Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  I’m hurt—no, I’m pissed—that anyone would dare say I haven’t earned a position. I’m about to protest, but I realize that from her point of view, I did just waltz into a position most people would kill for. So I shut my mouth.

  “Do you need anything?” My fake polite voice is going to be really tired by the end of this day.

  “Yes, you need to take wardrobe to Tate,” she says, flipping through the hangers. She throws a garment bag into my arms and spins me back in the direction of the trailers.

  “Go. Hurry!”

  “Okay, okay,” I say as I leave. “Find a giant chill pill, take it, and then find one bigger and take that one, too.” That last part I say under my breath. Imperious and bold Dani seems to have stayed behind at the cab line at the airport.

  So, in the forty-five minutes I’ve been on the Vamp Camp set, I’ve pissed off two people. I’ve also never been so out of breath from exercise since that time in high school gym I was forced to run half a mile.

  I know all too well how production getting off schedule can really screw up the entire day, so I hustle as fast as I can through the maze of trailers until I find one marked Tate Lawrence. I knock quickly and then, assuming he’s also in the makeup chair like Lexi was, I burst through the door.

  But Tate Lawrence is not in the makeup chair.

  Tate Lawrence is standing right in front of me wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy boxers and a startled look on his face.

  Chapter Six

  I stop short in shock and yell out “shit!” before quickly turning my back to him.

  “I’m so sorry, Tate—I mean, Mr. Lawrence. I should have waited for you to tell me to come in.”

  “Yeah, that’s common practice among interns. And humans in general,” he says cuttingly. “Do you have my clothes?”

  “I’ll come back a bit later,” I try to ignore the condescension in his voice while heading as quickly as possible back to the door. I bump my hip against his little couch and yelp in pain. I hear Tate chuckle. I glare at the front of the trailer since I can’t glare at him yet. Is he laughing at my pain?

  “No, don’t leave,” he says, stopping me. “I need those clothes. That’s why you’re here in the first place, right? Or was it just to see me naked?”

  I seethe inwardly because I’m dealing with yet another asshat. Just a set full o’ asshats. They should call this show Asshat Camp. Asshats!

  “You can give the clothes to me now,” he says impatiently.

  How kind of you, sir, to allow me to hand over garments to you, I snarl in my own head. What a wondrous and gracious honor you have bestowed upon me.

  I don’t want to turn around lest I get another eyeful of my friend’s boyfriend without clothes on, so I back up slowly, feeling my way along the couch until I think I’m close enough to hand over the bag. I hold the garment bag behind me and back up another step, then another, then one more teeny-tiny step . . .

  And my knuckles brush against some fabric that feels warm to the touch. Oh, no. I did not just feel up his crotch. Please tell me I didn’t . . .

  “Easy, there. I’m not the kind of guy who gets to third base two minutes after meeting someone.”

  I am mortified beyond belief. My only hope now is if the trailer explodes and kills us both. That would be better than having to face each other again after I touched him in . . . places.

  Tate must sense my humiliation, or he can see that the back of my neck is bright red and on fire.

  “It’s okay, it was just my pant leg. Or boxer leg. I’m decent now so you can turn around.”

  I do. And yes, Tate has a rumpled pair of jeans on. But that’s it. He’s not wearing a shirt, so I’m still getting an eyeful of his impossibly toned stomach and broad, tan chest with its small patch of blonde curls. Oh, God, am I staring at his chest hair?

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  I force my eyes up from his perfect torso to his face and find myself speechless again.

  The pictures I Googled did not do Tate justice. His eyes are bluer and all lit up from laughing at me. And he’s smiling his great big giant enormous smile that looks borderline ridiculous in person. And he has a chip on his front tooth that I didn’t notice in the photos. I smile a little at the sight of it, relishing the imperfection. He also has some barely noticeable blonde scruff sprinkled on his jawline.

  “Sooooo, are you going to give me some clothes or should I just go to set like this?” Tate asks me while gesturing to his half-naked body. “I know ladies like you are dying to see this, but I can’t just be giving it away, you know? Gotta make them work for it.”

  He ends his statement with a wink, and I scoff in disbelief. Not only is this guy incredibly full of himself, but he’s winking at a girl while half naked. A girl who is not his girlfriend.

  Right. This is Elise’s boyfriend. Who I’m supposed to be spying on . . . and attempting to seduce.

  That last thought makes my chest feel very tight, so I take a deep breath and hold the garment bags out.

  “Sorry, yes. Here. Here you go. Your clothes. Here they are,” I sputter. I beg my brain to not remind me later how painfully awkward I am at this moment.

  Tate gives me another killer smile that tells me he’s amused by my idiotic actions. It’s annoying.

  While he goes to work unzipping the mound of garment bags, I look around his trailer, trying to get a feel for Tate based on his décor.

  No posters of half-naked girls. That’s good. I don’t see any photos of Elise, either. Less good.

  There are paperbacks stacked next to the couch. They look worn, like they’ve been opened again and again. Detective novels? For a role he’s auditioning for?

  DVDs stacked neatly next to the TV mounted in the corner. The Simpsons. And what looks like every Wes Anderson movie ever made. He’s a Wes Anderson fan? Interesting . . .

  A notebook lies on the floor, opened. Empty. But it’s creased like he’s been folding it up and carrying it around. Does he write poems? Keep a journal? Maybe he takes notes on his character after he’s done shooting for the day . . .

  My mental notes are interrupted by something sparkly catching the dim light in the trailer. It’s coming from Tate.

  He’s holding up a very short, sparkly green dress. He looks at me and tilts his head to the side.

  “Hm. They want me to wear this today? It’s an odd choice, but I guess they’re taking my character in a different direction . . .” he says, one eyebrow arched. He shakes the bag impatiently at me, like I meant to give him a woman’s dress.

  I groan and rub my eyes tiredly. “Oh, damn. She must have given me the wrong bag . . .” I trail off, thinking about how I pissed off Imogen right before she gave me the clothes. I bet she did it on purpose to make me look like an idiot.

  Well, mission freakin’ accomplished.

  Tate is still looking at me like I’m a toddler entertaining him with kid antics. My face heats up. I snatch the clothes out of his hands and immediately leave the trailer without so much as a glance back.

  I sprint back to set to make up for all the lost time, but I’m so preoccupied with the mistakes I’m making and the cocky grin on Tate’s stupid-but-oh-so-handsome face that I almost run into yet another person. He stops me short with his arms before I smack right into him.

  “Whoa, there. Where’s the fire?” he yells while I catch my breath. My arms are already killing me. The garment bags feel like they have cement in them. “Is Tate in wardrobe yet? The director is freaking out. He’s supposed to be in costume and on set now.” He takes the garment bag from me. “Are these his clothes? Did you tell him he’s supposed to wear the white button up and not the black?”

  All the questions on top of the exhaustion are making my lower lip start to tremble.

  Don’t you dare cry, Danika Young. Don’t. You. Dare.

  I’m focusing so much on calming myself down that I don’t even notice that this guy has stopped yelling at me. I finally look up at his face. He’s handsome, probabl
y in his early thirties. Dark curls peek out from underneath his navy-blue knit cap. He has dimples and a set of green eyes, which are peering worriedly at me from behind the thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

  “What’s your name?” he asks me quietly.

  “Dani,” I try to regain some composure. “I’m sorry about Tate. Someone gave me the wrong clothes and I’m trying to fix it . . .”

  “Was it Imogen who gave you the clothes?”

  “Yeah . . . I mean, I think so.”

  “She’s a real pistol. I’ve known her for a while and she has a tendency to mess with new people. But don’t let her get to you. Once you learn the ropes, she’ll back off.”

  “Well, these ropes are covered in spikes and fire and giant spiders that shoot bees out of their mouths, so I hope these ropes get less awful soon,” I say without thinking. I’m complaining and insulting his advice. I drop my head to my chin in defeat, because if this guy is even one person above me on the totem pole, I am so fired. Dead. Done.

  But instead of immediately signaling security to escort me out, he’s laughing.

  “What an amazing description. Especially the spider and bees part. That sounds like my worst nightmare,” he tells me. I look back up at him and smile.

  “Mine, too. And leprechauns.”

  “Oh yeah, those are bad, too. I hate snakes as well. Which look like ropes, so we’ve come full circle!”

  I laugh for the first time since being dropped off on set, grateful to this stranger for lifting my sprits when I needed it most.

  “Thank you for talking to me. I really appreciate it, um . . .”

  “Camden. My name is Camden. I’m the showrunner here.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know. I’m still getting used to everyone’s faces and—”

  “Don’t sweat it. Most people don’t know what I look like. But now you know. I’m gonna go check on Tate. By which I mean light a fire under his ass. You keep your head up, okay?”

  I nod eagerly, trying to process the fact that I’m talking to the man who’s responsible for every single thing that happens with the show. Showrunners are the most accurate job descriptions in the industry; they literally run the show. They make sure every working piece of the machine moves along without interruption. They have a say in every casting decision, every line of dialogue, every piece of set design. He’s in charge of the writers, the actors, the directors, the producers, and the editors. He has final say in every little thing. If the set of Vamp Camp were the United States, he would be the president.

  So if I want to impress anybody, it’s Camden.

  He barks some orders into his walkie-talkie and then puts a hand on my shoulder. “If it were easy, everyone would do it. Right?”

  I smile. My mom used to say that to me all the time whenever I got stuck on a film project. “Right. It’s not supposed to be easy,” I echo. Camden gives me a warm pat on the arm and then quickly jogs away toward the set. I feel a little better knowing the man in charge seems to be a pretty good guy.

  But everyone else around here kind of sucks.

  The rest of the day is a blur of people screaming at me, yelling at me, or screaming at me and then yelling at me. I’m usually a quick learner, but once I finally get some small task down, another two pop up.

  Most of the yelling is coming from Lowell Weissman, the assistant director. Somehow he believes that I’m the reason Tate was late today, and I have a sinking feeling Imogen told him I mixed up the wardrobe bags. Lowell blames me for every little thing that goes wrong: a lost light for an outdoor scene! Where’s that pen he likes? Why doesn’t Lexi know her lines? All my fault.

  Near the end of the day, I hustle around the edge of the set to get to video village, the area in the back that’s housing six little monitors stacked on top of each other, each showing what the individual cameras are currently shooting. The writers and directors sit in front of them with headphones (or “cans,” as the crew calls them) and watch scenes unfold. This is where the most important people sit during shooting.

  I hand Lowell the new copy of the script he requested, but apparently I wasn’t quick enough. Once the director calls “cut” on the current scene, Lowell goes on a rant so long and so ridiculous that it does the opposite of scare me.

  “How hard is it to do one simple task? Is there a simpler task we could give you, so you can work your way up to delivering a script?! You are interrupting the perfect pacing of filming if you are even a second late, so if you decide to get your head out of your ass for one moment . . .”

  This man is an evil character straight out of a bad movie, I think to myself as his face turns a lovely shade of purple.

  But when he ends it with “get your shit together or I’ll kick you off my set so fast your head will spin,” I’m definitely paying attention.

  He sits back down in his chair in video village and I shrink away. Lexi suddenly appears in front of me.

  “You can’t deliver a script and you still haven’t gotten me my coffee. Do you even know how to tie your shoes?” she snarls at me. She pushes past me before I can offer an apology, so I just go off in search of some coffee and try to bring my blood pressure down from “deadly” to “possibly fatal.”

  I’m stressed and feel exhausted all the way down to my bones. But then I hear a voice yell “action!” and I swear that word echoes off the beams and the lights that crisscross the rafters for a full ten seconds, as if the universe is making sure I remember where I am. Or maybe where I’m not.

  I’m not back in Chicago, filling out a dental school application while my dad nods approvingly over my shoulder. I’m working on a real Hollywood set. And I can take solace in the fact that I’m in a place where someone screams out “action!” and where the stage lights are hung like stars in the sky. It’s right where I want to be.

  But then I see Tate’s too-handsome face flash across one of the screens, which sends my stomach into a pretzel that would make Brit proud. We’ll see how tomorrow goes. By then I might be begging my dad to let me clean teeth.

  Rules for Writing

  Sweatpants are the best uniform, but any comfortable clothing is ideal for inspiration. And if you don’t have to wear a bra, that’s as good as it gets.

  Two words: Coffee. Water. Be ready for lots of bathroom breaks.

  Use over-the-ear headphones to listen to music, not those flimsy little buds.

  Spend a solid hour or two constructing a playlist for your characters/story before you even start writing.

  Edit, edit, edit, and edit again. And then once you’re done with those edits, edit it three more times.

  Stuck? Just sit down and write something. Anything.

  Remember what your favorite teacher once told you: “Writing can be absolutely gut-wrenchingly tortuous shit. Writing is hard work. It’s just better than anything else when it goes well.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’m in a battle with the production office copier the next day and losing terribly. The Vamp Camp copier is so high-tech and full of buttons and lights that I’m not sure if I’m requesting fifty copies of tomorrow’s call sheet or sending a nuclear missile over to Norway.

  “I will kick the shit out of you, you piece of garbage copier. I am in no mood. Don’t test me!”

  Once I realize I’m talking to the copier in Lowell’s voice, I take a few deep breaths and then start messing with buttons again.

  I finally figure it out just as Camden and most of the cast of Vamp Camp file into the production office. Tate, dressed in a tattered T-shirt from some kind of vampire fight scene¸ catches my eye and smirks. My cheeks catch fire, and I quickly dart my eyes back down to the copies coming out, hoping the copier will spit out some instructions on how to execute a seduction scheme.

  I know he’s thinking about my truly embarrassing introduction to him from yesterday morning.

  I hate looking stupid, and he can’t stop laughing over it. I seethe internally. My plan to flirt with Tate for
Elise is going to be much harder when all I can think about is ripping his beautiful, long eyelashes out.

  Jesus, I can’t even think about maiming him without noticing how hot he is.

  “Dani, got those copies?” Camden’s question breaks into my thoughts. I nod and quickly bring the stack over to him. He hands them off to a production assistant who starts distributing them. I laugh a little at Camden’s power display—I could have handed them to the PA—but Camden is the only one who treated me like a human being this far, and . . . well, he’s gorgeous.

  In a much more down-to-earth, smart, cool way than Tate. Unlike all these stuck-up actors, the only thing plastic about Camden is the frames on his glasses. So right now, I’m his number one fan.

  Especially because when I handed the copies over to him, I could have sworn his hand lingered on mine for a beat longer than what’s considered “friendly.”

  I pick up empty water bottles and paper plates that are strewn around the craft services table as Camden addresses the cast and some senior crew members. I eavesdrop a little, thrilled at the idea of hearing even the most casual of production meetings.

  “Okay, guys. The studio wants to celebrate the beginning of filming the second half of this season,” Camden says. “That party was supposed to be on Thursday, but since we wrapped so early, I told them to make it happen tonight.”

  The crowd groans and starts shouting out objections.

  “I have plans tonight!”

  “What’s wrong with Thursday?”

  “I still have another day on my cleanse before I can have solid foods! I can’t be tempted with party appetizers!”

  I don’t even need to look Lexi’s way to know that the last complaint is hers. After two days of her incessant orders, I could pick out her nasally voice anywhere.

  “Enough, guys!” Camden yells. He startles me so much with his booming voice that I drop a bunch of empty water bottles. They clatter to the floor noisily and Camden turns to stare. Imogen appears from out of nowhere to glare at me, but at least she helps me pick them up.