FAKING IT
By
Christina Ross
Faking It is the first book in a three-book series that focuses on the entertainment industry. Next up is Making It, and then comes Killing It. Each book is a stand-alone novel with a guaranteed HEA, plenty of drama, hot sex, humor, angst, and characters you’ll come to love—and never forget. Characters from Faking It will be showcased in minor roles in Making It, and the same will be true for Killing It, which will feature characters from the previous two books. In other words, welcome to my new book family—and three sexy new book boyfriends!
BELOW ARE THE US LINKS TO ALL MY BOOKS:
ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 1
ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 2
ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 3
ANNIHILATE ME, VOL. 4
ANNIHILATE ME, HOLIDAY EDITION
ANNIHILATE ME: OMNIBUS
ANNIHILATE HIM, VOL. 1
ANNIHILATE HIM, VOL. 2
ANNIHILATE HIM, VOL. 3
ANNIHILATE HIM, HOLIDAY
ANNIHILATE HIM: OMNIBUS
ANNIHILATE THEM
ANNIHILATE THEM: HOLIDAY
Also by Christina Ross:
UNLEASH ME, VOL. 1
UNLEASH ME, VOL. 2
UNLEASH ME, VOL. 3
UNLEASH ME: BOXED SET
UNLEASH ME: WEDDING
Stand-alone novels
CHANCE
IGNITE ME
A DANGEROUS WIDOW
FAKING IT
Copyright and Legal Notice: This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state, and local laws. All rights are reserved, including resale rights.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. No implied endorsement is intended by the use of any of these terms. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.
First e-book edition © 2017.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Christina Ross
All rights reserved worldwide.
For my friends and my family,
and especially for my readers, who mean the world to me.
Also to my best friend, Erika Rhys,
who was indispensable to writing Faking It.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Books by Christina Ross
Social Media
Many readers have asked, so! ;-)
Here is the reading order for the Annihilate Me series:
Annihilate Me, Vol. 1
Annihilate Me, Vol. 2
Annihilate Me, Vol. 3
Annihilate Me, Vol. 4
Annihilate Me, Holiday
Unleash Me, Vol. 1
Unleash Me, Vol. 2
Unleash Me, Vol. 3
Annihilate Him, Vol. 1
Annihilate Him, Vol. 2
Annihilate Him, Vol. 3
Ignite Me
Annihilate Him: Holiday
A Dangerous Widow
Annihilate Them
Annihilate Them: Holiday
Unleash Me: Wedding
FAKING IT
By
Christina Ross
CHAPTER ONE
New York City
June
The morning after I arrived home from a whirlwind trip to the Cannes Film Festival—where my first movie, Lion, won the Palme d’Or and where I somehow also won the coveted Un Certain Regard prize for best actress—my agent, Harper Carmichael, was on the phone first thing.
“Sienna, darling, it’s Harper,” she said in that breezy voice of hers. “Are you awake? It’s seven o’clock, so I need you to be awake. Because everything is blowing up right now.”
“I’m awake now,” I said as I sat up in bed and shielded my eyes from the sun pouring through the window in front of me. I’d arrived in New York last night, just before midnight. By the time I’d gotten to my apartment, taken a shower, and crawled into bed, it had been past two in the morning. Apparently I’d forgotten to close the curtains.
“What’s blowing up?” I asked as I got out of bed and shut the curtains. “Has there been another terrorist attack?”
“You really are out of it, aren’t you?”
“I’ve only had a few hours of sleep.”
“Cry me a river,” she said. “Because what’s blowing up is you. After your win at Cannes, things are finally happening. People are talking. My phones are on fire. And I probably should get another e-mail account dedicated solely for you. Because right now, everyone is hungry to get a piece of Sienna Jones. And because of that alone, you need to be in my office by ten, because we have plenty to discuss. And later in the day, you’re scheduled for an audition.”
“An audition?” I said. “With whom?”
“Naturally I know, but since I want to see your face when I tell you, I’m keeping my mouth shut. But I will tell you this: it’s as big as it gets. It’s with a major A-list actor—and I mean huge. As in action-star huge. If they like your audition and you snag the part, we’re talking total career game changer here, so I need you to show up looking your best. Full hair and makeup. Wear a summery dress that makes you feel pretty—and also a little bit sexy.”
“Harper, I’m not sure I can do pretty or sexy right now. Cannes was intense. I barely got any sleep. Those parties you told me to go to were nonstop. So, as for giving you pretty, let alone sexy, let me just say this: I’m pretty sure that right now the only thing I can pull off is a hot, sexy mess.”
“Spare me the lies,” she said. “Those parties—paired with your charm and your superb performance in Lion—are the very reasons you won that award, Sienna. So, I need you to do this—not for me, but for you. Have your coffee. Get into your zone. And then take a long, hot shower before you pull yourself together and come here looking like the star that you are.”
“Lion isn’t even out in theaters yet,” I said. “I’m no star, Harper.”
“You’re about to become one, sugar, because after your win, you’re also about to do a shitload of interviews. Vogue wants you to be the face of their September issue.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“Are you serious? Their September issue? But that’s—”
“Their biggest and most important issue of the year,” she said. “And then there’s the Times, which wants to do a sit-down with you stat. Variety and the Hollywood Reporter are eager to tell your story—which is critical, because they’re the trads. And the list goes on. When it comes to interviews alone, I’ve got you book
ed for the next two weeks. So, I need you to listen to me very closely, because this is something I’ve seen happen only a few times before, and I know what it can do to a career.”
“All right,” I said, feeling as if a part of my body were separating from itself. “I’ll do it—whatever I need to do. I’ll pull it together and be in your office by ten.”
“Good to hear,” she said, “because lightning can’t strike if you aren’t standing out in the rain, my dear girl. And for you? Right now it’s pouring, and my job is to make sure you get soaked so that lightning can strike time and again. I’ll see you at ten. And don’t disappoint me. Come here looking like the knockout I know you can be.”
* * *
“Well,” Harper said when I entered her office at ten. “Look at you! Not such a hot mess after all.”
“Consider it the miracle of a hot shower and two strong cups of coffee,” I said after I’d given her a hug. She hugged me back in the way a mother would, said it was good to see me, and then took a step back to assess me with a sweeping glance.
“More like the miracle of youth and the luck of having good genes.”
At fifty-four, Harper Carmichael was a force to be reckoned with. She was a self-proclaimed lipstick lesbian who was part of an elite few who led the careers of some of the world’s finest talent.
For her age, she was also smoking hot.
She was the complete package—a beautiful, well-preserved blonde who was smart, quick, driven, connected, and successful. She was as tall as I was, which allowed her access to the kind of fashion that wasn’t accessible to most women. Today she was wearing a white Gucci embroidered cluny lace dress with a jeweled back bow that showed off her toned legs. On her feet glimmered a pair of Jimmy Choo fearne patent crisscross wedge sandals in black, which I knew for a fact had set her back a cool grand. She wore her hair raked away from her face in a way that I thought accentuated her fine bone structure.
We were in her expansive office on Lexington Avenue in the Chrysler Building, where the all-powerful and all-important Creative Artists Agency held its offices on three separate floors. Anyone who was anyone in Hollywood was either signed now by CAA or had once been signed by it. Among its current clients were Meryl Streep, Will Smith, Sarah Jessica Parker, George Clooney, Lupita Nyong’o, Julia Roberts, Johnny Depp, Nicole Kidman, and beyond.
When I was nineteen and had first come to the city from Dubuque, Iowa, Harper was the only person out of the dozens of agents I’d met with who had seen my potential. When we’d first met, I’d told her that my dream was to work as an actress on Broadway—or if I had to, maybe even in film or in television. Broadway was my first choice, which is why I’d come to New York, but really I just wanted to act. When Harper asked me pointedly how much money I had in the bank, she had other ideas.
“You’ll model,” she’d said. “Because if you’re going to live in this city, you also need to make quick money just so you can eat and pay the rent. You’re a beautiful girl, Sienna, and modeling will do that for you. On the side, you’ll take acting classes. And one day—if we’re lucky—things might come together for you. Here’s what I suggest: we get your face out there, you become known as a professional who is easy to work with, and when I feel the moment is right, I’ll work my contacts and get you auditions. But before we go any further, I need you to understand a few things first.”
“What things?” I’d asked.
“Over the years, too many people sitting where you are now have come to me with the perception that stardom comes quickly, swiftly, easily. But the harsh reality for most is that it takes years of hard work, talent, and a hell of a lot of luck to make it in this business. If you want to succeed as an actress, I need you to know that we’re likely looking at a marathon here, not a sprint. If by chance you do happen to make it, you also need to know that it won’t be without a major fight and much sacrifice on your part—because this business is hard, Sienna. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s fraught with frustration and crushing disappointments. So, before I agree to sign you, I need to believe that you’re up for that kind of a challenge, because my time is valuable, and I don’t take a chance on just anyone. If I don’t believe you’re truly committed to this—and can handle this—know that I’ll wish you the best going forward.”
“Ms. Carmichael, I came here to make it,” I’d said with unexpected passion in my voice. “I came here to win. I’ve wanted this ever since I was a little girl. I grew up on a working farm, and believe me when I say that I know what hard work looks like. If I can shovel steaming piles of cow and chicken shit at four o’clock in the morning—as I did for years before I had to head off for school—then I can take whatever bullshit this business has to throw at me. This is my dream. If it turns out to be a marathon, let it be a marathon.”
At that, she’d raised an eyebrow at me.
“Do you have a good support system around you?” she’d then asked. “People you can rely on who will help you through the difficult times?”
“I have an excellent relationship with my parents,” I said. “And I have several close girlfriends I can always count on.”
“How well do you handle disappointment?”
“Generally I take the hit and move on.”
“Even when it gets personal?”
“I’m no robot,” I said. “I’m not going to lie to you and say that I don’t have feelings. What I can say truthfully is that I’m a fighter. And I’m especially ready to fight for this.”
“Well,” she’d said after a moment. “That’s good to hear. I’m also glad to hear about your relationships, particularly the one you share with your parents, because going into this, you’re going to need them, Sienna.”
And then she’d signed me—and my God, had she been right. This journey of ours had been one mother of a marathon.
But we’d made it.
After eight years of modeling and taking bit parts in movies and television shows, last year I’d finally landed the lead role in Lion. As difficult and as challenging as everything leading up to that moment had been, in hindsight, all the hard work had been worth it—despite the fact that during most of those years, I’d barely made enough money to support myself in this ridiculously expensive city.
But here Harper and I were now—finally on the cusp of realizing all that we’d worked so hard for. And since she was nothing if not a silo of energy when things were going well, it was that silo that faced me now.
“Your dress,” she said as she stood back to appraise me. “Love it. Who are you wearing?”
I was wearing a bright-yellow Lela Rose floral fil coupé dress with a jeweled neckline, half sleeves, and an A-line silhouette, which complimented my height. At five foot eleven, I was a tall, slender, stacked, and leggy brunette, which was pretty much coveted in the modeling world. After all these years, my wardrobe outbanked my personal bank account due to the sheer kindness of the designers I’d worked for. Many of whom—like Lela—had been nice enough to gift me something of theirs that I’d worn on the runway.
“It’s a Lela Rose,” I said to her. “Since I have no idea whom I’m auditioning for, I hope I chose well.”
“You did. Let’s sit down, have a cup of coffee, and talk. Because after Cannes, I don’t know even where to begin when it comes to you.”
“Can’t we begin with this mysterious audition?”
“That will come in time. First, you and I need to decide who has access to you and who doesn’t. Because not everyone should, Sienna. We need to choose carefully. Overexposure is a career killer. When it comes to you, we need to leave the masses with a sense of mystery that turns into a hunger, so that’s what we’ll aim for.”
She turned away from me and walked toward her glass desk, on which sat an iMac, two telephones, her own cell phone, a pad of paper, and a pen. “Sit,” she said, pointing to the chair opposite her desk. “I’ll call Julia and ask her to bring us coffee.”
Julia Jacobs was Harper’s personal as
sistant and also my best friend. Just hearing her name made me smile. When she’d arrived with two cups of coffee, shooting me a discreet wink before she left, Harper and I got down to it.
“Obviously you’re doing Vogue’s September issue,” she said. “I’ve already told them to count you in. That’s a done deal.”
“I still can’t believe it,” I said. “I mean, how exciting is that?”
“Pretty fucking exciting,” she admitted. “And congratulations, Sienna. They called me right after all your buzz at Cannes, not the other way around. And since we’re talking Anna Wintour here—and given the influence she and that magazine wield—this opportunity is indeed huge. Now, since the trads target the industry, we need you in Variety and the Reporter. I want to position you as the next It Girl so that all the studio execs come to think of you that way—and thus start sending you scripts. I’ll schedule interviews and photo shoots with both of them, and I’ll also ask if they will give us the covers for each—yes?”
“Yes, please.”
We strategized about publicity for another thirty minutes before Harper leaned back in her chair, kicked her heels up on her desk, and narrowed her eyes at me. “Now for the good stuff,” she said.
“I assume this is about the audition?”
“It is. But before we go there, I have to ask you a serious question. Because what’s been proposed to me by a colleague here at CAA is something that will radically change your life, likely by the end of this week if you get the job.”
“How will landing one job change my life by the end of the week?” I asked.
Faking It (The Making It Series) Page 1
