by M. S. Parker
I rubbed at the back of my neck and shot another look at the rack of clothing.
My head was spinning.
Too many voices. Too much to see. To process.
“Have you seen Miss Woods?”
The voice came from nowhere.
I looked around, trying to figure out who’d asked.
“Anybody know where Miss Woods is? Her lunch is here.”
Miss Woods. Miss Woods.
The necklace in my hands seemed to burn hotter and hotter, pulsating in time with my heart.
“Miss Cruz!”
I spun around and gawped at the man in front of me.
He was trim and handsome, though probably in his early fifties. But that wasn’t the reason I stared. It was because he looked at me like I was really there.
“Miss Cruz?”
Okay, this was getting really weird. How did he know my name?
“Yes?” I said cautiously, shooting another look around and hoping to see Uncle Daniel lurking in a corner, although how could he have pulled off something like this? Unless he had David Copperfield or somebody like that on standby, there was no way he could have pulled this off in the split second I’d gone and blinked. Maybe I’d hit my head when I’d fallen…
The man was either unaware of how preoccupied I was, or he didn’t care, because he planted himself in front of me and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m going to need an answer, Miss Cruz. Were you able to get one?”
“Excuse me?”
He looked put out. “I understand this is your first day and you’ve been thrown into the thick of things, but if you want to survive being an assistant here, much less an assistant to one of the biggest up and coming stars in the business, you need to focus.”
His brows beetled over his dark eyes, and he shook his head at me.
“I…”
His mouth drew tight. “Didn’t you speak to Miss Woods? Did she give an answer or not?”
“Miss Woods…” I glanced over my shoulder at the door to the dressing room. “She…um…yes.”
“Yes? Perfect.”
Yes? “Wait!”
He scowled, but I didn’t think it was at me precisely. Shooting his watch a look, he cocked a brow. “I’m a busy man, Miss Cruz.” Then, to my surprise, a smile softened his face, making him look even younger than I’d first assumed. “Although, maybe I’m too busy if I’m trying to rush out on such a beautiful woman. By the way, I know you’re new in town. Did you have plans for the night?”
“Plans?” Yes. I wanted to wake the hell up from this crazy dream. But I was starting to think it wasn’t a dream. I was starting to think it was real—very real.
Somebody bumped into me, and I glanced over just in time to see a man in a blue jumpsuit dip his head at me. “Apologies, miss.”
Miss.
Everybody was calling me miss.
The clothes.
This was all beginning to feel far too surreal—and far too real.
“Why don’t you be ready at seven as well?” His eyes flicked over me, and he smiled. “I assume your luggage has arrived? If not, we can see about finding you something to wear.”
“No. No…” I shook my head, then plastered a smile on my face. I needed to just go with it, I decided. If this was a joke, I’d figure it out soon.
If it wasn’t…the bottom of my stomach dropped out, but I kept the smile firmly in place. “I’m fine. I’ll be ready.”
Ready for what, I didn’t know.
“Here. My card. In case you need anything.”
I held out a hand and accepted it, happy to have at least one thing that felt familiar.
He nodded at me and turned to go as I looked down to study the card.
Peter Hammond and Associates.
There was an address and something that looked like a phone number on it—though no phone number I’d ever seen—but beyond that, it was startlingly simple. Nothing like the flashy business cards I was used to seeing. More like something off of a movie set.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yes.” I managed a weak smile, but by the time I looked up at him, he’d already lost himself in the crowd.
5
Glenn
“You better not try to pull one of your tricks, Glenn.”
Eyes closed, I slumped in the chair. “Buddy, the only trick I’d pull right now would be the one that would make you shut up.”
It wasn’t going to happen, though. I could always hang up, but I knew my manager. Peter would just call again—or worse, come over.
I was going to have to get all straight-laced and act like a good boy tonight—and for the foreseeable future—which meant I needed to have the afternoon to relax.
What I didn’t need was to have my manager yammering in my ear.
And yet, he yammered on.
“So, you’ll be ready then? I’ve got a car coming…”
His voice trailed off, and I spoke into the silence. “Yeah, yeah. You told me this already. I know, Peter. I’ll be waiting.”
“Wear something other than blue jeans, for fuck’s sake. You’re a star, not some bum off the streets. Look the part.”
I didn’t see how wearing a penguin suit made me look more or less like a star, but whatever.
“I’ve already got the suit laid out, Peter.”
There was a paused, then he said, “Good.” Another brief hesitation before he added, “I know this is all stressing you out. I know settling down just isn’t your thing. But all this bad press is going to kill you, Glenn. Too many people are still thinking about that girl and how she took a header off the balcony.”
A sick, greasy feeling settled in the hollow of my belly. Grabbing the glass of whiskey from my desk, I tossed it back, hissing as it burned all the way down. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to think about that—don’t want to talk about it. Got it? I’ve thought about it enough, talked about it enough.”
“Hey, hey…man, I’m on your side here. I know you tried to stop her. It’s just…her, and all the other…”
“Enough.” I put the glass down, slamming it so hard, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it broke.
“Okay, okay. Look…just…be ready on time. You’ll have fun. You like Florence. You’ll have friends at the party, too. We’re turning over a new leaf, right?”
“Right.” And I was hanging up. Without letting him have another word, I dropped the phone back into the cradle, then looked down.
A woman, her bright red hair cut short, knelt in front of me.
She tilted her head back just enough to meet my eyes as she bobbed her head up and down in a slow, steady motion.
Now that I wasn’t on the damn phone, maybe I could concentrate on relaxing.
Pathetic that I had to concentrate on doing that. I closed my eyes, tried to will my mind to empty itself as she continued to demonstrate her not-inconsiderable talents.
My cock thickened, pulsing in tandem with her rhythm, and she wrapped a hand around the base, steadying me.
She made a humming sound low in her throat.
That felt…nice.
Cupping the back of her head, I nudged deeper, felt her shudder.
Her fingers trailed up, then down my thigh.
She was staring at me.
I could feel it.
It made it really damn hard to get off with her watching me like that.
Grabbing her head between both of my hands, I started to move against her mouth, throwing her off balance. She made a startled little noise, and I opened my eyes enough that I could make sure I wasn’t hurting her or pushing too deep.
Her eyes were closed as she started to suck on me.
That was better.
I grunted in approval and continued to thrust my cock into her mouth, chasing after the orgasm.
It came, but it was…empty.
She curled up on my lap, stroking my chest and rubbing her cheek against my shoulder. Sliding a hand up her leg, I found her naked under the bri
ef skirt of her dress and stroked her expertly. She squealed, then started to moan, riding my hand until she found her own climax just a few seconds later.
“That was…lovely,” she said, sighing against my lips and kissing me.
“Yeah.” I eased her off my lap. “I gotta go, babe.”
“Go? Go where?” She blinked up at me, looking confused.
“There’s a party. A business deal.”
A hopeful look entered her eyes, but I shook my head. “Sorry, sweetheart. My manager’s already got things lined up for me. I’ve got to go and behave, be a good little boy.”
“But you’re so much more fun when you’re not.” She slid a hand up my thigh, smiling at me from under her lashes.
“Glad you think so.” I winked at her then gave her a swat on the ass. I didn’t much care if she thought I was fun or not, but there was no point in hurting her feelings. “Go on, now.”
Once she was gone, I slumped back in my chair and reached for the bottle of whiskey, just barely an arm’s length away from my desk.
The hands on the clock counted down the hours.
I wondered if I could get completely drunk then sober again in time for the damn party.
6
Maya
Miss Woods.
I looked back at the dressing room and stared at the elegant scripted name on the door.
Miss Woods.
How in the hell was this happening?
“Excuse me!”
A short, harried man bumped into me and I jumped, feeling like a scalded cat as I moved out of his way.
My back hit the door, and I closed my eyes. I reached out and gripped the doorknob, fighting the urge to hurl myself back into the room, back into that little hidden space and hug my knees to my chest while I waited to wake up.
I really, really wanted to wake up, but I was too practical to stand there, trying to convince myself that this wasn’t really happening when I could hear things, smell things, see things that were just too real to be a dream. People were bumping into me. People were staring at me. If I was standing there naked, I might have felt a little better—because then I might have believed I was dreaming.
One person in particular was giving me an odd look, and he wore a rather official looking uniform. Fake it until you make it, I told myself and gave him a brilliant smile.
Then I turned and lost myself in the rush of people. I had to find someplace quiet to think, and I needed to figure out just who that guy had thought I was—
Miss Woods.
Oh, shit.
I was already across the room, but still, I spun around and gaped at the door to the room I’d found myself before just a few minutes earlier.
Miss Woods.
Florence Woods.
I felt dizzy all of a sudden. Dizzy and lightheaded. I needed to get out of here. I needed to find my uncle…
You idiot, it’s 1962!
I went to rub my forehead and smacked myself with the necklace. Swallowing, I stared at it, the soft, mellow gold winking at me mockingly. It had only been a few minutes ago that I’d found it. Found this, the diary…
The diary of Florence Woods—the Hollywood sensation who’d killed herself just as her career was starting to take off.
Florence Woods—who was apparently still alive.
Maybe…
I bit my lip and then looked around. If I really was in 1962, maybe it was for a reason.
Maybe I’d found that diary—maybe I’d found that room—for a reason.
And I couldn’t think of a better reason than to keep a young woman from killing herself.
Which meant I needed to find her.
A woman came walking by and her eyes flicked to my bare shoulders and arms, lingered on my jeans before she looked away, distaste clearly written on her face. I stared at her, then at the other women around me, and made a decision.
The first thing I had to do was find some clothes that looked a little less…2017.
“So what happened to your…” The girl in wardrobe stared at me over a pair of cat-eye glasses that were ridiculously cute. She waved a hand at my chest, then at hers, and I wasn’t sure if she’d bought my mad ad-libbing about how the airline had lost most of my luggage and I hadn’t wanted to be late so I’d come straight to the studio anyway.
“I was wearing this adorable little cardigan,” I said breezily. “But on my way, somebody spilled coffee all over me.”
She frowned.
“And I’m allergic. I couldn’t even have it on my skin.”
“You’re allergic to coffee?” She looked appalled.
Oh, shit. Bad idea, Maya! “No! It was the milk. I’m allergic to milk! And I started breaking out almost immediately—the man wasn’t even drinking real coffee—it’s just coffee-flavored milk.”
“You must have bumped into Harry Gowens.” She rolled her eyes and her skepticism was replaced by sympathy. “He’s doused me once or twice, and the jerk doesn’t even bother to apologize. He usually sends one of the girls to go and get it, but if he can’t find somebody…look out. He’s all thumbs.”
She walked around with a speculative eye, then gave a short nod. “I’ve got something that will work.”
A few minutes later, I was tugging on a pair of boots that went up to my knees, while smoothing down a skirt that just barely covered my crotch.
Self-consciously, I checked my reflection in the mirror and was almost surprised at the sight of the woman staring back at me. She looked…younger, but somehow more sophisticated. The soft colors were super flattering on me, and I wondered why I’d spent so much of my life in jeans. Of course, jeans were more comfortable than the go-go boots, but wow… those boots did amazing things for my legs.
“You look splendid.”
“Thanks.” I gave her a grateful look, then went back to eying myself nervously. My hair was definitely not in fashion, but the wayward curls rarely cooperated with fashion anyway, so that was nothing new. “Now…if I could just find Miss Woods.”
“Try the library. If she’s not in her little hidey hole, she’s probably there, going over her lines.” The girl winked at me.
The library was just that—a mock-up of a real library. I wondered if it was part of a movie set, but people kept wandering in and out, so if it had ever been part of a set, it seemed to have been co-opted by everybody, including one Miss Florence Woods.
She wasn’t hard to find once I finally found my way there.
She was the only woman in there who looked like she had some sort of light inside her—she was that damned beautiful.
“Miss Woods?”
She looked up at me, her mouth puckered into a slight frown, one that was echoed on her forehead, causing a tiny little crease between her wide, lovely eyes.
Wow. Those eyes. They were blue-green, like the sea lapping at the white beaches of exotic tropical islands.
“Hello.” She smiled at me, and that smile was as sweet as I would have expected.
“I’m…Miss Cruz.” Was there another Miss Cruz lurking around, I wondered suddenly.
“Oh!” She popped up off the chaise and grabbed my hands. “You’re my new assistant, aren’t you? Thank goodness! I’ve been going crazy ever since Betty quit. Not that I blame her—she’s getting married, but I need somebody to help me stay…well, together.”
“You look pretty together, if you ask me.”
“Oh, you’re sweet.” She let go of one hand to wave at me, but continued to cling to the other one. “Come on. Let’s go to my dressing room. I’ve only got another twenty minutes or so before the director comes looking for me, and I’d love to get to know you first.”
“That is just terrible about your clothes! Did the airline have any idea where they might have ended up?”
“No.” I gave her a pained smile. “I called again when I got here, but so far…” I shrugged and gave her a what-can-you-do look. Hopefully luggage got lost in the sixties often enough that nobody would think twice about it.
“Well, you need to have some clothes.” She waved me closer and held out some bills. Two one-hundred dollar bills. “Here. I’ll advance you some money from your salary.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
Two hundred dollars—what was I going to get with two hundred dollars?
But wait. Things were cheaper in the sixties, right?
“If you want, I can find somebody who knows the town. They can help you find a few things.”
“I…um…” Slowly, I nodded. “Oh, there’s a party tonight.” Hopefully she knew about it.
“The party…” Her pretty eyes locked on my face.
“Yes. Peter Hammond found me and wanted me to make sure you knew to be ready by seven?”
She clapped her hands. “Oh! Lovely. Perfect.”
“Ah, he wants me to attend as well.”
“As you should.” There was a knock on the door, and she waited expectantly.
It took me a few seconds to realize I was supposed to answer it.
“Please let Miss Woods know we’re ready.” A round-faced young man stood there, trying to see past me into the dressing room.
I shifted, using my height to block him as I smiled politely. “I’ll pass the message on.”
Florence clapped her hands as she stared at me. “That color is perfect on you.”
She was practically beaming at me, a smile so big and bright on her face, she glowed with it. I had the insane feeling that I should spin around or something.
Instead, I just smiled my thanks and turned to inspect my reflection in the mirror.
The soft gold did look good on me. The dress was shorter even than what I normally wore, and I had to be extremely careful not to bend over, otherwise I’d flash the insanely sexy stockings and a garter belt I was wearing. I had to admit, I felt slightly wicked in them. A fleeting thought about modeling the lingerie for Maverick danced through my mind, and that was enough to turn my mood grim.
He wasn’t talking to me.
I’d tried to call him, despite my parents insisting against it. I had to; I felt guilty. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been driving. He’d been hurt, had ruined what probably would have been a killer football career, and all I’d gotten was a bump on the head.
