“Cindy.” Patricia nodded for her to sit in the stainless steel chair on the far side of her modern desk. Gone were her father’s dark cherry furniture and bookshelves, the oriental carpet and cream walls. In their place were cold metal and square lines.
“What have I told you about using office hours to write?”
“I haven’t.” Cindy sat, crossed her legs, then re-crossed them.
“Then where did this come from?” Patricia lifted one tattooed eyebrow as high as it could go under the weight of continual Botox treatments. There was a wide bump in the center of her forehead from all the poisons injected into her skin.
“I wrote it before …”
The other eyebrow twitched.
Cindy amended her statement from before Daddy died to, “… a long time ago.” The longest two years of her life.
The eyebrows returned to their normal, inanimate state. Patricia studied Cindy for a moment, waiting for her to babble on. Cindy wouldn’t. The more excitement she showed, the less likely Knight Studios was to produce the movie.
“The only way this script will succeed is if we get a big name to play the lead.”
Cindy gripped the edge of her chair, not quite daring to hope that her dream would become reality. So many things had gone wrong since her father passed away—and she’d done her best to follow his advice, to make her own happiness. But there were days full of clouds and emotional tornados.
“My initial thought was Mark DuBois, but he’s moved on to that silly theater of his.”
Cindy nodded on the outside—on the inside, she shook her head vehemently. She’d seen two shows at the Magnolia Theater and loved them both. Mark’s silly theater had become an Atlanta powerhouse for the arts. Their teen camps for the coming summer had filled months in advance—winning the attendance lottery was bigger than going to Disney World.
“However, Beau Mckay may be a suitable match.”
Yes!
Pairing Beau, with his sable brown hair and hazel eyes, with her action-packed script would make Egypt’s Gold the perfect date-night movie. The guy had a reputation with the ladies, but that only seemed to further his career.
Patricia clicked her nails against the desktop. “To be quite honest, we could make more money off another Drusilla movie, but I feel a sense of obligation to you, Cindy. I’m sending the script over today. If we haven’t heard back from Beau’s agent by twelve tomorrow, then I’ll be forced to pull the movie.”
Noon?! That was a ridiculous timeline. No one got back on a script in less than twenty-four hours. Cindy closed her eyes, knowing her ambition would be forever lost to time. She worked tirelessly to maintain Knight Studios’ reputation and often to undo the poor press Stepmother created with cutting remarks. Cindy worried her lip. History proved that the more she pushed for something, the harder Stepmother worked to block her. For whatever reason, Patricia saw Cindy as competition instead of a coworker, a partner, or even a stepdaughter. And, with her position as president of Knight Studios, there was little Cindy could do to change her decision. “Yes, Stepmother.” She opened her eyes and stood to go.
“I almost forgot.” Patricia twisted her chair and concentrated on her computer screen.
“Yes?”
“Natalie is having friends over tonight. Use the back stairs when you come home.”
Natalie’s friends included several former child stars who spent their time sipping lemon water and reliving the glory days. Drusilla’s body had stayed thin enough to pass for a seventeen-year-old on screen. Natalie, on the other end of the gene pool, developed curves that betrayed her age. She had dropped out of the acting scene and worked as a consultant for Knight Studios. While Cindy didn’t have anything against the group, she preferred to stay out of the way. “Of course.”
The walk back to her desk stretched before her like taffy on a hot summer’s day. Tomás poked his head over the divider, and she shook her head slowly. Her dream, lying in a neat stack of paper on Patricia’s desk, would expire in a poof at the stroke of twelve tomorrow.
“Tomás,” Patricia yelled. “I’m leaving.”
Tomás hurried through the open door, ready to tuck Patricia into the town car. When he passed by Cindy’s cubicle, he had a leather briefcase in one hand and her purse in the other. He swiggled his hips as he walked, mocking Patricia’s sashay.
Cindy snorted a laugh and hurriedly covered it with a cough. Tomás missed his calling in life; he should have been on stage, not behind it. By the time he came back from tucking Patricia into the town car, Cindy had pulled up the sequel to Egypt’s Gold on her computer and buried herself in the desert sands of time.
“I’m off to clean the throne.”
She ripped her eyes from the screen. This particular section was missing the “it” factor. and she wanted to hash out the rough spots before leaving. “Please tell me you’re not on bathroom duties now.” Over time, Patricia had downsized many of the employees; those that were left often worked in multiple capacities to keep the place functioning. This wouldn’t be the first time the cleaning company was put on hold to save money.
“I meant her office.” He plugged his nose. “Though I’m not sure which room would be worse.”
Cindy lifted her hands and shrugged. “Her perfume is cheap; she can use as much as she likes.”
Tomás waved his hand in front of his face as he entered the office. Apparently, Patricia had layered up before she left.
Cindy went back to her manuscript.
“Cindy? You’d better get in here.”
Her back curved. She hesitated before making her way into the cloud of roses and mango. Such an odd combination for perfume. Tomás held her script in his hands.
“She was supposed to send that to Beau’s agent tonight.” She yanked it away from him, angry at herself for believing even one word out of her stepmother’s mouth. The deadline was ridiculous, and Cindy had little hope the manuscript would ever see the light of day, but she had hoped, for just the briefest of moments, that Beau would read it. That maybe, just maybe, someone other than her would see the script’s potential.
Tomás patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry, peanut.”
A tiny spark of an idea began to form. A wicked and wonderful idea. “Don’t be.” Her shoulders squared and her chin lifted. She opened Patricia’s laptop.
“What are you doing?” Tomás hissed, as he darted to the door to act as lookout.
Cindy jotted down Beau Mckay’s address. “I’m delivering the script to Beau Mckay himself. If Beau doesn’t like it, that’s just fine. But he’s going to see it if it kills me.”
“Patricia just might do that if she finds out you were in her computer.”
Rule number one at Knight Studios: Don’t touch anything belonging to Patricia. Not her coffee creamer in the break room. Not her nail file in the bathroom. And never, ever her computer.
“If we don’t make this movie, we’re going to be out of a job by the end of the year.”
Tomás grew quiet. His sister was sick, some auto-immune disease, and he was her only family in the states. If he left, he’d take a pay cut, and prescriptions were expensive. “Here.” He took a large envelope out of the filing drawer and handed it to Cindy.
“Thanks.”
Picking up the phone, he buzzed Daphne at the front desk. She was one of the few people Patricia kept around. Probably because she looked like a grandmother and wasn’t a threat in the looks department. Lucky for Cindy, she acted like a grandmother too. “Do you still have those seals?” He paused. “We need one—Cindy’s delivering a script.”
Seconds later Daphne burst in. “Whose script? Your script?”
Cindy nodded. Nervous butterflies thrummed through her veins. “Am I crazy for even thinking of doing this?”
“Crazy smart.” Tomás went back to the door.
Cindy kissed the script. “For luck,” she told Daphne before sliding the papers into the envelope.
“Let’s make it official.”
Daphne stuck a Knight Studios seal over the flap.
Cindy’s eyes stung as she brushed her fingers over the silver and blue embossed sticker. “Where did you find this?” Cindy asked. She hadn’t seen one since her dad died.
“This old girl has a few tricks up her sleeve. Now go.”
With a quick hug and a push out the door, Cindy was soon winding her way out of downtown into the maze of the Buckhead suburbs. The further she drove, the larger the houses tucked in among the trees. Her jaw dragged behind her. She thought her home was opulent, but she’d been looking through rose-colored memories. These homes were veritable castles with their bright white pillars, shiny windows, hedges neatly trimmed, stamped concrete, and iron fences. In contrast, the pillars that framed her front porch leaned to the left, the windows were foggy, and the lawn spread into the cracks in the driveway.
Cindy shook off her stepmother’s shadow. She was going to deliver her script right into the hands of Beau Mckay and convince him to read it right then and there. If he didn’t want the part, fine, she could deal with the rejection. Rejection was part of a writer’s life.
With his face in her mind, she resolved not to let the butterflies in her stomach nor her sweaty palms stop her from reaching for the stars.
Chapter 2
Cindy’s Accord slowed to a stop in front of Beau Mckay’s giant brick home. The long cobblestone driveway circled around a fountain rimmed with grass and BMWs, Mercedes, Buicks, Ferraris. Many more than Beau could possibly own.
Great, he’s got company.
The home looked like a smaller version of the White House, minus the dome. Two three-story white pillars framed the front porch. Between them, set back fifteen feet, was a beautifully carved wooden door banked by stained glass windows that perfectly framed the doorway. Two brick staircases cascaded down from the entrance, their edges trimmed with stunning flower beds displaying a myriad of blooms.
She craned her neck to see the front porch. Every window glowed, allowing glimpses of a party happening inside. Music spilled out of the house and over the fences. Laughter echoed through the night. No wonder she’d gotten past the community security guard so easily.
She watched as a giggling couple ran out the front door, down the curving stairs, and jumped into the fountain fully clothed. They came up laughing their heads off and flopping-drunk.
“Nice place. Nice party. Stupid people.”
What had she expected, really, from Atlanta’s well-known playboy? Beau Mckay had married and divorced two Hollywood starlets before declaring himself Atlanta’s most eligible bachelor. She couldn’t buy a loaf of gluten-free bread at the grocery store without seeing his latest escapade laid out in the gossip rags.
Not that she was interest in his escapades …
There were those times when the photographer caught a sense of regret in Beau’s eye; regret and loneness. Usually the look popped up in the pictures he didn’t know were being taken. She’d mentioned it once in front of Drusilla as they passed a newsstand and gotten the tongue-lashing of a lifetime.
“You don’t know him. He has everything a man could want in life.” Drusilla flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You’re so judgmental.”
Cindy had remained quiet for the rest of the errand. She hadn’t meant to sound as if she were judging Beau. On the contrary, she’d recognized the look because she understood it—had felt the emptiness reflected in his eyes. Dwelling on those emotions wouldn’t get her anywhere. Like Daddy said, any happiness she got out of life would be because she chose happiness even when life stunk.
Her posture wilted. Life stunk a lot lately.
However, life wasn’t going to hand her this movie deal—she had to get out there and make it. Just hop right out of the car and march up to that door. That’s all she had to do. And yet she sat there, her hands glued to the steering wheel.
He’s just another actor.
Before Daddy died, Cindy interacted with actors on a fairly regular basis. They were just people. Beau was like any other man. Any talented … handsome … wealthy man who held her future in his hands and didn’t know it.
“I must be crazy.” She shut off the engine, pocketed her keys, and made her way into the party.
The front door hung wide open, allowing any uninvited or unwanted guest to go right in. Not to mention a few bugs. They gathered around the light fixtures, buzzing, just happy to be there—the bugs, not the guests.
Shutting the door behind her, she loitered in the entryway, wondering where she should start. To her right, a man with no less than three gold rings on his right hand and a diamond in his nose leaned into a woman in a little black dress.
“Excuse me?” Cindy waited for them to acknowledge her presence. When they didn’t, she stepped closer. “Excuse me!”
“We’re good on drinks.”
“Wha …?” She looked down at her red silk shirt and black pants, then around the room, where men and women wearing red and black carried trays of drinks. “I don’t work here.”
Lover boy scowled. “What?”
“Can you tell me where I can find Beau Mckay?”
He looked her up and down. “Who wants to know?”
She smiled politely. “Knight Studios.” She lifted the envelope with the seal. “I have a delivery for Mr. Mckay.”
He jerked his chin. “He was by the pool.”
“Thanks.” Her gratitude fell on deaf ears. She shrugged and made her way through the house—the beautiful house with marble floors, thick area rugs, shiny appliances, and breakable knick-knacks. She tucked her elbows into her sides and held the script close to her chest.
Exiting through a set of sliding glass doors, also left wide open to bugs and guests alike, she stepped onto the flagstone patio, scanning the gyrating bodies for Beau. He wasn’t too hard to find, his six-foot-two-inch height put him heads above the group of women surrounding him on the dance floor. They vied for his attention, moving closer to Beau until the next girl in line edged in.
Cindy carefully made her way around the pool. Couples used the sun chairs to get lost in one another, others danced, while a set of guys dared one another to jump in the pool. They were gathered at the edge of the dance floor, near the diving board. And there was no way around them. If she wanted to get to Beau, she’d have to drive right through. A feat easier said than done.
Their double-dog daring had escalated to shoving one another, giving juvenile excuses for who should be the first to test the waters. One guy pulled his tie loose and secured it like a headband.
Cindy rolled her eyes.
Feeling like a freshman on the first day of high school who was forced to walk down the senior hall, she took a deep breath. She’d come this far, what was ten more feet?
“Excuse me.” She tried to move past the first guy.
Beau was just on the other side. All she needed to do was get the script into his hands. She lasered in on him just as he stumbled into a redhead and laughed. Was he drunk? He couldn’t be drunk; she’d read that after his second divorce he swore off alcohol, blaming the scotch for his erratic behavior during his marriage.
The man in front of her lifted his arms, his elbow knocking the tray of a passing server.
She yelped and grabbed for the champagne flutes. Cindy caught one before it hit the ground.
“Hey,” the guy yelled. “You got my shoe.”
“So wash it off.” Cindy nodded towards the pool as she set the glass on the tray and gently pushed the frazzled server out of the way. The girl gave her a small smile before hurrying away.
Tie guy turned too, and suddenly she was pressed between their thick bodies. “Hey, Beau, she just volunteered to test the water.”
“What? No.” A shot of adrenaline spiked down her arms. The envelope wrinkled in her tightening grip. “No!”
“Yes.” Tie guy scooped her up as if she weighed nothing more than a dish towel. The frat group hoisted her above their heads. Beefy paws all over her back and backside. She squ
irmed, and her shoulders went down, giving her an up-close, upside-down look at the patio. It looked hard. Really hard. She closed her eyes and bit back a whimper. She was going in. There was no question. She clutched the envelope to her chest.
“Hey! Don’t!” she commanded, but no one could hear her over their rebel yells. They put her back up over their heads, where she could see all eyes were on her, and this group was not going to put her down.
In a moment of horrific clarity, Cindy Frisbee-tossed the script towards the buffet table in a last-ditch effort to save her dream. It smacked the ground and slid out of sight. She would not scream. No matter how cold the water, she wouldn’t give these idiots the satisfaction.
She was turned sideways and her eyes caught and held Beau’s. He put his hand out towards her, a sense of panic running back and forth between them. She reached for him, though there was no way they’d be able to touch.
I was so close.
The next thing she knew, she was swimming. She came up swinging her arms in an effort to splash the frat pack. They backed up, laughing.
“Is it cold?” asked Tie guy.
“It’s heated, dimwit.” She glared.
The guys pouted—their stupid dares amounting to nothing except her ruined clothes and lost script. It was here somewhere …
Cindy swam to the nearest edge of the pool. As her hand brushed the side, it was clasped roughly, and she was hauled out as easily as she was thrown in.
Scrubbing the wet hair off her face, she coughed.
“I’m really sorry about that,” came a deep and authentic voice.
Cindy blinked to clear her vision and found Beau Mckay standing in front of her. Her eyes traveled up the blue button-up shirt covering his legendary washboard abs and firm pectorals to his Adam’s apple and past those perfect lips, finally falling into his hazel eyes.
Reforming Atlanta’s Rouge_The Trouble with Dating an Actor Page 2
