by Julie Kenner
Okay, now I’m going to blush. “That’s really sweet, Andy.” I’m not sure what else to say. I mean, I’m glad that he thinks I’m good in the role. That part is flattering. But I can also tell that Andy has a little bit of that fan-boy thing going on.
Normally, that would give me pause. Clingy obnoxious fans freak me out (for obvious reasons). But Andy is of the polite breed. He’s also part of the production team, which makes him safe. All of which means that his fan status is charming rather than creepy.
Even so, I can’t help but feel a little bit self-conscious. Which is yet another downside of the whole celebrity thing. People know all about your life even without you ever telling them one single thing. It takes some getting used to. Trust me on that.
“So, I was wondering if you wanted to go get a coffee,” he says, a little bit hesitantly. “Tomorrow’s scenes are intense. And I, well, I thought you might want someone to talk through them with.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, wondering if he’s just doing his job, or if he knows how awkward the whole me-Blake thing is. Or if, like Mackenzie, he’s worried about my emotional well-being. Whatever the reason, it’s a nice gesture. “Normally I’d take you up on it, but I’ve got these plans…”
“Shopping. Right.”
Suddenly my need for retail therapy sounds so trivial. This is a career-making movie for me. But am I running lines before a major emotional scene? No, I’m planning to drown my sorrows in a flurry of Prada paraphernalia.
I debate whether I should call Lindy and cancel. Except if I do, then I’ll feel guilty, since I’m the one who begged her to take off early from work. Besides, I really want to shop.
I’m weighing my options when Susie trots up, breathless, a small package in her hand. “Hey! This just came for you!”
I hold out my hand to receive the package, and Susie shoves a festive green gift bag stuffed with pink tissue paper into my hand. Inside, I see an envelope peeking out, as well as a silver foil box. I pull out the envelope first. It’s on T-H Productions stationery, and the return address of Tobias’s office bungalow on the studio lot is embossed in the upper left corner. Inside, I know I’ll find a single sheet of paper with Tobias’s neat handwriting. At the top, he’ll compliment me on one aspect of my performance. And then he’ll fill up the rest of the sheet—front and back—with both criticisms and suggestions for nailing tomorrow’s scenes.
I barely glance at it—I’m so not reading notes in front of Susie and Andy—then slide it back into the bag and pull out the small foil box. It’s a little bit wider than a ring box and significantly taller. Inside, I find a very plump strawberry covered in white and black chocolate, designed to look like the strawberry is wearing a little tuxedo.
“Awww,” says Susie. “It’s so cute.”
“Darling,” I say. Then I put the lid back on and slide the box back into the bag.
“Aren’t you going to eat it?” Andy asks.
Susie rolls her eyes. “Teeth.”
“Excuse me?” Andy shoots her a baffled look.
Susie points to me, giving me the floor. “She means my teeth,” I say, aiming a solid glare in her direction. “I never eat unless I can brush my teeth.”
Andy looks taken aback. “Really? I never heard that.”
“That’s because I’m careful to keep my personal quirks out of the tabloids,” I say, directing the comment to Susie, who at least has the grace to blush.
“I gotta get back,” she says, probably afraid I’m going to chew her out. And then she scurries away.
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes and turn back to Andy. “It’s an old habit,” I say, by way of explanation. “If I ate full meals on the set when I was a kid, I’d be too sleepy to get through all the takes. So they let me snack pretty much all day. But I had to brush my teeth after everything. It wasn’t that anyone cared so much about the health of my teeth. But if they had to redo a scene because I had chocolate on my front tooth…well, then that would be an expensive chocolate bar, you know?”
“I had no idea,” Andy says.
I shrug. “No one does.”
For that matter, no one knows I hate chocolate. That’s another one of my little quirks that I’ve never revealed to the public. It’s stupid, but I just want to keep some personal details secret. If anyone asks in an interview, I always say that I love chocolate just like every other girl on the planet. Just recently, in fact, I’d claimed that chocolate-covered strawberries gave me more of a rush than sex. (Not that this is a red-hot interview subject, but you’d be surprised at the mundane stuff that some of these reporters want to know.)
Although…
I frown a little. Because Tobias does know about my chocolate issues. But he probably just forgot. Or, more likely, didn’t tell his assistant when he asked her to buy me a trinket to go with the note. She’d probably read the Vanity Fair article and decided that a chocolate-covered strawberry was just the ticket.
Tobias wouldn’t care what she bought. From his point of view, the only purpose of the package was to deliver the note and pump up my ego after my first critical scene and before the next one tomorrow.
There it is again: another reminder that tomorrow’s scenes are critical. I can practically feel my credit cards crying, knowing that they’re not going to get a promised workout.
“Listen,” I say to Andy. “Maybe it would be a good idea to run lines after all.”
“I thought you were meeting someone.”
“I was. I am. I mean, there’s no reason why I can’t do both,” I say, even as the idea enters my head. “Do you mind meeting up later?” It’s still early. I can shop for a few hours with Lindy, and easily be finished in time to get in a few hours of rehearsal.
“Sure,” he says. “Do you want me to come over to your house?”
I hesitate, because for years, my number-one rule has been to not get too close to fans. Fans, after all, can be scary.
But this is different. This is Andy, our official story consultant. He’s not only on the payroll, he’s a genuinely nice guy.
Plus, he’s been a victim, too. So we already have that much in common.
“Sure,” I say, coming to a decision. I pull a notepad out of my purse and scribble my address, directions, and my phone number. “How does eight sound?”
“Perfect,” he says with a glance at the note. “I think this will be really productive.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.” But I can’t quite conjure a matching smile. I’ve just broken my own hard-and-fast rule. And I can only hope that I don’t live to regret it.
Chapter 6
>>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<
PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN
WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER
PLAYER REPORT:
REPORT NO. A-0001
Filed by: Janus
Subject: Status update.
Report:
• Toxin delivered as per instructions. Awaiting confirmation of infection.
• Delivery of additional systems established and scheduled as per introductory instructions.
• Game currently proceeding on schedule.
>>>End Report<<
Send Report to Opponent? >>Yes<< >>No<<
Block Sender Identity >>Yes<< >>No<<
Chapter 7
Blake clenched his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep quiet as his manager went off on his latest tirade.
“Are you trying to fuck up your career?” Elliot howled. “That’s what I want to know. Because if you’re trying, then I owe you a congratulations. You’re doing one hell of a good job.”
Blake stiffened, reminding himself that he’d known this was coming. For that matter, considering the strings Elliot had pulled to arrange the satellite feed, the man had every right to be pissed. Except for the tiny little detail about Blake not wanting the interview in the first place, and Elliot damn well knowing it. “Last I looked, this was still my career,” he said. “Or did I miss a memo?”
&nbs
p; “Dammit, Blake, you just don’t get it.”
“No, you don’t get it,” he spat, trying to keep his temper in check. Now wasn’t the time or the place for a knock-down, drag-out. Not with the press on the set and the crew still wandering around. In this day of camera phones, anyone could snap a picture, and three hours later it would be all over the Internet. He could see the headline now: “Fresh from Breakup with Darling Devi, Bad Boy Blake Breaks Down on the Set.”
“Well all right, then,” Elliot said, his Brooklyn accent sneaking in around the edges. “You tell me what I don’t get.” He aimed a fat finger at Blake’s face. “You tell me why I’ve managed to keep every one of my clients at the top of his game, but for you, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You wanna tell me that?”
“Honestly, no,” Blake said. “I don’t want to talk about it. I made a decision. It’s done. End of story.” He knew why Elliot was pissed, but the decision was a good one. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d hurt Devi in that last interview. He’d been unprepared to talk about his personal life, and when Letterman had asked him if wedding bells were in the future, he’d shot off an answer without thinking. Because at the time, he hadn’t been thinking about marriage. Why would he be? Sure they were serious, but marriage? Not on his radar.
So, yes, he could have handled the question better. But dammit all to hell, Devi knew he was an idiot in interviews. But had she cut him some slack? Not even a tiny bit.
For that matter, neither had the media, and “Trouble in Paradise” headlines popped up everywhere. Suddenly every ex-girlfriend had something to say about him, and all the gossip rags started speculating about how he’d only gotten together with Devi in order to land the part in Givenchy.
The whole situation was fucked up, and he hadn’t had a clue how to make it better. He’d gone back to Los Angeles expecting Devi to commiserate with him, maybe even laugh at the press and his own stupidity. Instead, she’d cried and told him to get the hell out of her life. Something that was easier said than done, considering they were scheduled to start shooting the movie.
Yes, he’d screwed up, but she’d overreacted, too. But none of that changed the fact that he’d hurt her, however unintentionally. That one reality haunted him. He’d grown up with an absent father, a mother he adored, and two impish little sisters. It simply wasn’t in his nature to hurt a woman, especially not a woman he cared for.
Having the Letterman crew on the lot was like rubbing salt in her wound. Which was why he’d gone to her trailer to see if she wanted to come on the segment with him. She’d pissed him off by not hearing him out and assuming the worst, and he regretted the way he’d stormed out without telling her why he’d come in the first place.
At least he’d had the wherewithal to cancel the damn thing. He might not completely understand women—with Devi at the top of that list—but he knew enough not to make the same mistake twice. No matter what Elliot Kelly might think.
Of course, since Elliot made no secret that he thought Blake should date a star with more box office bang, Blake’s attempt to save Devi’s feelings probably wouldn’t pull much weight with his manager. A manager who was currently pacing, his jaw working back and forth as if he were trying to chew something really unpleasant.
As he stalked about, the scalp under his comb-over started to turn red, a sure sign his blood pressure was rising. “So I guess I should just quit,” he finally said. “Why not? You don’t need me. Not if you got a fucking death wish.”
“A death wish?”
“Yeah. A death wish. You’re gonna kill off your career. And my reputation, too. You remember that the next time you pull a stunt like this.”
Usually Elliot’s histrionics just rolled off Blake. Not today. Today, he wanted to hit something. Or someone. “Give it a rest, Elliot. They’re rescheduling.”
That stopped Elliot’s pacing. “Rescheduling? For when, exactly?”
“It’ll get done,” Blake said. “Trust me.” The truth was that he’d be perfectly happy if the damn interview never went forward. He liked the work just fine, but the trappings that came with it? All the damn publicity and people sticking cameras in his face? That he hated. Especially since he seemed to be miserable at it. He’d sure as hell shoved his foot firmly into his mouth on more than one occasion.
Elliot’s fat finger came out again, and his mouth opened, but Blake cut him off. “I said it’ll get done.”
“They’re still on the lot,” Elliot said, suddenly perking up. “If you don’t have a time already set to reschedule, then let’s just do it now. Get this out of the way, and you can concentrate on your performance. Trust me, that’s the way to go.”
“Give it a rest.”
“She’s not worth it, Blake,” Elliot said. “She’s not a girl who’s going to make your career.”
“Maybe not,” Blake agreed. “But I’m not going out of my way to upset her. I hurt her once. I’m not going to do it again.”
“You’re a damn pansy-ass. Honestly, I don’t know why I keep working with you.”
“Because I’m such a charmer,” Blake said, and this time the grin was real.
“That must be it.” Elliot looked at his watch, then pulled out his cell phone, a sure sign that the conversation was over. “You got a big day tomorrow. Get some rest. We’ll clean this mess up later.”
“I’m sure we will.” But the sarcasm was lost on Elliot, who was already telling someone on the other end of the phone to “Get him on the horn now, baby. We got things to talk about.”
Blake just shook his head, not sure if the gesture was exasperation or fondness. The voice from behind startled him.
“You got a live one there.”
He turned to find Tobias, his gaze fixed on Elliot.
“Don’t I know it.” As much as Elliot drove him crazy, though, he couldn’t completely fault the man. He’d signed with Elliot back when his only interest in Hollywood was getting fight-scene choreography work. And even though Elliot’s clients had been limited to actors, he’d taken Blake on simply because they’d gotten along and because Elliot thought that someone needed to show those effeminate action hero types how to really kick some butt.
When Tobias had offered Blake an on-camera role, Elliot had truly stepped up to the plate, negotiating a sweet contract and making sure that the public knew damn well that there was a new star in the Hollywood sky. Blake still wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable with being labeled a star months before his first movie even opened, but he couldn’t argue with Elliot’s results. He’d already landed foreign commercials, follow-up roles, and several endorsements.
He’d accepted the role because he’d been financially strapped. Not so anymore, and that was in large part due to Elliot’s advocacy.
The man might drive him crazy, but he was damn sure effective.
“Let’s walk,” Tobias said.
Blake fell in step beside him. With his scruffy beard and teddy-bear build, Tobias Harmon usually seemed like the least dangerous man on the planet. But he was also the kind of guy you didn’t see coming. In a town that watched carbs more carefully than the stock market, Tobias’s well-known glutton tendencies made him a bit of an anomaly. He was invariably invited to all the best parties. And yet he never quite fit in.
Blake had liked the man from the first moment they’d met. “What’s on your mind?”
The director glanced at him, but didn’t break stride. “Do you know when I met Devi?”
“Years ago, I assume. You did Taming Lily when she was, what? Ten?”
“I met her five years before that. She was five. Just finished with Spielberg, and I wanted her in my next project. We met at a hotel while she was doing the publicity dog-and-pony show. Her mom looked wiped out, but Devi was as fresh as a flower.”
One of the production assistants waved at them, then rushed over with a clipboard.
“She’s a professional,” Blake said, as Tobias started to scribble his name on various sheets in the mile
-high stack of papers. She’d grown up in the loving glow of camera flashes. There’d been a few catty remarks from the occasional reporter, sure. But for the most part, she’d never had a reason to do anything but soak in the attention. Not until that son of a bitch assaulted her, anyway.
Just thinking about it made Blake’s blood boil. They hadn’t been dating at the time—hell, they hadn’t even met back then—but he’d seen the damage that the bastard had done to her. It both broke his heart and made him want to lash out and hurt someone. No, not someone. Him.
And so help him…if the police ever managed to track the guy down…
Well, a background in martial arts could be damn useful at times.
Of course, if he was going to kick anyone’s ass, he supposed it should be his own. After all, Devi had mostly recovered from her attack. She was off the drugs, back out in public, and she hadn’t even balked at Tobias’s mandate to promote the hell out of herself and the movie. He knew it hadn’t been easy on her. But thankfully the glare of the spotlight had been soft-focused. They were the romance du jour, after all. The reports were extravagant, but generally kind. From a PR perspective, the situation couldn’t have been more perfect.
So what did he do? He went on national television and slapped a big red target on the two of them.
God, he was a jerk.
The production assistant babbled a thank-you, then hurried off to her next task. Tobias turned back to Blake. “So there I am,” he continued, as if they’d never been interrupted, “bone-tired from shooting pickups all day, and this little slip of a girl marches over and shakes my hand. ‘So you’re our brightest new actress,’ I say. And do you know how she answers?”
“No idea,” Blake said, even though the question was mostly rhetorical.
“She says, ‘I guess I am, sir. But what I really want to do is direct.’” Tobias shook his head, chuckling. “She’s never wanted to direct a day in her life. But she knows how to play to an audience. That’s her special talent. And it’s a rare one.”