The Final Act (#4 Bestselling Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  She’s holding a Princess Leia outfit, from the final Star Wars film. It’s a leather and gold bikini top, with only the briefest square of cloth to act as a partial skirt.

  “You’ve got the long dark hair,” says Camilla. “And that tiny waist. It would be so cool.”

  “I’d be half naked,” I protest, prodding the flimsy garment.

  “Oh wait!” Natalie is back delving into the sci-fi zone. “Double bonus. I’ve just found your outfit Cam.”

  She pulls out a bright green garment.

  Camilla’s face twists. “A cat-suit?”

  Natalie thrusts the Princess Leia hanger at me, forcing me to grab it or let it fall. My hands close on the intricate metalwork.

  “Poison Ivy!” announces Natalie, brandishing the green cat-suit. “See? Here’s the ivy.” She grabs out a huge handful of winding leaves. “It’s perfect.” She announces.

  Camilla looks uncertain. But I can see instantly that the outfit is the ideal choice for her long willowy frame. I picture her soft features in the dramatic Poison Ivy make-up.

  “It’s perfect,” I announce. “Let’s go get you a wig. You’ll see, Cam. You are going to look breath-taking.”

  Natalie is nodding excitedly and grabs hold of Camilla’s hand to pull her towards the wigs and hats. But Camilla pulls back.

  “I can’t,” she protests weakly. “A cat-suit? I mean seriously guys. I can’t wear it. It’s skin tight!”

  “Yes you can,” insists Natalie, pulling her firmly across the costume warehouse. “If Issy can wear Princess Leia, then you can wear Poison Ivy. You girls are going to totally steal the show.”

  Camilla stops resisting on the mention of my outfit. And I realise that Natalie has brokered me into the leather bikini whether I want to or not.

  I examine it with a half sigh. Part of me would like to see how I look in this. Besides, I can’t let Camilla get out of the Poison Ivy outfit. She would look great.

  Natalie has dragged Camilla into the wigs area and has lighted on not one, but three different long red curling wigs.

  This is some costume department.

  Whilst they are deliberating, I spot a small black fedora high up on a shelf and reach up on tip-toe to pluck it down. I don’t know how it got to be in this section. But it would be just perfect for Natalie’s mobster look. She’d totally rock this hat, with her long straight hair.

  I join them as Natalie is adjusting a long wig on Camilla’s head. The bright hair transforms her from waif to vixen.

  “See?” insists Natalie, steering Camilla to a mirror.

  Camilla studies her appearance. Now even she looks pleased.

  “Ok,” she admits. “That’s pretty cool.”

  “And we’ll get Kristy to do your make-up,” adds Natalie. “She won’t mind. You’ll look sensational.”

  Now she can see the wig, Camilla seems less nervous about the cat-suit.

  I grin at her in the mirror.

  “I got you a hat,” I say, proffering the fedora to Natalie.

  “Wow, thanks!” Natalie’s emerald eyes settle on mine, and she looks genuinely touched. She plants the hat on her head and studies herself in the mirror, turning this way about that.

  “I love it,” she declares.

  The hat looks so cute above her little pixie face. In outsize man’s pants, brandishing a mobster gun, she’ll have a great outfit.

  Natalie turns on her heel, pointing the gun on Camilla and me. She twists her mouth in a mobster’s snarl.

  “Alright ladeez,” she says in a perfect 1930’s gangster drawl, “let’s get ready ta pardy.”

  Chapter 21

  I’ve already agreed to get ready with James. But before I head over to his on-set apartment, I help Camilla and Natalie assemble their fancy dress.

  Kristy is putting the finishing touches to Camilla’s make-up. And I can’t believe the transformation.

  With Poison Ivy’s dramatic sweeps of purple eye-shadow and high arched brows, Camilla looks much more worldly than her usual self. I feel a wave of emotion studying her. I guess this must be how mothers feel watching their teenage daughters go off to prom.

  Camilla always looks so young and innocent. Now here she is, like a full grown woman. She’s beautiful as her usual self, with a fresh-faced charm. But the make-up, long red wig, and tight green cat-suit have transformed her into a total vamp.

  Camilla stays perfectly still as Kristy applies giant long lashes, tipped with tiny hearts.

  “I couldn’t get ivy leaf lashes,” Kristy explains as she runs a line of glue along Camilla’s eyelids. “But the hearts will look the same. As long as no one gets too close.”

  “So no kissing boys,” admonishes Natalie, wagging a finger. She’s dressed in her Marlon Brando pants, and I’ve helped her attach braces over a linen shirt.

  Camilla gives a strained laugh whilst trying to stay still.

  “As if!” she says. “There is no one in the studio who would be trying to kiss me.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” says Natalie, flipping her fedora along her arm and up onto her head. “You are one hot mamma.”

  Camilla rolls her eyes, prompting a head-straightening ‘tsk’ from Kristy.

  “Do you fancy anyone, Cam?” I ask, running my mind through the cast and crew. “Anyone who’ll be at the party?”

  Camilla blows out through her mouth. “No.”

  “What about David, the props guy?” I ask.

  I remember thinking he would make a good match with Lorna and feel a pang, remembering my best friend.

  I can’t believe Lorna is pregnant. It still feels like a dream.

  I’ve called her relentlessly, but haven’t heard back. So I can only pray things have gone alright with her and Ben.

  Camilla makes a face under the make-up.

  “David? Too old,” she says.

  I grin. David can’t be more than twenty-eight, but I’d forgotten how age makes such a difference when you’re eighteen, like Camilla.

  “How about you, Natalie,” I ask. “Do you have your eye on anyone?”

  “Oh, no.” Natalie bites her lip. “My therapist says I shouldn’t be in a relationship right now. I’m still too messed up. She thinks maybe in a few months.”

  She looks like this doesn’t bother her a bit, so I hold off on offering her sympathy.

  “Kristy then,” I say, widening my eyes in exasperation. “Surely you’re going to the party, hoping for some romance?”

  In contrast to her usual pink hair and gothic make-up, Kristy is dressed as Cinderella. Complete with flowing blue ball-gown and a blue ribbon in her blonde wig. Since her look is normally so alternative, I assume she’s being ironic.

  “I’ve got a boyfriend,” Kristy replies, standing back to assess Camilla’s face. “Hence the Disney outfit. I am absolutely not on the pull.”

  I make an exaggerated sigh. “No romance at all. What is the point of having a party?”

  “Well, for one thing,” says Natalie, running her hands up and down her braces. “We get to meet the new actor. Remember James said? The reporter character.”

  I’d forgotten all about that. I wonder what he’ll be like.

  “Will he be famous?” I ask, thinking what a shock it was to have Madison cast last minute.

  “Don’t think so,” replies Natalie. “He’s young, and he’s only a bit part. But you never know with James Berkeley.”

  Never a truer word spoken.

  I wonder what other surprises James will spring on me before the movie ends.

  After I finish watching Camilla’s transformation, I head to James’s apartment. The truth is, I could have easily stayed with the girls. But some deep part of me felt it was important to be with James before the event tonight.

  I don’t quite know why I wanted to get ready at his apartment. Only, perhaps, I need so badly to have some normal time together. I want to have the feeling that we are an everyday couple who are getting ready for a party. Just lik
e any other boyfriend and girlfriend.

  I’m so excited to see James, I’m a little earlier than planned. I let myself quietly into his apartment, and as usual, the stunning atrium entrance arrests my attention.

  I immediately spot James, standing with his back to me in front of his vast wall of paintings. I smile.

  Admiring his art.

  Then he moves, and I realise he’s actually adjusting one of the pictures.

  “James?”

  I take a step towards him, and as I do so, he turns, revealing a wall safe behind a Damien Hirst picture of a butterfly.

  “How fitting,” I say, noting the choice of painting. “A butterfly in front of a safe. Like it’s emerged from chrysalis.”

  But James’s expression looks guarded as he steps away from the painting. Have I caught him hiding something?

  “Issy,” he says, moving towards me. “You’re early. That’s good.”

  “What precious things do you keep in your safe?” I ask, lifting my eyes to his as he approaches, my voice tightening at his proximity.

  His face flickers for a split second.

  “Nothing important,” he says, “just documents I have to keep locked up for legal reasons.”

  He moves his lips inches from mine, and all thoughts of the safe and its contents fly from my head. “I keep my most precious possessions far closer,” he adds, kissing my mouth.

  James nods to the dress bag in my hand.

  “I’m so glad you came here to get ready,” he says with a smile. “We finally have some boring time together.”

  “Boring time?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. Although, actually, I know what he means completely.

  “Normal then,” he concedes, swooping me up in a giant hug. “You know. Not acting together. Not running away from a stalker. Not fighting off the press. Normal. Getting ready together.”

  “I thought that too,” I admit, grinning. “It feels like we’re always in drama sometimes. When all I want is for you and me to be together.”

  James smiles.

  “You’re sure you don’t enjoy the thrill of it all?”

  His expression seems more searching than usual.

  “No,” I say. “Really, I don’t.” I kiss his mouth and counter my words a little. “I mean, I love the acting and all that,” I add. “But I don’t need it. All I need is you.”

  James stares at me for a moment. And then he pulls me close.

  “You really mean that, don’t you?” he says. “You are my wonderful girl, Issy. You are so grounded, despite everything.”

  “Not that grounded,” I laugh, deciding not to ask what he means by despite everything. “You haven’t seen my fancy dress outfit yet.”

  “Oh?” James pulls back, looking delighted and intrigued. “Can I see it now?”

  He reaches for the bag, and I hold it away, teasingly.

  “Not until it’s on.” I nod my head firmly. “What are you wearing?” I add.

  “Oh no,” says James. “Don’t think I’m going to show you mine if you won’t show me yours.”

  He twists his head to the apartment behind him.

  “How about you get changed in the bedroom, and I’ll get ready out here?” he says. “Then we’ll do a mutual unveiling.”

  “Ok,” I agree, wondering what he’ll make of my outfit. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  It only takes me a few minutes to shed my usual clothes and put on the skimpy bikini top and bottoms of my outfit. The intricate metalwork feels cold against my skin, and I struggle a little with the clasp at the back.

  I eventually master it, and the costume sits heavy across my chest and hips. The bottom half has a hanging piece of fabric, which roughly works as a skirt. But when I take a few experimental steps, it swishes back and forth, giving glimpses of the metal and leather bikini panties underneath.

  There’s no mirror in here, and I fiddle a little with the strap. I knew the outfit would be low cut, but I hadn’t counted on quite so much skin being exposed. I really do feel quite naked.

  Hmmm. Maybe I could find a Star Wars style shawl?

  I’m pondering this, when James walks into the bedroom.

  Oh. Wow.

  James is wearing fifties style turn-up jeans and a white T-shirt which hugs his muscular chest and arms.

  His brown hair has been slicked back into a quiff, and he has a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “James Dean,” I say instantly. “Rebel Without a Cause.”

  Jeez. He looks so hot.

  James walks towards me, removing the cigarette, and I realise his eyes are roaming my entire body. I look down self consciously, and then back up into his face.

  “Let me guess your outfit,” he says in a low voice. “You are dressed as a woman who is about to get fucked senseless by a man dressed as James Dean.”

  “Princess Leia,” I retort lamely as he homes in on me. “Star Wars.”

  James’s eyes are flicking from my breasts to my face as he moves in close.

  “Do you even know how you look?” he challenges. “Have you seen yourself?”

  I shake my head. “There’s no mirror.”

  “There is,” he replies. James points to a switch near the wardrobe. “There’s an electric current,” he explains, “to make the wardrobe a mirror when you want.”

  I suppress a smile. Boys with their toys.

  He leans over my body and flicks the switch to the wardrobe.

  Instantly, the clear front turns reflective, and I see us both in the mirror.

  Wow. I can see what he means about my costume.

  I had a picture in my head of how Carrie Fisher looked in this outfit. But now I can see my reflection, I realise I look very different.

  My hips are wider and my waist is narrower, so the bikini bottoms sit low. It exaggerates the curve of my body, making the costume look even more… exotic somehow.

  With my Spanish skin and features, I look like a slave girl, or something like it.

  James’s eyes are dancing with excitement as he considers me in the mirror.

  I realise what effect the outfit it probably having on him.

  A slave girl. And Mr Old Fashioned. The man with a dominant streak.

  “You’re looking very, submissive,” he purrs, standing slightly behind me and resting his mouth at my shoulder.

  “We should get going,” I mumble, twisting on one foot in discomfort at his unflinching gaze.

  “Issy, you must realise,” continues James, in the same dark tones, “that I can’t let you out of this room without having you first.”

  “Won’t we be late for the party?” I whisper weakly.

  His warm hands move to grip my naked hips. The gesture is proprietary, as though he’s claiming me. The he runs his fingertips smoothly up to my bikini, and over the tops of my breasts. My whole body shudders.

  “Isabella Green,” he whispers, leaning in close. “You look incredible.”

  “I do?” I’m saying the first words which come to my lips. But the truth is, I have a pretty good idea that I look hot in this costume.

  “Oh yes,” he says. “You’ll be getting a lot of attention tonight, dressed like that.”

  He turns me to face him. His body is pressed against mine now. I can feel his erection through his jeans.

  Wow. This outfit is certainly having an effect.

  James’s hands drop down, and he grips my buttocks. His fingers are strong, and he grabs my ass just hard enough to make me gasp.

  “I think,” he says slowly. “You couldn’t have chosen this outfit without knowing you’d be asking for a spanking.”

  “I…” My words have run out.

  James runs a lazy hand across my ass, sending tingles through me.

  “I think I need to spank you,” says James. “Before I let you out amongst other men. Just so you know your place.”

  The thought sends a thrill through me.

  Yes! Cries some dark part of my psyche. I do want that.


  “Perhaps you’re right,” I reply. My voice comes out sultry and low.

  James’s eyes widen. I hear his breath tighten with desire. His body presses more firmly against me.

  “I’m going to put you over my knee,” he says. “And paddle you.”

  I’m suddenly off familiar ground.

  Over his knee? Paddle me?

  Before, James has spanked me bent over a desk. The idea of being placed over his knee is another level.

  Trust Mr Berkeley to put me out of my comfort zone.

  In one fluid movement, James seats himself on the bed and drags me by the hips so I’m standing between his legs.

  Keeping his gaze locked on mine, James leans slightly sideways and opens a drawer next to his bed.

  The bedside cabinet. What is he going to bring out?

  His eyes never leave my face, and then his hand re-emerges from the drawer. He’s holding an old fashioned hairbrush and a small white bottle.

  A hairbrush?

  “Sometimes, the traditional methods are the best,” murmurs James. “Have you ever been spanked with a hairbrush before?”

  “I… No.”

  Of course not!

  A ghost of a smile appears on James’s face. “I forget,” he says, “that you had a very liberal upbringing.”

  “What’s the bottle?” I ask, swallowing.

  “Something for later,” he says. “It’s lubricant.”

  I wonder where he means to use it. Because, already, I am surging with desire for him.

  His eyes move to the hairbrush. I follow his gaze. It’s a round-backed brush with boar bristles. The kind you’d see in a Victorian children’s book.

  “It’s a perfect shape,” says James, “to punish you with. Plenty of skin contact. And a good firm base.”

  “You sound like a connoisseur,” I say weakly.

  His eyes twinkle with amusement. “I suppose we should let you be the judge of that.”

  He runs the firm bristles up the exposed skin of my thigh. The firm bristles are scratchy, almost painfully so. I have to physically stop my knees collapsing.

  “Face that way,” he says, whipping my body in a fast movement so I’m turned at a right angle to him, my body facing towards his thigh.