by A. B. Wilson
“Okay, okay, simmer down there, boss man. We’ll give it a shot. Have you sent over that list of contacts that I requested before I left town? I want to start feeling them out.” My knee started jigging up and down and my heart rate went all wonky as I imagined actually calling or emailing these people. The meetings that might or might not result in a life-changing offer.
“Ah, that. I knew I was forgetting something, m’dear. Will send it to you tonight. Now, go get yourself a massage and facial. Tomorrow is going to barrel into you like a ton of fucking bricks. Get ready to jump back on the train!” He faked a train whistle and hung up.
By the time I unlocked my front door and opened the windows to air out the house, Michael had sent the promised list and I kissed my phone screen in excitement. I drafted emails for the top two that I wanted to speak with, trying to clearly define what it was that I wanted from each meeting. What I hoped to get and what I could offer them. Then I reviewed my portfolio from the last two years with Michael and from my agency job back in Chicago, pulling the best of the work into a short reel with some voiceover explanations of my role in each segment. After finishing my laundry and a quick dinner at Forse, I sent the emails and portfolio links off with toes and fingers tightly crossed.
When both women responded within the hour indicating a willingness to meet and a few scheduling options, I started to dance. In fact, I did the whole Risky Business series of moves from my staircase to my patio door. Slide and all, with a full glass of wine above my head. Touchdown danced when I didn’t spill a fucking drop.
I wrapped up scheduling with Carolina Hernandez, my top choice of the two female directors I would be meeting with, and finished tweaking my portfolio. I hoped that a meeting with them could transition to a crew spot of some sort—I’d take unpaid at this point—once I was done taping Southern Gods.
My phone lit up with a news notification as I finished brushing my teeth and I swiped it open and scanned through. Same as before we left, conjecture about Markus and me. Full-on exposé about the great Shellenberg love triangle with me and Kate playing tug-of-war with his heart, and someone from her camp was proclaiming loudly and proudly that I was nothing but a front for them getting back together. Great.
I texted him quickly to see if he was awake, but didn’t receive a response. Finally, I took a Xanax to shut off my brain and slid under the covers, praying that a fast sleep would be enough to get through Michael’s grueling schedule.
* * * *
That first day of training nearly killed me. Up to that point I had honestly felt pretty great about myself—happy with my body, comfortable in my own skin and somehow convinced that my active job left me in great shape.
I was wrong, though. So wrong.
Turns out that ‘slightly healthier than the average woman in her late twenties’ did not equate to being able to complete a boot camp session designed for eighteen-year-old recruits. Nor did it mean that being able to balance athletic endeavors with grown-up responsibilities was even a remote possibility.
During my first morning workout alone, Michael hit me up three times via text and one call, Markus texted me twice, Candace four times and I kept longingly looking at my phone. My coach’s condescending look when my arms failed at twenty-five pushups didn’t help and I almost wanted to drag him out to the climbing wall for a race and a “how you like me now?” moment.
After lunch and a second workout that was a combo Zumba and capoeira, which legitimately broke me, I had to scramble to get ready, looking somewhat professional, for a crosstown meeting with Carolina Hernandez. I was practically sweating through my nice white button-down as I trundled up the walk to her home, messenger bag in hand that was weighed down by my iPad, a mini-projector and all of the cords that I’d need if she wanted to see any clips on the spot.
Carolina met me at the door in a very glam kimono that opened over a pair of bleached cropped bootleg jeans and a skintight black tank that showed off abs that I would have died for. Her rock-hard gym body proved the fact that she was not only one of the top action film directors, but also one with previous stunt experience. She was a badass. Her lightly accented voice belayed her Dominican roots and she slayed me with her assessing stare. “Alina, welcome. Please come with me.”
She led me through her open, airy home that was filled with exotic knickknacks and plants, through a sliding screen door and out to a lanai that was shaded by a small grove of palms. She gestured at a few pouffes and pillows that rested on a worn Persian rug laid out over the wooden slats of the deck and gracefully descended onto one with a bold chevron print. I took the splashy palm leaf one opposite her and set my bag on the low glass-top rattan table between us.
“So,” she started. “Michael Burch says you come highly recommended. Not that I particularly care what he has to say, but I’m curious. Why did you want to meet with me?”
I liked this lady. No coffee or refreshments offered, but a straight up, “What do you want?” I could roll with this.
“I’m glad Michael had good things to say. I wanted to meet with you because it’s my goal to move into action and horror films. As you’ve experienced, it’s not exactly a common genre for women—much less in a directorial capacity—and I’d like to learn from you. I don’t know if you’re taking on mentees, but I’d be happy to take on any role you might need filled for an upcoming project if it will give me an opportunity to learn from you. Both your process and how you navigate this boys club. It’s suffocating me.” I hadn’t intended to admit the last, but she didn’t blink.
She stared at me in an assessing way. “And do you know how to make a Cuban coffee?”
“No, but I know where to get the best Cuban coffees in the city, and if driving forty-five minutes out of my way every morning to greet you with your favorite coffee is what it takes, I’ll do it gladly.” I was dead serious. To work with this woman was my dream and I’d walk over hot coals if it gave me even the glimmer of an opportunity.
Carolina laughed lightly. “I’m sure that wouldn’t be necessary. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about the work that you’ve done for Michael. You sent me your reel, which I reviewed this morning, so I’d rather we chat and get to know each other a little better. It’s refreshing to have someone want to meet with me to ask about mentoring rather than demand or beg for a job.”
I smiled uncertainly and shifted a bit on my pouffe, wishing for a back rest.
“Can I get you a coffee or water?” Carolina asked, and I nodded politely.
She called into the house, turned her laser stare back to me and gestured for me to begin. So I did. I explained how I’d met Michael through my old job in Chicago, where my team and I had created the opener and visual effects for Southern Gods. How our work had been so impressive that Michael had offered me a job, which I’d taken when I decided to move to the West Coast. That I’d been working for him for two years, clawing and scratching my way to my current position as assistant producer in a record time thanks to his guidance and mentorship. I decided to leave out the ‘muse’ nonsense.
“And now?” she interrupted. “What’s making you want to leave? Michael likes you. Why tie your star to someone new? You’re clearly talented, work hard. This is not an industry where people typically move up so quickly. And I know you’re not sleeping with him, because that’s the first thing I asked when he approached me about meeting with someone.”
I blushed, because of course it would be the first thing anyone would think. My rise had been fast.
“Frankly, I want to leave because of that reputation. It’s not the truth, but often when you are a woman working for a man and you move up quickly it’s everyone’s assumption. It’s toxic and I’m sick of getting looked down upon while Michael gets slapped on the back with a not-so-subtle thumbs up. And I want to work with someone who knows what this industry does to women, who’s succeeded and kicked ass the way I want to—taking on action and horror films and representing your femininity without apology or compro
mise. You’re kind of my idol.”
“Well, thank you for that, Alina. Now, isn’t that something—Alina and Carolina—almost sounds like it’s meant to be. I tell you what, there’s an opening for a personal assistant on my next film with Lionsgate—horror, but we’re still working with the screenwriter right now to fine-tune. It’s a step down from your current role, but it’s yours if you’d like it. We’ll treat it as a job as well as a mentorship or apprenticeship. Is that something you’d be interested in?” she asked with a glimmer in her eye that said that she knew there was no way I’d turn it down.
“Yes! When would it start? The thing is, and I don’t know if Michael mentioned this to you, but I’ve agreed to join the cast for Southern Gods for next season. It’s a long story that I’m happy to go into, but not if it affects the timing with this project.” I took another sip of my scalding coffee and promptly burned my tongue.
“Hmm. Yes, Michael mentioned that. I wondered if you’d bring it up. The project wouldn’t start until next spring or early summer. If necessary, you could miss pre-production and jump right into filming, but I think you’d appreciate the pre-production process. It’s quite different for a film like this than a television show.” The last was said with some disdain.
My mind whirred with arguments for getting my scenes shot early and leaving Southern Gods before the season fully wrapped. Markus could help. He had enough leverage, given his reputation.
“Yes, yes. I can do it. I’ll figure it out,” I practically shouted.
“Yes? Excellent.” She stood up. “I will send you the paperwork and an NDA. Once you have signed, I’ll send you a script. We can meet again in a few months and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team. I will expect you to not only do your job flawlessly, but to set aside time to learn and hone your craft. Do we have a deal?”
I nodded furiously and held out a hand. She shook it and shot me her first not-professional smile of the meeting. “And now I must apologize for my abrupt departure, but my mother needs me to take her shopping for the week,” she said as she rolled her eyes a little. “Eighty years old and she bosses the shit out of me.”
I followed her back through the house to the front door. “Thank you again, Carolina, I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“You’re welcome, Alina. I’m looking forward to working with you.” She grinned as she gently shut the door in my face.
I barely made it to my car before tears of joy slid down my face. Michael had come through for me with the connections and good word, but I had earned this. My first shot at the next step of my Plan had been successful. The sun glared off the screen of my phone, nearly blinding me as I tapped out an excited text to Markus. Celebrations were in order when he arrived that night. But first I had a date with a drama coach to help me figure out this whole acting thing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Alina
At eight o’clock in the evening, I was sitting in a hard plastic chair in a conference room at the studio offices, reviewing my calendar for the next day and impatiently rereading the script for episode one. Not that we shot in order, but I wanted to try to get a feel for my character from the beginning.
A knock shattered my concentration and my sore-from-boot-camp muscles protested aggressively as I hobbled to the door. A thin woman dressed dramatically in designer clothing with impeccable makeup swept in. She introduced herself as Diana, my acting coach. Her pursed mouth and full-body scan immediately told me that this would be my least favorite hour of the day.
“Please, come in! I’m so excited to meet you and get started,” I gushed as I tried ineffectually to straighten my hair to match her impeccable look.
“Yes, yes. Likewise, I’m sure. Let’s get down to business.” Her light British accent made everything coming out of her mouth seem even more condescending, and she sighed as if I were wasting the universe’s time by merely existing. “Right. How much experience do you have acting?”
“Um. None,” I mumbled as my stomach knotted in embarrassment.
“No school theater? Role in the church nativity play? Nothing?” Her level of disgust was palpable.
“Nope.”
“Then, no offense meant, but how did you score this role? Do you know how many real actors would kill for your position right now?”
I took a deep breath, trying not to see red, and rolled my neck. “To be honest, I’m not completely sure. But here I am—with a role—and here you are—teaching me. I’m ready to learn, let’s go.”
She sniffed. “Very well, I suppose I can attempt to make a silk purse out of this pig’s ear. Let’s start with vocal warm-ups.”
The remainder of our lesson went about that well.
* * * *
I’d barely had time to kick my shoes off when a text from Markus announced that he was back in L.A. and that he wanted to see me. Rather, he asked if it was okay for him to come over. So considerate. When he sent a picture of two cupcakes in a plastic container, I grinned. Cake and pastry were the currency I preferred to utilize and he was nailing it.
A familiar cadence on my door sent me racing to open it, where I discovered a very handsome, smiling man with a ravenous look in his eyes, carrying a bag of delicious sugary goodness and lurking on my doorstep. I swiped the bag from him, peeked inside, snapped it shut and waved him in. “You may enter,” I said sternly before cracking and giggling.
He tapped me under the chin. “God, I’ve missed that laugh,” he murmured then kissed me softly.
As the kiss was starting to deepen, he pulled back, breathing heavily. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come in here and maul you. How did everything go with the trainers? What was Carolina like?”
I nodded and yawned, jaw cracking, while he plated the two cupcakes and refilled my wine glass before pouring his own. “Well, the workouts and acting class today sucked massive balls. Carolina totally made up for it.” I gulped some wine and shoved the buttery spun sugar deliciousness into my mouth. “She’s fucking awesome and I want to be her when I grow up,” I said with a mouth full of cake.
He laughed and threw a dish towel at me. “Good, I’m so glad. I haven’t met her before, but I had a feeling it would work out for you. From what I’ve heard, Sherilyn is a bit more difficult. Carolina seems like a better match.”
I relayed more details about the meeting and he offered a few thoughts on what it would be like working on a major feature film set versus the small-screen stuff I’d done before. Finally, a massive yawn took over his face and he scrubbed his cheeks with his palms. “I really want to keep talking, but it’s practically three in the morning in Germany. Can we finish this conversation tomorrow? I’ll make you breakfast,” he wheedled.
“Are you sure? I have to get up so early tomorrow for more training.”
“Let me worry about the early morning.”
“You say the sweetest things.” I sighed as I headed up the stairs to my bathroom. He followed me slowly, the sugar in the cupcake only having provided a momentary shot of energy.
He kissed me hard and gave my shoulders a quick massage. “Come on. Shower first, I’ll do all the work.”
* * * *
Several days later, Markus and I were sitting on opposite sides of a conference table at the studio, waiting for Michael to show and reading through the new scenes that had arrived earlier from the writers. A jaunty, one-two beat knock interrupted us. We looked at each other.
“Michael,” he growled.
I sighed in agreement.
Michael and the choreography coach barely made it through the door before he started issuing orders, directing us to page sixteen of our scripts, where our characters had their first kiss.
“I want you two to run this scene without any embellishment. But make me feel it. Make me believe that this kiss has been millennia in the making. Got it?”
We nodded obediently and the butterflies immediately took off. Markus circled the table to take up the chair next to me, plucked the papers
from my hands and set both of our scripts on the table. The choreographer moved us into place, talking us through the scene and where we’d need to touch, figuring out where our boundaries were, confirming that we were comfortable with each other’s limits. She stepped back and Michael yelled, “Action.”
We said our lines and he leaned in and brought a hand to my face, slowly pushing back a wave that had slipped from the messy knot on the top of my head. His hand curved around my cheek and jawline, and my heart rate became erratic as I stared into his eyes. The room fell away as his hands tangled in my hair and we moved inexorably toward each other. Little pants of air emerged from both our mouths as we fought for control, the tension reaching a breaking point. Our lips met and almost as one, our eyes closed.
“Open your eyes. We’re losing it,” he whispered in a hoarse voice with his mouth still pressed against mine.
The kiss deepened as we struggled to open our eyes, and I overbalanced, tipping into him, and he caught me. Both of our eyes closed then, and suddenly nothing else seemed to matter in the room. There was nothing but the two of us exerting an immense gravitational pull toward each other.
Our hands were starting to wander, fingertips skidding over ribs and abs, toying with buttons and zippers, when a massive splash of water hit me in the face. A second one hit Markus square on the chin. He practically threw me back into my chair, shaking his head like a dog to get rid of the water, and looked around in confusion. “Was that really necessary?” he asked peevishly.
The choreographer nodded and wagged a hand back and forth. “Kind of. Your chemistry is outstanding, but you both—”
“You two are going to be the death of me and this goddamn show,” Michael interrupted as he tossed an empty water bottle aside. “That was a pretty basic stolen kiss, and suddenly you’re practically stripping her naked. Jesus. I’m disappointed in both of you. I’ll be back tomorrow.”