Chicago Dani, the one who got on the plane at O’Hare Airport, would have just laid on the ground so Imogen could walk all over her. But LA Dani doesn’t want to be a doormat anymore.
“Imogen, it sounds like you’re the one who needs to find a solution to your problem. Because you caused the problem. I will gladly give you a hand with this, but I won’t take the blame. So stop threatening me or find someone else to save your ass.”
I try to walk past her, but she steps quickly in my way.
“Fine!” she relents, as if I’m the one being difficult. “I’m totally effed, not us. But seriously, they need this snow. And I’ve called all our usual places and they don’t have anything that remotely resembles snow, unless we want it to look like ashes from a volcano. For some reason, two places have that crap but no fake snow.”
“What about our unusual places?”
“The closest place that has the snow is all the way in Manhattan Beach. No way we’ll get there in time,” Imogen says, getting quieter with each passing moment, as if she’s giving up and preparing for her doom.
Even though Imogen acts like a grade-A bitch most of the time, I don’t have it in me to let a fellow intern crash and burn. As I’m preparing to swallow my pride, I repeat one of my Intern Rules like a mantra: Be nice. Learn from Everyone.
“Okay, they’re shooting the scene in what, three or four hours? That gives us just enough time,” I tell Imogen, grabbing her arm and spinning her in the direction of the parking lot.
“Time for what?” Imogen asks in a tone that tells me she doesn’t trust me one bit.
“Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go, then. Target, CVS, Ralph’s. Whatever’s closest.”
Two and a half hours, four other crewmen, and one hundred bars of soap frantically shaved into teeny tiny pieces later, we’ve presented the fake snow to the producers for the scene. We watch the monitors as Tate and Lexi kiss again and again in the perfect, swirling snow.
“Where did you come up with soap?” Imogen asks as we both gather our things to head out for the day.
“A little trick I picked up in film school,” I say as I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. “That’s how we made snow for one of my short films. It looks dumb in person, but on the camera it looks beautiful. And it’s cheap as hell. It’s the fastest way to make snow.”
“Well . . .” Imogene says awkwardly. “I owe you one. Really.” She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t look nearly as hostile as she usually does as she breezes out the door.
The good mood I was in earlier has been cranked up to a great mood. I even hum to myself as I pack up my laptop—and I’m not a humming kind of girl. I swing open the door and Tate Lawrence is in front of me. Because of course he is.
“Tate. Hey.”
“Wow, you sound really excited to see me,” he says with a lazy grin. “I’m looking for Imogen. Have you seen her?”
“She just left.”
“Oh, okay.”
There’s an awkward silence between us. At least I think there is, until I realize Tate is sniffing, like a dog.
“What are you doing?” I ask slowly as he leans toward me.
“Why do you smell like soap?”
“I shower sometimes. Don’t you?”
“Meh, showering is overrated,” he says, running his hands through his golden hair. “You made the snow, didn’t you? For the last scene?”
“What? No! Of course I didn’t.”
“Yeah you did. I thought that snow smelled like Irish Spring. And I saw Imogen running around before the scenes—she never runs unless things are going to hell. And here’s Dani, smelling like soap.”
I know I’m blushing, but I try and keep my shoulders back and my chin up, because LA Dani is still here.
“You’re sneaky, aren’t you?” Tate asks gleefully, as if he’s glad to have caught me in a lie.
“Fine! I got the soap and we made it together. She told me she forgot to order it, and I wanted to help. It was a trick I picked up in film school. Please don’t tell anyone, or else Imogen will think I’m ratting her out for forgetting something so—”
“Relax, Dani. I’m not going to tell anyone. That’s some quick thinking. I’m surprised.”
“Why? Because I have a brain in my head and I can think on my feet? I got this internship for a reason, you know.”
“Really? Because I heard you know a guy, and he got you the internship.”
I have nothing to say to that besides some very colorful insults, so I just study the soap caked under my fingernails and pray that he’ll just go away.
But he doesn’t.
“And I heard you pitched a line for Lexi’s big scene this afternoon,” he says in a low voice, like it’s a secret.
“Well, sort of. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Well it was a big enough deal for Lexi to complain about how you interrupted her process,” Tate tells me, using air quotes as he says “process.” I bite back a smile. At least he knows Lexi is full of it.
“Well, I’m glad it helped the scene.”
“Not much you can do to a scene about a vampire whining about love to ruin it more.” Tate is insulting his own show, but for some reason it seems like a dig at me. I take a step back and glare at him.
“I’m surprised you noticed anything going on around here besides yourself,” I snap.
“Geez, Dani,” he says with a sigh. “I didn’t mean it like that. I feel like you keep seeing a bad side of me. Like at the party, that’s not how I usually am. I’m just used to girls throwing themselves at me and—”
“Do you hear yourself?” LA Dani has totally taken control of my brain and my tongue. “Are you saying you don’t know what to do with a girl who isn’t trying to grope you?”
“Well, you did kind of grope me when we first met,” Tate fires back, his nostrils flaring a bit. I let out a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
“You’re unreal. I gotta go, Tate. See you tomorrow.”
“Dani, wait . . .”
But I don’t wait. In fact, I don’t even look back. Not even a few minutes later, when I hear footsteps behind me as I walk through the lot toward the bus stop.
But then someone calls my name; it’s definitely not Tate. “Dani, can you stop for a sec?”
It’s Imogen, and she’s jogging to catch up with me. “I don’t like the fact that you had to save me today,” she says bluntly. “But you did. And I also don’t like the fact that I owe you one, so . . .”
She holds out two tickets. I glance down at them and see big, bold lettering that spells out The Freewaves. Keith’s band? I snatch them out of her hands to look at them closely.
“Our executive producer owns the venue and always gives crew free tickets. I heard a lot of people are going tonight. It’s some random indie band, but I guess our EP owes the lead singer a favor, so he’s bringing the cast to drum up publicity for the band.”
I’m entirely convinced that almost every event that happens in Hollywood is, in some way, shape, or form, to drum up publicity. Does anyone in this town do anything because they actually want to? Or is it all owed favors, publicity, and stunts?
“So, you’re not going?” I ask hesitantly, hoping this isn’t a straight date. Imogen is the last person I would want to hang out with after hours.
“I can’t, I got a thing,” she says with a toss of her hair, like her plans tonight are way better than a free concert and she’s doing me a favor. I’d be insulted, but it is a nice gesture. And considering Imogen didn’t call me anything but “hey, you” for the first time all week, I find this encouraging.
“Um, thanks.”
“Do you have someone to go with?” she asks, probably assuming I’m friendless. She’s not that far off.
“Nah, but I’ll just cruise Craigslist. You know, female seeking male for night of casual fun. Should work out great.”
Imogen looks surprised, but she does
n’t laugh or even crack a smile.
“Just joking,” I clarify. “It would be fun to go and I appreciate this, but I really need to work on my script tonight. I have no idea what to do with the opening scene and the dialogue needs so much work,” I say, more to myself then Imogen.
“You should go,” a voice says suddenly from behind me. I turn and see Camden standing there in a heather gray Henley with his curls mashed under his knit cap and glasses adorably askew. I try to focus on his eyes and not his lips. But when I look into his eyes, I feel myself go hot. So, a spot slightly to the left of his ear lobe is where I look.
“I’m going, so you don’t need a plus one. That’s my position,” he says smoothly. My heart speeds up. Is he asking me on a date? I glance sideways at Imogen, who didn’t miss his flirty proposal either. Her eyes dart rapidly between Camden and me, as if she’s trying to figure out our situation.
“Imogen! Get over here!” Lowell screams from the door to the set.
“What now?” she groans tiredly before jogging toward him. I turn back to Camden to ask why he hasn’t talked to me since the party, but I don’t have a chance because he’s pulling me behind a parked SUV. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he’s kissing me against the car. I’m glad the SUV is there for support because my legs suddenly feel like sponges. I lean against the car, and he follows.
His kisses come hard and fast—I can barely breathe. I know I should stop him and ask him about his family and if we should talk about what’s going on between us, but his mouth feels too good. He feels too good. I gently tug his belt loop and pull him closer, melting into him. Camden’s kisses deepen; it’s almost like he knows he’s been distant and is apologizing in this moment.
He pulls away just a millimeter so our lips are almost touching. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to finish what we started at the party,” he whispers before kissing me again.
This time I’m the one who backs up for a breath. “Where have you been? Is your family okay?” I ask, which makes me instantly wince. In my head, I sound like a whiney girl asking a guy why he doesn’t like her. “And, um, did you get a chance to look at my script? I left it with your assistant.”
Camden just smiles against my lips. “Been busy, babe. Come to the concert tonight, okay?”
Then with a quick kiss and another smile, he’s gone. I lean against the car door, confused and a little flustered.
“What the hell just happened?” I ask my reflection in the side view mirror.
But the only response I get is: Warning: objects in the mirror may be closer than they appear.
Chapter Twelve
The blinking cursor on my computer screen is mocking me. It’s talking to me and it’s mocking me.
Writer’s block. Writer’s block. Writer’s block.
“This is a nightmare,” I moan out loud. I rub my eyes furiously, as if I can physically press the ideas out of my brain.
Between Camden’s make-out attack, which is the only way I can think to describe it, and realizing that I actually had some serious down time to work on Tower, I was able to cheer up. For almost half an hour, the ideas came fast. I capture the intense fakery of this city; I emphasize how everyone’s just trying to buy fame from one another in a heartless pursuit to get to the top.
But then all of a sudden . . . nothing. It’s as if the characters in my brain simply stopped talking, got up, and walked out my ears, slamming the door behind them.
“Come back!” I yell to my characters.
“Huh?”
“Nothing, Brit! Just thinking out loud,” I shout in her general direction, which is almost definitely the kitchen. She’s working on a smoothie made only out of fruits and veggies that start with the letter “K.” Seriously, I saw it on the big chalkboard hung on the wall by the fridge. So far only kumquat, kale, and kiwi have made the list. I am not eager to try it when it’s done.
But at this point, I’d rather chug a gallon of Smoothie K than deal with this writer’s block.
I sink back in my chair, trying to think of the scene I want to write. My protagonists, Tin and Sam, are on a roof overlooking Los Angeles. Sam has just discovered the corrupted cultlike institution that’s been running Hollywood for forty years at the expense of other people’s lives and careers. This corporation is made of the same people who have promised to make all her dreams come true. But to accept their help will cost Sam all her values—and her free will. The only person she can lean on is Tin, the guy she met only days before. The scene and the location are supposed to be metaphors for Sam’s fears about what’s coming up next, what’s happening below her, behind her, in front of her. She doesn’t want to fall in love or leap into anything that might be emotionally damaging.
It’s the scene that I want viewers to be talking about long after they’ve left the theater. And I can’t even get the first line of dialogue right. All because I can’t picture them on the roof. I just can’t, because every time I close my eyes and picture that skyline, I get dizzy from the very thought of being that high up.
I bet Morris Kensington’s never had to worry about his irrational fears getting in the way of his scenes.
Okay, Dani. Focus. You are not on the roof yourself, but you need to be on the roof with your characters. Don’t think about the fact that you are high above the ground, with nothing but the air between you and the sidewalk. Don’t think about that. Be in the scene. BE IN THE SCENE. Oh, God the air is so thin up here. I can’t breathe . . .
“Argh! Stop!”
“Dani?”
This time Brit’s voice comes from my doorway. She’s holding a bowl full of what looks to be a green potato that has sprouted spinach out the top.
“Hey, sorry. Am I distracting you?” I ask as I shut my laptop.
Brit shakes her head. “Of course not. I’m just checking in on you. Sounds like you’re having a panic attack in here.”
“Basically. I can’t even write a scene on a roof because I’m afraid of heights.”
“That’s not weird. Did you have a bad experience on a roof once?”
“Nope. But I hate heights and now I can’t even write about people being on anything taller than a playground slide.”
Brit laughs, even though I’m not joking. I try and muster up a smile, but all I can manage is a limp half-grin.
“That smile is terrible. We should go out and do something. Take your mind off of that script,” she suggests.
“I don’t know, Brit. This is the first time I’ve actually sat down to work on this thing. I really need to push through and get some writing done.”
“I get it. When I’m trying to come up with a new recipe or a new menu, and I can’t think of anything, I like to go for a walk. Somehow just wandering around and taking in the different scenery and faces helps my mind expand. It opens up new channels for me to absorb information.”
Despite her odd phrasing, Brit has a point. Maybe I need to change up my scene, open up my “channels.”
“I do have these tickets to see a band play tonight,” I admit reluctantly. “I could go for a couple hours and see if the crowd and the music help.”
“That’s a great idea. What band?”
“The Freewaves.”
Brit’s eyes all but pop out of her head. “The Freewaves?! They’re amazing! You have to go. You’ll love them! Their music will straight up move your soul.”
“You are such a hippie sometimes,” I tease.
“Peace and love, man. Peace and love,” she says, throwing me a peace sign. I laugh at her response and crawl off of my bed.
“It’ll be such a weird situation, though. My best friend—”
“Elise, right?”
“Right. I forgot you remember everything. Anyway, her ex is the manager of the band and he was horrible to her. It might be weird if I run into him. And I don’t really want to support someone who hurt my friend,” I explain. “Isn’t that like, bad karma?”
I meant to joke about karma for Brit’s sake, but af
ter I say it, I wonder if I should be worried about some of my recent actions coming back to bite me in the ass. Or face. Or something else unpleasant.
“Dani, that’s not how karma works. Do you want me to explain it to you?”
“Well, the show starts in an hour, so if you want to teach me the way to nirvana, you’ll have to teach me on the way.”
“What? You’re taking me?”
“Of course I am. You just said you loved them. And it was your idea for me to get out of the house. So let’s go! Unless you need to work on your K thing,” I say, gesturing at the bowl of whatever in her hands.
“Nah, these kohlrabies can wait.”
“Is that even a real fruit or did you just make that up?”
“It’s a vegetable, and no, it’s real. It’s kind of like cabbage and the leaves are—”
“I get it. Put those cold rabies down—”
“Kohlrabies!” Brit corrects me with a good-natured eye roll.
“Whatever. Let’s go!”
Twenty minutes later we have thrown-together outfits (a bright orange maxi dress for her and a slouchy red and white striped T-shirt with black skinny jeans for me), and we are on the way to a venue in Culver City in the Vegan Art truck.
“Thanks for taking me, Dani,” Brit says, drumming the steering wheel. “Hannah loves this band. She sent me a playlist of their best stuff last month, and I’ve been listening to it on repeat for weeks. She has the best taste in music, and she knew exactly what songs I would like. She’s just so intuitive like that, you know? Hannah gets people.”
I smile at Brit as she goes on and on about Hannah. Her face is positively glowing, and I can almost physically feel her adoration radiating off her skin. Brit is clearly head-over-heels for Hannah, and it makes me feel lighter just being around her as she talks about the girl who has her heart.
It also makes me wonder if I’ll ever find anyone who makes me feel the way Brit feels about Hannah. Maybe it will be Camden. There’s definitely physical attraction, and we have similar interests, but I’ve been bouncing between lusting after him to just hoping he’ll look my way on set. If I glow when I think about Camden, it’s not like Brit’s glow—after the last few days, it’s more like a glow of embarrassment.
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