Here I am, trying to live my dream, and I feel like I’m floundering. There are more A-list actors present than I can count, and I can’t even remember how to get a single line out of my mouth without screwing it up somehow. My uncle isn’t being much help, either. I know that he is the only reason I am standing here today. I am well aware of that.
He’s only reminded me thirty times. Today.
I know I shouldn’t complain. It’s true, he is the only reason that I’ve made any progress in Hollywood so far. If it weren’t for Uncle Harvey, I’d be just like any other young girl from San Francisco with a dream of becoming a star on the big screen—and not having quite as much talent as I’d like to think, to back up those dreams.
“I want to take this scene from the top. Remember, Charli, never look directly into the camera. Look this way—that’s right—toward the marker on the wall. We’ll do the rest.” He’s making all kinds of gestures with his hands as he’s talking, and I really am doing my best to follow along—though if I’m being completely honest, I’m not quite sure I do understand where he’s telling me to look.
Of course, I’m not going to say so. I already feel like everyone else is snickering under their breath at my so-called performance, and the last thing I want to do is make it worse. Uncle Harvey thought he was doing me a favor giving me the lead role in his next big blockbuster film, but so far I feel like I am going to single-handedly tear it apart. I’m trying to get through my lines, but in the back of my mind, I can already see the headlines and the reviews.
Worst movie of the year.
Charli Sykes’s career is over before it began.
Thank God for the supporting roles, the lead was a complete joke.
I try not to let my imagination get the better of me. Suddenly, I realize that it’s my turn.
“I’m sorry, Jacob, but it’s not working anymore. We’ve tried. Don’t ever tell me that I didn’t!” I feel proud of myself. I delivered my lines perfectly that time, and I can only imagine the congratulations my uncle is going to give me when we’ve finished.
“And, scene!” the director shouts.
I walk over to my uncle—no, I strut over to him, feeling more like one of the stars who are drinking mimosas on the sidelines and watching me make a complete fool out of myself.
“What did you think?” I ask coyly. He doesn’t even bother to look up at me.
“Awful.”
“What!”
“That was atrocious. Charli, who are you talking to? What emotions are you trying to convey? You may as well be breaking up with a jar of mayonnaise as the love of your life. That was simply awful,” he shakes his head in disappointment. “And what’s this?” He motions to the sweatshirt I’m wearing, and I look down self-consciously.
“It’s a hoodie,” I lamely remark.
“I can see that, but what in the hell are you doing wearing it here?”
“Jack said that we aren’t going to be in costume until later—” I try, but he interrupts.
“I don’t give a damn what Jack said. Costume or not, you’re going to have to start looking the part if you are going to get into this business.” He reaches forward and blatantly unzips the top of my hoodie, revealing far more cleavage than I am comfortable sharing.
“Excuse me! What do you think you’re doing?” I snap.
“I’m helping you, and Baby, you need all the help you can get,” he replies in an icy tone. “If you are going to be a celebrity, start looking like one.”
“I don’t have the figure of a celebrity!” I retort, masking the hurt in my voice.
“Not yet, but you will. Look at this and let me know what you think.” He hands me a brochure for a plastic surgeon in town, and I laugh.
“What, do you want me to get a nose job?” I sneer.
“Not quite. Open it.” I obey, and to my horror, I can see he’s underlined the breast augmentation section.
“No!” I say, trying to hand the brochure back to him. He raises his eyebrow.
“What?”
“I’m not getting a boob job!”
“Oh, yes you are.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Actually, over your dead career.” He pulls out the contract I signed a few days before. I have to admit, I didn’t read it through as thoroughly as I should have, and my heart sinks. After opening it and flipping through a few pages, he shows me where the surgery was listed as mandatory—and where I signed that I would comply.
“I didn’t know that was in there!” I try to argue, but he slips the contract back in the pages of the notebook.
“That’s not my problem. If you want to star in this movie, you’ll look the part. If you don’t, then you’ll be in breach of contract and I’ll be forced to take legal action against you.” He turns to go.
“You mean you’d sue your own niece?” I say, mustering as much attitude as I can. I wouldn’t put it past him, but at the same time, I am going to do my best to rub in the guilt while I still can. He’s used to this game, and I’m not. He knows what he’s doing and he does it well.
“Well, I suppose that wouldn’t look good for publicity’s sake, but at the same time, neither does breaching your first contract as an actress. If you would agree to ending your acting career and going home, then I would drop the charges. But Charli, don’t think you can get the best of me. I have eyes and ears everywhere.” He smiles at me and I’m reminded of why my mother always called him the creepy uncle.
But, he has a point. With a sigh, I look through the brochure once more. This is what actors and actresses do. They modify themselves to look the part. I should be glad for the opportunity, he tells me.
With a sigh I finally shove the brochure in the pocket of my hoodie.
“Fine, I’ll look into it.” I try to be a diva, but he merely smiles.
“Excellent. Hollywood is going to look good on you.”
23
Chapter 2
Charli
“All you have to do is walk in there and tell them your name, everything else is taken care of.” My uncle’s voice sounds more irritated than anything as it comes through my phone.
“I didn’t make an appointment, though.”
“Angela did it for you, just like I already told you. Your job is to show up and look the part. Agents take care of everything else.” He sounds exasperated.
“I guess I’m just not used to that,” I say, using my diva voice.
“Welcome to Hollywood, Baby.” He hangs up the phone before I have the chance to say anything else, and I shake my head.
I love acting and living in Hollywood, but I can’t say that I’m ever going to get used to this lifestyle. At least, I don’t think I am. I’ve always been the one in charge of getting things done in my life, how am I just going to hand that responsibility over to some agent and hope they do it the right way?
Even now, as I take the elevator up to the ninth floor to the plastic surgeon’s office, I’m not convinced that the receptionist is going to know who I am when I tell her my name. I walk down the long hall, following the signs on the wall rather than suffering through the embarrassment of asking for directions.
Finally, I find the right place and open the door. There are a few women seated in the waiting room, and one man. The man looks up from his magazine and eyes me as I walk in, but I ignore him. There are more aspiring actors and actresses in this town than I know what to do with. I honestly don’t care what movie he’s working on, or what kind of plastic surgery he needs to get the part.
I don’t even want my imagination to go in that direction.
The receptionist is seated in a room behind sliding glass, and I feel awkward as I look around for a way to get her attention. She’s not on the phone, but she’s not looking at me, either. Shyly, I lightly tap on the glass and she turns, looking annoyed. After holding up a finger and taking her time finishing whatever it was she was doing, she slides open the glass with a rather loud bang.
“Can I
help you?”
“Yes, my name is Charli Sykes, and I’m here for a consultation with Dr. Carr.” I try to sound important, but she is already running her finger down a list of names on a sheet of paper. I can’t help but wonder why it’s not in the computer system, but I don’t say anything.
“What’s the consultation for?” she asks as she looks up.
“Um, plastic surgery,” I say lamely.
“Of course, honey, everyone is in here for plastic surgery. I mean what kind?” She has a very rude tone to her voice, and I want to tell her to back off. But I’m already dying of embarrassment, and I don’t want to make this situation any worse.
“Breast augmentation,” I say in a low voice.
“Pardon?”
“Breast augmentation!” I say flatly. I can hear the sound of magazine pages rustling behind me, and can only imagine the smirks on their faces. She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks at the list.
“Oh yes, I see you’re down for 1:30 PM. You’ve got ten minutes to wait.” She points with her pen to one of the seats, and I hesitate as I look around.
“I was hoping if I arrived early I might get in a little earlier,” I say, and she looks at me with a smug look on her face.
“That’s not how it works here, sweetie.”
I spend the ten minutes waiting with my eyes glued to the front of a cooking magazine. I’m not sure why they have this in a plastic surgery waiting room, but I guess I can’t complain. At last, the nurse opens the door and calls my name, and though I refuse to look around, I can feel the stares of everyone in the waiting room.
“I see you are here for a breast augmentation consultation?” The nurse smiles and I feel somewhat more at ease.
“Yes, and I’m really not sure what to expect. Should I put on a gown?”
“No, no, not this time. He’s just going to talk to you—let you know what you can expect in the procedure and the process. I’ll let him know you’re in here.” The nurse leaves and I sit on the examination table, hoping to just get this over with.
When the door opens, I expect an old man to walk in. Instead, I look up to find the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Miss Sykes? Hello, Dr. Dirk Carr. How are you?” He extends his hand and I take it, fumbling over my words.
I do my best to focus on what he is saying, but the way he smiles when he looks at me is making it difficult for me to concentrate on anything. Suddenly, I realize he’s asked me a question.
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked how old you are. You seem very young, and this is quite a procedure. It’s something I want all my clients to be certain of before they do.” He smiles and my cheeks burn.
“I’m twenty-three.” I say, feeling ashamed that I am trying to sound grown-up. I want to ask him how old he is—he looks way too young to be one of the top surgeons in this town—but he continues.
“May I see?” he asks. My smile fades.
“See?”
“Yes, your breasts. I need to know what we’re starting with if I can tell you what we’re going to end up with,” he laughs. I awkwardly unzip my hoodie and take it off, leaving me sitting there in just my skimpy tank.
“The shirt and bra too, if you don’t mind.” I feel as though I’m going to pass out. Of course I mind. But I guess this is what I’m here for.
He reassures me and gives me his best doctor speech as I reluctantly pull my top off and unclasp my bra, watching his face as I pull it away. It’s nearly impossible to read past the professionally vacant expression in his eyes, though I’m certain he appears to be pleased with what he sees.
“Okay, so it says here that you are hoping to go up at least two cup sizes, perhaps even three—is that correct?” I am sitting with my shirt off and my breasts hanging out. The last thing I want to talk about now is cup sizes. But, I know that he is waiting for an answer, and I nod.
“I guess. That’s what my uncle told me I needed for the movie,” I say.
He looks up with an amused smile. “Sounds like something he’d want.”
I’m surprised. “You know who he is?”
“Harvey Sykes, the producer.”
I want to know how he knows that, but he doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he has me lie back on the table and lays a towel over me, finally covering my chest. Then he picks up a chart and begins to show me the different kinds of breasts. While I’m trying to focus on what he’s saying and answer his questions, I just want to die.
I can’t believe this gorgeous man has just seen me without my shirt on.
24
Chapter 3
Dirk
Another aspiring actress in room fourteen.
My receptionist, Angie, has seen so many of these girls walk through my doors that she doesn’t bother with professionalism anymore. Not with me anyway. We often trade notes and laugh about how the appointments went afterwards. Though Angie is happily married to another woman, she still appreciates a young woman’s body and wants to know every detail I can share after a new client leaves the room.
This is routine for me. Mundanely routine. I’ll go in there, I’ll tell her that the procedure’s going to be really expensive, and she’ll tell me she’ll get her rich boyfriend to pay for it. Plain and simple.
I’m surprised, however, when I read the name on the chart. Charli Sykes. I’ve never met the girl in person, but I’ve seen plenty of photos of her.
Her uncle and I have worked together many times throughout the years. In fact, he’s my number one referral. His clients come in all shapes and sizes, from all backgrounds, but they all only want one thing. Part of me wonders why he would send his niece in here—from the photos he’s shown me she already looks like she’s star material.
Another part of me is glad he did.
I go into the room and I find I’m surprised again. She’s much more shy and nervous than my typical client. Usually my patients know exactly what they want and aren’t shy about telling me, but there’s something different about Charli.
I make small talk with her and I tell her the basics, then it comes time for the big reveal. As much as I try to be professional, a little part of me is excited as I ask her to take off her shirt and bra. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not her alone that I get this thrill for—I love it any time I have a star actress sitting on my table.
Of course, the more experienced actresses are more than willing to rip their top off for any guy who asks, but there’s something so innocent about the newly arrived actresses who have yet to make it big. I don’t see as many of the fresh-faced girls as I’d like—when you’ve made a name for yourself like I have, you get to work with the biggest names in the business—but it’s always a treat when one of them is sitting on my table. They’re not as jaded—they move slowly, they do their best to cover themselves though it’s my job to look at the thing they’re trying to hide. They are just so pure and untouched by fame.
For now.
Charli is no different from the rest as far as shyness goes. In fact, she might be even more shy than many of the first timers. It’s clear she doesn’t want to take her shirt off, and once she has it off, she doesn’t want me to look at her breasts.
“Don’t worry, I’m a professional, and I’m going to give you my professional opinion,” I try to reassure her. But as soon as her shirt comes off, I find it incredibly difficult to be professional. For the first time in my entire career, I want nothing more than to take this young woman right here on my table.
Her breasts are perfect—her body is perfect. They are a little on the small side for Hollywood, but they are perfectly shaped and exquisitely proportioned to the rest of her body. I get to take them in my hands, but I can’t fondle them like I’m dying to do.
I want to bury my face in them and breathe her in deeply. I want to lick and suck on her nipples. I want to take her so hard—but I have to hide all of these feelings and maintain a professional atmosphere. It would be a lot easier if I didn’t have these beautie
s right there in front of my face, so, I ask her to lay back and I cover her with a towel—something I never do.
I’ve never reacted this way with a patient before, and I need to clear my head. I’ve seen more breasts than I can ever remember, so what’s so different about Charli?
I can concentrate a little better with her torso covered, though it’s difficult for me to go over the charts with her. Of course, I know how to mask how I’m feeling—I’ve done it a thousand times with other women before, hiding your thoughts and emotions is simply part of being a doctor—but this is the first time I have ever felt truly challenged in doing this. I can see Charli is doing her best to focus on the charts, but she seems distracted. I can only imagine it’s because she’s not used to taking off her top for strange men she’s just met, and part of me is pleased.
“I just really want it to look—well, natural,” she says at last.
I look down at her. Her young, beautiful face looks unsure, and I feel bad for her. Of course she wants to look natural, and I know I could do something for her that she would probably love. But, on the other hand, I’m not so sure that I want to play any part in changing her gorgeous body.
“Real natural beauty is far better than any falsely natural look in my opinion,” I hear myself saying. I don’t mean it as bluntly as it comes out, and she immediately looks up at me with wide eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Miss Sykes, if I’m going to be perfectly honest with you—and I am—I don’t know why your uncle wants you to get this done. Your body is perfect just as it is.” I smile as I speak, and I can see by the look in her eyes she doesn’t believe me. However, her face flushes a deep, crimson red and I know I’ve flattered her.
“He says every woman in Hollywood has breasts like those.” She points to one of the models on the chart I was showing her, and I shake my head.
The Promise of Love Page 18