by Cara Dee
Breaking Free
Copyright © 2015 by Cara Dee
Edited by Lisa A. Hollett
Disclaimer: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. All references to ancient or historical events, persons living or dead, locations, and places are used in a fictional manner. Any other names, characters, incidents, and places are derived from the author’s own imagination. Similarities to persons living or dead, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Warning: This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature and is intended for adults, 18+. Characters portrayed in sexual situations are 18 or older.
Chapter 1
"It's fucking ludicrous, that’s what it is." Tennyson left the studio's publicist in his trailer, irritated and more than a little insulted. Noah, his first assistant director, was waiting outside, and Tennyson signed off on yesterday's dailies to be sent to the producers in LA.
"When did you want me to take the second unit and do the pickup shots?" Noah asked.
Tennyson handed back the pen. "Tomorrow before lunch should work. Don’t forget my notes." With that done, he continued toward craft services on the other side of the massive warehouse that housed the set. But halfway there, the blasted publicist caught up.
Only a few crew members lingered on the set, preparing for the next scene inside the first floor of a simple home that had been built in front of a large green screen.
"I was only being polite, Tennyson. This isn't just a suggestion." The publicist heaved a breath, clearly out of shape. "We need to generate a bigger buzz. We're two weeks in to production and hardly anyone gives a shit at home."
One of the reasons Tennyson enjoyed filming in Vancouver was that he escaped the buzz.
"So set up the two leads," Tennyson replied impatiently. "I don’t have time for this bullshit."
Mr. Publicist huffed and placed his hands on his hips. "Considering Claire is America's sweetheart, happily married, and Chris is gay, not even Hollywood would believe it."
Tennyson gritted his teeth and folded his arms over his chest. He had to admit it was farfetched, but he refused to be a part of this. He had worked in the industry for twenty years and had an Academy Award to show for it; he was above goading paparazzi for attention.
Nobody cared about the director anyway, and that was a damn good thing.
"This is happening," the publicist stated. "The producers and the studio are in agreement."
Even Ash? Tennyson's own brother?
The only reason he hadn't insisted on producing—and therefore be able to control the project more—was because he trusted Asher, who was one of the producers.
"Who would you even set me up with?" Tennyson didn’t care he sounded pissed. "Claire's the only woman my age." There were a couple others, but their parts weren't big enough to gain that awful buzz.
"Sophie."
Tennyson must've misheard that. "Excuse me?"
"Sophie. Sophie Pierce."
That wasn’t even remotely amusing. First of all, Sophie's father was a chairman at the corporation that owned the studio, which, Tennyson might add, was most likely the reason Sophie had landed her part. Regardless, no father in his right mind would pimp out his daughter like this, no matter how fake the romance would be.
Second of all: "Are we thinking of the same Sophie? You mean the girl who plays Claire and Chris's daughter?"
The publicist merely nodded, unfazed.
"Jesus." Tennyson was torn between fury and nausea. "She could be my own daughter, for chrissakes!" And Tennyson wasn’t into barely legal women. Lately, he wasn’t into anyone, but that was neither here nor there. Sophie was only twenty-one, and to Tennyson's thirty-eight she might as well have been a toddler.
She certainly acted the part at times.
"Because you would be the first older man who dated a younger actress," the publicist deadpanned. "Be real, Tennyson. The age isn't that much of an issue, and you have to admit she's done well in this production."
"That’s because she hasn’t had to break character," Tennyson argued. "She's practically playing herself." Only, without the same background.
Sophie Pierce was a clichéd former child star. Rich, spoiled, moderately talented. And like many other children who grew up with parents in the industry, she had gone from a beloved sweetheart to a rebellious hellion who dated rock stars and woke up hungover with makeup caked all over her face.
She was always seen with the same dark, heavy makeup, whether it was for the film or not.
In the movie they were shooting, her parents were alcoholics who neglected their two daughters. The result was the same; Sophie's character was unruly, foulmouthed, desperate, and irresponsible.
"Nevertheless…" The publicist didn’t look bothered at all. "The movie needs it. Sophie definitely needs it. Even you could use some publicity."
"What?" Tennyson chuckled incredulously. "How on earth would this benefit me?"
He enjoyed a life of solitude when he wasn’t working. He could go off the grid for months, never leaving his beach house in northern California, and lose track of time while he immersed himself in scripts.
As reluctant as he was to admit it, his success wasn’t as spectacular as it once had been, but he was still a much sought-after director. And this project right here, the one they were working on right now? It was what Tennyson had been waiting for. He'd devoured the script and he'd been an active part of the development stage. It was Oscar material, and fuck if he was going to waste his time pretending to be dating a living, breathing scandal. If there wasn't already a sex tape out there starring Sophie Pierce, it probably wouldn’t be long before one surfaced.
"Do you know why it's been years since your last big award, Tennyson?"
Tennyson threw the man a withering look.
The publicist went on. "Because you're the least approachable man in the industry." He nodded. "You used to be a director kids with visions could look up to. You didn’t merely send in anonymous donations to charities you support. You took part and helped arrange dinners and functions. Remember Asher's organization? You volunteered—of your free will, not because someone told you. You were humble. You arrived to interviews on time with a smile on your face. These days, you're permanently undercover as an arrogant homeless person."
"That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?" Tennyson asked wryly, though he was reeling from the man's speech. Jeans, T-shirts, ball caps, and a beard didn’t make a damn hobo, but the rest…was that true? In his quest for peace, had he become a careless hermit?
"You do some amazing work," the publicist continued, ignoring Tennyson's comment. "But you've taken the rest too far. Actors work with you because of your name and reputation, not because you're nice to be around. As for Sophie…" He sighed. "That one's pretty obvious. The girl needs to save face. She wants to be taken seriously and not get stuck starring in rom-coms for the rest of her life. This film is a big deal to her, and a relationship with a reclusive director should help convince the rest of the world she's calmed down. She's agreed to this, too." He took a couple steps forward and clasped Tennyson's shoulder. "I suggest you make dinner plans with Sophie. I'll let the when and where slip to the media—and stop looking so constipated! It's just for show. Christ. You don’t actually have to like her." He started to walk away and then paused to call out, "And please, for the love of God, shave before you go ou
t."
Tennyson bristled, a small flame of petulant defiance flaring up in the midst of deflation and shock. "Who do you think you are, Mr.—" Oh, damn. What was the asshole's name, again?
The publicist faced him with a smirk, as if this proved a point. "I introduced myself to you ten minutes ago, Mr. Wright. Surely you haven't forgotten already. Or am I not important enough?"
He pivoted and walked off the set, leaving Tennyson angry and incredibly, incredibly rattled.
He didn’t like having his ego bruised, either.
Chapter 2
Sophie entered her trailer with her new PA, Daniel, and grabbed the script off her desk. Her fingers itched to check her phone, but Daniel—who really should be referred to as a babysitter—was holding it captive.
Douche.
"Eat your lunch, darling." Daniel set a tray on the table of her little dining nook. "Do you need me right now or can I go call Zane?"
Sophie waved a hand and sat down with her script. "I don’t care what you do." It wasn’t like he was there to make her life easier, anyway. Dad's stipulations for the new PA had been either: gay, old enough to use a walker, or female. So Sophie had ended up with a man who was sickeningly in love with his boyfriend.
"Why?" she'd demanded of her father.
To which Dad had laughed humorlessly. "Because you spread your legs for everyone else. Now get out of my office. I have work to do."
Sophie eyed her lunch, hungry, but only snatched up the apple. She couldn’t afford to gain weight, and she did that way too easily. Mom had gained so much weight after her miscarriage, resulting in Dad divorcing her. Sophie wasn’t gonna be thrown out by anyone, although getting away from her father had been the plan for the past year. But on her own terms.
Shaking her head, she tried to focus on her script. There was a particular scene she was dreading, and she needed to ace it. If she did a good job in this movie and managed to land a new project right after, she could finally claw herself free from Dad. She could get her own agent, not someone Dad controlled and paid for, and she would be able to afford her own life.
Living off Daddy Dearest had some serious perks, such as a life of luxury, but it wasn’t worth his tyranny. She wanted to create her own fortune instead and tell her family to fuck off.
"Useless, useless." She fell forward and banged her forehead on the table. She couldn’t fucking focus. It had been days since she'd checked her phone, so she had no idea what was going on at home. Daniel provided a filtered version by checking her emails and texts, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out he withheld some fucking vital info.
Goddamn Canada. Why couldn’t they just film in LA? They weren't even in the heart of Vancouver or anything. It was pretty remote, kissing hotel rooms goodbye and saying hello to goddamn trailers.
"Ugh." Sophie tried again with the script. She had time to get it right, but there was so much work in between. She was due on set soon, and tomorrow they were going away for location shooting.
"She's my sister," Sophie whispered to herself, reading the lines. "Your daughter—your own flesh and blood—and you don’t care she's disappeared?"
This was so out of her comfort zone. Romantic flicks were easier, despite that she hated being categorized. This movie took more than batting her lashes, doing a good deed, and eventually landing some hot stud before the credits rolled.
For this project, she had to show real emotions.
She took a bite of her apple, chewing slowly, and tried to remember what the director had said during rehearsals.
Tennyson Wright.
One of the best directors in the business, quiet, intimidating, tall, solid, broad-shouldered, known for shooting in sequence and working with smaller casts, did a lot of his magic in post-production with editing, and used many cameras.
According to her publicist, Sophie was supposed to go gaga and date him—if the man agreed, which she doubted.
He was decent, she supposed. For an old guy.
It wasn’t her first publicity stunt and wouldn’t be the last. She'd pretended to date uglier men. Though, with Tennyson, it wasn’t actually easy to tell whether he was ugly or attractive. He had the body; jeans and T-shirts couldn’t hide that. But his face? Fuck if Sophie knew for sure. It was clear Tennyson didn’t like to shave; he always hid his dark hair under a ball cap, and as if the cap wasn’t enough, he was grossly attached to his Wayfarer shades.
She would've Googled him if she had her fucking phone or laptop.
A knock on her door brought her out of her musings.
"Sophie to hair and makeup!"
Sophie recognized Steph's voice—the second assistant director—and was quick to head out before Steph disappeared.
"Hey." Sophie closed the door behind herself and darted after Steph. "Do you have a minute?"
Steph chuckled, tongue in cheek. "Never. But what's up?"
"Claire," Sophie said. "Do you think it's possible to fit in a reading with her? Or if she could feed me lines during a scene? I'm crazy nervous about my breakdown scene, and I thought maybe she could help me. Or Chris, but most of my interaction is with Claire."
Steph's fast pace faltered and she hummed in thought. "Claire should be available when you're on the set, unless she's got interviews or a photo shoot. I'll ask her."
"Thanks." Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and changed direction to the hair and makeup trailer.
When Sophie got into acting, she thought it was obvious that all actors in the same scene were present at the same time, but that was before she learned about various angles and shots. In reality, there was a part of that scene where Claire wasn’t in focus, so she wouldn’t even be required to be there, leaving Sophie to deliver her lines to an assistant behind the camera.
If Claire wasn’t going to be busy elsewhere though, that would make Sophie's friggin' year.
The trailer for hair and makeup was open, so Sophie stepped inside and greeted Brooklyn and her crew.
"Have a seat." Brooklyn tapped the back of a chair, and Sophie sat down next to Kelly, the girl who played the small part of her sister in the movie. Sophie's own part was only a supporting role, but Kelly had a dozen lines at the most. Her character was always out partying—until she disappeared without a trace.
The two women were both five foot three and had the same slim body type, and for the production, they had to dye their hair and wear contacts to look even more related. Sophie's usual dirty blond hair was now chestnut brown, and her green eyes became blue with contacts.
"Quiet on the set!" she heard Noah shout in the distance.
One chick in the makeup crew closed the door, and Sophie shut her eyes so she could rehearse her lines internally.
"Hmm, your skin's a bit dry," Brooklyn noted. "I'll give you a lotion you can put on before bed."
"Okay." Sophie was used to it. For the past two or three years, it had been a bitch to maintain her skin. Same with her hair.
About twenty minutes later, the door opened again, and Sophie expected it to be the guy from wardrobe, but it was Tennyson's on-set PA.
"Ms. Pierce," he said, "Mr. Wright wants to confirm dinner at eight."
Sophie caught the lift of Brooklyn's eyebrows in the mirror. "I don’t remember being asked in the first place, but whatever." Sophie faced forward again. "Eight sounds good."
"I'll let him know. A car will pick you up, and you'll arrive to the restaurant separately." The PA left again, and Sophie refrained from rolling her eyes.
Why put up with the charade of going there in separate cars if they were trying to show people they were dating?
"Girl, you have some 'splainin' to do," Brooklyn told her. "You and Tennyson? Really?"
"It's just a showmance," Sophie chuckled. She closed her eyes as Brooklyn got ready with the eyeliner. "But feel free to tweet otherwise." She smirked.
Brooklyn laughed. "A publicity stunt does make more sense. This might be fun to watch unfold. Media's gonna go crazy."
That w
as the plan.
*
Sophie arrived on the set with Kelly, and the two watched Claire and Chris wrapping up their scene.
"Cut!" Tennyson removed his headphones and gestured to Steph, who headed over to Sophie and Kelly. "That’s ready for print," he told Noah and then walked over to Claire and Chris. "We'll run it from 'one more month.' Next take, go for anger more than sadness. You're pissed, all right?"
Sophie tilted her head, observing Tennyson.
"I want coverage on Sophie when she comes downstairs," he said, walking back to his chair. "If we can squeeze in Kelly's arrival in the main shot, I want to see if that works. Behind Chris, please. And I want to feel the discomfort, guys."
The cameramen adjusted and moved around, and Sophie followed Steph backstage and up on the platform. From there, she'd take the stairs down to the living room, as if coming from her bedroom.
"You remember your mark?" Steph asked quietly.
Sophie nodded, took a deep breath, and rolled her shoulders. This, this right here, was her life. More so than partying and sharing the spotlight with some hot actor or singer.
She just had to convince everyone she knew that she was serious.
Sometimes she had to convince herself, too.
As she listened to Tennyson's and the first AD's instructions, she finally found focus. The outside world disappeared, and she didn’t care about checking her social media.
The scene began, and Sophie waited for her cue, sinking into a picture of aloofness and contempt to cover her heartbreak. She stuck her hands into the pockets of her open hoodie, a gray, ratty thing with a band logo on it. Her tank top underneath was tight and bore the symbol for anarchy. Her fishnet stockings were torn in some places, and the denim skirt was short.
"One more month?" Claire scoffed downstairs, out of sight for Sophie. She could only see the back of Chris. "That’s all you ever say! You always need one more month. One more month to pay back our friends, one more month and then you'll find a job, one more fucking month until everything's perfect!"
Claire was amazing. She'd gone into this wanting to show America she could play something edgier, and she was killing it.