Iron Princess (Iron Palace Book 2)

by Lisa Ferrari

  He takes my hand, we approach the edge of the table we’re standing on, and we jump.

  KELLAN AND I land on the grey carpet of the office floor.

  We take a moment to look at one another.

  He has tears in his eyes.

  I wipe mine away, sniffling a bit.

  “And… cut.” Aaron comes toward us. “Bra-vo!” He applauds. Everyone joins him.

  I’m so embarrassed. I just cried, Kellan and I totally made out in front of everyone, and now they’re clapping.

  Weird.

  “Holy shit, you guys,” says Heather.

  “Hear, hear,” says Sheila. “You sure you’ve never done any acting, Claire? Broadway, maybe?”

  Heather hands me some tissues so I can wipe my eyes and nose. “No.”

  Rami says, “Aaron, please tell me you got that.”

  Aaron’s camera operator gives us a thumbs up.

  “Well, that was sublime and terrifying,” says Sheila. “Shall we move on? Page sixty-seven, the rescue.”

  I flip to the scene.

  It’s not as intense. Kellan and I read it. There’s more smiles and hugging and we both manage some genuine raw emotion because we’ve made it and we’re going home. But it’s not nearly as powerful as our first scene. And I stumble over a few lines.

  We start over. I stumble again.

  I get it on the third try, but stumble again on my next line. And my next line.

  “Did George Lucas write this?” I snap.

  Everyone laughs. I’m glad I’m not the only one who knows that the dialogue in Star Wars was notoriously difficult to say.

  “What’s wrong, Claire?” Sheila asks. She has her reading glasses on and has a pencil in her hand and is making notes on her script.

  “Well… the words are awkward. And… I think I’m having trouble…” I don’t know how to articulate it. I feel suddenly stupid. I’ve never read a screenplay before. I deal in narrative prose and word play. Now all these people are looking at me.

  “Go ahead,” Sheila prompts.

  “I think I’m having trouble connecting to the moment.” I read the script aloud. “ ‘Exterior, hostile alien world, day. Hero and heroine are on a mountain, surrounded by the enemy. There is nowhere left to go. This is it. Just then, a mammoth gunship bursts over the horizon, cannons blazing, and mows down the hideous alien cannibals. Shock troops lay down cover fire as the pilot hovers a foot off the deck just long enough for our couple to climb aboard. The gunship whisks them to safety.’ ”

  Sheila removes her eyeglasses and looks up at me. “What’s the matter, Claire?”

  “Nothing, except I don’t buy the ending. What happens? They survive the cannibal predators and get rescued by this gunship?”

  “Yes,” says Rami, “what’s wrong with that? It’s the Air Cav, coming to save the day like in Apocalypse Now.”

  “Apocalypse Now was based on Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. It’s about identity and madness. It’s not about helicopters per se. Look, I don’t know squat about screenwriting, okay? You guys are the pro’s, not me. But… don’t you think it’s a little too easy? A bit deus ex? Where did the gunship come from? Why didn’t it get brought down by the same tractor beam that got Rence and Nisa? Plus, they need to evoke their own salvation, not get rescued by their mommy.”

  The room is silent. I pray to God it’s because I’m right and the fact is sinking in.

  Rami turns to Aaron. “She’s right. What were we thinking?”

  “What would you do, Claire?” Kellan asks.

  “Well, I haven’t read the whole script, so I don’t know the whole story, but who is the hero? Rence or Nisa?”

  “Why do you ask?” says Rami.

  “Well, if it’s Rence, this is a typical story where the hero rescues the princess from the clutches of the evil overlord. Which is fine. We’ve seen it a million times but it’s a traditional story.

  “The other way is to make Nisa the hero. Maybe Rence gets taken by the cannibal aliens and Nisa vows to go after him because no freakin’ way is she leaving there without the man of her dreams, her new husband, and she has to do battle with some bad-ass, scary-ass cannibal chick who is the queen bee warrior of this whole tribal society. And Nisa kills her and rescues Rence. It’s something Sigourney Weaver would love to do. It’s the difference between Kyle Reese protecting an innocent and somewhat helpless Sarah Connor in Terminator but in T2, Sarah is the badass who escapes from the loony bin to go find her son. So it all depends on what kind of story you want to tell. And who you’re going to cast. If you get Angelina Jolie, there’s no way in hell she’s going to play a helpless female who has to be rescued by her husband. Laura Croft would never do that. But if you cast someone like me, an unknown, Kellan the Killer Kearns becomes the identity of the movie and overshadows me, and then I’m the Princess Leia to his Luke Skywalker, the Buttercup to his Wesley. Unless you want it to be a buddy movie-slash-love story. Sort of a Butch-and-Sundance, Thelma-and-Louise, Natural-Born-Killers-Mickey-and-Mallory-Knox kind of thing. Did you ever see that movie Wisdom? It’s one of my favorite movies. Emilio Estevez wrote and directed it. It’s a buddy-love-story with Demi Moore. Kind of a Bonnie-and-Clyde story with a healthy dose of Robin Hood. I love that movie. Plus they shot some of it in my home town. Demi Moore and Emilio Estevez are on the run and she goes into this mini-mart and a cop recognizes her. He goes for his gun so she pulls a monster three-fifty-seven Magnum out of her totally awesome eighties denim jacket and blows him away in slow motion. It’s crazy.”

  I become suddenly aware of how much I’m rambling. I turn to Sheila. “Did you put vodka in my iced tea? I’m not usually this verbose.”

  Sheila laughs. “No, but you don’t need it. Your verbosity is much appreciated. Right, guys?” She surveys Aaron and Rami.

  “For sure,” says Aaron.

  “Where were you six months ago when we started writing the script?” Rami asks, laughing.

  “Waiting tables,” I say.

  “You’re a waitress?” Heather asks.

  “Not exactly. I do catering at a big country club up north. Mostly I carry trays of dinners back and forth from the kitchen all night for no money.”

  Sheila stands up. “Well, get ready to kiss that job goodbye, sweetie, because you just hit the big time.”

  “I did?”

  Sheila turns to one of the other producers. I think his name is Stan. “We’ve got some cash in the budget for another writer, right?”

  “We can find some.”

  “Good. Get legal to whip up a contract for Claire. I think her input would be beneficial. Sound good?” Sheila smiles at me.

  I nod in bewildered astonishment.

  Sheila wraps up the meeting because she has to go pick up her kids from school. We all say goodbye and everyone gushes over our reading. I get a lot of hugs. I’m a tiny bit apprehensive because I can’t tell if the affection and praise are genuine or merely entertainment industry phony baloney. I wish I weren’t so suspicious of people.

  On our way out, I have a word with Heather about hiring Ray to play a monster, because he’s huge and he’d be perfect. Heather is appreciative and promises to call him. Sheila asks us what we’re doing for Thanksgiving.

  Kellan’s mom lives in upstate New York and his sister lives in Tampa (his douchebag, embezzling brother lives in Bakersfield). But I’d assumed we’d go to my parents’ house, although we haven’t actually discussed it yet. But I know my mom is expecting me and I’m not going without Kellan.

  Sheila says, “Well, you’re more than welcome to come to our house in San Diego if you like. I usually cook but this year Gary and the kids convinced me to take a year off and enjoy myself so we’re hiring a caterer. She’s very expensive so she’d better be good. We’d love to have you if you can make it.”

  Honestly, the prospect of Thanksgiving with these people, all of whom are Kellan’s friends, sounds like fun, a new and exciting adventure. The prospect of Thanksgiving aw
ay from my family, and the inevitable drama they will fabricate out of thin air, fills me with relief.

  We thank Sheila and promise to let her know. Again, I’m taken aback by the generosity. We’ve only just met this afternoon and she’s inviting us over for a family holiday dinner. Is it me or is it weird? But then I remember that she and Kellan and Rami and Aaron and everyone have known each other for a while. And half of them are Kellan’s online training clients, so he talks to them on a regular basis. These people are his friends. Maybe that explains why he doesn’t seem to have many friends up north where we live.

  Outside, Ray is waiting with the Escalade. He drives us to the Chateau Marmont. When we exit the SUV, a bunch of paparazzi guys with cameras snap some pics of us. We’re going to be on TM-fucking-Z again tonight. I can hear the fat jokes already.

  KELLAN AND I get into our room and relax for a bit. We’re both amped from the meeting. Kellan says it went well and that I was perfect, and I am definitely, definitely, definitely going to get the part.

  I wish.

  I try not to think about it too much.

  But it is exciting that they want me to help with their screenplay. So maybe that will garner a couple of bucks to pad my anemic bank accounts.

  We order up a couple of big chicken salads from room service and continue talking while we eat.

  When we’re finished, we relax on the bed. We start to kiss and fondle one another but our adrenaline seems to wear off and we fall asleep.

  WE AWAKEN LATER, when it’s dark.

  Kellan declares that he’s taking me out to see some of the sights, namely the Chinese Theater for a movie in the historic and very beautiful theater, and then dinner.

  We take a taxi to the theater. It’s Friday night and the street is packed with people. People everywhere. All the buildings have lights on them. Everyone is admiring the pink stars embedded in the sidewalk. This is the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I see names I recognize. Michael Jackson, Marilyn Monroe, Tom Cruise, Charlie Chaplin, Rita Hayworth, Humphrey Bogart, and on and on. Kellan and I explore the theater’s courtyard, reading the names hand-written in the concrete along with their matching handprints and footprints put there by the stars the day they were inducted.

  Wow.

  This is history.

  Real Hollywood history.

  All these people are key components of the movies and TV shows I’ve grown up on and with which I identify on an almost-daily basis.

  Everything is so beautiful. It feels like Times Square. Kellan shows me the Kodak Theater next door, where they have the Oscars every year. It says Dolby Theater on the building, and that’s the official name.

  WOW.

  We return to the Chinese Theater box office to pick a movie. The closest start time is for Spacenight, which we’ve already seen. But we both want to see it again. Especially now that we’ve just had a bona-fide production meeting with Aaron and Rami and Sheila and their whole team who made Spacenight.

  Plus, Kellan says we could be going to see a complete junk movie and it wouldn’t matter because the interior of the theater is so amazing.

  He’s right.

  The red-and-gold carpet and huge red pillars and high ceilings and lobby are gorgeous. We buy some popcorn and a bottle of orange juice and go find our seats in the main auditorium.

  I’m speechless.

  I’ve never seen anything like it. The ceilings are massive and high and so ornate. There are huge pillars laden with gold artistry, and the ceiling! I know very little about architecture and interior design, but whomever created this theater was an artistic genius.

  I feel so small.

  There are more rows of seats than I’ve ever seen in a movie theater.

  The place is huge.

  Yet, that’s not why I feel small. I’m dwarfed by the history. By the history of the whole industry. The magic of it all. And did I actually have a meeting a mere few hours ago about being in a movie?

  How can it be?

  Kellan feeds me popcorn and kisses me. His lips are salty.

  We watch the movie and, this time, during the credits, I get excited when I see Aaron and Rami and Sheila and Heather and a bunch of other people who have their names up there on the screen. I’m blown away.

  AFTER THE MOVIE, we go to The Hard Rock Café next door for dinner. We admire all the memorabilia. Everything from motorcycles and guitars to a leather jacket worn by Prince and a sequined jumpsuit Elvis performed in.

  It’s magical.

  I love it all.

  Kellan and I sit on the same side of our cozy booth. Kellan orders the appetizer sampler. Neither of us is particularly hungry after the salads we ate in the hotel room and the big bucket of popcorn we shared during the movie.

  But he says we’re celebrating and a little junk food is in order.

  I ask what we’re celebrating.

  He says a successful business meeting today, and me getting hired as a real screenwriter. He says that is definitely going on my resume. I can’t remember the last time I even opened my resume folder on my hard drive.

  We take turns feeding each other bites of onion rings and chicken tenders and bruschetta and spinach-artichoke dip. The food is so delicious.

  Even more delicious is having Kellan suck my fingers clean. I grab his hand and return the favor.

  I’ve never gotten so horny over food. We practically recreate 9 ½ Weeks inside the Hard Rock Café Hollywood! I’m sure people around us are taking notice, and a bunch of pics and video. But I’m too enthralled to care.

  “You know,” Kellan begins, and I can tell something big is coming, “if the movie gets a green light and they actually go into production, and we get the job, you and I will have to rent a place somewhere in town. We can’t be flying back and forth from L.A. to Sacramento every day. We’ll have to get our own place and live here. Together.”

  Wow. Wow wow wow wow WOW! I love that idea. I’m scared to death, of course, on one level. But I also imagine us together in L.A., going to all new places and doing new things, away from where I grew up and where everyone knows me and thinks so poorly of me.

  Kellan says, “Of course, if we shoot on location, we’ll be God-knows-where for weeks or even months. It all depends on what the alien planet looks like. We could go to Palm Springs or Arizona or New Mexico or the swamps of Louisiana or Florida.”

  “Or somewhere in Ireland or Scotland, like where they shoot Game of Thrones.”

  “That’s true. That’s the not-so-glamorous aspect of filmmaking. It’s long hours of work every day and lots and lots of travel. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve never been outside the country. Plus, it’s like you said, right? Being out of town or on a movie set eighteen hours a day is better than carrying trays every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

  And that I know for certain is true. Wearing those stupid men’s black work pants and that dumb tuxedo shirt and bowtie and traying salads and schlepping a million trays is nothing compared to being in a real movie.

  AFTER DINNER, KELLAN and I stroll hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, reading the names on the stars. The crowds haven’t thinned at all. Nor has the traffic. If anything, there is more of each. The atmosphere is electric. With the lights and the people and the street performers drumming on white plastic buckets and people selling jewelry and palm readings and postcards and photographs of celebrities, it’s powerful.

  Kellan buys tickets for us to take a Starline Sightseeing tour bus ride in an open-air bus. He says outright that it’s kinda cheesy, but it’s one of those touristy things everyone should do at least once. Plus, it’s a gorgeous night.

  We sit on the upper deck of the bus and enjoy the sights and lights.

  On the side of the bus is an ad for a new movie with The Rock and Jennifer Lawrence.

  Kellan says, “Wouldn’t that be awesome if that was you and me on the side of the bus together?”

  My heart skips a beat a
nd my stomach fills with butterflies. “That would be awesome, all right.”

  I don’t even dare hope it could actually happen. A teeny tiny part of me wants it to, but the rest of me knows it can never be.

  BACK AT THE hotel, we are greeted by more photographers. We smile and walk through them, hand-in-hand.

  Once we’re in our suite, we change into our workout clothes and go down to the gym for a late-night chest-and-back session that lasts about two hours. We spot each other on four sets each of incline bench, flat bench, and decline bench. Kellan has us do a set of dumbbell flys in between each set of bench because it recruits more muscle fibers in the chest.

  We then superset lat pulldowns using a wide grip, an overhand grip, and an underhand grip, doing three sets of 15 back to back with no rest. We repeat the cycle four times and wrap it up with 20 minutes of treadmill.

  Upstairs in the room, we strip and shower together.

  We spend the next four hours making love.

  Kellan is a machine.

  His cock is like a drug, his kisses are like honey, and I can’t seem to get enough of him.

  Afterwards, we lie together, tangled in the white sheets, utterly replete. Outside the window, the city lights sparkle like jewels.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go home tomorrow.”

  “We’re not going home tomorrow.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Nope. We’re going to San Diego for two nights at The Del Coronado Hotel on Coronado Island, courtesy of your friend Denise and thanks to our kick-ass Halloween costumes.”

  “So when are we flying home?”

  “Monday.”

  “I’m supposed to work Sunday.”

  “Another wedding for three hundred people?”

  “No, I’m not sure what the event is yet. But I’m on the schedule.”

  “Claire, I think it’s time you quit that job.”

  “What? I can’t quit. That’s my only income. My books don’t make enough for me to live on yet.”

  “You heard what Sheila said. They’re giving you a contract to earn real money as a screenwriter. They’re going to pay you a lot of money. You don’t need that job.”

  “They haven’t paid me a nickel yet. I can’t just sit around and hope they eventually pay me. What will I do for money? I have rent and bills and groceries and car insurance and my cell phone.”