Eyes Like Those

by Melissa Brayden

  She spent time exploring the ins and outs of the characters as she’d come to know them. Lisette was levelheaded and kind, which, in the scheme of things, could be boring. If she were to prey upon her sister’s boyfriend, she’d face an intense internal conflict and draw ire from the other family members. Plus, forbidden love could be hot. Viewers would be outraged but wouldn’t be able to look away. The smartest route was to put Thomas with the younger sister, make her the happiest she’d ever been in her entire little-sister-life, all the while back-channeling a sparks-laden relationship with Lisette behind the scenes, leaving Lisette the choice to deprive herself or break the highest code of honor there was.

  She made notes throughout the afternoon—not scenes per se, as she wasn’t tasked with writing those yet, but details of what potential scenes might be comprised of.

  Just after eight, she leaned back in her desk chair with one hand on her aching neck and one on her keyboard. Time to call it a day. She was proud of herself and some of the proposals she’d come up with and looked forward to sharing them with Taylor…whose light was still on. Well, look at that. She glanced around as she exited Cubicle Village, which was a ghost town. Dare she knock?

  She did. She dared.

  “It’s open,” she heard in response to her double knock. She swung the door open to find Taylor shrugging into her blazer. Her makeup had faded from the long day, but her friendly smile hadn’t. God, she was easy to like.

  “What’s up?” she asked Isabel, her tone just as friendly as the smile.

  Isabel lost her train of thought, blinded once again by her over-the-top attraction to Taylor, and the way Taylor’s eyes shone brightly when she really looked at you, like she was right now. She blinked to refocus, because those eyes… “I was going to see if you had a second to talk Lisette and Thomas.”

  She hesitated. “I always have time to talk story, but I have to get out of here. It’s been one of those days where nothing really goes right.”

  Isabel flashed to the scene she’d interrupted between Taylor and Aspen earlier. “Don’t give it another thought, boss. We can chat tomorrow.”

  Taylor glanced up, seemingly amused. “Did you just call me ‘boss’?”

  Isabel nodded. “I did, yeah. I’m sorry. Did that sound flippant? I’ve been told I can come off flippant when I don’t mean to be.”

  “That’s okay. Sometimes I can come off as judgmental when I don’t mean to be. Like now.” She eyed Isabel as if circling around an idea. “Would you be up for a drink while we talk shop? I need to get off this lot. Two birds.”

  “Sure. I’d love one.” She pointed at Raisin, who sat in his dog bed heartily chewing on a giant rawhide bone twice the size of his face. “Would he?”

  “I know it’s surprising, but Raisin’s not a big drinker. He is, however, excellent at sitting outside. There’s a spot across the street, Bo Jangles, and it’s a nice night.”

  Isabel grinned. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”

  Taylor grabbed her keys. “I’ll meet you there in ten.”

  Turned out Taylor was right. While Isabel hadn’t been outdoors since early that morning, the night had shaped up to be serene with only a touch of a chill in the air. A cocktail would chase it away rather quickly.

  As they waited on their drinks, Taylor turned to her. “What were you doing with yourself before accepting my offer?”

  “Is this still part of the interview?”

  Taylor winced. “Sorry. No. I was honestly just curious. Let me try again.” She made a show of loosening her shoulders, rolling her head around. “So, what was your last gig, or whatever? No big deal.”

  Isabel laughed. “That was an awful impersonation of casual.”

  “Hey!” Taylor said, joining her in laughter. “I should at least get some points for effort.”

  “Fine. But maybe don’t ever do that again. You just be you. Put together and smart.”

  “So? What was it? Your last job?” She rested the side of her head on her fist and Isabel felt the butterflies.

  “I’m afraid, with all due respect, I can’t tell you that.”

  “CIA?” Taylor deadpanned.

  Isabel laughed at the unexpected leap. She wasn’t aware of Taylor’s humor, but then again, her scripts were laced with tons of it. Made sense that it would transfer to the real-life woman. It was charming and a nice surprise. “I wish.”

  “Me too. We’d have built-in research on a future storyline.” She stirred her whiskey sour and Isabel couldn’t help but notice her hands, slender and feminine.

  “Well, now I’m filled with regret.”

  “Don’t be,” Taylor said dismissively. “We’ll find a way, even if we have to enlist Scruffy on the fly.”

  “I don’t think he’s happy about my joining the staff.” The words were out of her mouth before she’d carefully weighed the wisdom of such a confession. She didn’t want to seem needy or weak. In fact, she wanted to project the opposite.

  However, Taylor didn’t balk. “Scruffy’s an asshole. To everyone. It’s just how he was born. He happens to be a talented asshole, so we keep him. But if you’re looking for advice—”

  “I am.”

  “Give it back to him in spades. It’s what he responds to.”

  “Now that, I can definitely do.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you can. So now tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Isabel asked.

  “What you were doing before coming out to LA.” There was smiling, lots of eye contact, and a playful back and forth. Were they flirting? Isabel was fairly confident they were. It felt like the best kind of drug. “You’ve made a secret out of it, so I can’t resist. I’m like Nancy Drew with a bone when it comes to people’s backstories. It’s the character writer in me. So, dish.”

  Isabel smiled at the imagery and knew there was no way around the truth. “It’s humiliating, but I’ll tell you.” She sighed. “While you were running television as we know it, I was waiting tables in New Hampshire until the next writing gig came around the mountain. The former ensures the latter by design.”

  Taylor looked intrigued yet uncertain. “You might have to explain that one to me.”

  “Well, if I took a job I could tolerate, I’d get complacent. Lose my drive to make it as a screenwriter and lay up with the tolerable job. Food service is hell, however, which forced me to keep the writing momentum going.”

  Taylor sipped her drink delicately. “That’s admirable, Isabel. I envy that kind of hunger. How’s the drink?”

  Isabel set down her Chianti. “It’s smooth.”

  “Mine is already working.” She gestured to her glass, her eyes widened, signaling the strength of the booze. “They don’t hold back here.”

  “Good.”

  Taylor laughed, and it was melodic. “Why good?”

  “So, when you’re slightly on the tipsy side, I can bend your ear with all of my industry questions and not feel as foolish. Plus, it also helps me get to know you better.”

  She studied Isabel. “You’re fearless, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not. But I’m good at pretending.” She flashed on her most recent panic attack before shoving it aggressively from her mind. Not now. Not when she was having such a nice time. “What I am is ambitious and sitting across from someone I admire.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  She shook her head. “I’m honest.” Isabel decided to seize the opportunity. “What made you want to executive produce as well as write?”

  “Now who’s the interviewer?” Taylor rested her chin on her palm, and Isabel stopped breathing for a moment as goose bumps prickled her skin.

  “It’s only fair.” Her thought was interrupted by Raisin, who chose that moment to yawn loudly and at a very high pitch. She and Taylor chuckled, as did the occupants of the neighboring table.

  Taylor reached down and gave his head a pat. “Raisin has had quite a day.”

  “He did. He spent half of it asleep in my lap.”

>   Taylor’s eyes went wide. “He did?”

  “Don’t worry about it. He seems to like my lap. Plus, it was the most action I’ve seen in months.”

  Taylor nearly spat her drink across the table, which made Isabel laugh and hold her hand out to make sure she was okay. Taylor sputtered into a coughing fit, pounded her chest a few times, and finally sat back in her chair, wiping her eyes. “You have to warn a person.”

  “Sometimes they just fly out of my mouth.”

  “I’m learning. And you know what? I think I like that about you, Isabel Chase.”

  “Finally.” That’s when Isabel noticed something remarkable. The piercing green eyes that had captivated her over the past two weeks were now distinctly gray. How in the world had that happened? Those eyes alone had her coming apart, her skin humming pleasantly, her whole body warm.

  “But, to answer your question…”

  Right, there had been a question.

  “The executive producer title ensures I have the last word. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a control freak.” As the waiter passed, she signaled him for a second. “I try not to be when it comes to the writing staff, but the network is another story. I need it to be my show, my way. And if you get your own show one day, fight tooth and nail for that title. There’s nothing worse than an EP who doesn’t share your vision.”

  “Trust me when I tell you that I’m jotting notes.” About so many things. Taylor had the hint of a dimple on her right cheek and a freckle just to the side of her eye.

  “While we’re on the topic of work, I want to apologize again for earlier. Mortified does not begin to cover the feelings that came out of that…scenario.”

  “We’ve already done the apologizing. We all have exes. Some are just more famous than others.”

  “That’s true,” Taylor said, deflating.

  Isabel dipped her head. “Hey, I didn’t mean that as a hit.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re still taking notes, that’s another. Don’t sleep with the people you work with. Especially if they’re more powerful than they are stable.” Well, that was an unfortunate revelation.

  Isabel lowered her voice. “Aspen’s not stable?”

  “I exaggerate.” Taylor’s second drink arrived and she took a moment with it. “She’s less than predictable. That’s a better way to explain her.”

  Isabel had always been good at reading people, and the look on Taylor’s face suggested she was backpedaling from perhaps too much honesty. “Fair enough.”

  “I can’t believe I ordered a second. I never do that, which says something about my day.”

  “How long were you together? If you don’t mind my asking, and I fully realize you might.”

  “Four months.” She shook her head. “I knew it was an awful idea after two.”

  “I once had an ex steal my identity, if that helps. My credit has still not recovered.”

  Taylor covered Isabel’s hand with her own. “Bless you.” When she pulled her hand back, the air between them was thicker. They’d both noticed that touch, the spark, and the smiles had all but faded. Isabel was confident that alcohol had stolen the safety of inhibition, and if this were any other woman, she’d go out of her way to take this one step further. But she wasn’t stupid. Taylor Andrews was out of her league and had just announced she’d sworn off work-related romance.

  “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” a slightly tipsy Taylor asked with a shy smile.

  Isabel nodded. “I think we are.”

  “This ex, did he go to jail?”

  “She did not. She journeyed into the world to ruin the lives of many more to come.”

  Taylor paused as if something important had just occurred.

  Another long silence ensued. Taylor sat back and Isabel smiled, reaching down to pat Raisin on the head. The street lamp to their left buzzed and the table nearby laughed. Isabel was enjoying herself. And though she wasn’t positive, tonight felt significant.

  Chapter Seven

  Justin Timberlake accompanied Taylor on her drive through the hills that night, and the lighter traffic had her singing right along with him. The day had been full of twists and turns, much like the roads she took now. Her drink with Isabel was a definite bright spot and might have been partially responsible for her high notes.

  The idea of spending time with Lyric Larkin on her silly nun show had been the opposite. Lyric was nothing but a potent reminder of a time in her life when Taylor’s own self-worth was startlingly different from what it was now. She didn’t think about those old high school days anymore for a reason, but alone in her car, under the veil of the night sky, she allowed her mind to travel.

  Ninth-grade gym had always been the nightmare portion of Taylor’s day. Except, with a nightmare, at least you could always wake up. For Taylor, her high school years had seemed never-ending. Her mother had been a casting agent and her father a props artisan, which left her growing up right in the middle of Los Angeles and everything sparkly and shiny. This included the students at Hollywood High School, who floated through the halls without touching steady ground. To say that most of them came from famous parents was not at all an overstatement. To say that nearly all of them were beautiful, and rich, and highly judgmental wasn’t either.

  If you weren’t a ten on the looks scale, you were instantly outcast. Your only chance at redemption was a famous parent to dangle in front of the elite as payment for taking up space. Taylor, being forty pounds overweight and from two unheard of parents, wasn’t even up for social consideration. In LA, it was far more acceptable to be a drug addict, liar, or common thief than it was to be overweight. She’d committed the ultimate crime and thereby existed only to entertain the students who came with names reflecting either exotic locations or sexy objects. Paris, Lyric, and Cloud, yes, Cloud, were the worst of her classmates and sought to make her life a living hell for sport. Did she report them to the administration when they’d left a live rat in her locker wearing the nametag Tubby Taylor? Of course she did. But things had only gotten worse from there. Centerfolds from Playgirl had been taped to her backpack when she wasn’t looking with the words “The Object of Tubby’s Dreams,” scrawled across the male model’s picture-perfect abs. Lower on the page, they’d written, “Tubby Taylor sucks on this.” As horrifying as the experience was, she never did correct anyone or argue that she didn’t dream about men at all—out of fear for how much worse things might get. Why give them another reason to paint her as different?

  Taylor blamed those adolescent years for the extended amount of time it took her to finally admit that she was, in fact, gay. A failed marriage to a guy she actually liked and years of lying to herself were certainly influenced by her early need for acceptance. Now, she could shake her head at the lunacy of it all, because Katia Rolinski, with the dark curls and smoky eyes, should have cleared it all up for her if nothing else had. She was a grade older than Taylor in high school, and a good two notches above her on the social ladder, which still wasn’t high. Katia was scholastic and opinionated, not unlike Isabel Chase, now that Taylor thought about it. She argued back against the beautiful elite and called them to the carpet when they said or did something hateful. She snuck cigarette breaks and read poetry quietly to herself. Katia had captured Taylor’s attention when she’d debated their history teacher, for twenty straight minutes, on the merits of the English monarchy. She’d somehow found the nerve to mention it to Katia when she saw her reading in the corner of the library.

  “I thought what you had to say in history class was spot-on.”

  Katia had looked up and smiled. As in, she didn’t look past Taylor or offer a belittling comment. She saw her. “Thanks. I perhaps should not have argued, but I couldn’t stop myself. You sit at the back, yes?”

  Taylor nodded. “Yes. I don’t say a whole lot.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Not a ton of people care what I have to say.”

  Katia slid the chair next to her out
with her foot, and that was the start of Taylor’s first real friendship since elementary school. They’d started eating lunch together at the back of the cafeteria to avoid the Bostons and Candles of the school. Katia’s exotic past was what kept the popular kids at bay and her torment level set to low. She’d been born and raised for the most part in Prague and thereby came with a certain amount of intrigue that got her a pass. She’d lecture Taylor in her thin European accent on the importance of environmental preservation, to which Taylor would nod and moon, and nod and moon, thinking Katia was the most wonderful and attractive person she’d ever met. When Katia left for college two years later, Taylor thought she’d seen the last happy day of her life. She’d emailed Taylor once just to check in on her, but that was the last she’d heard.

  Taylor’s naïveté hadn’t been limited to her sexuality. She’d also had no concept that she’d go on to leave a decent-sized footprint on the world through the simple act of storytelling.

  She remembered the moment it had all changed.

  “What are you staring at, Tubs?” Lyric had asked one afternoon, perched atop her desk before trigonometry like the princess she truly believed herself to be. Her father was a television producer and her mother one of the most famous actresses in all of Hollywood.

  “Did you not hear the question?” her sidekick asked.

  “I’m not looking at anything,” Taylor said simply, politely. “I’m just waiting for class to begin.” To escape from the moment and their accusatory stares for her merely breathing the same air, she’d buried her nose in the leather-bound journal her mother had given her for Christmas and set to writing straight away, anything to look busy, anything to make them lose interest. It had worked. Lyric and Co. had moved on to discussing their very busy weekend of shoe shopping and party planning, but Taylor didn’t stop writing. She also didn’t employ the journal to record her thoughts, as her mother had intended. Instead, she used the pages to write a short story. And the next day, another. The more she wrote, the more invisible she became, wrapped in a world of her own creation, where she was in control and safe and sane. She wrote until she had more stories than she knew what to do with. Generally, her plotlines surrounded an underdog character who won out in the end, stories where the ugly duckling rose to power and showed all the beautiful ducks once and for all that she was worthy. While those kinds of tales were fantastically motivating, she moved beyond them as weeks turned to months and her pen kept moving. She wrote about dragons, and wizards, and stockbrokers, and teachers, and high school kids, and the elderly. No subject was off-limits or beyond the bounds of Taylor’s imagination.