Chasing the Dream: Dream Series, Book 3

by Isabelle Peterson

  Through the week, Kevin would knock on my door or text to see how things were going. My life seemed to be settling into a nice, professional normal. The long days usually wore me out and I was becoming one of those ‘early-to-bed’ people that I never understood. All in all, I was feeling completely successful.

  On Thursday night, Ben, the cocky intern, organized us interns to go watch a Yankee’s game at a popular bar, Stan’s, “within spitting distance” to the ballpark. Pulling out my fake ID that I’d only used twice in Ohio, and taking a cab to the Bronx, I went, looking forward to getting to know the other interns, even if I was dog-tired. If it had been quiet enough to talk, I think I would have had fun getting to know Serena, Blake and Dan, the three Jenny and I hung close to. It was clear that Ben and Terri had already hooked up, and Matt was part of their little clique. The bar was packed, with everyone decked out in Yankees t-shirts, caps and temporary tattoos. It was a good game, only made better with a Yankee win. My dad would have been proud at my attending a baseball game. He was a die-hard fan of the San Francisco Giants.

  The weekend came, but was not the same as the weekend before. No dinner date with Kevin. No jog in Central Park, but that was fine—I was totally worn out from the ten-hour days at work. I enjoyed that Saturday by sleeping in until two in the afternoon. Sunday I did some grocery shopping. Monday was Memorial Day.

  Kevin invited me to go with him to one of his fellow teacher’s home in Westchester, but I’d also been invited to a couple of co-workers holiday barbecues, and he’d already admitted that I wasn’t the object of his attentions, other than a neighbor and daughter of a friend. I thought it would be best to take up a co-worker’s invitation and considered which invite to take: Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, or Chelsea. I took up the invitation to Brenda’s Memorial Day barbecue at her place in Chelsea, because I didn’t have to leave the ‘island.’

  After a run in Central Park on the path Kevin taught me, I got ready for the party. Following Brenda’s instructions to get to her place, I took a downtown Six train to Grand Central Terminal, transferring to the Seven train over to Forty-second Street, then getting on a downtown One Train to Eighteenth Street. As I walked along Nineteenth Street, I was shocked to see so many gay couples, men and women, as well as men who were dressed like women and women who were dressed like men. Brenda’s apartment was amazing and had a fantastic view from the roof-top patio, reminding me that there was a roof-top patio on my building, but I had yet to make it up there. I made a mental note to check it out. There were a dozen or so people from work at Brenda’s, along with other neighbors of hers and other friends. The most interesting introduction Brenda made was to her wife, Marie, a chef at a well-known restaurant. Never in a million years would I have guessed that Brenda was a lesbian. She certainly didn’t fit the stereotype I had in my head.

  All in all, it was a good party and I made some good connections for future internship opportunities in other departments.

  Tuesday, Valerie and I hit the ground running, having lost a day of work this week. All was rolling pretty much like the previous Tuesday, except, midway into the afternoon, the door flew open and a clearly stressed woman barged in, and my life was sent into chaos.

  “Done! I quit! That man, no—that boy is unmanageable and I will not take another second of it. He’s made his last pass at this woman! I have more respect for myself than that. Here’s his schedule,” she said, dropping a clipboard on Valerie’s desk. “He’s in his dressing room, passed out. He needs to be on set in forty minutes. I don’t even care if I don’t get paid for this past week and a half!” she screeched.

  “Dana. Wait,” Valerie called to the woman who was already headed out of the door. “What happened?”

  “He’s everything that the tabloids say he is. He’s a womanizer. He’s a drunk. And he’s impossible. I’ve been trying to get him over to the set for the past half hour. And for your information, this shirt did not tear itself.” She showed how the sleeve of her shirt was detached at the shoulder. “I accept full responsibility if my slap across his face left a mark.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Dana. Of course you’ll be paid for the week. And I’ll make sure there is a bonus to, um, cover your aggravation,” Valerie said with an edge in her voice. I looked at the two women staring at each other.

  “You mean to keep quiet and not go to the papers?”

  Valerie wobbled her head slightly, not with a yes-nod, nor a no-shake. “That would be appreciated. But I cannot tell you to not talk to them.”

  “Whatever. I have no desire to be in the public eye. Good luck.” And with that, the woman, Dana, marched out of the office.

  Valerie stood. “Let’s go,” she said. “And bring your purse.”

  “Go where?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

  “Chase Smythe. Why casting went with him with the reputation he has…” her thought trailed off. “Although, I am sure he’ll bring the ratings in.”

  I sat, unable to move. Chase Smythe? No, she must be kidding. Chase Smythe was one of my biggest all-time actor crushes. I had pictures of him from the teen fan magazines for years wallpapering my bedroom. His thick, blonde hair, his blue eyes that were nearly violet in color, and his perfect mouth. I watched every episode of James Blonde, and It Must Be Wednesday that he was in, and most recently Shore Socialites and T’morrah is Another Day. I’d seen everyone of the Hot Dogger movies he was in at least twice. He was funny and sexy and I was well aware of his reputation, the way it was portrayed in the tabloids and social media, and Dana had nailed it on the head. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to believe it or—

  “Earth to Phoebe. We have to go. Chase needs to be on set in,” she checks the clipboard, then her watch, “thirty-five minutes.” She raced out of the door and I grabbed my bag then found my feet to race behind her. I was on my way to meet Chase Smythe!

  Valerie, cup of coffee in hand, knocked on the door, then walked right in. I was rooted to the spot staring at the small white board mounted to the side of the door that had the name CHASE SMYTHE scrawled on it in blue marker. Was he really in there? The Chase Smythe. I wanted to follow Valerie in there, but my feet were suddenly glued to the floor.

  “Okay, pretty boy. Up you go. Hope you like your coffee black,” Valerie’s voice carried through the door. A man’s groan quickly followed. I was afraid to look.

  “Water, please,” the familiar voice growled. I knew that voice. It was a voice I’d heard on TV and in film for years.

  “Phoebe. Can you grab a bottle of water from the kitchen?” Valerie called to me, still standing in the hall.

  “Sure!” I replied. On shaky legs, I went in search of the kitchen, replaying the voice in the room. I was certain it was the same Chase Smythe. But how stupid of me. How many Chase Smythe actors could there be? And his name was on the door. Finding the kitchen, I grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and then tried to control my breathing as I returned to Chase Smythe’s dressing room.

  I thought about all of his characters. ‘James Blond’ from the Nickelodeon show of the same name, back in the late nineties when he first came onto the acting scene in a big way. He was fourteen and I was nine. He was my first crush. A little early to start crushing on boys, but he was too cute and there was scads of attention thrown his way. ‘Patrick Martin,’ the Australian, eighteen year old ‘mate’ working in his uncle’s bar in the show T’morrah is Another Day. And, his latest series that had just been cancelled earlier this year, ‘Zane Chatham’ on the show Shore Socialites. It was a show to parody ‘reality’ shows and he was ‘the Brit.’ ‘Zane’s’ accent made me weak in the knees. One of Chase’s best skills as an actor was his ability to employ accents. He was a master at them. I was just not very good at identifying them.

  The week of July Fourth, his latest movie, Book Ends, was releasing. I had been dying for this film to come out. I’d read the steamy, naughty book and heard that the producers were trying to be as true to the book as possible, which meant ma
ny hot sex scenes. Included with the hype for the movie were dozens of pictures of Chases’ ass on Internet gossip sites and I was looking forward to seeing his ass on the big screen. But now I was about to see the actor in the flesh.

  I knocked on the door quietly before stepping in and peeking around the door’s edge. There he sat. His perfectly mussed, dirty blonde hair. Not too short, not too long. His smooth, golden, sun-kissed skin, with a short scruffy one-day growth accentuating his chiseled jaw. His eyes were closed, but I was sure if he opened them, those violet-blues would be looking back at me. I let my eyes trail down his body, slouched on the sofa. A tight, plain, long-sleeved black t-shirt, pushed up to the elbows, a ratty pair of faded jeans encased his legs, and a pair of black Doc Martins on his feet. He looked delicious. Was the floor shaking? Was there an earthquake going on? Because I definitely felt the floor move.

  “I have the water,” I croaked. Sure enough, his signature blues opened and rested on me. ME! Phoebe Fairchild. He was looking at me. I gave a quick smile, but tried to rein it in, not wanting to seem like a goofy-fan, and calmly handed him the cold bottle.

  “Hey now,” he said, sitting up. I watched his body move as he pushed up those sleeves a bit more, his biceps and chest muscles flexing under the material as he did so. He looked tall even sitting there. I knew from reading his bio in magazines that he was only five-foot-eleven. Not tall like Dickwad, who was six-foot-four, but I was five-foot-seven. I remembered thinking, when I was seventeen, that Chase and I would be a good height match. I wished I were as tall as my mother who was five-foot-eleven, except where Chase was concerned. If I were as tall as my mom was, Chase and I would be eye-to-eye and I wouldn’t be able to wear heels. “Where did Dana go?” Chase’s rich voice rang through the space, snapping me out of my head. “Is this her replacement? Because, I approve!”

  I looked around. Surely he wasn’t talking about me. Valerie? He would be happy with her for a personal assistant? Surely that’s what he meant. She was powerful. She was chic. She was worldly. Me? I was Northern California and Ohio. Definitely not chic, I thought bringing my hand up to my casual ponytail.

  “Chase. Are you ready for the shoot today? You need to be on set in half an hour. Then tonight you have,” Valerie quipped, pulling back the top paper on the clipboard, “Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. Are you set with your list of approved questions?” Valerie asked.

  “Is that tonight? Yeah. I’ll be fine. They can ask anything. I’ll answer anything.” He cracked open the water that I had brought him. He was drinking the water I handed to him. I watched awestruck as his jaw and throat moving seductively while he drank. This was surreal. ‘James Blond,’ ‘Patrick Martin,’ ‘Zane Chatham’ was drinking water I got for him. As his lips worked that water bottle, I felt all sorts of naughty watching him.

  Slowly, I came to realize that two sets of eyes were glued to me. Not just Chase’s dreamy violet-blues, but also Valerie’s cool greens.

  “Sorry, were you talking to me?” I asked, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  “Yeah, baby. I was asking if you needed to sit. You’re looking a bit like you might take a dive,” Chase said, the left side of his mouth going up slightly. If I didn’t need to sit before that little smirky-grin, then I definitely needed to now. He called me ‘baby.’ Just like he called Nessie ‘Baby’ on Shore Socialites.

  “So, Ms. Cocozza. Is this little peach my new personal assistant?” Chase asked, pinning Valerie to her seat with his glare. At least his eyes were off of me. I felt like I was in another universe when he looked at me.

  “No, Mr. Smythe. Phoebe is my assistant. She will be helping me interview a new assistant for you over the next couple of days. One who will hopefully keep you in line. But we do need to get one thing straight,” Valerie asserted. “You are here to work. And you will work. Breech of contract is not a fun road to travel. I know I don’t have to remind you that I know your manager very well, and if you want ‘this’,” she said, drawing a circle around the dressing room, “to stay here and quiet, you’ll work, and behave.”

  Chase raised his hand to his brow and saluted Valerie. “Yes, ma’am,” he barked, then glanced at me and winked. God! He winked at me! I need to reel it in. I was in danger of swooning—big time.

  “Now,” Valerie said, standing and looking at her watch. “Up you go, and the car is downstairs waiting to get you to the set. Do you know what scenes you are shooting today?” she asked, looking through the clipboard.

  “Yeah. I’m all set. Got it,” he said, his eyes settling on me again. It took every bit of strength I had, but I focused my attention on Valerie.

  “I have a meeting that I cannot miss. Miss Fairchild will get you to set, and then dinner and off to do your bit with Jimmy Fallon, and back to your hotel, not the local bar. You have an early call time tomorrow. You listen to her and you respect her, or you will answer to me.” It was very funny to see Valerie scold Chase like a three-year-old.

  Wait! WHAT? ME?! Escorting Chase Smythe around Manhattan! Omigod! OHMIgod! OHMIGOD! And Jimmy Fallon? I wanted to pinch myself to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming. Surely, I was dreaming. I was probably still on the sofa, and it was super late at night and Jimmy Fallon must be on the TV right now, and possibly interviewing Chase Smythe. And I’ve rolled all of these things into an elaborate dream.

  “We’ll give you a moment to get yourself together.” Valerie stood and headed to the door, but I was still rooted to the spot considering this enormous, fantastic ‘assignment’ I’d just been given, in my dream. I watched Chase stand, his gorgeous body rippling under his clothes. He ran his hand through his thick, blonde hair while checking his appearance in the full-length mirror next to the door and I wondered what it would feel like to run my hands through that gorgeous mop of hair. “Phoebe?” Valerie called from the hallway.

  “Oh, yes,” I stammered and followed. If this was a dream, I did not want to wake up.

  CHAPTER 7

  As the studio’s Lincoln Town Car made its way through lunch hour traffic, I did everything possible to calm my raging nerves and hormones. My stomach was once again unsettled, but I didn’t think it was because of the food cart chicken. I WAS SITTING INCHES FROM CHASE SMYTHE!!! We were breathing the same air. We were sitting so close that we were practically touching. And he was looking at ME! The air felt charged. Dana said that he was drunk, but he seemed to be quite sober, although the way he was staring at me made me feel drunk. I tried to focus on principles of physics to stay grounded and not go all mushy fan-girl. After all, I had a job to do. Electrical currents, Newton’s Laws, conductivity, mirrors, lenses, light—

  “You seem nervous,” he said in his smooth, yet slightly raspy voice.

  “Um, who? Me?” I choked.

  He laughed. “I don’t bite—unless you want me to,” he said with a wink and a wickedly, sinful grin. God! His laugh was the kind of laugh that did things to you. It both chilled and warmed you simultaneously. And his smile…holy hell! His smile oozed charm and promise. My stomach flipped again, and I felt myself get tingly and warm. I knew I was slicking up in my panties. Did he say he’d bite me if I wanted him to? Did I want him to bite me? I asked myself with a little vixen perking up in me. Even Dickwad never made me feel like that.

  “So, your name is Phoebe, huh?” I nodded, still star-struck and unable to talk. “Can I call you Fifi?”

  Ouch! I hated that nickname. My brothers used to call me that all the time. Fifi La Fume—the girl skunk from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. They used to say that I smelled worse than she did—on a good day. I used to always breakdown and cry. But how do I tell Chase Smythe that I hate that nickname. I dunno, maybe from Chase it’d be fine. To be honest, he could say anything and it would sound good in his slightly gravelly, not too deep, not too high, voice.

  “You’re very pretty,” he said. Oh shit! He did not just say that! Chase Smythe thinks I’m pretty???? I silently prayed that this was not a dream and started to imagine myself in a
wedding dress on a beach staring into Chase Smythe’s eyes and saying ‘I do.’

  His violet-blue eyes pierced mine. His gaze was more than I could handle, and the look in his eye wasn’t one of someone simply paying a compliment. He wanted more. It was a similar gaze that first got me into bed with Dickwad.

  Okay. Game over. I scolded myself. He says this to all the girls. You need to calm the fuck down, Phoebs! This is work.

  I thought about all the tabloids, Facebook articles, and even his own Twitter feed that I’d seen over the past few years, talking about his promiscuous and bad boy ways. I reminded myself of the former PA who had stormed into Valerie’s office only an hour or so ago ranting about his antics. He tore her shirt! It certainly seemed to confirm what the rumor magazines printed. This guy was clearly a player. I needed to derail this train. For one, I didn’t want to lose my job. And for two, I needed another Dickwad in my life like I needed another hole in my head.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I said, staring at him squarely, challenging him to deny it.

  “She talks,” he said, grinning like he’d won some challenge. “And I only say it to some of the girls,” he admitted. Jerk. “Beauty is beauty. I’m just recognizing it, and commenting on it.”