Текст книги "The Accidental Movie Star "
Автор книги: Emily Evans
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The
Accidental
Movie Star
The
Accidental
Movie Star
By Emily Evans
2012
The Accidental Movie Star
Copyright © June 2012 by Malinda Childers
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, and as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Emily Evans at
For upcoming books and other information, visit
www.EmilyEvansBooks.com.
Other books by Emily Evans:
Epic Escape
[1. Fiction. 2. Romance. 3. Young Adult.]
Acknowledgements
Thanks! You’re awesome: Michelle, Teresa, Veronica, Jennifer, Stacy, Joellen, Barbie, Brennan, Joseph, Megan, Mishann, Rachel, Wayne, Darlene, Jeff, Heather, Trevor, Mom & Dad.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 1
Dad didn’t show up.
The LAX baggage carousel kept rotating, but the tumble of arriving bags had ended about ten minutes ago. All around her, passengers hugged their loved ones and headed toward the exits. Everyone paired up and moved on except Ashley Herrington.
She should’ve known he’d forget. Mom warned her. Successful people in Hollywood put work first, and Dad was successful. Her stomach twisted and she sank onto one of the seats, keeping one foot hooked around her bag so Los
Angeles thieves wouldn’t get any ideas. She waited out the next public announcement, hoping it would be a message for her at passenger pickup.
The announcer said, “Please do not leave your baggage unattended. Unattended baggage may, and unattended belongings will, be treated as a threat to the facility.”
Tired of waiting and moments from becoming a threat to the facility herself, Ashley grabbed her cell phone and dialed her father’s number. “Where are you?”
A long pause. Then Dad said, “I sent a limo. I thought it’d be fun.”
Ashley swallowed and stopped searching the faces of the people coming through the door. Lie. He’d forgotten.
“I’ll call and check on the car.” Dad clicked off.
Smack. The sound came from the glass wall beside her ear and she turned to look outside. Pink fingernails lay curled against the glass. A second hand joined the first and teenage eyes peered in. Ashley jumped up and clutched her warm phone. Time to move on.
The peeper belonged to a member of the crowd growing outside baggage claim. Every minute Ashley had waited, at least ten more people showed up, most of them tweens accompanied by their moms. They held cameras, handmade signs, and an eagerness that foretold the arrival of some major star. Why hadn’t Dad picked her up like he said he would?
Her cell phone beeped. Ashley checked the screen. The incoming text message read, Black limo at passenger pickup, main exit.
Now the challenge would begin. People around her had taken one look at the crowd and used alternative exits. Ashley didn’t have that luxury. She grabbed the black handle of her roller bag and stepped through the glass doors labeled Private Cars. The dry air hit her, so different from Houston, and she breathed in exhaust and the cooler temperatures that marked LA.
After two feet, Ashley couldn’t go forward, her path to the curb obstructed by four tweens wearing identical T-shirts. She moved left. They moved left. She moved right. They moved right. Each one blocked better than the Houston Texans had all last season. Giggling and lacking any sense of personal space, the fan girls moved closer to the door, forcing Ashley back a step. A handmade sign jabbed at her right arm. Ashley moved left and got a jab to the ribs. There was no way back.
She pushed toward a mango-scented foursome. The pale one in front of her stilled, but only for a second. Then she went wild with activity. Her camera flew up, and she bounced up and down in her lime-green shoes. Their bodies surged toward the building; gloss-covered lips opened in ecstatic screams, exposing multicolored braces to the world. The tweens must have spotted their prey.
Taking advantage of their shift, Ashley shoved toward the street. LA sunlight competed with flashing cameras to blind her progress. Perfume-coated oxygen sucked into her lungs. Deafened, blinded, and rapidly losing her sense of smell, Ashley raised her driver’s license and waved in the direction of the street. A male hand attached to a suit-covered arm latched onto the handle of her bag and jerked it from her grip. Ashley hoped he was the driver and not an LA scam artist.
The bag rolled toward the street, knocking the knees of a guy in skinny jeans and a girl in Capri pants. Caught up in their frenzy, the fans didn’t seem to notice the pain. They also ignored Ashley’s “Sorry. Pardon me.” She trailed the roller bag, trying not to lose sight of it in the crush. Her bag paused for a moment beside the black door of a limo. The suit-wearing driver opened it for her and moved past, carrying her bag to the trunk.
A limo. She’d gotten worse apologies from Dad. Ashley threw herself onto the backseat, landing against the soft gray leather, and stretched to shut the door behind her. The closed door muffled the yells and replaced the smell of conflicting perfumes with a pleasant, new car smell. Ashley let her backpack fall to the floor and crawled to her knees to peer out the rear window. Wide, young eyes, set in flushed faces, stared back at her through the glass.
These are my peers.
The stares shifted, focused on a guy standing outside her limo. He wore dark sunglasses, jeans, and a teal T-shirt stretched tight across his chest and biceps. No doubt he’d had the fabric tailored to show off that physique. He was flanked by two burly men in dark suits. Their bulk made his lean swimmer’s body stand out even more. Ashley turned back around and gazed through the passenger window for a better look.
The limo door opened, and feminine shouts of “I want to have your baby” and “Caspian” and “I love you” floated in.
He climbed in, and a hot-pink piece of lace flew past his head and landed on her shoulder. Ashley flicked the underwire and the bra tumbled off her shoulder, coming to rest in open hot-pink abandon against the plush carpet.
The door slammed, and late-flying bras from the slow throwers plopped against the glass before falling to the LA street.
The guy pulled his sunglasses off and dropped his head against the leather seatback. His chin-length, streaked blond hair and deep blue-green eyes were instantly recognizable.
Movie star Caspian Thaymore had just gotten into her car.
***
It looked like she was sharing her ride.
At the sight of Ashley, a female teenager, Caspian sighed and pasted on a practiced smile that didn’t show in his eyes. Leaning toward her, he said in his rich British accent, “Here you go.” He snagged a marker from his pocket, opened it with his teeth, and scribbled across her arm. The smell of the marker pierced the new limo smell, but beneath both of those she could smell his cologne: foreign, male, unique.
After a second of the soft tip gliding over her skin, Ashley slapped the marker away. “What are you doing?”
Caspian flipped on the intercom. “We have a passenger,” he said to the driver.
The car moved away from the curb and the driver said, “She’s on the list.” His voice came through the speaker until Caspian released the switch.
The smeared black ink read Caspian Thaymore. A hooked curve straggled underneath his signature, as if he’d been drawing a heart below his name before she knocked the marker away. Wow, that would probably set the tweens to screaming, parents too. After licking her thumb, she rubbed at the autograph. The ink smeared around, but stayed on her skin, his name and half a heart.
Dad worked at a major motion picture studio, so after age twelve, autographs had stopped being exciting, as had movie stars. Their heroic on-screen personas never matched the reality, so meeting them killed the illusion. Today her tolerance for spoiled men was about gone. Dad had used up the last of it, and before him, there’d been a three-hour flight in a middle seat. The men on each side of her had hogged the armrests and flapped their elbows out, not caring that they dug into her sides. Now this guy thought he needed a ten-seater limousine all to himself. “I think you’re the passenger in my car.” Ashley jerked a thumb toward the back window. “I bet that’s your ride.”
A few yards behind them, a white Hummer limousine rested against the curb, a spike-heeled brunette posed alongside it. Photographers, carrying enormous cameras, focused on her. The brunette feigned shock with a hand to her mouth, then hooked her hips out for a few shots before stepping into the vehicle with an unnecessarily high lift of her skirt. The lift revealed a sapphire-laden garter that matched her sapphire anklet, bracelet, necklace, and earrings.
Ashley recognized her too. The actress was named Petra something. Pelinski. Petra Pelinski. Ashley witnessed the whole scene because the limo had barely moved from the curb due to the traffic and the crowds. “I guess you can share with me,” Ashley offered with a tone of gracious generosity in her voice.
“Thanks,” Caspian said, somewhat drily, in his clipped British accent. He threw a quick glance at the monstrosity that dwarfed their sleek limo. “This car’s a Jaguar.”
“What?”
“A Jaguar.”
Ashley raised her eyebrows. Huh?
“Jaguars have British backgrounds. So I bet it’s my car.”
“Oh.” Ashley swiveled around, facing forward. They probably had sent the limo for him, and Dad threw her along for the ride. The car crawled forward, and Ashley slouched in her seat, deciding she may as well get comfortable because their car couldn’t have been going more than two miles an hour. “I’m Ashley.”
“Hi.”
“I’m interning at the studio for the summer.”
Caspian looked bored. “I’m Caspian Thaymore.”
“I guessed as much from the screams.”
“Call me Caz.”
Ashley scooted down the bench seat and looked into the minibar. “Want something?”
Caz leaned forward, elbows on the knees of his dark trousers. “Yes, please. A beer.”
Ashley tossed him a cold bottle of orange juice. California had the best OJ in the world, after all. He should be thankful. “Nice try. You’re not twenty-one. The drinking age is twenty-one in the US.” She didn’t care if he drank a beer, but gave him the OJ for payback over the autograph. She took a beer to annoy him, and used the edge of her T-shirt to twist off the silver cap.
“You’re not twenty-one either.” Caz read aloud the logo painted across her Texas high school T-shirt: “Trallwyn High Seniors Rule.” The words sounded funny in his accent.
Ashley straightened the hem of her favorite shirt, the one her best friends Marissa, Michelle, and Steve had signed, and she took a drink from the brown bottle. It tasted bitter and sour, and smelled worse. Poor choice. “Yuck.”
Removing the bottle from her hand, Caz took a swig and pressed the clear bottle of OJ into her palm. Chuckling, she took it. She preferred juice anyway. The car picked up speed. Looking at the passing palm trees and rock-laden landscapes, she guessed that they were going at least thirty miles per hour. In LA, that was practically a high-speed chase. Goodbye, LAX. See you in three months.Ashley tapped his bottle with hers and the glass thumped. “Cheers.”
Caz repeated the toast automatically. “Cheers.” It was an ingrained reflex for the British.
The limo jerked to the right and the force of the motion propelled her across his lap and him against the wall. She dropped the bottle of orange juice and clutched his arm, trying to stay upright. The bottle rolled across the floorboard, emptying its pulpy orange contents into the plush weave of the carpet.
“Sorry.” Ashley tried to grab the back of the seat, but the car swerved again and her fingers slid across the leather without success. She gave in and grabbed Caz’s shoulder so she could pull herself upright. He helped with one arm, while retaining a grip on his beer bottle with the other. Another jerk of the car sloshed the beer on them.
With a sudden burst of speed, the Jaguar slid sideways, flinging them from side to side like a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Tires squealed as the Jaguar jolted to a stop, and they tumbled to the floor. Ashley found herself sprawled across Caz, face-to-face with him.
Chapter 2
Raising her head from his chest, through pale strands of her disheveled hair, she saw the empty beer bottle rolling on the floor above his head. The bottle didn’t stop until the base butted up against the hot-pink bra.
The limo door opened and a bright flash illuminated the car. Automatically, Ashley turned away. Another flash went off. Crawling backwards, she eased off Caz. He cursed as he sat up, and his hair flopped into his eyes. He looked like a bad-tempered fallen angel, impossibly beautiful even when angry. If the photographer got that shot, he’d make a mint.
From outside the car, the driver yelled, “Hey, you,” and shut the door on the photographer.
“You okay?” Caz’s voice sounded more clipped than before.
“Yeah.” Ashley got to her knees. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Ashley examined her beer-spattered T-shirt and jeans with regret. She couldn’t see the back of her shirt, but the stickiness of the drying orange juice assured her it was a mess. When the limo shifted forward, she grabbed the side of the seat and pulled back into it. She patted the wall until she found the seatbelt and secured it low and tight across her lap, like the airlines recommended. Click.Caz put his on too.
The intercom came on and the driver said, “The press is getting out of hand, I had to swerve to avoid them. You two okay back there?”
Caz didn’t look ruffled, and his clothes weren’t as wet as hers. Ashley watched his reaction with caution, bracing for the tears, the rage, the threat of lawsuits, and the list of personal injuries he’d endured.
“We’re fine,” Caz said, and settled back for the ride.
“No problem,” Ashley said.
The Jaguar prowled smoothly for the rest of the trip, and a short time later they pulled into a private garage at the studio’s lot. They had arrived.
Caspian got out first, with a “See ya,” and walked over to a tall, thin woman who stood only a few yards away, puffing on a cigarette.
Just past them, Dad appeared in a doorway. She waved, grabbed her backpack by its handle, and jogged over to hug him. Dad.
He hugged her and slung one arm around her shoulders as he moved toward the building. Ashley noticed he wore his pale blond hair short this summer, so she could clearly see his light blue eyes narrow when he looked back at Caz and the limo. His eyes were the same shade as hers, but at the moment they held a suspicious-looking frown. He must’ve smelled the beer. Ashley spoke quickly to head off the lecture. “The minibar exploded.” She lifted the end of her long hair and gave the blond strands a sniff. “Ew, right?”
Around Dad’s back, she saw Caz glancing at them. He shot a look from her to Dad. She’d seen that contemptuous expression before. At home, they’d guess father-daughter reunion, especially as they shared the same coloring. Here in LA, they always assumed older boyfriend—disgusting.
Dad’s arm tightened and he held the door for her to go in. They went down a gray hallway, then took one flight of stairs down to the basement level. Dad stopped at a door marked Human Resources. “Good luck.”
“My appointment was supposed to start thirty minutes ago.” Ashley swiped a hand at her shirt.
“It’s not a problem,” Dad said.
Ashley reached for the doorknob. Her first day on the job and she was about to make a beer-soaked impression. Luckily, she had a spare T-shirt in her bag and nepotism by her side.
***
Ashley’s second day on the job started out cleaner. She drove one of Dad’s cars and parked in the movie studio’s employee lot. Dad worked in one of the stucco executive buildings along the front. She thought they’d commute together, but Dad said his hours were too erratic, so here she was walking in alone.
She’d seen most of the lot as a tourist and on summer visits. Now she was seeing the studio with fresh employee eyes.
Grassy parks lined the lot and further back stood façades of fake towns. After those came a sea of concrete and a multitude of warehouses which held movie sets.
The warm air brushed against her skin, the dry climate amazing. If California could bottle their weather and sell it to the humid states, their budget crisis would be over, Ashley thought.
Her schedule placed her at the cast and crew kickoff meeting inside warehouse number 47. Ashley checked the signs carefully. The buildings looked the same to her: tin metal squares placed atop acres of concrete pavement. She thought it was odd for creative people to work in such bland buildings. Ah, there it was, number 47, her set for the next two months.
A security guard perched on a stool by the narrow doorway, opaque sunglasses shielding his eyes. He said, “Identification,” in a voice that implied she couldn’t provide a legitimate one.
Ashley showed him her driver’s license and her studio identification card. The guard shined a light on the back of the card, examined her face, and checked his clipboard. “You’re good.” He waved her in.
Inside, people milled near two long folding tables, lined up to speak with a pointy-faced man holding a computer tablet. Ashley dropped into line.
His eyes scanned the screen while his hand stroked his goatee. “Production Assistant?”
Ashley nodded.
“I’m the assistant director. Call me AD.” He paused, so Ashley nodded again. At her nod, he grunted and said, “Run this script over to Petra’s trailer.”
Yesterday, Ashley had received a small movie summary from Human Resources and knew that Petra Pelinski was the lead actress playing the part of a spy vixen. Even more interestingly,
Caspian Thaymore would play the tortured hero. She’d buy a ticket. Ashley took the script and the stack of red papers from the assistant director and left the line. Security must be tight around this film if they were printing scripts on red. Red paper couldn’t be photocopied.
“Trailer six,” the AD called after her and jerked his hand toward the rear of the warehouse. Ashley went in that direction.
Another security guard blocked the back exit. Ashley showed her identification and told him her task. The guard pointed beyond the building. A number of white trailers were parked along back, each labeled with a large black number. The quiet calm behind the building was a distinct contrast to the loud frenzy occurring steps away. The crunch of gravel under her sneakers echoed each step to trailer number 6.
She tapped on the door. No answer.
Tap, tap, tap.
No response and no mail slot. Not wanting to fail on her first assignment, Ashley turned the doorknob to Petra’s trailer. The door opened easily, and she leaned in, holding the knob in her left hand and the script in her right. A gust of heavy Asian perfume caused her nose to twitch, so she stuck her right hand under it, breathing in the neutral smell of paper, trying not to sneeze. A red leather sofa sat in a compact living room, underneath a long picture of Petra. Bingo. She was at the right trailer.
A female voice came from further back in the trailer. Hesitant to interrupt, Ashley paused in the doorway.
Petra’s East Coast accent said, “Like can you imagine? I’ll be on this set for at least two months. It is so much better than location shots. All the best salons are here. All the best of everything is here. Everyone knows me. I can get the right press.”
“Of course, you’ll make headlines for just being here,” a different female voice said in a barking tone. No way the barker was an actress, not with that voice. “But imagine if something exciting happened, like if you were to get pregnant—with Caspian’s baby.” The voice alternated between barking out the words and clipping them off.
“If I show up pregnant with Caspian’s baby? Why would I want that? I’d be so fat.” There was a pause, and Ashley stood very still in the doorway.
The barker said, “Imagine the press.”
“The coverage would be amazing,” Petra said. “And everyone is getting pregnant or adopting right now, so we could go maternity shopping, me and all the other big stars. I’ve worked with Caspian before, but we’ve never, you know. What if he doesn’t want a kid right now? He’s only like eighteen.”
“No guy can resist you,” the barker said. “How hard is it to get preggers? Punch a hole in the condom.”
There was a longer pause, then Petra said, “Then I could lose the baby tragically, or he’s loaded so I could keep the baby. I would look stunning in maternity clothes. And my child would be such a pretty baby because Caspian and I are both so good looking, and I could dress her like me.”
Ashley’s mouth fell open. The East Coast voice got louder, as if Petra was moving toward the living room, toward her.
She jerked back and closed the door as quietly as she could. Safely outside, she banged the side of her fist loudly on the sun-warmed trailer door and yelled out in a formal voice, “Script update for Petra.” After opening the door a crack, Ashley threw the red script in and snapped the door shut. She hopped down from the steps, her tennis shoes crunching into the gravel, and took off. Each pounding step kicked up more loose rocks.
Ashley crossed her fingers, hoping she wouldn’t slip, but she didn’t slow until she reached the warehouse entrance. Please don’t let me get caught.
Out of breath, she held up her identification badge from the lanyard around her neck and showed it to the security guard. While he reviewed it again, being as thorough as the guy in the front, she checked back over her shoulder, ensuring there was no one in pursuit. The alley remained empty, but the door on Petra’s trailer opened. Ashley flattened against the metal wall. At the guard’s nod, she passed the threshold into the cavernous warehouse. More people had filed in and most had taken seats on some temporary metal bleachers set against one of the walls. Ashley headed their way, eager to get lost in the crowd.
“PA.” The pointy-faced AD waved another stack of papers at her, ignoring the line of people in front of him.
“Yes?”
“I need a cup of coffee.”
“How do you take it?”
“Black. Cart’s over there.” He pointed.
An eager voice jumped in. “I’ll get your coffee.”
Ashley stiffened. She recognized that barky voice. She examined the newcomer warily, but the barker hurried forward and didn’t bother to look in her direction.
The AD said, “You are…?” He scanned his list of names. Some of the people in line looked annoyed at the interruption; others chatted away, more self-involved.
“Olive Oma, PA, proud to be of service.” The barker held up her security badge in two hands and inclined her head. The glint in her hazel eyes was eager when she looked at the AD. When she swung toward Ashley, her expression was competitive.
Ash, average height, stood at about the same height as the AD, but Olive’s brunette head only came to the top of the tablet in his hands. Petite with a pixie cut, Olive wore a muted-green jumpsuit with a brown leather tool belt strapped around her waist.
The AD said, “I already gave this job to her.” He pointed his chin toward Ashley and eyed Olive’s tool belt. “They’re having some trouble with stage B’s mobile toilet. Go give ’em a hand.”
“Absolutely,” Olive said. “I wanted to help with the set.” Olive glared at Ashley as she stomped off, swinging one hand to propel her small body faster. Her other hand squeezed the handle of a wrench locked into her tool belt.
***
Ashley took a seat on the temporary bleachers. In the short time since her arrival, the space had filled like a movie theater on Friday night. Her soon-to-be co-workers spoke loudly, and several people hugged as if seeing old friends. Most dressed casually like Ashley: jeans, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. A few dressed well, and they stood out as actors or people in charge.
The AD moved toward a tall, broad-shouldered man. The man’s feet were braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin raised. With that commanding air, he had to be the director or an executive. The AD imitated his stance, and the two men assessed the crowd. Ashley checked her watch. They still had about ten minutes before the scheduled start time.
A broad-shouldered guy with a buzz cut climbed up the steps, and she shoved down the bench so he could get past. Ashley wished she had a friend with her. Her summer job would be much more fun if she worked with a friend. Marissa, her best friend back home, thought Ashley’s LA summers were glamorous and exotic. LA teens were the same as the teens back home, with just a few more extremists; there must be some kind of drama gene bred into the community.
Before leaving Houston, she’d called Rachel, an LA friend from summers past, but Rachel was vacationing in Europe. Which was probably just as well because most of Ashley’s days would be sucked up by work. She’d just need to make a friend with one of the other crew members.
An East Coast voice interrupted her thoughts. “You’re in my seat,” Petra said. She wore overlarge sunglasses and red lip stain. Her tone discouraged argument. Her spicy perfume discouraged breathing.
Ashley froze, recognizing the voice of the lead actress, the pregnancy plotter. She kept her eyes on the floor and slid down the cold, metal bleacher, hoping Petra hadn’t seen her back at the trailer. The first girl she’d seen who was her age, and Ashley already knew they wouldn’t be friends.
“You see, this row of seats is for the cast.” Petra continued hammering in her point, as if Ashley hadn’t already scooted down. “I’m a member of the cast. I’m a lead, actually, so don’t be surprised if they call me up front. People need to see me, so I’ll sit here. Otherwise, they would all try to look and see where I am.” Petra twisted her glossy dark hair and snapped a stray piece into an amber-jeweled clip.
Ashley nodded, and climbed up one level on the bleachers. The steps creaked with the motion. That was a movie studio for you. Everything was constructed out of lightweight, cheap material.
Wearing jeans and a gray pullover, Caz stepped into Petra’s aisle.
Oh cool. She already knew someone, a hot someone. Ashley waved. Caz showed no reaction and Ashley felt her face flush at his failure to notice her. His eyes were on the lead actress.
“Petra,” Caz said and joined her. Together, they looked like the front page of a fashion magazine. One that didn’t require airbrushing.
Petra said, “I got here early to hold a seat for you. I’ve been waiting ages. You’re going to owe me. I’d have thought they’d put cushions out. On my last set, we had cushioned seats. These are cold. Sometimes my costumes are thin; I can’t sit on seats like this for too long.”
Caz listened until a large guy wearing a kilt strolled into the building and headed their way. Even with his attention focused on the newcomer, Petra kept talking. “Cushioned seats are the only way to go. My costumes crushed less. In fact, maybe we could arrange to have them delivered. I’ll let them know you and I both want cushions so the purchase shouldn’t be a problem. What color do you want?”
Caz scooted down a bit, away from Petra. Before he could state his color choice, Petra said, “I’m a winter, so I look best in cool tones, so I’m thinking we should get burgundy ones or maybe cerulean.”
Kilt guy’s long strides carried him easily across the floor, and he and Caz greeted each other with a manly shoulder slap. They spoke for a moment then were interrupted by Petra clearing her throat.
“You know Garrett, right?” Caz asked.
“I love garnets,” Petra said. “Just kidding, I like all stones, not only the red ones. When I wear—”
“Garret, not garnet,” the guy corrected in a heavy Scottish accent. The Scot swiveled his gaze around the crowd and said, “Oh, there’s a cute one, then.” He walked along the front until he reached the empty aisle seat beside a tall blonde lady with rock star style.
Olive trotted up next and stood in front of Petra and Caz. “Coffee for Ms. Pelinski and Mr. Thaymore.” She barked the word coffeethen drew out the esound when she said the word Pelinski.
Caz took the cup with a “thanks” and set it by his feet.
Petra took a sip of hers. “Is this mocha frap with soy?”
Olive nodded in a knowing fashion. “I read soy’s your favorite.”
“Well, soy was.” Petra waved a hand, making her silver bracelet slide high on her slim arm. She paused to admire the gleam in the overhead lights then said, “But soy’s so last year. You know what I mean. All those third world countries are running out of soy so everyone’s banning soy, and I have to stay current. This year I drink orange latte with one swirl of peppermint.”
“I’ll get that right away for you.” Olive dashed toward the coffee cart, swinging her arms, knocking into the early morning desperados, weakened by their need for caffeine, who surrounded the cart. Olive used their vulnerability and her diminutive frame to advantage and popped to the front of the group. “I’m getting coffee for Petra, so, me first.”
Ashley sent a quick text to her best friend back home. “It’s like the 1950s. PAs fetch coffee.”
Marissa replied, “Made new mustard-mayo sauce for fries.”
Ashley texted back. “Outcome?”
“Customer feedback rated recipe a seven.”
“That’s high.”
“Not good enough.”
“I want to try them.”
“I’ll have the dish perfected when you get home. Irina came out of the office when I was putting away the free sample tray.”
