Hollywood Dirt

  “I know.” I smiled. “I’ve seen when they learn. It takes them some time to figure it out.”

  “It was pathetic,” Cole admitted, tucking his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “I was embarrassed for him.”

  “He’ll figure it out,” I said. “And he’ll do it at all hours of the day. It only happens at dawn in the movies.”

  Cole’s eyes smiled at me. “Gotta love Hollywood, right?”

  I swallowed my smile. I had to. The warmth pushing through my veins right then… it was a dangerous thing. And this beautiful man before me, smiling at me like I was his? That was my downfall, wrapped in an expensive suit and cufflinks. I could smell my demise in his cologne and charm. And that was what he was doing. Turning on the charm and using every tool in his belt to do it, including cute little Cocky. The question was why? Why turn on the charm now? Or was this his normal magnetism, no effort required, that showed when he dropped the asshole bit? I studied his smile and tried to understand it. “Did you need me for something?”

  He coughed, looking down. “No. That was it. I can drop off the shooting schedule myself, if that’d make it easier…”

  “It wouldn’t.”

  His shoulders rolled back. “Right. Then I’ll see you on Monday. Check the schedule to see where to be. I’m sure your assistant will help you find it.”

  “I know the locations, but thank you for your concern, Mr. Masten,” I said stiffly, and he stepped forward, into my personal space, his face somber as he looked down on me, his eyes searching mine.

  “Are we good?” he asked. I tried to step away but hit the table.

  “Stay out of my way, and we’ll be just fine,” I snapped.

  He coughed out a laugh and shook his head. “I don’t chase, Summer. I get tired of that real fast.”

  “This isn’t a game.” I spoke louder, damn the doors, and his eyes flicked back to mine. “I’m not saying one thing and meaning another. Stay away from me.”

  He stared at me for a long moment before shaking his head. “I was wrong about you.” He took the two steps to the door slowly, and I knew, before he turned back, his hand pulling open the door, that he’d have at least one parting shot. “You’re a terrible actress.”

  I couldn’t think of a comeback, of a retort, of anything. I watched the white door close and felt a wave of nausea.

  He was wrong on one thing: I was telling the truth; this wasn’t a game for me. The stakes were too high, and I didn’t know the rules enough to play. But he was also right; I was a terrible actress. He looked into my eyes and saw right through my lies, exactly how much I wanted him.

  CHAPTER 61

  I thought the Pit had been interesting before. Then, Sunday arrived. The Sunday before filming. I hadn’t been expecting it, had been at church when they arrived: the crew, the cast, the rest of everything. Hundreds of people. After my lunch, courtesy of the First Baptist Church potluck, I wandered over. Watched a swarm of bodies fill the empty spaces between trailers, everyone busy, everyone working. Ben found me and latched on, introducing me to actors and actresses whose names I could have rattled off with quick efficiency. The supporting cast. Playing under Cole and me. Such an upside down situation. I smiled and shook hands. Fought the urge to ask for autographs, smiled apologetically to members of the crew whom Ben pulled me away from.

  It was an absolute zoo—the air thick with importance and money, every item unpacked expensive and complex, each new body striding out of vehicles stuffed with arrogance and energy. I found a corner and leaned against a wall. Let Ben run off to tend to things, and I just watched it all. Devoured it all. Was terrified but excited by it all.

  CHAPTER 62

  It’s my money; I think I know what I want to spend it on. A complicated sentence. I read it three times, my mind tripping over easy vowels, then raised my head and looked at Dennis.

  He smiled encouragingly, and I read the line. “It’s my money, I think I know what I want to spend it on.”

  “You sound like you’re concentrating.”

  I huffed out a breath. “I am concentrating. That’s an obstacle course of words. Why can’t she just say, “I’ll spend my money however I damn well please”?

  “You don’t have to stick to the script exactly, but don’t be wandering too far outside of the lines or else you’ll mess up the other actors. Remember, you’ll be listening for cues to say certain lines. So are the other actors. For example, if Mr. Masten doesn’t say the line you are expecting, it could cause you to miss your cue.”

  Great. One more thing to stress over. I tossed the script down and leaned forward, rubbing my temples.

  “Would you like me to have Mary call in the masseuse?” From behind him, my assistant started, coming to her feet and stepping forward, her notepad and pen at the ready.

  I looked from her into Dennis’s face. “What? Is that a joke?”

  “No. You look stressed.”

  “I’m fine.” A masseuse. I’ve never even had a massage. And right in the middle of a training session seemed like an odd place to start. Mary deflated, as if she was disappointed, and slinked back to her seat. I don’t know what I had expected in terms of an assistant, but the mousy brunette with the stern face wasn’t it. I had pictured a tattooed smartass, one who I could lean on in times of stress and learn all of the secrets of the set. If I leaned on Mary, she’d probably hand me a sterilized box of tissues and a self-help novel on independence. Anyone who had a Post-It dispenser attached to her belt wasn’t a candidate for friendship.

  “Okay, let’s roll with this line a few more times, then we’ll move on.” Dennis leaned forward and nodded at me.

  I didn’t argue. At the rate we were going, picking apart every word, every nuance… we’d never get through the script. I swallowed and sat back, looking down at the script and staring at the damn sentence whose words kept jumbling in my mind.

  It’s my money; I think I know what I want to spend it on.

  I wet my lips and spoke.

  CHAPTER 63

  “It’s my money; I think I know what I want to spend it on.” My hands found their way to my hips and rested there, on top of a tweed skirt, the back of which—hidden from the camera—was held together with jumbo clips.

  “Honey,” Cole drawled, lifting a glass to his lips, the ice clinking as he tilted it back. “You don’t want to invest in refreshments. Let the boys downtown find a Certificate of Deposit for that money. Or bonds. Bonds are a great, safe place for your inheritance to sit.”

  My lips tightened, and all I had to think about was Cole’s feet running off my porch for my eyes to flare. “Don’t talk down to me. If I want to light my money and smoke it like your cheap cigars, I’ll do so. I believe in this product, just the same as you, or Mr. Eggleston, or any of the other investors. And I want in.”

  I bent, the saddle shoes I wore sticking slightly to the floor, and pulled at my briefcase, hefting it to the desk, and pressed the side latches, the locks popping out. So far so good. This was the thirteenth take, and I was sweating underneath the scratchy skirt. Don had turned up the thermostat, wanting an ‘authentic feel’ to the set, and my hairline was damp with perspiration. We were in one of the created sets in the old supermarket—this one of Royce Mitchell’s office, a drafty space with dingy cream walls, wood floors, a big desk, which Cole reclined behind, his leather chair tilted back. I stood across the desk from him, three cameras all pointing my way. Cole had nailed his lines already. These retakes were all for me, Don or Cole unhappy for one reason or another, each new criticism a rattle to my already shaky confidence. I pulled open the briefcase lid, ready to grab at the small stack of worn dollar bills and toss them onto the desk. My hand reached out and froze, my eyes widening at the contents.

  Condoms. A hundred of them, the first one that snagged my eye advertising its LEMON FLAVORED! ability in big, proud font. I pushed my hand into the pile of packages and found the stack of money. I pulled it out and threw it on the desk, my eyes fin
ding Cole’s, who smirked at me before leaning forward and picking up the cash.

  “Some of the investors aren’t wild about having a woman on board, Ms. Pinkerton.” Cole was still amused by the condoms; I saw the curve of his mouth as he bit back a smile, his eyes beaming at me. I looked down and saw a bright green one that had fallen out of the briefcase during my dramatic throw of the money. I left it on the desk and shut the lid, praying it wasn’t in sight of a camera.

  “And what’s your opinion?” I practically snarled the words, a detailed plan forming in my head, one that involved my hands around his neck as soon as the AD yelled “Cut!”

  He shrugged and opened his desk drawer, setting the cash in it. “I love women. But then again, you already know that, don’t you, Ms. Pinkerton?”

  It was off script—way off script—and I stiffened, my fingers tightening in their press on the briefcase. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Mitchell.” I glared at him and felt the uneasy shift in the room. I didn’t know what to do. Whether to play along with his ad lib or to turn to Don and ask what in the blue blazes was going on. I saw Dennis along the edge of the set, and he gave me a ‘keep going’ gesture with his hands. I looked back to Cole, who pushed the drawer closed and stood up, setting his drink down on the desk.

  The room, which was hot before, was suddenly boiling, the lighting hanging from all sides of the ceiling blaring down, the thirty people in the room contributing to the pressure, too many eyes watching this one terrible moment. I felt, for a horrific second, like I would faint, too many takes, too much pressure, the condom stash still under my palms, Cole stepping closer, around his desk, toward me. I had no idea what he was going to say, would have no idea how to react, how Ida Pinkerton—what a horrible name—would react, and then he was right there, his hand reaching out, running along the outside of the starched white shirt, caressing the curve of my—

  I slapped him, the sound loud, like the crack of a whip in the quiet room, thirty-some people hearing the sound of my palm, a collective intake moving through the room.

  “Don’t you dare touch me,” I seethed, my finger moving on its own accord and jabbing into his chest. It was a mistake, his chest muscles hard and firm, and it made me think of my mouth covering his ... his hands gripping me, hugging me to his chest. I shouldn’t have rolled over, shouldn’t have made that last move, putting him inside me, my mouth on his. It made that moment in my bedroom, that mistake, even more personal.

  He stepped back, his cheek red from my slap, and my hand smarted when it brushed against my side.

  “I’m sorry, Country,” he said, so low I had to strain to hear the words. “I thought you liked it when I touched you.” He flashed me a cocky smile, and my palm itched to reconnect with his face. He was lucky it was only a slap.

  “Cut!” Don yelled, and his body was suddenly between us, his hand on Cole’s chest and my arm. “What the fuck was that?” The comment was directed at us both, and I snapped, yanking my arm away from him.

  “Ask your golden boy.” I nodded at Cole. “He’s the one who filled my briefcase with condoms.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he mocked. “Is that too racy for you Southern belles?” He laughed away my glare. “Jesus, Summer, it’s a prank. Think of it as your initiation.”

  “It’s an expensive prank,” Don said with a hard look at Cole. “Don’t forget that you’re footing the bills for every take now.”

  “And it was worth it to see her face. Never seen a condom before, Summer?”

  I hate that we didn’t use a condom. I hate that I let him push inside of me without any barrier. Forget pregnancy, how many women had he been with? And how little did it say of me that protection was the last thought in my mind? It had been too long since I’d been touched, my only sexual experiences prior to him with Scott, and we’d never used anything. My on-camera dig through Condom Mountain to reach the cash was the first time I’d ever touched one of the damn things, my recent purchase still sitting inside their box. But I’d be damned if Cole knew that. I stared at his perfect nose and pictured it cracking beneath my fist.

  Don let out a barely controlled breath, followed up by a curse. “You two, stop it. I didn’t sign on to referee. Summer, let’s get you back in Hair and Makeup to freshen up, then we’ll shoot scene twelve right back here. Cole, you’re off for a bit. I’ll have Jack send you a new call schedule in fifteen.”

  My eyes moved from Cole’s untouched nose to his eyes, which held mine. I could see, in my peripheral vision, his smile. I hated that smile. I hated his ease in this environment. I hated his confidence.

  I hated, most of all, that I wanted his hand back, his brush against my shirt to dip underneath the waist. I wanted him to lift me up onto this desk, for his hands to push up my skirt, and for his fingers to discover that these pantyhose only reached my upper thighs. I hated that, right there, with Don in between us, I was wet for him. And I was terrified, glaring in his eyes, that he knew it.

  “Summer,” Don said, gently tapping my arm. “Hair and Makeup.”

  I met Don’s eyes and smiled. “Of course. Thank you, Don.” I turned away from the two of them and headed for the exit, the crowd parting before me without a word.

  CHAPTER 64

  Cole sat in a screening room, his tennis shoes propped against the edge of the board, an expensive array of buttons and sliders spread out before them, underneath the three television screens. A different video played on each, his and Summer’s faces presented at different angles.

  “Did we get it or not?” Cole rolled his neck and glanced at his watch. 11:15 p.m. He looked for the closest PA and snapped his fingers. “Find a catering truck and get me a sandwich. Ham and swiss on wheat.”

  “Catering trucks closed up at ten,” Don said dismissively, skimming through a reel.

  “Then find me one somewhere else,” Cole snapped. “Why the hell are the catering trucks closing up early?”

  “Look around. Everyone’s gone.” Don glanced up at the production assistant. “Ignore him, he’ll be fine.”

  “Fuck that.” Cole fished in his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “Sandwich. Find one or make one, I don’t give a damn. And a Pepsi.”

  “Coke,” Don corrected.

  “Right. Whatever. Anyone else need something?” Cole glanced over at the other bodies in the booth, a collection of sound and video mixers. No one spoke, and Cole passed the cash to the PA, then dropped his leg, sitting forward. “So show me. Did we get it?”

  “I think so, despite your best efforts.”

  “She needed her feathers ruffled a little. She was getting too tense.” Cole grinned at the memory of her face, the widening of her eyes, the way they had burned at him across the room. He probably shouldn’t have done it, but she’d handled it well, not stopping, not reacting. It’d been a test of sorts, but also pure entertainment on his part. Ever since they’d had sex, Summer had more or less ignored him, her attitude increasingly more indifferent as time went on. He had needed that fire, that attention from her, that spark that seemed to grow stronger the more anger that blew between them. So he’d lit a match. And he’d enjoyed every bit of the result.

  Don mumbled something in response, pressed a button, and the short clip played seamlessly, the transition between Cole and Summer spliced from over a dozen takes. Less than a moment of footage, everything from Cole’s ad lib deleted.

  “It’s good,” Cole said, nodding, his eyes trained on Summer’s face, the defiance in every part of her features. Her beauty changed when she was mad. Just another reason to push her buttons.

  “I agree,” Don said, and one of the mixers, two bodies over, spoke up.

  “Do you want to show him the other cut?”

  Don ran a hand over the back of his head and said nothing.

  “What cut?” Cole asked, looking over at the director. “Don?” he pushed.

  “Yeah,” Don said, the word clipped. “Roll it.” He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his forehead.


  Cole glanced at the screen, a new clip playing. It was from after the prank. When he’d stood up and walked over to Summer. Someone had spliced the scenes together, layering the camera angles to record the moment in one concise, smooth take. He shifted in his seat and watched a close up of his hand running, slower than possible, down her shirt. Saw in high definition the swallow of her throat, the burn of her cheeks, the slight curve of her back as she, in the moment before her slap, arched into his touch. A hundred details he had missed, his mind too focused on one thing, the burning need to have her white button-down ripped off, his hands exploring the skin underneath. There was the slap, the violence of it more pronounced on screen, the darkening of Cole’s eyes, his start forward… Cole looked into his own eyes, on screen, and saw what anyone would be able to see. Lust. Raw animal lust. The clip ended, and the room went dark for a moment before the next screen came on.

  “So,” Don said quietly.

  “What was the purpose of that mix?” Cole asked tightly.

  “It’s hot,” one of the overpaid guys said, swiveling his seat around and facing Cole. “I’ve got a hard-on just from watching it, Mr. Masten. I mean, the other stuff is good, but this has emotion, it has heat. You guys look like you were moments away from banging on the desk.” He stared Cole down through his horn-rimmed glasses as if he had a say in anything.

  “He’s right,” Don tilted back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I hate like hell to say it, but he’s right. The other clip looks like chicken shit compared to this.”

  “That?” Cole sputtered, pointing to the frozen image of Summer, her cheeks flushed. “You can’t use that. It’s too…”

  “Real?” Don asked, turning to him.

  “No,” Cole said quickly. “It’s not that. I just don’t see a plot scenario where—”

  “Ida and Royce hate each other,” Don said. “That’s already in there. Hell, it was reality. But if we use that hatred… and make it sexual tension…” He glanced at Cole. “It could add another element to the film. And it would bring in the female viewers who, right now, we have no draw on, other than your pretty mug.”