Hey, lying to myself about being excited over cheesy vampires is way better than admitting I am going mental over a celebrity.
Jason Day appears, wasting the space on my screen. I should have made popcorn to throw at him. Why does this guy bring out the nasty in me?
Because you have a crush on his girlfriend, you moron.
No, the guy gives off a bad vibe. Jealousy has nothing to do with the creepiness he emits.
Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.
“Well, gentlemen, what do we have here?”
Although I expect it, hearing the voice that has haunted me for days causes my heart to feel it is shooting up my throat with the intention of choking me. But then Katherine steps on screen and …
Seeing her causes the notion of a memory to nag at the base of my neck. Experiencing déjà vu is like having a word on the tip of your tongue. You are certain you know it, yet it won’t come to you. If it takes long enough to remember, you start to question if it even exists.
This same type of feeling puts an inkling in my soul, telling me Katherine looks so different from in my vision because standing out is what she strives to do. An attractive cover gets attention while a plain one gets overlooked. Why is it I feel I understand this because I know her? More so, why does she put longing in my heart? It is like she is a love I lost long ago and have been searching to find.
This is seriously crazy. Longing in my heart? A lost love? Reminds me of someone I do miss. Missing Amber is fine, but projecting someone into her place so I can forget the ache in my soul will never be okay.
Sorrow hits my throat when I pull out Amber’s memory book and turn to the last photo taken of her. Dreams of what we could have had fill my mind, making me mourn my lost future. Yet when I turn to see Katherine’s image on my laptop, I feel tossed into another dimension. The depth of my being whispers that something beyond the realm of now is before me.
My feelings for them are not the same. Two different women, two very different sets of emotions, all of which I associate with love. I pause the episode so my eyes can lock on the woman who seems to be messing with my head.
I know you, Katherine Miller. None of this makes any sense, but I know you. What will it take to find out how?
Searching For Something
A rare, late call time should have put me in heaven. Why can’t I sleep in every day like I did today? And why do I still feel so crappy? Then again, it is Monday and I last worked on Saturday night, leading well into Sunday morning. All these crazy hours are doing a number on me.
The clock inside Bailey’s empty trailer says I’m even earlier than I thought. Her chair looks so comfortable that I practically fall into it and lean as far back as it will go. I’ve half a mind to catch a nap. Maybe that would settle my stomach.
Yeah, but going to sleep early last night meant I didn’t review today’s lines. It also meant I reneged on the promise I made my acting coach and didn’t do my character study for the film. I can’t blow that part. I’ve never been one to bear my soul like my character does, so apparently learning to speak from my heart is key. It does seem to be getting me somewhere. Still, I’m not sure I believe in soul mates let alone buy into the concept of talking to one who isn’t there while hoping he will hear. However, it is probably this character’s last resort before throwing herself off of a cliff. Desperation makes people do funny things.
My yawn is so deep I don’t think my mouth could go any wider. I hate that I don’t sleep soundly when Jason is gone. At least he’ll be back late tonight, which in some ways is bad. Short trips and tight schedules are exhausting. Why do we do this to ourselves?
Because busy actors are successful actors, so sleeping alone is a sign that we are on the right career paths.
I sigh at the thought that used to be comforting. A few months ago something reminded me I have more than one goal, and it’s one with a ticking clock. When I woke this morning, Jason’s empty pillow made me long for something I fear I may never have—a true partner. I don’t just want someone with the same goals; I want someone who is on the same team. Reaching out to the person who can fill the void in my soul was supposed to be character study, not a life lesson. But each time I do it my character resonates deeper, yanking out more of myself. The actor’s reality behind the character’s motivation may always slip in, but this time it’s messing with my head and nagging that Jason will never give me the partnership I need.
That’s not a fair thought. Jason may be so gung ho that two years ago he insisted on creating a three-year plan to work our tails off and make the A list before settling down, but I agreed. However, if he wants a family as much as I do, why was it a few months back he was so damned freaked out by an unplanned pregnancy he was on needles and pins until I miscarried? Can’t success and family co-exist now?
God, I am so sick of being uncertain. It makes all I have seem useless and puts my heart into a void. The only good that can come of it is being a primer for my exercise, which I should be working on. I settle deeper into the chair and try to get a grip on the questions that make my heart hurt. Some of the words from the script slip in, and while the concepts seem alien to me, my own situation brings them to life.
What does it take to become at peace with myself? Would you understand if I told you something inside me feels ancient? I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about that.
Hollowness grows inside me. How have I managed to hide from the fact the script reflects heartache I wasn’t aware I could relate to? There is more to me than I have ever understood, and I have spent my life casting it aside instead of exploring it. Why do I shortchange myself?
How do I explore the feeling something important is out there and I may never find it? Do I leave everything behind so I can search the globe? How do you Google that? I don’t know if it’s a career, a person, or an aspect of myself. What would you do?
An air of peace rolls over me, quelling my nerves and covering my body like a blanket. Have I grown as an actress and taken this exercise to another level? I hope somewhere in the pit of silence I will hear a message—a thought surfacing from the back of my brain or a word from God. Instead, I am overwhelmed by the sensation someone wants to appreciate who I am—someone I have never met. True comfort can exist for me, and that person holds the key. Logic tells me it is madness. Illogic tells my heart I am being lured into an affair. But my soul feels surrounded by peace, causing my breathing to slow and my lids to turn heavy. I find myself sending a silent message of love to the man I know must exist.
From outside the trailer I hear Bailey talking on the phone. I wouldn’t mind if she stayed outside a few minutes longer. I seem to have found bliss. The second she steps inside I’m sure we will start gabbing as usual, and I will lose this beautiful connection to the universe.
After pulling into Endeara’s lot, I park and shut off the car. What is it about Katherine Miller? Why was it that all weekend long something inside me screamed I know her? And I mean all weekend. Come Sunday morning I came to realize I had spent thirty-six hours watching Vampires Undercover.
Thirty-six hours of watching that ridiculous show.
Thirty-six hours of eating food that had been stashed in my freezer since the coming of Christ.
Thirty-six hours with little sleep other than the occasional nod off.
I wanted someone to kill me. I also smelled as if someone had. After a bath and a nap, I went on to slip in eight more episodes before I passed out, hard. I’m almost grateful it is Monday so I was forced to leave the house. There was no way I was calling in sick, not after reading about how schizophrenics mess up at work and avoid social situations.
The moment I open the door I hear Darla say into the phone, “I’m so relieved to hear you are finally going to take action against that loser. From the way this conversation started, you had me a bit scared.”
Poor Bailey. If she is anything like her sister, she deserves better.
I make my way across the lobby while wis
hing I had spent the weekend coming up with a new angle on that damn gumdrop campaign. There has to be a way to market something that is deemed to be food yet is totally inedible.
Yeah, whatever. I’m well aware I am going to spend my day watching TV on my computer. That damn show has me so hooked I’m not even sure I care about Katherine Miller anymore, which is pretty awesome. Maybe that’s why I didn’t hear a peep out of the voice all weekend.
“I agree,” Darla says into the phone even though she looks dead at me. Fire flares in her eyes. “Finding an iPad with secret email and bank accounts proving both infidelity and that Carlos has squandered tens of thousands of dollars while not contributing a penny to your household should be the last straw.”
I stop dead in my tracks with my jaw dropped. She has got to be kidding. Bailey had better bail on that douche. I’ve half a mind to find out where she lives and drag her away myself. That’s crap!
I start to head off but not before uttering, “What an ass!”
Darla covers the mouthpiece. “No shit,” she says back. She looks like she wants to rip the guy’s balls off. Someone should.
I’m not even a step away when an odd sensation softens my heart. I feel as if … as if peace has rolled over me, quelling my nerves and covering my body like a blanket. Maybe it is compassion for Bailey, or maybe not having a voice jump out at me for a few days has brought relief.
Darla hangs up the phone, and all seems normal again. Losing my sudden bliss may have something to do with the pissed-off look on Darla’s face. “Yep! You heard it right! That asshat not only cheated, rather epically, he also bled her dry while gallivanting around town like Mr. Moneybags!”
“Please tell me she is dumping him.”
“Damn right she is! If she doesn’t—” Suddenly, all three of Darla’s phone lines light up. “Welcome to Monday!”
“Indeed.” I fake tipping a hat to her before heading off to my office.
Let’s see, a one-hour network TV show contains fourteen minutes of commercial messages plus eight minutes of in-show branding for a total of twenty-two minutes of marketing content. Thus, after a weekend of watching forty-four episodes of Vampires Undercover, I have absorbed nearly thirty-four hours of this horrific show that has sucked me in as if I were a fourteen-year-old girl. Although it being on Netflix got me to bypass ten hours of commercials, I was still the victim of nearly six hours of marketing. Therefore, I spent this weekend studying the current trends.
That’s crap. I put bags under my eyes and rotted my brain on poorly written television, not to mention loving every minute of staring at a woman who puts my senses into a spin.
I don’t get it. I’ve had celebrity crushes before—Debbie Harry of Blondie circa nineteen seventy-eight, Joan Jett and Cherie Currie of The Runaways circa always, Brody Dalle of The Distillers gets serious honorable mention. Past crushes may have made my head fluttery, and they have definitely put my hand into my pants with trips to fantasyland, but they have never convinced me I know someone, let alone that she is a person I could love.
Man this is creepy, but there is something more here. I just know it.
Groggy head in hand, my Vampires Undercover marathon resumes. I can’t focus on anything but this obsession, regardless of how lame it makes me feel, so I might as well surrender to not getting any work done today and making up for it later. I’ve got sixteen more hours of lapping up brain-smothering hell before I will have to track down the current season online. I can’t let this madness go that far. After all, what could possibly happen after that? It’s not as if we will ever cross paths. She’s a well-guarded celebrity who lives thousands of miles away. Katherine’s fame is a carrot dangling in front of my face that makes me feel I’m a hopeless donkey.
Does the situation have to be hopeless? Maybe I could go to Canada and track her down. Everyone has to eat, right? I already read about one burger place she goes to. There have to be other places near the studio as well. I could go and hope to run into her.
No, the odds are too low. If I research places she has been known to frequent, I could probably narrow down where she lives. There has to be a grocery store or—
Oh no! Stop right there.
Brandon Wayne, you have now reached the point of crazy talk.
But what if someone is telling me this is the person I’m supposed to be with, yet I ignore it?
Yeah, right.
A yawn roars out of me. Having scarcely slept over the weekend is doing me in.
My head dips as I start to drift off. I whip it up and snap back to attention. The last thing I want is to be caught sleeping while watching this. Lord knows no one here would ever let me live it down.
Katherine’s eyes suck me in. I try to imagine them without the colored contacts and lighting that makes them sparkle like diamonds. I swear to God they should be blue, but that would look so—yawn—wrong.
The camera goes in for a tight close up when Katherine tries to compel a victim to forget the horror he endured. Funny, I don’t see contact ridges. They must get removed in post-production. How much CG do they use on—
My head dips, and I try to shake off the need to sleep before it dips again …
Darkness closes in around my vision, and the image of blue eyes, bleached hair, and pale skin—all glowing under the rays of the sun—come into view. Just the sight of the girl heading my way brings about euphoria.
The heels on her boots are so high it is a wonder she can walk straight. Her formfitting, black tank top and miniskirt command respect by revealing enough to show off what she’s got without screaming tramp. Her smoky eye shadow is accented with a smidgen of blue, violating the rules. She’s only supposed to use black—like a black bar across her face.
No, she does that at night. During the day she upholds the image that makes people think she is an underground fashion model—tough but elegant and with the sweetest air about her. She’s breathtaking. I want to wrap my arms around her, not just to hold her but to also claim her as my own.
“Hi, honey,” she says with a wave.
God, that voice is so gentle.
Her ankle twists when she steps on some bark, and she stops to check her shoe. Beside her is a fire hydrant painted to look like a Minuteman.
A Minuteman? Like in the Revolutionary War?
Laughter comes from behind. The scent of lighter fluid wafts up my nose, and warmth runs up my back as flames in the barbecue behind me flare. It’s a contrast to the cool drink in my hand. We’re all drinking beer out of cans with retro logos. Mine has a pull-off ring tab and a seam along the side that reminds me of welded steel.
A teenaged girl in blue satin shorts and rainbow socks, roller skates in my direction. Her hair is sandy brown and curly, reminding me of Barbara Streisand’s on the cover of Superman. Her bright blue eyeshadow sparkles in the sun as she skates past.
“Brandon?”
The girl beside me wears a red satin jacket and tight, white pants with a rainbow coming up the back of the legs and arching across her butt. Another is in a sundress and a macramé necklace with yellow beads forming the center of jute daisies.
“Bran-don?”
Macramé?
What’s up with the seventies’ fashions? Wait, this isn’t a retro can. It’s actually made of steel.
“Hey! Wayne!” Darla’s volume practically scares me half to death and sends my arms flailing. “Your phone is still off from the weekend. You have an appointment downstairs.”
I race to turn on my phone. Dear God, please don’t let her see what I am watching. I need to shut that off. I’ve got to stop losing my head.
Darla closes in, and I can’t turn my monitor off fast enough.
“Please tell me you are not watching that show.”
Busted! Play it cool. Make her only think she saw what she did. “What show?”
“That horrific vampire show with the super hot guys who run around in towels and girls who are painstakingly made up to look like Barbie dolls.”
>
“How do you know there are super hot guys if it’s not worth watching?” Look who’s busted now.
“Nobody is perfect.”
“Really, Darla?”
“I refuse to divulge any information other than those guys are hot, and I’m human. I assume you have the same excuse where the women are concerned.”
Busted, again. “I am doing research. This show is aimed at teenagers, and I need to broaden our demographic.” Hey, that was pretty good, fast thinking.
She tips her head back and laughs. “Riiiight!”
“Who in this room has a degree in marketing and needs to work on product placement with a small budget? We can’t exactly afford to get into a summer blockbuster, so a less expensive, highly targeted audience is the way to go.”
Her lips clamp. Did I get her? That did sound legit.
Darla turns smug. “If it is research, why do you have your iPod set up so the headphone cord looks like it is attached to it instead of your monitor?”
“Hey, we’ve already established that no one sane wants to admit they watch this show.”
She’s not even fazed. “Checkmate. You coming down for your appointment, or shall I send him up?”
“I’ll be down in a second.” I can’t believe the stupid thing I’m about to do, but as much as she can tease people, Darla seems to have the answers when they are most elusive. “Hey, if you were afraid you were losing your mind, but didn’t really think you were crazy, yet it is possible you were, what would you do?”
Her mouth rounds in confusion. She then rattles her head. “Wow. That sentence was all over the place. Self-doubt is a pretty good sign you are not funny farm bound but …” Her eyebrow cocks. “Brandon, you don’t look or sound as if you have slept much lately. What’s going on?”
I shake my head. I can’t go there. “Never mind. It’s just insomnia.”
“Brann-donn?” She crosses her arms and waits.
Her eyes narrow, and I start to feel uncomfortable, not because she is scrutinizing me, but because she has my number. “Let me guess,” she says. “This has to do with the voice you heard.”
Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection) Page 6