by Liana Brooks
He caught up. “I don’t get it. I’m good-looking. I’m a nice guy. I’m the friendliest person you’ve met in LA. Why won’t you have dinner with me?”
“Because I’m working two jobs, and I don’t want to have dinner with anyone?” Angela shrugged. “This isn’t about you. Relationships are a two-part harmony and if one part isn’t playing along you can’t have a relationship.”
Jacob pursed his bright red lips, the remnants of the photo shoot giving him an almost clownish appearance. “I’m a nice guy, but I guess it’s true what they say about nice guys finishing last.”
Anger mounted. “Real Nice Guys don’t pressure girls into dates, guilt-trip them over dumb things, or take someone saying that they don’t want a relationship as a personal rejection. If you delivered pizza and I never asked for pizza, couldn’t pay for pizza, and didn’t want to eat pizza, would you be upset that I didn’t take the pizza when you showed up?”
“Did you just compare sex to pizza?”
“Yes.” She was practically running as she reached the door to the studio. The stage was set for another motorcycle scene and then some fancy dress party that Tyler was supposed to crash, probably with Glee in tow. Once again, Angela wondered if she could find a script. “Do you see Luiz?” The studio doors were open to the outside, a dingy alley with blue lighting bleeding into the sound stage with two sweeping staircases, a chandelier too glittery to be real, and the pompous air she expected from a library in a Disney movie. “Um...”
“Jacob!” Glee waved from her dressing room door. “Come here, baby!”
“See? She wants my pizza!” Jacob stuck his tongue out and then strutted toward Glee.
“Bless your heart,” Angela muttered. Luiz’s sharp whistle cut through the air. Angela turned around, looking for someone in black leather riding gear.
A hand tapped her shoulder. “Wrong direction,” Luiz said.
Angela frowned as she pivoted. Luiz was wearing a skimpy purple gown with a violent lime green stole. “That’s not riding gear.”
“The Talent are the only ones on bikes today. And Glee, of course.” She snickered at her own joke. “The rest of us are playing Menacing Uninvited Guests at the museum party.”
“Oh, the set is a museum?”
“You haven’t read the script yet?”
“I keep meaning to do that.”
Luiz pushed at her back. “Go get showered and into a makeup chair. And be grateful that they filmed the hot make-out scene already.”
Angela shook her head as she retreated. “I really need a script.”
Chapter Eight
Dear Mom,
I know normal people sometimes juggle two jobs, but I don’t think they ever juggle two jobs like these. I spent all afternoon staring into burning hot lights with an industrial fan trying to whip my eyeballs out, took a thirty second shower, peeled myself out of the white banana suit, and pulled on a black silk negligee that’s pretending to be haute couture.
I did finally get a script. Without breaking any confidentiality laws, I can firmly say that the writers watched way too many Indiana Jones and James Bond films in their youth. Ty is playing Indíbil Riberio, a Brazilian archeologist who is also an agent for Interpol. There’s a criminal biker gang, a girl on the run from trouble, and more motorcycles than I ever needed to ride. Tonight’s scene involves a bike wreck (onto very soft mats—I checked), a kissing scene in an alley (because Indíbil Riberio can’t keep his hands off a semi-naked woman—at least that’s believable), and then they break into the museum charity ball to steal the Thing! The script doesn’t say what the Thing is, but I keep hoping that they’re there to rescue a rock-like superhero. Probably not.
And tell Daddy that I sent him a box. It took me all morning to find the minions, but I found four of them and shipped them home priority. Hopefully they won’t eat the box and give anyone a scare.
All the love from your very sleep-deprived daughter,
Angela
She sent the email as Tafi, the makeup artist, finished turning her into a stunningly edgy beauty her own mother wouldn’t recognize. Angela tried standing in the boots wardrobe had provided. “I’m going to break my ankle if I run in these.”
Tafi winced. “Boots? With this dress? Wanda? Why is the body double wearing boots?”
“No one will see her legs!” Someone, presumably Wanda, shouted from behind a row of gowns.
“Have you seen this skirt? They are supposed to see her legs!”
Angela stood, tugging at her dress in an attempt to cover her panties. “My legs and everything else. This slit is indecently high.” Apparently tonight’s shoot called for her to wear haute couture’s sluttier cousin.
The stylist walked in, pink curls bouncing around bright red, cat-eye glasses. “Lose the panties. She needs to go commando. Find some strappy heels. And somebody paint her toenails red. Glee has red nails. Her body double needs red nails. Think continuity people!”
Tafi gave a put-upon sigh. “Why isn’t Glee doing this? I already did her makeup twice for this scene.”
“She doesn’t ride motorcycles,” said the stylist.
“Or run in heels!” someone else shouted.
“Or film,” muttered Tafi.
Angela wanted to lay her head down, but Tafi would kill her if she messed up a single curl before the shoot. Never mind that bullets would bounce off her shellacked hair. Tafi and Wanda held a quiet conversation. Fred, the shoes guy, was consulted. Finally Kerry, the lead stylist, was pulled in. Several black dresses that appeared identical to the one she was wearing were held up. She cringed when Tafi held up a strappy black nightmare left over from a BDSM shoot. At least haute couture’s slutty cousin had a frill pretending to be a sleeve on the left side. It covered her stitches nicely.
Tafi returned with some strappy black shoes. “These cost more than I earn in a year. Do not break the heels.”
“I’m going to break my ankle!”
“Ankles are replaceable. These are not.”
Angela sighed mournfully. “I feel so loved.”
Tafi shook her head. “Love is for headliners. You are a body double.” She strapped Angela’s shoes on. “Stand up. Turn. Good. You look like Glee.”
“Which isn’t the same as beautiful?” Angela guessed.
“You will look beautiful in the movie. Now. Go out there. Shake your shapely self. And pretend to be Glee so we can turn a profit on this. More profit means more rent money.”
Angela rolled her eyes. “You’re just my pimp, aren’t you?”
“Work that money maker!” Tafi ordered as she pushed Angela to the set.
Blue filters covered the lights and Swendon’s favorite smoke machines worked overtime to fill the false alley with fog. A motorcycle roared beside her. She jumped, then saw the crew playing with the sound effects panel. What she couldn’t see was Swendon, Luiz, or whoever was working as Tyler’s body double tonight.
She crossed her arms and waited for direction. A bright light flashed on, making the fog glow, and a motorcycle purred up beside her. The rider had a helmet in place. She smiled. “Let me guess, I need to come with you if I want to live?”
The rider’s head shook slowly from side to side. “Get on,” Tyler said, his voice muffled by the helmet.
“Why don’t you have a stunt double?” She’d grabbed his waist just before he popped a wheelie and spun the bike around. “I hate you.”
“Tyler? Tyler?” Swendon swam through the fog. “There you are. Mark, turn off two of those fog machines, this is too much. Okay. We’ve done the closeups already, but I need a good night shot of you racing away. AJ, do you see those green mats off on the right?”
She nodded.
“Good girl. When Tyler hits his mark, I want you to throw yourself at the mats. He’ll slow down enough for you to jump, but he won’t stop. Have you done something like this before?”
“Not dressed like this,” she said honestly.
“Don’t scuff the shoes
. They’re expensive.”
She tightened her grip on Tyler’s waist as Swendon walked away. “I know I’m not as important as the shoes, but try not to kill me.”
Tyler revved the engine in response and tore down the alley, weaving between marks. As they drew near the mats, he jammed on the brakes.
Angela jumped, throwing herself at the mat and landing hard as she rolled. “Good times,” she muttered, climbing to her feet.
“You need to tuck and roll,” Luiz said as she held out a hand. “Get it right quick, or we’ll be shooting all night.”
“Right. Just like gymnastics.” She tried to remember the last time she’d jumped off a moving object to save her life. Probably when Blessing decided to drive and wanted to see if a car could fly. She’d thrown herself out of the car into the lake as her sister went off the edge of the pier. The car had flown fine, though the shocks hadn’t survived the landing. She walked back to the starting point.
Tyler pulled the bike up beside her. “Want a ride?”
“No. You like to throw me off your bike. Walking’s safer.”
“Riding’s quicker. Some of us need our beauty sleep.”
“I hate to break it to you, Ty,” she said, quirking an eyebrow, “but you are never going to get enough sleep to be pretty.”
He gunned the engine and went to wait for her.
She climbed on and he was moving before she could grab his jacket. The bike slowed, barely, and she jumped. With a midair twist she managed a splashy landing on the mats and skidded across them.
“Perfect!” Swendon yelled. “Set up for the next shot. AJ, you’re going to be in silhouette. Somebody show her the mark. Only one fog machine. Lights for the scene!”
The lights flickered and changed to illuminate a stretch of wall with a dozen cameras aimed at it. It was like being on the wrong end of the target range. Angela trudged over, leaned against the wall, and tried to ignore the throbbing in her arm.
Tafi dashed forward and fixed the hem of her dress.
Swendon wrinkled his nose. “AJ, try lifting a leg. Good, just like that. Now, breathe hard. You’ve just run from the bad guys, jumped off a bike, and you’re alone and desperate and scared.” Swendon clapped and turned to find other prey. “Tyler, stalk through the fog, throw the helmet to the side—not so hard this time—and go over to AJ. I need you to talk, we’ll dub in the conversation we recorded this morning. Ready? Set? Action!”
Angela laid her head back on the fake brickwork, hoping it wouldn’t crush Tafi’s hard work. There should have been footsteps echoing. In the movies there always were. In reality, well, they probably added the sound effects after the filming. All she could hear was the sound of her own breath and the faintest whirring of the cameras just past her elbow.
Fog swirled as a backlit hero approached. Pity it was Tyler. She watched him throw his helmet offstage towards the coffee pot. He swaggered toward her, all exaggerated gyrating hips and swinging shoulders.
Tyler stopped in front on her, leaned forward. The smell of mint toothpaste and his cologne filled the air between them. For a brief moment she regretted not putting on perfume. He was larger than life; she was a cowering mortal seeking safety.
“Talk!” Swendon screamed from deep in the fog. “Cut! We need lips moving! AJ, say something when he walks up. Anything! No, I lie, nothing people will lip read easily. Do it again!”
This time she closed her eyes. Morpheus tempted her to the realm of Hypnos. Sleep, wonderful, promising, revitalizing sleep.
When she heard the helmet crash she lifted her head. Lips moving... “Would you like to play at questions?”
“How do you play that?” Tyler’s voice was as deep and dark as his eyes. If he hadn’t butchered Hamlet, she might have liked him.
“You have to ask a question.”
“Statement.” He put a hand on the wall beside her head and leaned in. “One-love.”
She shivered in the cold air. “Cheating.”
“How?”
“You always end in a Jade’s Trick,” she shot back, switching to Shakespeare because she couldn’t remember the next line of Stoppard’s play.
Tyler leaned closer, angling his head so his lips were a breath away. “I haven’t started yet.”
“I wonder that you’re still talking, Signior Benedick. Nobody marks you.”
His smile was devastating. It lit up the dark alley and promised to do wicked things until morning light. Her pulse trilled and she knew she’d forgive him Hamlet if he kept smiling like that. “What? My dear Lady Disdain? Are you yet living?”
“Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.” Giving in to the invitation in his smile, she arched away from the wall.
Tyler rested his hand on her hip, urging her closer. “You and I are too wise to woo peaceably.”
Lips near his ears, she whispered, “That’s not the next line.”
“Cut!”
Reality slammed back full force as Tyler turned away. She stumbled back, gaping at the camera in shock. They’d been alone—at least, it had seemed that way.
Angela shook her head. Obviously the lack of sleep was causing hallucinations. There was no way she’d just zoned out and flirted with Tyler Running Fox, the butcher of Hamlet. Nope. Grandma Meredith would roll in all seven of her graves if that had happened. Proper Southern Ladies did not flirt with men who couldn’t recite the ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy correctly.
“Do you see that smile?” Swendon asked the world at large as he shook Tyler by the shoulders. “That will make us all very, very wealthy men. Why couldn’t you smile like that earlier?”
Tyler held up a hand and chuckled.
Angela stared in horror. Heaven forfend, as Othello would say, he chuckled? He was human?
He hit her with another smile, warm, welcoming, the kind of smile that made panties drop. “AJ was seducing me with Shakespeare.”
Swendon narrowed his eyes at her. “What?”
“We had a Shakespeare quote-off. I wasn’t seducing him. I was...teasing him.” She nodded. That sounded believable.
A chorus of groans rose up from the cast. “Glee doesn’t know Shakespeare,” Swendon whined.
Angela smiled sweetly. “Sometimes I don’t think Ty does either.”
Tyler glowered down at her, but mirth danced deep in his dark brown eyes. “Let’s reshoot the scene. I think someone wants to hear the “To be...” bit of Hamlet.”
“Done right,” Angela confirmed, smirking.
“On your own time,” Swendon said. He brushed something off Tyler’s arm. “Where’s special effects? Where’s Yandel? Why does Tyler have blood on him in this scene?”
Tyler pulled his jacket off in confusion. “It’s not mine. He glared at Angela. “Are you bleeding?”
“Um, I shouldn’t be? I didn’t have any of the special effects blood on me.” But her arm hurt. She risked a quick glance. Blood seeped from under a torn stitch.
Tyler brushed her arm, his fingers cold on her pale skin. “What happened?”
“I must have popped a stitch out when I landed.”
He motioned for Swendon. “Our stunt lady was improvising.”
“AJ!” the director wailed. “Was any of that in the shot? It was such a perfect shot.”
“Her arm was away from the camera,” Tyler said quickly. He turned his attention back to her. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you’d hurt yourself?”
“How did this happen?” Swendon demanded, pushing Tyler aside.
“I cut myself moving into the new apartment. I’m cleared for stunt work. Look, it’s only a little blood. There isn’t much. It just smeared. I’ll pay to get the jacket cleaned if that helps.”
Tyler shook his head. “You really are new to Hollywood. The Talent never pays for anything.”
Angela glared back. “Then I guess I’m not The Talent. My parents taught me to t
ake responsibility for my actions.”
His eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Must be nice to have a couple grand to spend on a jacket.”
“A couple grand?” Her voice squeaked.
“That’s how much it will cost to replace the jacket.” Tyler shrugged. “But you’re a pretty white girl. I’m sure Daddy can pay for it. If not, there are plenty of people searching for the next porn star.”
Angela rolled her eyes. “Grab a baby wipe from your Whine and Cheese bag, Running Fox. It’s just a little blood.”
Chapter Nine
Dear Mom,
Finding an all-night ER in L.A. isn’t hard. I managed to get there and was only lost for, like, five minutes. Eight days in my new city and I’ve been to the ER! I think that’s a family record of some kind. Do I get a trophy?
I’m okay. I ripped my stitches doing a stunt. It’s not a big thing. I’m sore and exhausted, but hey, the Cupcake Shoppe was open when I drove past at four in the morning, so I grabbed one. With any luck, I’ll be able to sleep until noon without interruption.
Your still tired daughter,
Angela
Arktos focused on chilling the buildings around him so the pyro’s fire wouldn’t bring the block down and wished for approaching police sirens. This end of town was a victim of the last depression, home to nouveaux rich who had fled during the housing crisis, leaving empty buildings that had slowly filled again with vagrants. Though at least the street people were smart enough to run and hide when a flame-covered maniac attacked.
Another fireball blossomed in Arktos’s face. He shot spines of ice at the pyro. The idiot capered backward, letting his heat melt the ice so he was merely splashed instead of skewered. Arktos tried throwing a cage of ice around him. It began steaming immediately.
Gravel crunched behind him.
Arktos pivoted and only instinct kept him from catching a baseball bat with his nose. It grazed his head, leaving his ears ringing. The blonde. Of course, he thought as he jumped to the side. He thought he’d been lucky finding the pyro alone.
