. There’s one red carpet photo of him smiling directly at the camera, and he looks like a little boy dressed up in his daddy’s clothes.
His too-big smile is actually my favorite thing about him.
Before she left the ice cream parlor yesterday, Elise had said she would give me a ride, since I’m “carless.” A fact that Elise calls “completely insane” for anyone living in this city. But I can barely afford a Metro pass at the moment, let alone an entire automobile.
Elise said she would pick me up at 6:00 a.m. to get me to the Valley with time to spare, so I’m in the shower by 5:15. Brit gives me the scare of a lifetime when she barges in as I’m shampooing my hair. She insists on chatting and asks questions about the day ahead. I play along, even when she pees while I’m still in the shower. Brit is clearly comfortable being in the same room with her naked new roommate.
I make a mental note to tell Brit that not only do I need private time when I’m in the bathroom, but talking to me before I’ve had a sip of coffee is about as productive as talking to a toddler. Who is drunk. And cranky. A drunk, cranky toddler is precisely what I am in the mornings before coffee.
Usually when I pick out clothes for the day, I pick whatever jeans I see first that have fewer than or equal to three stains and a shirt that doesn’t smell. But today I decide to put in some actual effort. I go with cobalt-blue skinny jeans that give me the semblance of an ass and a black V-neck that I’m pretty sure was washed before I packed it.
As for my hair, I don’t have the time (or the knowledge) to do anything fancy, so up in a messy bun it goes. I think the bun is still a thing people do with their hair. Finally, I add bronzer to my cheeks and a couple swipes of some shimmery stuff to my eyes. I manage to poke myself in the eye in the process, but that’s standard.
The final product as I look in the mirror is . . . fine. Not terrible, not beautiful. Just fine.
After sliding my black Toms on my feet, I hit the kitchen for some coffee. My top-of-the-line coffeemaker is the first thing I unpacked last night after I got home, because my coffee addiction is very, very real and very, very serious. In fact, besides some film equipment, the coffee maker is the most expensive thing I own. I don’t use fancy grinders or organic beans or anything like that. I just buy the jumbo can of generic brand from Costco and load it up with all the fake sugar and overly sweet creamer my system can handle.
I think the way you take your coffee says a lot about you. And my preferences say: This girl needs sugar in her coffee or she will die.
While my coffee brews, I watch Brit throw some vegetables that look alien to me in a very complicated-looking blender that I’m pretty sure she stole from Iron Man’s lab. She tells me over the loud whir of the spinning blades that I should be drinking green smoothies to “jumpstart my day!” I shout back that I prefer coffee, especially since what she is currently pouring into a portable mug looks like green sludge that’s been scraped from the side of a pool. She takes a sip of her juice while I take a sip of my coffee.
“Mmm. Kale, fennel, and agave,” she says happily.
“Mmm. Pure caffeine and heavily processed creamer,” I reply just as happily.
Brit shakes her head and reaches behind me to grab something. She holds it out to me. “At least take a muffin. You need something on your first day.”
“What kind is it?”
“Blueberry—”
“My favorite!” I interrupt and take a very un-lady-like bite.
“. . . with flax seed and almo
nd flour, sweetened with fruit reduction. All organic and vegan, of course!” she finishes.
Now I regret taking a full bite. It tastes like cardboard that’s had blueberries kind of smeared into it. But I chew and swallow for Brit, hoping that I can keep it down until I at least get out of the house.
“Thanks, Brit. I’m gonna wait outside for Elise. I’ll see you later,” I say over my shoulder while collecting my portable coffee mug and messenger bag.
“Okay! Have a great day! Remember to keep your heart open to new experiences. Take each moment in and face the day head on!” she yells at me as I leave the apartment. I suppress the urge to scoff at Brit’s hippie talk and start walking to the street to wait for Elise.
I’d definitely rather have a nice-but-strange roommate than a mean-but-normal one.
I sip my coffee and pass the time playing on my phone while I wait for Elise to pull up. It’s five after six, so I assume she’ll be here any minute.
But ten minutes go by, and still no Elise. I text her a quick message asking if she’s on her way. She can’t be that far; she lives on the same side of town as I do.
Twenty more minutes go by and with no response to my texts, I start to get anxious. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the feeling that I’m late to something important and I can’t do anything about it. If I could physically fly to Elise’s exact location and get in the car with her right now, I would.
Although I guess if I could fly, I would just fly to the set.
My phone rings—Elise. I eagerly pick up, hoping she’ll tell me that she’s almost to my house.
“Elise? Where are you?” I say into the phone.
“Hi, hon! I’m leaving my house now.”
“Now?! You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago! I have to be on set by 8:00!”
“I know, I’m sorry. I couldn’t decide what to do with my hair. I can’t see Tate without looking my best,” she says, like it’s totally okay to make me late to what is quite possibly the start to my career as long as her hair looks good.
“Elise, we’re going to be late!”
“No, we’re not. I’ll just avoid freeways on the way up there.”
Twenty more minutes later, Elise pulls up in her little Honda Civic, and I’m fuming. My anger only gets worse when Elise waves at me happily from the driver’s seat, “Hi there! Ready to go?” she asks as I climb in the passenger side.
“I was ready an hour ago,” I snap. Elise rolls her eyes and puts the car in drive.
“Relax. If you’re a little late, it’s okay. You’ll be with me and I got you the job so . . . you know, it’ll even out.”
The ride to set is pure torture. Not only do we hit traffic at every single point in our commute (who knew a city could have this much traffic and this many terrible drivers?), but Elise gives me music whiplash by switching between radio stations every nine seconds. It also doesn’t help that she keeps chattering on about how important it is that I learn everything about Tate before I get to set and begin my role as Agent Dani. I really just want to focus on the show, and if seducing Elise’s boyfriend cuts into my time learning, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Lie to Elise about how much I’m . . . seducing? Sacrifice some time on set to keep my eye on her boyfriend? My internship (slash seduction gig) hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already being pulled in two directions.
But instead of voicing my trepidation, I hold my thoughts back and just listen to Elise.
“So Tate comes off kind of cocky, but I think it’s just a Dee-M.”
“A what?” My eyes flit to the clock on the dash. I’m still twenty minutes away from being on time, and twenty-one minutes away from being officially late.
“Dee-M. You know? When someone acts the opposite of how they actually want to act?”
I’m still half a cup of coffee away from being truly awake so it takes me a second to place what phrase she’s actually looking for.
“Defense mechanism?” I offer.
“Yeah. My parents’ marriage counselor called it a Dee-M for short. Anyway, just don’t take your first impression of him to heart. I mean, I’ve been with him for three months and I still don’t know much about him.”
I want to point out to Elise that that’s probably not the best indication of a strong relationship, but instead I steer the conversation to the actual show. Vamp Camp. Somehow, I’m going to have to start saying the name without rolling my eyes.
Since I’ve never even heard of the show until yesterday, Elise fills me in. She says Vamp Camp has been on for three seasons, and while it started out as kind of a guilty pleasure show, “practically everyone” is watching it now. It’s on a network mostly known for lame teen dramas and shows about good-looking people doing good-looking things, and Vamp Camp is the network’s first big hit in a long time. So they’re throwing all their money into it. The ratings started out strong at the beginning of the season—their highest viewership yet—but they’ve been declining the past couple of episodes, and they’re still waiting to hear about getting another season. Elise says that Tate (and everyone else) is definitely feeling the pressure.
“If I had a nickel for every time I had to hear about Nielson ratings and Twitter trends . . . blah, blah, blah. When they announce a new season, and they totally will because the show is awesome, everyone will calm down and Tate can focus on more important things.”
“Like you?” I ask.
“Well, duh,” she says in such an overly dramatic tone that I have to smile for the first time all morning. But then I look at the clock; 8:12 a.m. I’m late. Late. Late.
I grit my teeth the rest of the way to the set to keep from wringing Elise’s neck with every station change, every abrupt stop, and every time she mentions Tate’s name. So, by my count, I would have choked Elise at least twenty-two times.
We finally get to the Burbank set of Vamp Camp an hour after I’m supposed to be there. Elise drops me off by stage nineteen, which is my lucky number, so I take it as a positive sign.
But that’s where my luck runs out, because the second I introduce myself to someone who looks important, I’m getting yelled at for being late. I take my scolding and ask where I need to go and what I need to do.
I’m steered (more like shoved) in the direction of craft services where all the food and drinks are laid out. An older man standing near the table stares me down as I walk up.
“Intern?”
“Yes. Hi, I’m—”
“Take this coffee to Lexi,” he says before thrusting a paper cup full of steaming coffee into my hand.
“Right. Okay? Um, where is she?” I ask timidly. The man sighs like I asked him to explain some complicated math equation instead of simply point me in the general direction of this Lexi person.
“Head that way and through the door to the trailers. Lexi’s name is on her trailer door. She needed her coffee five minutes ago, so walk quickly.”
I thank this mysterious coffee person and start power walking toward the trailers, mentally ticking off the fast facts that Elise told me in the car on the way to the set as I search quickly for her trailer.
Lexi Mack. The star of the show. She plays Tate’s love interest, Sophia, Queen of the Undead.
I knock a couple times and a voice tells me to come in.
“Hi, Lexi. Here’s—”
“Miss Mack. Don’t call me Lexi,” snarls a girl who looks no older than fifteen. Elise told me she was twenty, but the tiny raven-haired beauty glaring at me from her perch in front of a mirror would almost definitely get carded if she tried to buy porn or cigarettes.
“Why are you just standing there? Is that my coffee? Give it,” she snaps. She wriggles her fingers at me until I hand her the coffee. I lock eyes with the person doing her makeup to see if she’ll give me a sympathetic look, but all I get in return is a blank, Stockholm syndrome-like stare.
“I’m so sorry about your late coffee, Miss Mack. Let me know if you need anything else,” I say politely. The last thing I
want to do is piss off the star of the show on my first day, so I turn to leave.
The sound of someone spitting makes me spin around. Lexi holds the cup of coffee at arm’s length like it’s a poisonous spider.
“What is this?”
“Coffee?”
“No, this is a latte. With whole milk. I’m a strict vegan. Do you understand what this coffee would do to my insides after a year of eating nothing but plants?!”
“Um . . .” I frantically try to come up with an answer, but all I can think is: She’s vegan, too? Is everyone in Los Angeles a plant-eater?
“If you can’t do something as simple as get my coffee order right, you’ll be fired before the end of the day,” she scolds me before pouring the coffee slowly and deliberately out of the cup into a nearby trash can and then throwing the empty cup on top of the liquid
I want to tell her that someone gave me the coffee, so it wasn’t my mistake. I also want to tell her to go to hell. But I’m not an idiot.
“Sorry, Miss Mack. I’ll go get your correct coffee right away,” I say before running out the door. She didn’t give me her correct order, but someone else will tell me. I just don’t need to hear anything else about her eating habits. I jog back to set, turn a corner, and smack right into someone. I fall to the ground noisily.
“Watch where you’re going!” a voice yells from above.
Jesus Christ, is anyone on this set not a rude asshat?
I pull myself to my feet and dust off my jeans before looking at my crash partner. It’s a pretty Hispanic girl, probably around my age. She’s dressed head-to-toe in black and carrying an arm full of garment bags. Of course, she’s glaring at me.
“Sorry, I was trying to get back to craft services to get Miss Mack’s coffee,” I explain. Her brows unfurrow as a look of recognition glides over her face.
“Oh, you’re Dani. The new intern,” she says with as much excitement as someone saying the sky is blue. “I’m Imogen. I’ve been here since last season. You know, some of us had to actually work their ass off to get this job. For example, I’ve been busting my butt in the office for the past year to finally get a production internship on this set. I didn’t just have someone make a phone call.”
Rules of Seduction Page 5
