Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
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 finding 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.”
“She won’t go for it,” Cole said flatly.
“Since when does that matter?” Don said with a laugh. “She doesn’t have script approval!”
“She’ll hate it.” He glanced at the screens. “Play it again.”
“I’m not crazy about the idea either, Cole, but the more I think about it…” Don tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair.
“Play it again,” Cole repeated, leaning back in his chair, his arms across his chest, his eyes on her face.
A button was hit, and the clip restarted.
The mixer was right. It was hot. And Don was right; a romantic element, or hell, just a sexual element between Ida and Royce would draw in the female audience.
Summer would hate it. But Don was right on that card, too. But Summer wouldn’t have a choice. She’d have to go with whatever Cole said. And that, despite any moral ramifications that should have existed, made him smile.
The clip finished, and Cole sat forward, turning to Don, the director’s eyes wary.
“Let’s do it,” Cole said. “Call the writers. Get them in here now.”
CHAPTER 65
“How was it?” Mama’s question came from her bedroom, her voice’s edges slurred with sleep.
“It was fine,” I said quietly, sticking my head in. “Long, but fine. I did good.”
“Of course you did,” she mumbled, her form rolling over in the bed. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” I flipped off the hall light, and she disappeared, a blanket of black swallowing the room. I stepped back to the living room and dropped onto the couch, pulling the afghan off its back and over my chest. The day hadn’t been fine. It had been stressful and long and hot and horrible. I thought I could work with him. I thought I could spit out lines and be in character and be fine. I thought, because the set was on Georgian soil, that it’d be my turf. I didn’t realize how foreign that world would be. So many terms I didn’t know, tossed effortlessly between hundreds of strangers, no attempt made to clue in the new girl. The Southerners they brought in from Atlanta were all in the movie business there, so they waltzed around with ease, taking their cues, their places, without a stumble. I was the odd girl out, looking like an idiot. I saw the looks, the side glances and raised eyebrows, saying, What is she doing here? clear as day. By lunch, my confidence was shot. By afternoon, I’d used up every pep talk I had. And by the time Cole Masten introduced me to condoms, my defenses had crumbled to nothing. I’m gonna blame that fatigue on my weakness when he had come around the desk and touched me.
After that touch, on my way to hair and makeup, I had ditched Mary and ducked into a restroom. Called Ben’s cell and left a teary voicemail. He’d flown to Vancouver that morning for his next gig. I’d begged him to stay just one more week, offered him money, dumplings, freedom to use my makeup… but he’d had to go. We’d hugged it out in front of the Raine House at seven AM before he’d all but pushed me in the direction of the Pit. A half-hour after my pathetic voicemail, I got a text from him.
I’m in the air. Toughen up. Where’s the Summer I know?
I had smiled at his text. Blotted my eyes before the makeup artist had my hide, and reached down deep. He was right. Screw all of the side looks and whispers. Cole and Don had wanted me for a reason. I would learn the things I needed to. And in the meantime, I couldn’t show any weakness—not to any of them, but especially not to Cole. I was stronger than that. I was better than that.
By the time I had pushed out of the makeup chair, I was ready for battle. And now, five hours later, I was bone tired.
The next day would be better. I knew that. The first day was always the hardest.
I reached up to rub my eyes, but my hand didn’t even reach my head before I fell asleep.
“Summer’s lucky she could round up six bridesmaids. Really, Scott was the only reason those girls were even doing it. They were saints! And then for Summer to go and do that to them. White trash, that’s what she is. I told my Bridget. I told her not to associate herself with that girl, but my daughter’s too nice, always has been. And look, I was right.”
“Bridget is your daughter?”
“Oh yes. She’s Bridget Anderson now. She married a doctor. I’ll give you his card in case you ever have any feet issues.”
CHAPTER 66
The first thing I saw my second day on set was Cole’s rooster. It stood on a fenced-in patch of grass that hadn’t been there yesterday. I stepped from the truck, shutting the door with my butt, and walked over to the pen. Pat and Gus from Colton’s Construction were there, in the midst of construction on what looked to be an open coop.
“Hey Summer,” Pat greeted me, Gus looking up with a nod.
“Hey guys.” I stared at their creation, the grass still pieced out in sod squares. “Did you jackhammer up the concrete?”
“Yep. Started at seven. Sheriff Pratt already showed up about the noise.”
“I bet he did.” I stepped over the knee-high fence and bent down, the rooster suddenly at my side, pecking at the sparkles on my bag, which hung over one arm. “Stop that,” I chided him, running a hand over his back. He was bigger, his red comb developing, his eyes alert and proud as he tried to step on my knee, while I held him off.
“Friendly thing,” Ben remarked, putting a bit on the drill and tightening it into place.
“He should be,” Gus scoffed. “I heard Cole Masten keeps him in the house.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around. He brought him here this morning in his truck. Inside the truck,” he clarified.
“The Kirklands are gonna freak,” Ben chimed in.
“You making the coop open?” I nodded to the half-built house.
“Yep. We told him it would just fly over this little fence, and he told us to cover the whole thing with chicken wire.”
“The whole thing?” I looked at the piece of grass, which covered three parking spots. Valuable parking spots on a piece of land as crammed as Walmart on Black Friday.
“Yep.” The look that passed between the two men clearly communicated their opinion of Cole Masten, and I laughed, giving the rooster one final pet before standing.
“I’ve gotta go.” I waved to them and stepped over the fence, the rooster squawking at me.
I was smiling to myself when I entered the madness, weaving in between the tight cluster of trailers, bee-lining for mine. My baby was about halfway into the lot, wedged in between a sound trailer and a coffee truck, the latter causing a long line, which I skirted around on my way in. When I pulled on the door, Mary was already inside, her head snapping to me, a polite smile stretching over it.
“Good morning,” I greeted brightly. My resolution for today was to be cheerful and strong. My sub-resolution was to avoid anything that affected that mindset. Mainly Cole. I’d received the call sheets yesterday for the day’s scenes, and none of them involved Cole, so my outlook was bright.
“Good morning. I’d like to put in your breakfast order. Do you know what you’d like?”
“Breakfast?” I dropped my bag on the floor and moved to the table, thinking of the leftover biscuits I’d slathered with jelly and choked down on my drive in. “What do they have?”
“They can make anything.” She gripped a silver pen over her always-present notebook, and waited.
“Umm… I guess an omelet? Ham, peppers, and cheese. With grits and bacon. Please.”
Her pen didn’t move, and I waited. Finally, she looked away from me and down at the page. “Okay. A ham, cheese, and pepper omelet with grits and bacon. What would you like to drink?”
“Milk. Whole if they have it.”
Another scribble on the page, then she looked up, passing me a folder. “I’ve put the Sides and the updated Call Sheet in here. If there are any Day-Out-Of-Days I’ll bring them to you as needed.”
“Sides?” I asked.
“Those are the scripts for today’s scenes only. There are some new scenes, so you’ll want to review those before your call times.” New scenes. New scripts. My cheery outlook took a sharp turn toward PanicVille.
“What are days out of whatever?”
Her smile became less patient. “Day-Out-Of-Days. We typically call it DOOD. It’s a general schedule for all of the crew. Just don’t worry about that; I’ll make sure you are where you need to be.”
I sat down at the table and opened the folder, pulling out the new call sheet and reviewing it. My newly manicured nail ran down the shooting schedule, over a list of familiar scenes, before stopping at SCENE #14: ROYCE AND IDA: OFFICE KISS. My breath stopped, and my fingers scrambled for the accompanying script, Mary’s post-it clearly marking #14 in neat, bright orange fashion. It was a long scene, and I flipped through it, my stomach twisting as I skimmed the lines, my feet moving before I reached the end, Mary’s placement of my breakfast order interrupted by the slam of the trailer door on my departure.
I think I might have bulldozed someone on my storm through the coffee line.
