by Max Monroe
What if I’m so bad in this movie that I have a total mental breakdown and end up reenacting Britney Spears’s 2007?
I can’t shave my head! I don’t have the right bone structure for that!
I’m so close to telling the driver of this limo to turn this big bitch around and take me to the airport so I can escape LA like a coward, that I start digging in my purse to see if there’s anything in there I can fashion into a tail to tuck between my legs.
Any reassuring thoughts—if there even were any—from my lunch with Billie and Rocky a week and a half ago are officially out the window, bumping violently down the freeway, and about to get run over by the traffic behind us.
I’ve played shows for thousands of fans, I’ve sung the national anthem at the freaking professional championship football game; I know I’ve been in a thousand situations that huge percentages of the population have never even dreamed of, but I’m also certain I’ve never been this scared in my entire life. This is different. Unfamiliar. And so, so unsettling.
Just breathe, Birdie. Just flippin’ breathe.
I pull in a huge gulp of air and let it out. I say namaste fifteen times in my head, I pray to the Big Man upstairs, and I try to channel my inner happy place. I do more mental freaking gymnastics than a therapist who teaches yoga on the weekends, and still, my fingers will not stop fidgeting with the material of my dress.
Why on God’s green earth did I agree to this?
It doesn’t matter that they personally invited me for the audition, flew me from Nashville to LA courtesy of a private jet, put me up for a swanky stay at the Beverly Wilshire, preordered an over-the-top room service breakfast, and arranged this smooth limo ride through LA traffic—it doesn’t matter how much they try to convince me this is where I belong.
I’m a pond fish, taken way out of its little body of water and dropped into high seas in the middle of the ocean. The last twenty-four hours have been filled with the kind of luxury I never knew existed when I was a fifteen-year-old girl living in my granny’s small house in the mountains of West Virginia. My success in country music over the last nearly seven years has thrust me into plenty of rich circles, but I’m still the same twang-talking, simple girl I always was. And quite frankly, I always will be.
The thought of upending that—of squeezing myself into a lifestyle I’m not fully equipped to take on—downright terrifies me.
Billie’s found her place here with Luca, working toward her goal of becoming a Hollywood producer, but she’s had her fair share of bumps in the road. Not to mention, happy in Hollywood is not the norm. All I have to do is look to my friend Raquel to know that this place has the power to eat you alive.
I moved to Nashville at twenty-one. It’s what I know. It’s where I’m comfortable.
What in the hell made me even consider setting my sweet, seaworthy, dependable boat to rocking?
My final destination, Capo Brothers Studios, juts into the palm-tree-dotted blue sky out the window of the limo, and my heart skips a beat.
It’s really happening. I’m really entertaining the idea of taking on an acting gig. For an actual movie. That people will watch.
Gah. Do not vomit in this limo, Birdie.
I wonder if the driver will think it’s weird if I put my head between my knees and pass out for a little bit. Just, like, a couple minutes, tops. I’ll even try really hard not to pee myself when I do it. No one likes cleaning up other people’s bodily fluids, and I don’t want to be a total imposition.
My palms turn sweaty, overwhelming nerves and anxiety taking over my pulse and raising it to an outrageous rate.
Good God, what am I doing here? I’m not a freaking actress!
The driver looks at me over his shoulder. “Shall I get the door for you, ma’am?”
Right. Normally, people get out of the car when they get to where they’re going.
“Uh…” Crickets and crawdads, I’m not ready. “Can you give me a few minutes to make a quick phone call?”
“Of course,” he says, nodding and kindly pushing a button to make the privacy glass rise between us.
With shaky hands, I pull my phone out of my purse and call the person responsible for dragging me into this mess.
My sister answers on the second ring.
“I hate you so much right now,” I say, skipping over a friendly greeting and getting straight to the point. “I can’t do this, Billie! What were you thinking, having Luca suggest me for this role?”
After being MIA from Hollywood for eight years, Luca made a huge comeback, and now, everyone and their brother wants to work with him. And apparently, not only do they want to work with him, but they take his suggestions as gospel.
So, when he recommended me for the role of Arizona Lee to Howie King—who’s not only the screenwriter and director of this project but Luca’s personal friend—that recommendation turned into an actual audition.
“Just calm down and relax, for fuck’s sake. And I told Luca you’d be perfect for this part because you are.” I roll my eyes. “It was basically made for you, Birdie. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. You’re going to do fantastic.”
Grass Roots—the movie that brought me here and has been building buzz within Hollywood since the studio gave the project the green light—is about Arizona Lee, a twentysomething girl whose talented voice is discovered by a famous country music singer by the name of Cal Loggins. They fall in love, and a tumultuous romance ensues. According to my manager Neil, every role has been filled except for the part I’m auditioning for—Arizona Lee. I’ve heard more than a little speculation that that’s because she is me. Or I am her. And no one in the entire world would be as good a fit for bringing her to life as I would.
You’d think that would be a good thing, but in reality, I feel like a lowly vegetable, helpless inside the pressure cooker of expectation.
“Oh yeah, real fucking fantastic.” I shut my eyes and shove my head back into the leather headrest on a sigh. “What in the hell was I thinking when I let you and Neil talk to me into this? I can’t act, Billie!”
Why on earth didn’t I at least try to get some damn acting lessons over the past three months or something? Take some kind of action toward improving my skill level rather than spending all my time freaking out? Cripes, I’m a regular asshole. A real damsel in distress ditsy dame. I am the woman in the scary movie who thinks it’s a good idea to try to hide in the freaking house!
“Man, I thought we already discussed this at lunch with Rocky, but I should’ve known better.” A soft laugh bounces around in the speaker of my phone. “Stop worrying about the acting stuff. That’s what an acting coach is for, sweetie. And if they think you’re the right fit for the part, they’ll get you one.”
Instead of admitting to the fact that I should have already gotten a dang coach, I toss the blame right back on to her. It’s the sibling thing to do.
“This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever talked me into. I am so pissed at you right now.”
“Let me guess,” she responds, “you’re sitting in the parking lot, staring at the entrance doors, cursing my name.”
I look through the passenger window and spot “Capo Brothers Studios” engraved in marble across the front of the building. What a baby-carrying know-it-all.
“No,” I lie.
“Get out of the car, Birdie.”
“No.”
“Birdie, get out of the car.”
“No, I don’t need to,” I refute. “I am doing just fine with my music career. I don’t need Hollywood.”
“You’re acting like a petulant child.”
“I don’t care,” I huff and cross my arms over my chest.
Silence descends like a steady rain from a heavy storm cloud for a solid fifteen seconds, but Billie’s soft and gentle voice finally interrupts it like a crack of thunder.
“You know what? You’re right.”
I narrow my eyes at her sudden change of heart. “I am?”
“Absolutely. You don’t need Hollywood.”
A huge breath escapes my lungs. “I don’t?”
“No,” she says with emphasis. “Writing songs for the soundtrack of a movie with an insane amount of buzz around it? Yuck.”
Oh, that little—
“Having millions of people hear the raw talent of your voice and become one with the power of music? Disgusting.”
“Billie—” I grouse.
“So, yeah, if you’re that freaked out,” she continues, “just leave. Tell the driver to take you back to your hotel and let the studio know this isn’t a good fit. What’s the worst they can do? Tell you never to come back to Hollywood?”
“Billie—”
“You hate Hollywood anyway. So, just leave. None of it matters, you know? Who needs a blockbuster film and award nominations and more success? Certainly not you. You have everything you need. You’re doing just fine. Hollywood can blow a goat and all that.”
Screw her and her reverse-psychology bullshit.
Too bad it’s working…
“Ugh!” I groan into the quiet space of the back seat of the limo. “You are so annoying!”
I can practically hear her smiling through the damn phone. No-good, sense-talking, Hollywood-bad-boy-boning harlot. “So, what’s it going to be? Should I go buy a sandbox from the store so you’ll have a place to bury your head, or is now the time when you do a couple Kegels, put on your big-girl panties, and go in there and show them how awesome Birdie Harris is?”
I sigh.
“Can I take that sigh as a sign that you are, right now, doing some exercises to tighten your vagina?”
Damn her for being right.
“I’m still mad at you,” I mutter.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says good-naturedly. “You know, Momma would be so proud of you right now,” she adds, and my heart clenches with memories of our mother. She always wanted to be a Hollywood actress, but when she got pregnant with me, she gave it all up to raise a family. Because of Billie’s swoony fiancé, Luca, we have video evidence of the one small scene our mother acted in a television show—a clip I’ve watched more times than I care to admit. Without my mother herself, it’s just about the only physical evidence of her starry dreams we have left.
Billie and I lost our parents when we were just kids. I was eleven and she was nine. An innocent date night turned into a car accident that took them away from us forever, and now, years later, the scars of their losses are still there.
God, I miss them so much.
“Just look at you,” Billie continues, “getting ready to go in and audition for one of the biggest leading roles out there right now. This is incredible, Birdie.”
“Momma really would’ve loved this, wouldn’t she?” I ask, and Billie giggles.
“She would’ve been over the moon.”
“I have to do this, don’t I?”
“Yes. Or live a painful life of regret and sadness. One or the other.”
“My God, you’re dramatic.”
“Pretty sure I’m not the one who called me in the middle of a toddler-worthy hissy fit about the opportunity of a lifetime, but whatever. You’re just lashing out,” she mutters. “Now that I’ve prevented you from making one of the biggest mistakes of your career, what else do you need, sis?”
A sarcastic retort sits on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back.
Billie might be incredibly damn annoying when she wants to be, but she also knows Hollywood a hell of a lot better than I do. I need her right now.
“How about anything to help me not make a freaking fool of myself?”
“Hold please…” Billie shuffles the phone around, and there’s a muffled thud followed by a small “ow” in the background. I roll my eyes as my stomach turns over on itself. What the hell is she doing? Doesn’t she know I’m on a timeline here?
Just when I’m about to lose my patience, Billie’s voice comes back over the line.
“Okay, you’re on speakerphone… Luca, Birdie is about to go in for the audition. Could you please give her a few tips and some encouragement, so she gets out of the dang car and goes inside?”
Luca’s familiar chuckle fills my ears. “Hey, Birdie.”
“Help me.”
He chuckles again. “A little nervous, huh?”
“I fear I might puke on your director friend.”
“That wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to him. In fact, I’ve personally witnessed him getting ralphed on at least two times.”
“Great,” I say sarcastically. “At least other people have broken him in. Does he carry some sort of insurance policy to cover the dry-cleaning bill?”
Luca chuckles, evidently enjoying this conversation about my anxiety far more than I am. “You know what, I bet he does have coverage. Probably as a rider on his homeowner’s policy.”
“Oh God. I shouldn’t have eaten that strawberry jam on my toast this morning. I bet it stains.”
“Birdie,” Luca says, amusement making his emphasis on my name shake. “Why do they think you would be perfect for the role of Arizona Lee?”
“Because I can sing?”
“Exactly,” he counsels. “Use your experiences in country music. Just play the part how you feel it. React how you would react if you were in Arizona’s shoes.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I don’t need to get lost in acting techniques and stuff like that? I should just be my genuine self.”
“You got it.”
“Just be myself,” I repeat quietly before following it up with a self-deprecating laugh. “I should be able to handle that, I guess. I do have twenty-seven years of experience.”
“Twenty-seven?” Billie questions snarkily. “Maybe twenty-four. You spent at least three years trying to be Christina Aguilera.”
“Shut up!”
“Those chaps you begged Granny for during Christina’s “Dirrty” phase got so much use they had to retire to a fifty-five-and-over community.” Luca’s laughter echoes over the line obnoxiously, but by the time I open my mouth to share a few choice obscenities with both of them, the line goes dead.
All at once, a wave of realization so fierce it could flood the entire country crashes over me.
I can’t turn back now. I can’t let my mother down, and more than that, I can’t let myself down. I’ll never forgive myself if I chicken out of this without giving it a chance, no matter the obvious obstacles—Andrew Watson, my fear, my inexperience. They’re all temporary. But regret can last forever.
On a deep breath, I get my shit together, shove my phone into my purse, and get out of the limo.
The driver tries to hop out of his seat and help me, but I wave him off with a gentle hand. “Don’t worry about it, Lewis.”
“Good luck, Miss Harris,” he says, offering a kind smile. “I’ll be waiting in the parking lot when you’re finished.”
I nod and force a brittle smile to my lips. “Thank you.”
With still-shaky hands, I smooth down the material of my lucky sundress.
Just take a deep breath. You got this.
One cowgirl boot in front of the other, I head through the entrance doors to face the music.
The Hollywood music, that is.
Andrew
“Damn, I love women,” I mutter to myself as I pull my Porsche to a stop at the edge of a pedestrian crosswalk.
With a little sway in her hips and a glimmer in her eye, the hot little brunette number who brought me to a halt shoots me a wink and a smile, and I return the favor tenfold. My smile makes promises for me—salacious, entertaining promises I wish like hell I could keep.
I shake my head to apologize for leading her on, and her pout is visible even as she clears the street and steps up onto the sidewalk on the other side.
Hell, I’m half tempted to hop out of my car and follow her, but Damien, my shark of a manager, would be pissed if I missed this meeting with Willy Capo and the rest of the bigwigs run
ning the show for my next film project.
Not to mention, Howie King, the film’s director, is also one of my best friends and would most likely put my balls on a skewer and make fucking kabobs out of them to feed to his big-ass Dobermans if I flaked out on today’s main event—an audition for my potential costar and the big “Do we have chemistry?” test.
This is shit I’ve done a million times before, and if I’m being honest, it’s mostly a pain in the ass, but this movie is all anyone can talk about.
That part, of course, is the part that keeps me on the hook. Because I’m a huge part of this movie, and I really fucking love being something people can’t stop talking about.
“Next time, sweetheart,” I whisper to the disappearing opportunity.
Path cleared and brunette out of sight, I pull into the studio parking lot and speed to the other end where I normally park.
A black limo sits idling directly in front of the entrance, its unnecessarily pompous length meaning the trunk extends well into my parking space.
Goddammit. As much as I love Hollywood, sometimes I really fucking hate Hollywood.
Since I know this town like the back of my hand, it wouldn’t surprise me if whoever is inside that limo requires a red carpet to be rolled out before they’re willing to put their precious feet to the ground.
I might have a reputation for being a bit of an asshole, but I can assure you, I don’t pull crap like that. I drive myself to meetings and appointments, and my hospitality rider for any TV appearances or events only includes two things: water—of any kind—and a working sink and toilet.
That’s it. That’s my rider.
Compared to some of my fellow celebrities who request outrageous things like personal chefs, massage tables, water that’s only been blessed by the monks of Budapest, or God knows what other crazy shit, I’m easy.
Which is saying a lot since I’m thirty-five and I’ve been in this business since I was twenty years old. Most celebs grow more demanding with fame and age, but I don’t waste too much energy on all that bullshit.
Lots of beautiful women, fast cars, and high-priced acting gigs are just about my only priorities. I’m a creature of impulsive habits, and I love my life too much to change.