Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  “I’m lucky that you chose to change instructors, then,” said Drew. Reilly relaxed. No questions.

  “I suppose that I’d still be going to her if I could. But that’s a story for another day.”

  Again with the allusion to a time that Reilly didn’t want to discuss. She mentally smacked her own head. She had been in the clear, but then she had to go and dangle another invitation for questions at Drew. What was it about Drew that made Reilly want to ramble?

  “Well, I hope you come back.”

  Another bullet dodged. Drew was so easy to be around. It was such a departure from most people she knew.

  “I think I will,” she said with a smile.

  “Call me if the classes are full when you go to sign up. I can open an additional slot.”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose on you or crowd your other students,” demurred Reilly.

  “I keep the classes small to retain the intimacy,” explained Drew. “One more wouldn’t hurt.”

  Reilly saw Drew’s eyes slide down her body and felt the heat through her form-fitting yoga clothing. Her mind told her that the quick glance was a professional assessment, but she wished that it were something else.

  “Do you… do you teach all of the classes?” she stammered.

  “I do. I’m the only instructor here.”

  “Cray told me that your classes were very popular.”

  “Well, I can’t complain about how good business is,” Drew said, without a trace of arrogance.

  “It looks like you picked the right career.” Reilly saw a shadow cross over Drew’s face and then disappear. She wondered why her comment bothered her.

  “I have my mom to thank for that. But that’s a story for a different day too, I suppose,” said Drew with a wink and a smile, recovered from whatever had caused the brief frown.

  “I look forward to it,” said Reilly. With her recent past, she doubted that Drew was really interested in exchanging the stories they both hinted at, but she hoped for it all the same. The cynic in her decided that it was time to go before she found out that Drew’s attention to her was merely part of a good marketing campaign. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “And I look forward to that,” replied Drew.

  Reilly turned and walked back to her car. She felt Drew’s eyes follow her down the path. The image of Drew’s smile and unbelievable eyes was imprinted on her mind. To Reilly’s out of practice ears, Drew’s last comment sounded a lot like flirting. Before her inner cynic took control again, Reilly relished the flare of excitement that the thought gave her.

  She Could Hope

  TEN MINUTES LATER, ALISON MANEUVERED Reilly’s car through rush hour traffic while Reilly sat in the backseat, mumbling aloud in frustration as she found the next two days of Drew’s classes already full. She tossed her phone aside, hard enough to make it bounce from the leather seat and onto the floor. Ashamed at her immature response, she retrieved the phone and signed up for the next available openings. She would have to be satisfied with that. She wasn’t comfortable about taking Drew’s offer to make room for her in the full classes. The temptation to call her, to hear her voice on the phone, to move their acquaintance to a different level, was compelling. But without a script, she didn’t know what she would say, and the fear of coming off badly—or worse yet, discovering Drew was just being a good businesswoman—was too much to risk.

  After all this time, it was interesting to know that Drew still had that crazy pull on her. Surprised at her reaction, and mulling over her disappointment about having to wait to see her again, she leaned her forehead against the window. She watched the billboards flash by along Santa Monica Boulevard but didn’t see them. Alison’s tuneless voice sang along with a sappy love song on the radio. She smiled at her friend’s uncharacteristic behavior. Alison was in love. The old Reilly would have teased her. But the present Reilly was happy for her. For the first time since she had awakened on that bench at Santa Monica Beach, Reilly thought about her own vacant bed and wished that she wasn’t alone.

  She’d seen Drew just twice before that day, but both times, the power she had felt in Drew’s presence had caught Reilly by surprise. She knew very little about the woman—she hadn’t even known her last name until she’d signed up for the classes—but there was something about Drew that captivated Reilly more than any woman ever had. Maybe it was because they were so different. Maybe it was because Drew seemed unimpressed with her, or maybe she was just out of her reach. Reilly’s thoughts landed on the first meeting in the bathroom of that dance club. She couldn’t remember the name of the place, but she remembered Drew in high definition.

  In particular, she remembered that kiss. It was just a whisper, the brush of lips against hers, but Reilly recalled how her skin had buzzed with the connection. Thoughts of Drew, a woman she didn’t even know, had filled her head for days following that kiss.

  Reilly’s mind lingered on the pleasant memory for several minutes, and then her thoughts focused on the excitement that had filled her when Drew had shown up at Cray’s party. An electric thrill coursed through her when she remembered dancing with her. With her head still pressed against the window of the car, Reilly felt Drew’s mysterious pull.

  Reilly hadn’t tried to get Drew to stay at the party that night. Instead, she had encouraged her to leave rather than let Sylvie try to bed her. She wondered if that selfish gesture had changed her own life for the worse. Because just hours later, after she had said a reluctant goodnight to Drew, and after she had continued to party with Sylvie and Parker, late into many more shots of tequila and lines of coke, the unthinkable had happened. Now, an eternity of regret and guilt claimed her. Any hope for something meaningful happening with Drew had been erased forever that night.

  Following the accident, Reilly had pushed all thoughts of Drew from her mind. In her own heart she knew that she was no longer free to dream about her own happiness. Not when she had ruined the lives of an entire family. She’d wasted her own life in the car that night, too, and she was unwilling to inflict her negative influence on another person.

  The old feelings of shame and remorse swept over her, and she leaned back in the leather seat with her eyelids squeezed tight against the memories. She was caught between absorbing the guilt of her reckless mistakes and the temptation to allow herself the feelings that Drew elicited in her. Just for a few minutes. Only in her head. But she knew that she’d never be satisfied with just a few minutes. And even if they were only in her head, it was more than Matt Traynor would ever have again. Thoughts of all the things that the man she’d killed would never again get to do filled her with self-recrimination.

  But, damn, Drew was attractive. Very attractive. Reilly’s stomach fluttered as an image of Drew took form in her mind. The striking combination of long black hair and silver-gray eyes gazed back at her. Reilly remembered standing next to Drew that first time, so close she could feel her heat. The air between them had seemed to vibrate, and she hadn’t been able to help herself as she had touched Drew’s face. A warm wave of heat filled Reilly, remembering the smolder in Drew’s eyes and the feel of the soft planes of Drew’s face beneath her fingertips.

  An unexpected wedge of shame edged its way into Reilly’s heart. She’d acted like an entitled brat that night. Had she behaved much better the second time? She replayed those meetings, seeing herself acting with imperious ego and taking her celebrity for granted. She groaned aloud. Who had she thought she was? The memories paralyzed her with embarrassment. Suddenly, she was relieved that she wouldn’t be seeing Drew so soon, after all. Drew didn’t need Reilly Ransome in her life for more reasons than she could count. Maybe a little distance was a good thing.

  Reilly thanked the universe that filming for the sequel to Salsa Nights started soon. It would be her first work after getting out of prison, and all of the dance rehearsal was sure to keep her focus away from raven-haired beauties with extraordinary eyes.

  She could hope.

  She Does Locati
on Work

  “SO? WHAT, EH? AN ACTAH of yah calibeh don’t associate wit da suppoh’tin’ cast? Yah think yah kin treat us like scale playehs? Two measly Academy Awah’ds, and yah act like yah too good for us!” accused an angry voice in a bad Boston accent.

  Reilly stopped pacing and lowered the script that she was reading. She turned toward the voice and smiled at the man storming toward her.

  “And that, Mr. Layton, is why they don’t cast you outside of your genre.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I play a wide range of parts,” countered Cray in his normal voice. His storm became a saunter and his scowl became a smile as he came near and fell into a nearby director’s chair.

  Reilly, who had been pacing the area memorizing her lines, felt the tension between her shoulder blades ease. She swatted Cray on the chest with her rolled up script.

  “Let’s see. Studs, action studs, Kung Fu studs, studs with a heart of gold, and, of course, the dancing stud,” she acknowledged, ticking off on her fingers the roles that she knew Cray had played. “But you’ll need to study up on sociolinguistics to make the stud with the accent work out for you.”

  “Sociowhatchamacallit?” asked Cray. But he waved his hand with a dismissive flick. “Whatever. I’ve done accents. Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther Strikes Again. Senior year. Redondo Beach Senior High School. I rocked the part, as stated by Betsy LeChart in the review posted in the Redondo Beach Tattler. LeChart. That’s French, so she would know, being an expert.”

  “I stand corrected, then,” laughed Reilly. “You do have the anger part down, though.”

  “I knew it! You jumped, just a little,” said Cray, holding his thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart in front of his squinted eyes.

  “Okay, I jumped a little. On the inside,” said Reilly, trying to sound serious.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said, smacking the arm of the chair with a triumphant hoot. “So, seriously, why are you over here all by yourself, pacing? You’re making me stressed just watching you. Everyone else is over at craft services. They have a taco bar today. You should love that. Tacos. Pink tacos. Get it?”

  Reilly rolled her eyes, ignoring Cray’s crude joke.

  “I’m waiting for Marty to get back,” explained Reilly, referring to the set masseuse. She rubbed her neck. “He’s going to devote an hour just to my neck and shoulders.”

  She didn’t mention that when she had been on her way to join everyone for lunch she had run into a woman she and Sylvie had partied with before. Jill, who worked in lighting, had pulled her aside to offer her a hit of coke. It had freaked Reilly out. Not because she wanted it—she didn’t—but because she had almost done it without thinking. She remembered the casual interaction, the ducking between two plywood sets, the reaching out for the proffered silver bullet-shaped container with hands that weren’t even controlled by her. Like it was an everyday thing for her. Like it used to be. Reilly remembered Jill’s raised eyebrows when she had frozen, realizing what she had been just about to do, and then the confused, “What the…?” Jill had uttered when Reilly shoved the bumper back at her. Reilly hadn’t even tried to offer an excuse before she spun around and walked back toward the trailers. She should have found Jill to explain, but she didn’t want to get into it.

  That’s when she had run into Marty. With his signature messenger bag strapped across his chest, he looked like he was on his way out to run an errand. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, though. With well-trained eyes, he had read the stress that was coiled around Reilly like an invisible snake and told her that she was his next subject. He promised to be back in twenty minutes. She had been going through her lines near his trailer since then, trying not to obsess over something that hadn’t even happened.

  “Did you try out the yoga studio I signed you up for? Hey, come here,” instructed Cray. He stood and spun her around so that he was behind her. Strong hands kneaded her shoulders. “Sheez, you are tense, girl.”

  “I know,” she said dropping her chin and letting him have access to more of her shoulders. “God. You don’t know how good that feels.”

  “So, did you?” prompted Cray after a couple of minutes. It took Reilly a beat before she realized that he’d asked her about the yoga class. In fact she’d gone every day in the past three weeks since that first one, save for the two days that had been full. Now that set work had started and she’d be working crazy hours, she was going to miss going.

  “Yes. I’ve gone a few times,” said Reilly, closing her eyes. A small groan escaped her as the tight muscles in her neck responded to Cray’s ministrations. An image of Drew crept into her mind and a little of the excitement that took over every time she saw or thought about Drew fluttered in her stomach. But ever since the first session, she had bolted out of the class as soon as the last gong sounded, just to avoid interacting with her. Reilly couldn’t keep herself from going to Drew’s classes, but she couldn’t bring herself to talk to Drew, either. It was a new feeling, being timid with women. She’d never felt that she wasn’t good enough for someone. The fear of Drew’s rejection prompted her to keep her distance.

  “Well, keep going. It should help with some of this tension,” said Cray. Reilly could hear the concentration in his voice as he continued to work on her shoulders. “Drew is pretty great though, am I right?”

  She nodded. In so many ways, she thought to herself. There was the peace that she exuded, the power in her gaze, the intelligence that she seemed to have, not to mention her beauty and killer body. Reilly could list a thousand things that she liked about Drew, and she barely even knew her. “It’s the best class I have ever attended. But, you know how it is. I won’t get to go now that we’re shooting. Eighteen hour days don’t leave much time for other stuff.”

  “She can come on set and give private sessions.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Reilly. An unexpected spike of excitement hit her stomach, even as the thought of being one-on-one with Drew terrified her. “Besides, I’m sure she’s booked up.”

  “She does location work all the time. Can’t hurt to ask. I’ll call her,” said Cray, finished with his shoulder rub and patting Reilly’s shoulders. He spun her back around to face him and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “No. Don’t do that,” argued Reilly. She reached for the phone, but Cray stepped out of her reach.

  “She’s a friend. And these gigs pay huge,” said Cray, with a smile. She took a step after him, but stopped when he spoke into his phone.

  “One ringy-dingy… two ringy-dingies… Hey, Drew. It’s Cray. Interested in a studio gig?”

  He wagged his eyebrows at Reilly, and she wanted to throw something at him. Having nothing on hand but her script, which she needed, she threw him a dirty look instead.

  Cray smiled and turned toward craft services with the phone to his ear and a sassy swing of his hips. He was just out of range for Reilly to hear him, and she wondered what they were talking about. She hoped that he didn’t tell Drew that the call had been her idea. She prayed that Drew was busy, and then changed her mind, then changed it back again. She was waffling yet again, when Cray slid the phone back into his pocket and smirked over his shoulder.

  “She’ll be here tomorrow at 3:00. Wear something cute. I’ll tell Wes to break for dailies then, to give you the time you need. You know, to take care of all that tension.”

  Reilly did throw the script at him then.

  People Are Staring

  “HOLY FUCK, MOTHER! HOW DO you expect me to feel after you expose me to the world like this?”

  Reilly paced across the bare cement of the studio floor with an agitated stride, twisting the ends of the towel she had draped around her neck. With an irritated flick, she whipped it off and snapped it at one of the ubiquitous director’s chairs that were set up next to the set where she had been rehearsing dance numbers for most of the day. Her voice carried throughout the building with unsuppressed anger.

&nb
sp; “Reilly, calm down. People are staring,” whispered Melissa, casting an uncomfortable glance around the studio. Several stagehands that were moving props turned away when her eyes swept over them. The best boy dropped a bundle of cables and rushed away like he had forgotten something important on the other side of the lot.

  Reilly didn’t care who was paying attention. She was too angry to think about anything else other than her mother’s betrayal. But she did feel a familiar buzz rush up her spine and flutter to the edges of her skin. She didn’t need to see her to know that Drew had arrived on set. Reilly almost lost her train of thought until she saw her mother shake her head at one of the producers, insinuating that Reilly was being unreasonable again. It was the last straw.

  “Isn’t that what you want?” she asked, wiping perspiration from her forehead. She stopped her pacing and stood in front of her mother, waiting for an answer. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To be seen? For people to notice?”

  “Not like this. Hush!” said Melissa, anger replacing the surprise in her voice. “I am your mother, after all.”

  “Really, Mother?” asked Reilly, her eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest. Melissa’s face lost its cloud of anger, and Reilly grew even angrier at the expression of indignation that replaced it. “Really? Is that how mothers treat their daughters? By publishing their personal letters in magazines?”

  Reilly waved toward a crumpled paper on the seat of one of the chairs as she spoke. It was a letter from an editor at Doubleday asking if she’d be willing to loan them the rest of the letters she had written to her parents from prison. He wanted them for a book idea inspired from a letter that had been provided by her mother and printed in Watch This!, the nation’s most circulated celebrity gossip magazine.