I bite the cap off the marker and shake my hand out. I’ve practiced signing my stage name for when this happens. Since I was fifteen, actually. It’s in the edges of The Playbook. I’ve signed it with my right hand, my left hand, attempted it with my toes. I closed my eyes, wrote it upside down, and then about a hundred times in a row. No big deal. I can write eleven letters in order—though I’ve never done it on skin before.
The redhead coughs quietly, and I flick my gaze up at her soft and shy smile. Don’t think I could ask for a better specimen to take away my autograph virginity. Swallowing hard, I settle my hand on the upper curve of this woman’s freckled and blushed boob, and start the J. It faces the right direction. And so does the a and the s and so on.
I got this.
Everything’s coming up Jace today.
11:08 P.M.
The second I get back to the room, I blurt out, “Someone had me sign her ches—”
But Shay’s not there. And after a few seconds the sound of the shower registers in my ears. It’s just as well. I’m not sure she’d appreciate the taste of fame I just experienced via a magnificent breast. Though she may voice her enthusiasm for me spelling my stage name right on the first try.
Nah, enthusiasm is too strong a word for Shay. Maybe she’ll say “Awesome” in a monotone with a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. Which, for me, is just as good.
After changing, I snatch up the remote and snap the TV on. Carletta’s last movie is On Demand, so I purchase it while Shay’s still showering, since we’re on her agency’s dime and I don’t want the “Only the necessary purchases, Jace” lecture.
Carletta does the chick-flick stuff, but she’s good. Funny. I honestly wouldn’t have watched all her movies but my ex—for lack of a better description—Penny got real turned on by the romantic comedies.
The leading man in this is awkward, but he wins the girl because the script says he will. The Screenwriter of the Universe thinks he’s a real funny guy. Where are the girls I’ve seen movies about? The kick-ass woman with red lips at the bar who can’t stop looking at your junk and slips you her number or, even better, the number to her hotel room. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and on to the next. They have to exist. But the screenwriter of Jace: The Real Life Movie has failed to write her in.
So far I’ve encountered Miss Clingy, Miss Throws Her Drink in Your Face, and Miss Falls in Love After You Say “Nice Dress.”
But not only is Carletta Ocean (Miss Sure Thing) cool with the casual fling, this woman needs no body double. Toned and soft, curvy and thin, and the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen on-screen. Not gonna lie, I want her. And she wants me. Yeah, baby, yeah.
I start twerking a little and slap an imaginary ass. After a dry spell of over…well, it’s been a while. I’m a little exuberant over it. I probably should relieve pressure so I can bring my A game. But I don’t think I can do that in the same hotel room as Shay. We’re not entirely professional all the time, but I ain’t risking her walking in as I give myself a happy ending.
I move my eyes back to Carletta on the screen as I flop on the edge of the bed. She’s just run into the guy for the third time in the first twenty minutes. See, in love-type movies when two people keep running into each other, they end up jumping in the sack eventually, usually by the third or fourth encounter, believing that some sort of fate is pushing them to fall in love and shit.
The door to the bathroom opens, and I turn the volume down a few notches. Shay’s dressed in two-sizes-too-big sweats and a spaghetti-strap shirt that has the Google logo across the chest. The circles in the g’s are right over her c’s. It’s hilarious.
Way back when we met, I thought I was headed toward the “fated bang” with Shay, but so far I’ve steered clear of it, even though Screenwriter of the Universe seems determined that our lives are somehow intertwined.
SHAY, SCENE ONE: Setting: freshman year at NYU (Shay’s junior year). Bunch of us wanted to screw around in Times Square for S&Gs and started teasing the costumed characters walking up and down the streets. I managed to get a good hold of the Toys R Us Elmo’s head as I ran past, popping it off and bolting. Yeah, I was eighteen and thought I was the shit. And the short chick in the Elmo costume caught up and whacked me in the stomach with the giant Elmo shoe she had ripped off of her foot.
“Some of us have to make money, you asshole!” she screamed, thumping me over and over in the gut with that fuzzy red boot. She had to be just over five feet, with narrowed almond eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses and a mess of black hair falling out of her loose ponytail.
I cracked up and handed the Elmo head back between blows. She jammed it on and then crossed her arms, staring at me from behind the mask. It was hardly intimidating, since Elmo was smiling and looked as friendly as ever, but the expression I imagined was still entertaining as hell. She stalked off and got a bunch of tourists to take pictures with her for tips. Funny thing, lots of people got a shot of her contorted face while she was fighting me off with her shoe, a few videos even, and she became a well-known Internet meme. It went viral before people even knew what that term meant. She was the top Google search until Grumpy Cat came along. Now she’s just known as “Elmo Girl” around the Internet.
Honestly, I never thought I’d see her again. Well, in person. Saw her all the time on my Facebook wall.
“We need more auditions for you like these,” Shay says, making me jolt a little on my bed.
“Damn, make a noise or something when you walk into a room.”
“I did make a noise.” She shakes her wet hair back, pulling it into her signature pen-holder bun. She nods at Miss Sure Thing on the screen. “We need more romantic comedy auditions. Get girls to like you and you’ll snag jobs like that.” She snaps her fingers, then tosses her brush into her bag.
“The ladies already like me.” I grin, thinking about the girl from the pool.
“Not all of them,” she lilts, tossing her towel onto the floor. I raise my eyebrow at it, because she’s not the type of person to leave anything on the floor. Ever.
“You say that, but you know you like me a little bit.” I pinch my thumb and forefinger together, but she doesn’t even look in my direction.
“Don’t make me throw something at you.”
I bite my retort. When Shay threatens something, she means it. I’m grateful she hasn’t threatened any ball chopping yet. So I roll over and snap off the chick flick, which is only about halfway through. I know how it’ll end, though. They all end the same. Miss Leading Lady and Mr. Kickass Lead get together after he apologizes over something stupid he did.
“Hey, speaking of…” Shay says, breaking my train of thought. “You need to run over your lines.”
A folder flumps on my bedspread, and I ignore it. “I’ll get right on that…tomorrow morning.”
“No,” she says, as expected. I reach for the sheet to pull it over my head, but she’s quicker, ripping it from the mattress altogether. “Now.”
“Patience really isn’t your thing, is it?”
She lets out an impatient sigh, proving my point, but I don’t call her out on it. I know she’s making me work because it’ll probably take me all damn week just to get all the lines and words in the right place in my head. But we don’t say it out loud. We never do. She doesn’t coddle, which I appreciate, but she doesn’t get frustrated either. Despite our polar opposite personalities (I’m way more fun than she is), we mesh well work-wise.
“The studio already knows you can do comedy,” she says, referring to the zombie parody I starred in. “They need to know if you can do romance.” She picks up the script she knocked from my bed and holds it out. “Honestly, I’m curious if you can do romance too.”
I can’t tell if she’s just making an excuse to make me work so late or if she really means it. But I take the papers from her outstretched hand anyway and stand up. “Oh, I can do romance. It’s one of my natural talents.”
She rolls her eyes and goes to turn
around, but I pull on her wrist. Her body bumps against mine, all her right parts lining up with my right parts, which surprises me some because she’s so much shorter than I am.
I keep my eyes intently on hers, leaning down and pushing our comfort zones. Hell, if I can act the part with Shay, I can act it with—
“Um…no,” she says, setting her small but firm hands on my chest. “You’re not practicing with me.”
“Then who do you suggest I practice with?” I drop my arms, giving her space, since I’m not acting anymore.
She looks around the room as if some genie woman will appear and grant me a line partner. When her eyes land on the corner of the room, she tilts her head, ponytail hitting the bare skin of her shoulder, then marches over and grabs…
“A lamp? Really?”
“If you can make me believe you’re in love with the lamp, you can make me believe you’re in love with anything.”
She sets it in front of me and then bounces on her bed, lying on her stomach as she pulls out another copy of the script. Those front-desk people must be really accommodating.
“You’re serious.” I laugh as I adjust the lamp to a lower height and tighten it back up. It’s still taller than her, but probably the same height as Carletta (in my fantasies. I don’t actually know how tall Miss Sure Thing is. That information is easily accessed, but my interest in her hasn’t been fully piqued until just recently). “You want me to kiss it too?”
“Were you planning on kissing me?” she says with a hint of superiority in her voice. I give her a grin over the lampshade.
“Did you want me to kiss you?”
“Are we doing that thing where we answer a question with a question? Because don’t you know I’ll win?”
Damn it, she’s got me stumped on a question to fire back at her, so now I’m the one rolling my eyes and going, “Yeah, yeah.”
She smiles in victory and looks back at the script. “I’ll be the lamp’s voice, if that’ll help.”
“Probably not.”
“It’s always the guy who chases the girl,” she says in a complete monotone, jumping right into the opening line. I hurry and glance at the script so I can hit my cue and make this lamp’s wires short out with my mad romantic skills. Go figure—she chose the scene that I have the least amount of lines in. “Even when the girl makes a massive mistake,” Shay keeps reading in a flat voice. I can see why she didn’t go into theater.
I close my eyes and try to picture the scene with Carletta. Miss Sure Thing. Try to fast-forward my mind to Friday, when I’ll be doing this for real.
Shay keeps reading Carletta’s lines. “The guy runs after her and gives one of those really embarrassing speeches. But I couldn’t let you do that…I’m the one who messed things up. So this is me chasing after you. This is me giving you a really embarrassing speech. Because after everything we’ve gone through this week, I didn’t want to risk you…not chasing me.”
A crunch pulls my eyes open, and I catch Shay chewing a very large bite of the green apple she’s eating. I try not to laugh and push myself into the zone.
“You did mean what you said,” I say, but Shay doesn’t start her next line. It’s her silent way of saying I did something wrong. Letting out a deep sigh, I give the script a much better look this time. It’s too late for this shit.
“You did mean what you said,” I say again, brows pulling inward. Shay takes another loud bite of her apple, but otherwise stays just as quiet as before. Damn it. The words on the paper start to fuzz, probably ’cause of the chlorine residue on my contacts. But it says the same damn thing.
LANDON: “You did mean what you said?”
“Okay, what am I getting wrong?” I ask her, dropping my arm till the script hits me in the thigh. She shoves the bite of her apple into her cheek.
“Just the first two words. Try again.” Her eyes drift over from behind her glasses. “Oh, and if you call your tone ‘romantic,’ I’m going to question your theater degree.”
“I don’t hear the lamp complaining,” I tease, bringing the script back up, trying to focus on the order of the words.
LANDON: “You did mean what you said?”
No, damn it. That’s not what it says. There’s a question mark at the end. I cover everything with my hand other than the first two words of dialogue: Did you.
Did you, did you, did you. I bet that sounds hilarious five times fast
“Did you—”
“Romantic, Jace,” Shay says, then bites down into the untouched side of her apple, spraying juice all over her lips. She smears it around with the back of her wrist, then licks the juice off her skin. I must be dry as hell in the trousers, because I find it so damn cute that romance seems pretty easy to tap into now that I’ve got the words right.
So, okay, romance. A girl begging to be taken back. Never experienced it before, but then again, never experienced a zombie attack either. Just need to think about if it really was happening and shut off reality. Because if any of the girls I dated ran back to me, I’d probably end up bailing to avoid getting attached.
Not this guy…what’s my character’s name again? I glance at the script. Landon. Ah, hell, being head-in-the-clouds-in-love with that inspirational name is gonna be a cinch. My best friend got married just a few months ago, and his wife, Liz, has got her claws deep into his ticker.
I’m more of a nails-dug-in-the-ass kind of guy.
Instead of a quick look over the lines in the scene, I turn around and practice each one, whispered to myself. Shay’s used to this technique, so she doesn’t do any of that impatient annoying shit like big long sighs or humming or tapping her nails. I’m actually so in the zone I almost forget she’s there. Just me and Lampy—the female version of Lumière. My jaw tightens, and I work up some moisture in my eyes to give them a good “emotional turmoil” look, then I settle the script down on the bed.
“Did you…did you mean what you said?”
Shay shifts, but I try not to look at her. “What?”
I ignore the thin metal stand and wide, dusty shade (and the lamp’s apple chewing and monotone “voice”) and pretend it’s Carletta’s full lips and ample breasts in front of me.
“Last night.” I clench my jaw a bit again. “Or was that just for the cameras?”
Cameras? Looks like I need to read the movie description in order to get it. Or have Shay give me the rundown.
Shay turns on her back, holding the lines out above her head.
“I meant it. I mean it now. Look around. There isn’t anybody but me and you. No cameras, no lines to memorize, nobody telling us where to touch or how to kiss. And when it’s just been the two of us, I’ve always been honest. This is me being honest, Landon. I love you, and I meant every word of what I said last night.”
Yeah, she’s not making this easy for me with her mouth full of crispy apple. Kinda hungry, actually. And then Shay tilts her head and bats her eyes at me in a faux-loving way. My mouth twitches as I almost break character.
I take a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut, and shake my head at the ground. “I just…I don’t know if I can…” My heart beats normally, but I pretend as if it’s breaking, shattering, or maybe even a bit indecisive. I start pacing in front of the lamp, hands shaking as I pinch the bridge of my nose, grab at my chest, and fist them against the fabric by my hips (which is my gym shorts at the moment). Landon—either the character version or the real-life one—would most likely want to yell at this point, but he’d struggle to keep it in. He’d also want to give in, keep the girl close so she wouldn’t get away. Even if he was still angry, he’s in love.
That poor sucker.
I drop my hands from my waist and cross the two steps to the lamp. I grasp the shade on both sides, pulling it close to my forehead and saying my next line, which is the most difficult of the bunch. Lots of little words that are easily switched in my head.
“I want to trust you. But how do I know if any of it is real?” After a few beats, in which I
amp up my breathing to make it look like letting the lampshade go is the hardest thing I’ve ever done while, really, I’m just hoping I got all the words in the right place, I back up, dropping my arms in defeat.
“Did you mean what you said last night?” Shay says after my performance, and I let out a tiny breath of relief. Her voice has taken on a tone that suggests she’s actually paying attention now. “Are you done, then? Is this it? Because if you meant it, I’ll go. So did you mean it?”
I bring my eyes up to the lamp, visualizing Carletta and her long red hair that drops at the waist, her hips that round out a magnificent ass, and I’m picturing her topless, because why not?
“No.” I close the distance between me and Carletta, wishing I was running a hand over her cheek and her bottom lip instead of the coat of dust on the lampshade. “I didn’t mean a damn word.”
This is the part when I kiss her, and I’m about to commit to it. I even pretend to tuck the imaginary hair behind the imaginary ear, but Shay drops the script to her stomach and blows a raspberry.
“Damn it.”
I peek around the lampshade I probably should’ve bought dinner for. “What?”
“Nothing.” She grabs at my set of lines and pushes it into her laptop bag with her copy. “You’re good. It’s all very good. You’re…I mean…You…you can go to bed now.”
I smirk and put the lamp back in its corner while she chucks her apple core into the trash, flips around, and tucks herself under her covers.
“I got your engine running, didn’t I?”
She snorts, but it’s breathless and sounds off. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I got you going,” I say, pumping my hips in a ridiculous dance. “You want me to walk around the halls for a bit. Give you some time with Bob?”
“Bob?”
“B.O.B…Battery Operated Boyfriend.”
Her head whips around, her black hair falling across her face. “How in the world do you know that term?”
“How do you not?”
She flips back over to her other side. “Good night, Jace.”