Hollywood Dirt Page 25

  “It’ll be fine,” Cole said with a smile, slapping the director on the back, his hand snagging the shirt of a passing PA. “You. What’s your name?”

  “Ugh…” The kid’s eyes darted to Don, then back to Cole. “Tim Myers.”

  “Tim, find Justin and get him here.”

  Don’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and he ran a hand over the top of his bald head. “Do you know how much this will cost—this stupid bet between you two?”

  “We need the scene, and she’s not doing it without it.” Cole smiled. “Relax, Don. It’s not your money, it’s mine.”

  “And it’s my career if this movie tanks. Or runs out of funding. Or if my costars kill each other before the last shot is wrapped. We could have just covered her with a sheet and filmed it. All this…” Don watched a man run by, his arms full of clipboards, “is ridiculous.”

  “I don’t want to film some fucking Nicholas Sparks love scene. I want raw, sexy footage. I told you that; you know that. We can’t build up to something and then leave the audience hanging.”

  “Sure.” Don looked up at him. “Let’s pretend that’s what it’s about.” He stepped closer to Cole and lowered his voice. “But we both know that it’s not.”

  Cole shrugged. “Just get me the scene I want. If I need a therapist, I’ll have…” He snapped his fingers in the direction of the departing PA.

  “Tim Myers,” Don supplied.

  “Yeah. Tim Myers will get me one.” He threw an arm over the director’s shoulder. “Now. Let’s get on the road.”

  CHAPTER 86

  I wanted to drive. It made sense for me to drive. I knew my way around Tallahassee, could get our two SUVs, plus the trailing semi, in the general area of where we needed to go without it becoming the circus act that it seemed destined to be. But I wasn’t on the insurance, and I was a woman, and between those two gigantic hurdles, I got stuck in the backseat, staring at the freshly cut hairline of Cole Masten, dark hair meeting in a straight union with tan skin. I’d bet his neck was shaved with a straight blade. Probably on set, the team all but trying to give me a bikini wax every time I set foot into the Hair & Makeup trailer.

  I noticed, staring at that freshly cut hairline, that my bet with myself, made that first night in my kitchen, had never been won, his skin a golden hue of tan. Of course, he hadn’t burnt. Instead he’d bronzed, because gods like Cole Masten didn’t suffer from mortal problems like the rest of us. I looked away from the bane of my existence and out the window, the car slowing as we got deeper into the traffic disaster that was the capital city.

  On Florida State’s campus, Landis Green stretched from one ugly traffic circle to the Strozier Library, a gorgeous building where—just a few years or so ago—a student brought in a gun and went crazy one late night during finals. Mama and I had sat in front of the TV, slices of lemon pie uneaten before us, and watched the live action unfold. Right there, Momma kept saying. Remember when I used to take you right there? I had remembered. Sunday afternoons, after church, we used to go into Tallahassee. We’d eat a late lunch at Momo’s, then head to the library. I’d sit down against a wall and read novels inappropriate for my age, and Momma would read their papers. She’d start with the New Yorker and work through three rows of publications before we’d pack up, walk back to our car, and head home for dinner. I could still remember the smell of the building, the green plaid print of their carpet, the look of pinched student faces, their books spread out over long tables like they were claiming spots, knees jumping, pens tapping. When I started high school, I stopped going, old enough to stay at home alone. A few years later, Momma also stopped going. Maybe she needed me with her to make it stick. Maybe, without me, it lost its fun. I looked out the window, at the big library, and felt a moment of sad nostalgia. When I moved away, would she stop making biscuits on Sunday morning? Would she stop taking walks on nice evenings? How much of her life would slowly stop?

  “Summer.”

  I heard my name and looked up to the front of the car, Cole’s eyes on mine in the rearview mirror. “What?”

  “You gonna get out?”

  I swallowed a smart response and reached for the handle, stopping when I saw the man at my door, his hand on the handle. I hesitated, my eyes catching everything that I had missed in my walk down memory lane. Three suits on this side of the car. A line of cops behind them, facing out. I turned to the front seat, to ask a question, but the doors were all being opened, mine included, and the men were stepping out. I grabbed my bag, and took the hand offered, stepping into the summer sun. A cheer broke out and I turned in the direction of the sound, my eyebrows raising, and saw Cole raise his hand, a bright white smile beaming out from that famous face, his index finger pushing his sunglasses on, the crowd on the other side of the cops surging forward, then pushed back, a living beast that seemed to have no decorum whatsoever. I suddenly appreciated the stoic pride that Quincy held, their refusal to fawn or fangirl. I couldn’t imagine if every day, every experience required this level of ridiculousness. I followed the trio of men, security following me closely, a stranger with an earpiece putting a protective hand on my shoulder. I glared at him, and he removed it.

  Before us, a staked out orange safety fence led to the trailer, which was parked next to a fountain on the far end of the lawn. A second crowd had formed there, and it turned as one as we approached, hands and cell phones filling the air, an excited hum floating through the crowd. We were stopped halfway to the trailer, Eileen pulling a cell phone away from her ear long enough to dictate information.

  “We’ll have a tent set up in fifteen minutes for the signups and age verifications. I’ll be there and will narrow down the pool as they register. If I see a possible candidate, I’ll have them escorted to the trailer. Cole, we’ll put you and Don in the viewing end. Summer, you stay with me.”

  I swallowed my objection, the woman already moving, our group pushing after her. Cole slowed his steps, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “You look irritated, Country.”

  “What happens in the trailer?” I nodded toward it, watching as a group of orange-vested men rolled a large tent out on the grass. The speed at which all of this had come together was impressive.

  “We’ll take some test shots. See how the girl looks on camera.”

  “Naked.” I looked up at him and he laughed.

  “Well, yes. That’s what we need.”

  “Rough afternoon for you.” I could feel my lips tighten, and I hated the reaction. It was the objectification of the women that bothered me. Nothing else.

  “I’d rather be looking at someone else.”

  I shrugged off his arm and squashed the bit of joy that came from the flirtatious remark. “Just focus on your bet. I’d hate for you to lose to a girl.”

  “We need this out now, before those jackasses at THR scoop this.”

  “Envision is going to have our ass. You know that, right? Putting this out without giving them a heads up.”

  “Just let legal know to be ready. But this is it. The cover. You’ve got three days before it goes to print. Make it happen.”

  CHAPTER 87

  Live events were always a pain in the ass. Cole smiled, his side aching from a sharply-timed Summer elbow, and stopped, taking the pen from the closest girl and scribbling his name. Then again. Then again. He glanced at the closest suits, and they swarmed, pulling him away, Cole pretending to argue before signing one last notebook and stepping off. Summer snorted, and he glanced in her direction, her hands wrapped around a snow cone, her eyes meeting his before she looked away. Where the hell had she gotten a snow cone? He slapped at a bug on the back of his neck and ducked under the shade of the tent. From the far end of the road, the boom of a radio station satellite van started up. All this bullshit. But all necessary, all good. There’d be photos of this across every Seminole’s social media feed within the hour. #FortuneBottleCasting would be trending on Twitter, if it weren’t already. Every class would be skipped, and every hot
coed would be here, Tweeting and Instagramming their hot pink nails off. The best advertising a day off filming could provide. And if it could get Summer Jenkins practically naked and on top of him? Hey, even better.

  He climbed the steps into the air-conditioned trailer, and nodded to Don and Justin, taking the available seat and scooting it forward slightly. Before them, the west end of the trailer held a white backdrop, two photographers at work with cameras and lights. Behind them, a changing room and single chair, for the girl on deck.

  “Eileen got the release forms?” Cole asked, twisting the top off a water bottle and taking a sip.

  “Yep. Anyone walking in this door will be cleared and will have signed a non-disclosure. Not that any of this, with that circus outside, will be kept quiet.” He sighed, the seventh or eight non-verbal indicator of how he felt about this event.

  It wasn’t smart. Not for the budget. What was smart was to have shot a different scene and had someone flown in from Central Casting. But Summer had challenged him, he’d called her bluff, and now they were here. Playing a game. And hell, it was fun. He glanced at the trailer window and saw Summer, seated at the table next to Eileen, her smile big as she laughed at something. See she was enjoying it too. And she only had a few months of obscurity left. Then the trailers would start, then the release would come, and overnight she’d be a household name. Poof. Everything, in an instant, different. She’d no longer be his secret; she’d belong to the world.

  The trailer door opened, and a girl, blonde hair, the right height, the right build, stepped in. Tim handed her a robe, led her to the bathroom, and they all waited, a silent hum of anticipation in the room. A few minutes later, Cole heard the door open and the girl walked by, onto the set, her robe pulled tight, her smile gone, face nervous. Cole looked at her and saw Summer, her hunch against the couch, hands tight on her knees, her voice shaking.

  “Next,” Cole said, Don turning to look at him, his eyebrows raising.

  “What?” the girl said quickly, her hands suddenly moving, jerking on her sash. “I’m ready.”

  “No.” Cole looked down at the page before him and prayed that she hadn’t already opened the robe. “Thank you for your time. There are signed movie posters by the exit. Justin?” Justin stepped up from his seat and to her side, his hand cupping her elbow as they moved past.

  “What the fuck was that?” Don spoke out of the corner of his mouth, waiting for the door to shut before turning to Cole.

  “She was nervous. Skittish. I don’t need another Summer, who will require a pep talk. I want a girl who wants to be seen.” He reclined in the seat and rested his boot on the table’s axle. “Half the girls on this campus dance topless at house parties on the weekend. Let’s find them and get this done.” There was a large whoop from outside the trailer, and Justin stepped back inside, a smile on his face.

  “Girls are doing body shots off the radio station van.”

  “See?” Cole spread his hands and leaned back in the chair. “Easy.” Maybe Summer was right. Maybe he would lose the bet after all. Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe, with a different girl under his hands, he’d finally get her out from under his skin.

  The door opened, a fresh blonde walking in, and he turned, his eyes locking with hers. She grinned, and confidence, with this one, wouldn’t be a problem.

  CHAPTER 88

  This was a stupid stupid stupid idea of mine. Especially because, riding back to Quincy, I was stuck in the far back of the truck, listening to a twenty-two-year-old girl prattle on about Emma Stone as if anyone gave two craps. Apparently Emma Stone was Carly’s favorite actress. And she saw that movie that Emma and Cole were in together—you know, the one with the theme park killer? And she loved it. And she really really really thought that Emma Stone and Cole should do something else together. A love story. And she wanted to know if Emma Stone was as sweet in person—KILL ME NOW. Seriously. I just wanted them to pull this car over, let me hop out into the street, and then just plow me down. Cole would probably enjoy it. And I could finally end the torture of listening to this woman.

  She had a tattoo on the back of her neck. I would have pointed it out to someone, but that would have lost me my bet and—thirty minutes earlier—I was so excited about winning that I overlooked the little discrepancies that made her different than me. Like her chest, which was definitely bigger. And the belly button ring, sparkling out from the bottom edge of her shirt. Ida Pinkerton would not have a tattoo or a belly button ring. The tattoo was of a dove. Why would someone want a dove permanently etched on the back of their neck? Or anywhere else for that matter.

  When I was fourteen, I’d wanted a tattoo. Had big plans for my eighteenth birthday: the Chinese symbol for grace tattooed along my ribs. Because, yeah, what was more graceful than a country hillbilly with a rib tattoo? Thank God that I outgrew that phase. Otherwise I’d have nothing to sit back here and mentally trash talk about. I sighed and settled deeper into the tiny third row. Tattoo and belly ring aside, the girl was perfect. Ridiculously perfect. I peeked at the photos they shot of her. Photos where she was butt naked and smiling sunnily into the camera, not an ounce of insecurity on that face. Nothing like me, my sniffling, baby self, curled into a ball on my trailer’s couch. Lord, I must have looked dumb. I was surprised that Cole did all this, allowed all this. I was surprised he didn’t just laugh at me and tell me to toughen up. That was probably what I would have done to a girl wasting everyone’s time and money.

  I looked up front and saw him watching me. He glanced away, and I looked down. I felt sick. It was probably from riding in the back.

  CHAPTER 89

  It turned out that sex scenes have rehearsals just like a traditional scene. That would have been a good thing to know when I was in a stage three panic. It might have calmed my nerves to understand that Cole and I would walk through the scene fully clothed, just to understand what was happening, which cameras would be where, what would be said when. Also, instead of the camera operator right there by the bed, they were using the remotely operated cameraheads. Meaning there was some illusion of privacy. Unlike our kissing and office scenes, there wouldn’t be someone right there looking between my legs.

  We were on the fourth set, which was supposed to be Royce’s bedroom. It was the ugliest bedroom I’d ever seen, but I guess, back in the thirties, that was what you got. Dark green carpet, horribly wallpapered walls, and a plaid bedspread: that was the décor a bachelor had. Not exactly the sleek Mad Men look I was expecting, but that was why these guys made the big bucks, and I watched YouTube videos on scrapbooking.

  I’d also been wrong about the lights. I’d pictured the huge bright spotlights that we’d filmed under. But here, on this set, it seemed almost dim. And instead of five cameras, there were only two. Much more manageable. There was also no crowd of people. The grips and caterers and production assistants upon production assistants all gone, there were only six of us and—in the big room—it felt almost empty. It felt almost, with the dim lights, intimate. And that, for some reason, bugged me. It shouldn’t have. I wasn’t the one on the bed. Carly was. She was the one who’d been giggling like a banshee, even though Don had asked her twice to be serious. And she was the one on her back, naked as the day she was born—no pasties for her—her back arched off the mattress as Cole ran his lips down the center line of her stomach, one of his hands moving up one thigh. My stomach flipped in an unnatural way and I turned away from the bed, my hands shaking as I pushed my hair away from my face.

  I felt a silent hand at my back and turned my head, careful not to look at the bed, wanting to cover my ears and drown out the sounds of Carly. “It’s not that bad,” Eileen whispered, her mouth close to my ear. “I promise, your part will be easy.”

  I closed my eyes and nodded, pretending, for both her sake and mine, that my performance is what I had been stressing over.

  CHAPTER 90

  “This part is easy.” Cole rested his hands on either side of Summer’s head, and
she nodded. Looked away. He could feel her leg bouncing against the bed. “Congratulations,” he added. “You won.” He smiled, and her eyes moved to his, absolutely no reaction on her face. He shifted a little, uncomfortable, and wondered if he’d missed something. “Are you nervous?”

  “No.”

  That had to be a lie. First, the evasion eye contact in the car. And now, her mouth was tight, eyes unmoving, her fingers tapped against the side of her legs, an unending rhythm, and he wanted to grab ahold of them. And her legs. Hold her still and make her look into his eyes and tell him what was wrong. Because it didn’t seem like just nerves. It seemed like she was also mad. And over what? She’d won her bet, gotten her way. She should be happy.

  “Okay, guys, we’re ready to begin in five. Summer? Cole? You guys set?” She nodded, and he nodded, and then, silence fell, and it was just the two of them. No initial lines. No choreography. They were just supposed to kiss and caress, and she was supposed to give them all of the reactions that would replace the ones that the college chick had done. The sheet between them was thin, but she’d insisted on having it there, as well as her shorts and the strapless bra. He, on the other hand, hadn’t changed from the first shoot, was still wearing the cock sock that had made Summer’s eyes widen, her cheeks turn pink when he’d dropped the robe.

  Silence fell on the set, and he stared down at her. There were so few times when he could really stare at her. She often caught him when he did, as if she could feel the weight of it. But in this moment, on camera, he was allowed, and he drank his fill, his eyes dragging from the light brown of her eyebrows to the thick fur of her lashes. Her golden eyes flicked to his, and he said nothing, did nothing, just watched the minute jumping of her pupils, their twitch as they settled. He rested his weight on his knees and one hand, lifting the other to her face. She didn’t look, didn’t react, just stared at him. His fingers soft, he ran the tips of them across her cheekbones and down to her lips, a dark red lipstick on them, typical Ida and nothing like Summer. He suddenly wanted it gone, and opened his mouth, sticking his thumb in and closing his lips around it. Her eyes dropped and she watched as he dragged the digit out, his teeth scraping at the pad. When he gripped her face, his fingertips rough against her cheekbone, earlobe, and jaw, she tensed beneath him. When his wet finger smeared across her mouth, taking the red with it, she opened her lips, and a hard sigh fell from him when she caught his thumb in her teeth, her eyes on him, then sucked it, going deep and then slowly pulling off. His thumb felt a hundred sensations that his cock wanted and—in that moment—there was no one else in the room, everything disappearing but the two of them.