Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change

by Robert J. Crane

  Sea Change

  Out of the Box #7

  Robert J. Crane

  Sea Change

  Out of the Box #7

  Copyright © 2015 Revelen Press

  All Rights Reserved.

  1st Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  1.

  FADE IN:

  EXTERIOR NIGHT

  Albert Hammond’s “It Never Rains in Southern California” plays over a high shot of the city of Los Angeles. We PUSH IN on a blond girl, BARBARA “BOBBIE” KEEN on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, early twenties, blond, leggy, vivacious, but poor, two steps north of hipster or homeless. PAN AROUND to REVEAL her looking at a shop window, full of hope and California dreams as she looks at diamonds by herself.

  BOBBIE

  ’Tis the season.

  A guy in his mid-forties pushes past, jostling her as he goes by. The sidewalk is empty; he’s just being a dick.

  GUY

  Way to stop and gawk in the middle of the sidewalk, Barbie!

  BOBBIE

  (under her breath)

  Merry Christmas to you, too, dickhead.

  Katrina Forrest looked up from the page, her green eyes perplexed. Her brow failed to show a single wrinkle, even while she struggled mightily to show just how confused she was by the pages of movie script loosely held in her small, perfectly manicured fingers. “I don’t get it. Where is this going?”

  She’d just met the writer of this particular work about ten minutes earlier, hustled into the meeting by her agent and producer, Aaron Taggert. She glanced at Taggert now, and he arched his eyebrows at her, his thin lips pushed together, holding in his thoughts. He sat next to the writer, Bob Humphries. She’d thought it a little odd that the character’s name in the script was Bobbie while the writer’s name was Bob, but she decided not to draw attention to it, at least not just yet.

  “See,” Humphries started, gesturing at the page in her hands with a little too much excitement. Caffeine or coke? she wondered as she glanced at the small Starbucks cup in front of him. “It’s really an exploration of the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles through the eyes of someone new in town.”

  “It’s practically tailored just for you,” Taggert said, arching his eyebrows and breaking his silence at last. He leaned forward on the conference table that separated them, the white walls a pale wash behind his swarthy, orange, spray-tanned face. “You wanted to branch out from the reality TV mold, Kitten? This could be the thing. We could even structure a whole season of your show around filming, make it a great storyline for you. Making a movie can be tough at times, it’d be a great opportunity to show the audience the travails, a little behind-the-scenes sizzle, some Hollywood glam, make them empathize with you even more.”

  Humphries stared blankly at Taggert then shifted his gaze back to Kat. “Uhm, yeah, sure. I mean, sure, that makes sense. Kind of a cross-marketing thing to tie it in with your TV series. But, anyway, the script, it’s like LA Story meets Mean Girls. But there’s murder, and Christmas, so it’s got a little Shane Black thrown in—”

  “Some real grit,” Taggert said, his dark eyes flashing. “A chance for you to really act.”

  Kat felt her face flush hot, like someone had switched on a sunlamp above her. “I act all the time, Taggert.”

  “You know what I mean, kiddo,” Taggert said, backing off a little. “Not for the reality TV cameras, but a performance that could potentially get you some award nods.” He smirked. “They’re not exactly handing out ‘Best Actress’ in your current genre, if you know what I mean, even though you’re acting your ass off, am I right?”

  Kat settled back in her chair. It wasn’t very padded, felt kind of hard on her backside. She leaned against the wood and wondered why someone in her entourage—all waiting outside the door, except for Taggert—hadn’t brought her something more comfortable to sit on. “But the show’s going really well, I thought you said? That some of the upcoming storylines were our strongest—”

  “Absolutely,” Taggert said, nodding. “And you’re tuned in with the tabloids, you got your platform and social media rocking, I mean you’ve got this thing wired, Kitten, your brand awareness is going up by the day. But it doesn’t hurt to move some eggs into other baskets, if you know what I mean, and Bob’s screenplay can make that happen. We get you on board, leverage your current successes, and boom, we move you into a new place, the burgeoning actress/reality TV star category. Opens new channels, new opportunities, some more cross-promotion, maybe some doors to some new friends that work in the scripted content universe, get you some guest roles on the popular shows—just raise your profile, you know?” He grinned, his teeth in an even line.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Kat said after a moment of thought. That drew smiles from Bob and Taggert. Bob wasn’t nearly as tanned, spray or otherwise, as Taggert. He actually looked kind of pale. Maybe he spent too much time working on scripts. “I guess it does make business sense to diversify.”

  “Whoa!” Taggert said, laughing sharply as he exchanged a look with Bob. “Listen to this one! Pretty soon you won’t even need me managing your career! You’re really picking it up.”

  Kat flushed, a little embarrassed. “Just been listening to you, I guess.” She looked up. “Okay. So, when can we start on this?”

  “Uh, don’t you want to read the rest of the script first?” Bob asked, looking at her, his pudgy cheeks looking a little bigger thanks to the way he was holding his mouth. The writer caught a searing gaze from Taggert and instantly melted. “Or not. I mean, whatever works for you guys.”

  “If Taggert says it’s good, I’m in,” Kat says, letting go of that little bit of reticence she’d had coming in. Taggert had steered her well thus far, after all, from a near nobody—practically a backup dancer to Sienna Nealon—to the star of one of the biggest television shows on cable, and in just a few short years.

  “I’ll start talking with the studios,” Taggert said, his veneer back to placid, his smile returning to his lips. “See if we can get some financing put together and—you know, all that other stuff. Line up a distributor.”

  “Great!” Bob said, standing up. He stuck out a hand awkwardly toward Kat, who regarded it carefully.

  “She doesn’t do that,” Taggert said, rising up and fastening the button of his jacket. Beneath it he wore jeans and a simple Polo-style shirt. The first couple buttons were undone, and a healthy mat of chest hair peeked out from beneath. “You should know that.” It was a step above a rebuke, but the aura of distaste that the reminder had to be issued clouded the air in the conference room.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” Bob said, yanking his hand back like it had almost been thrust into a grinder. “My apologies. I forgot—”

  “Try to remember who you’re dealing with here,” Taggert said, frosty as winter—a sensation Kat hadn’t really felt since coming to LA. “This deal could change your life, Bob. Get with the program.”

  “Right, yessir,” Bob said, nodding, now red with emb
arrassment. He gave Kat a nod. “So sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Kat said, picking up her sunglasses where she’d almost left them on the table, along with her bottle of Fiji water. “Just try to remember it for next time.” She turned, practicing the perfectly poised stride-away that she’d been working on. It really played for the cameras, of which there were none at the moment. They were waiting outside with the rest of her entourage, and if needed, they could film this meeting again, staged properly next time. For now, Taggert hadn’t wanted it on film, and as producer, well, he knew what he was doing.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Taggert said, hurrying ahead of her, opening the door just before she got there. She stepped out of the conference room into a bare corridor, white walls, not much deco—the place looked cheap, actually. Taggert took the lead as two big guys, Bruce and Bruce, her bodyguards, walked a couple paces in front of her. She hadn’t been sure why she needed two of them at first, but then the paparazzi had started showing up. It had taken only a day or two of that to convince her that even two bodyguards might not be enough to control the crowds.

  “You’re sure this is the right move?” Kat asked as the elevator dinged beneath Taggert’s touch. He extended a hand as if to prevent the elevator door from closing as she stepped inside, Bruce and Bruce following. They both turned their backs to her and Taggert, who was much smaller than the bulky bodyguards. Both Bruces looked like defensive players on a football team.

  Taggert slipped in to stand beside her. “It’s the right move.” He took hold of her elbow and squeezed possessively. “There’s no downside. If the movie goes sour, you’ve still got the show.”

  “What if it all goes sour?” Kat asked, a little tremor of fear running through her as the elevator dinged shut and started to move downward.

  “Just stick with me, Kitten,” Taggert said, flashing her a wink. “I made you, I can make you again. Don’t you even spare the water sweating it.”

  “Not in this drought,” she said as the elevator dinged to indicate it had moved one floor down to the lobby. The doors swept open to reveal the glass lobby of the small office building. It was so tiny it didn’t have a doorman, didn’t have a receptionist. All it had was a staircase in a twenty-by-twenty open area, with paint that looked years old and faded by the sun that shone in through the immense glass fronting of the building. As usual there didn’t look to be many clouds in the sky, and the sun was beating in even now, the metal beams that held the panes in place making harsh shadows on the grey carpeting.

  Beyond the double doors to outside waited the paparazzi. Kat fiddled with her sunglasses as she composed herself. They could probably already see her, but the cameras wouldn’t be able to catch a very good picture with the reflective glass of this dump of an office building between them. She’d be ready when she came out, though, because the cameras would already be clicking away, capturing thousands of digital exposures. She couldn’t risk having a single one of those be a poor shot; they had to be glamorous, they had to be perfect, they had to be composed.

  “Remember,” Taggert whispered, “you’re selling a lifestyle. It’s glam, baby. Your life is the best. You’re rich, you’re powerful, you’re jet-setting, visiting places these losers will never tread. Your vacations are beyond their wildest dreams, and your every day is the fantasy of every bored drama queen or king yearning for a better life than the crappy one they live right now.” He slapped her lightly on the ass. She didn’t blanch; she was used to it by now. “Go sell, baby. Sell.”

  She did her perfect stride on those stiletto heels. That was not difficult; she had metahuman dexterity, after all, helping to keep her from tipping over. They added inches of height and made her look more regal, after all. The name-brand clothes helped, too—the Givenchy suit was perfect on her, the jacket fitted to her trim figure and the skirt just long enough to be tasteful yet practical for the weather.

  This wasn’t Minnesota in winter.

  This was LA in November.

  “Ms. Forrest,” her assistant, Karyn, stepped into her shadow and began to whisper. “You have five more appointments today—”

  “Cancel them,” Kat murmured under her breath as the Bruces swept open the double doors for her and the onslaught began.

  “Kat!”

  “Katrina!”

  “Look over here!”

  She kept a faint smile on her lips; she’d practiced it in the mirror for what felt like a thousand years until she loved the way it looked and Taggert had given her the thumbs up. It was her go-to, the thing she did on all occasions. A little mischievous, a little coy, an expression that highlighted her perfect cheekbones. She studiously ignored the paparazzi, heading straight for her car, parked there in front of the curb, motor running, the bastards—err, press—flocked around it like birds. Her driver, Dan, had not hesitated to give the paparazzi a bumping before.

  “Kat!”

  “Hey, Katrina! Over here!”

  The voices were loud enough to drown out the faint sound of waves crashing a few blocks away. The salt breeze was still in the air, though. She could taste it, though she doubted anyone else could. It was kind of a bummer being surrounded by humans. They couldn’t hear like she could, couldn’t smell the things she could smell. This scent, for example, made her long for the beach. Maybe she’d talk to Taggert and the other producers, see if they could set up some sort of private beach trip for her tomorrow after her Vanity Fair photoshoot. She’d had so many meetings lately, it’d be nice to just—

  “KAT!” One voice thundered over the rest, snapping her head around and ruining her perfect poise. If she hadn’t been wearing her glasses, she might have risked someone seeing exactly how displeased she was all the way up to the eyes. They were wrathful, she was sure, as she searched the crowd for the person who’d yelled so loud as to startle her. She took a breath, trying to let out the bad energy, and her eyes settled on the bastard who’d—

  Oh.

  Oh, shit. Not—

  Oh, wait.

  This could be good, after all.

  Scott Byerly waved a hand from the edge of the crowd, a little sheepishly, his face flushed at the sudden attention his beyond-booming voice had gotten. Paparazzi were looking sideways at him, shaking their heads at the new guy as she stared straight at him.

  “What is it?” Taggert asked, suddenly at her shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Kat said, a warm tingle replacing her surprise as she pondered the advantage, the nice little gift that had just been dropped in her lap like a free Prada purse. She raised her voice, knowing that her camera man, Wayne, had just gotten close enough to get a good angle on her, and that Mike, the sound guy, had his boom microphone hanging overhead to capture her and Taggert’s conversation until they could put field mics on them again. She raised her voice so that it could be captured for the show, for her fans—

  For ratings.

  “It’s my ex,” she said, trying to put a little horror into the way she said it. “He must be following me.”

  2.

  Sienna

  November in Minneapolis was a crappy time to wear a dress, and yet here I was. It was the first week of November, and I was wearing a dress in downtown Minneapolis, freezing my freaking buns off even after having been inside for ten minutes. It was enough to make me want to light off a Gavrikov in the room, but that would have set fire to the spotless white table cloth in front of me, the soft-backed chair under my rump, the classy carpeting beneath my flats—I don’t do heels—and probably, eventually, make its way across the table in this all-too-fancy restaurant and light my date on fire.

  It would have been nothing but an improvement, I assure you.

  My date’s name was Ricardo, but he did not appear to be Latin in any way. I know looks can sometimes be deceiving, but his last name was Smith. I think. Actually, I’m not really sure. Maybe he’d said it when he’d introduced himself, but I was already pretty underwhelmed by that point and might have been activel
y tuning him out. Why? you ask.

  I’m glad you asked.

  This whole thing was an internet dating setup. Bowing to pressure from some quarters (Ariadne, Reed, Ariadne, Augustus, Ariadne, Dr. Zollers, oh, and did I mention Ariadne?) I had decided to start dating again. It had been a while, after all. Like, years, since I’d last had a boyfriend. “I’m fine,” I told them. “I’m a modern liberated woman, who doesn’t need a man,” I said. Also, it’s not like I’d been super lonely or anything. I had my career, I had—well, I didn’t have a dog anymore because he’d turned out to be a spy for my enemies shifted into canine form, but I had a new TV! And that was better.

  Also, Ariadne was still rooming at my house. Presumably because she felt sorry for me. I had been really nice, too, not bothering to point out that she was like 2.5x my age and heading toward old maidhood muy rapido, as Ricardo’s non-existent Latin forbears would have said. Is that racist? Why would it be? This dude was whiter than Hollywood director meetings.

  Anyway, I was sitting in the fanciest seafood restaurant in Minneapolis across from a douche named Ricardo (just ditch the “o” and add an “h” so you can become the Dick that your name and nature compel you to be, guy), only half paying attention to the menu and wondering how long I’d have to be there.

  Oh, I haven’t told you why he’s a douche yet, have I? My bad.

  I arrived at the restaurant early, because that’s the classy thing to do. Richard-o showed up fifteen minutes late, and when he introduced himself, he gave me the once over, plainly checking out my ass in this dress (it looks good, dammit) and made a hmmph-ing noise of disapproval.