by Cat Cavaleri
Hollywood, Wyoming
by Cat Cavaleri
Copyright © 2021 Cat Cavaleri
All rights reserved worldwide
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual businesses, persons (living or dead), or events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system including the Internet, without express written permission from the author.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
1
Missy
Spring sunshine and a soft breeze caress my face as my horse wends her way among the bright wildflowers and tall tufts of nodding grass. I’m halfway through my daily circuit of the ranch, checking the fence for holes, when my cell phone begins to ring.
I tug my horse, Volkie, to a stop and fumble it out of the breast pocket of my button-down work shirt.
“Missy!” my father exclaims before I can say hello. “Don’t ask questions. Get to town right now.”
“Dad?” I say. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“You hearing me?” my dad demands. The excitement in his voice is so palpable that Volkie pricks up her ears nervously. “Get to town!”
I can’t tell what flavor of excitement it is—delight or panic. Either way, I’m suddenly as nervous as my horse.
Nothing ever excites my stoic father. The night our lambing shed caught fire, he calmly announced, “Wake up, girl. Got ourselves an emergency in the back forty.” The time he gashed his leg open on a strip of razor wire, he simply remarked, “Gonna need your help with a tourniquet, Missy. And a ride to the ER.”
I’ve never heard him sound like this in all my twenty-five years.
“Hurry!” he barks.
“Are you at the café?” I ask, already turning my horse toward the dirt road leading into town.
“Of course I’m at the café,” he says impatiently. “Hustle, girl! He’s here—him!”
“Who? Who’s there?”
“Connor Larson!” he exclaims. “Connor Larson from Hollywood!”
Then the line goes dead.
I hang up, baffled.
Who on earth is Connor Larson?
2
Connor Larson
I’m sitting in the makeup chair of a film trailer in a tiny town in Middle of Nowhere, Wyoming. For the tenth time today, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
Four months ago, I was cast in the starring role of The Designated Assassin, a big-budget guns and explosions epic the studio described as “Rambo meets The Bourne Identity,” and the director called “an action movie for people who don’t like action movies.” To me, it was just another in a string of action films that made me a star. Every day for months, I showed up to work on time, put on my costume, said my lines, flexed and grimaced and did everything my fans love.
Three weeks ago, shooting wrapped up. My work was done.
Or so I thought.
But then, my agent unexpectedly summoned me for a meeting at his swanky L.A. office. On a Thursday, at nine o’clock in the morning. The man never starts work before noon. When I arrived, he was grinning uneasily.
“Connor! Bro! How you doing—fabulous, I hope?”
I was instantly on my guard. My agent only calls me “bro” when he’s got bad news.
“What’s up?” I asked, letting him usher me into his private office. He shut the twelve-foot myrtle wood door firmly behind us. Another bad sign.
“You look great, C-man! Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Shot of vodka?”
“Oh god, Trey—how bad is it?” I groaned, sinking into one of six luxurious reclaimed leather chairs as he eyed me anxiously. His hand hovered over the phone on his desk as if he were itching to pick up the receiver.
“It’s not bad—it’s good! A wonderful opportunity for a brief…artistic excursion. No, an artistic adventure.”
“An artistic what? Where are you sending me? I’m not doing another press junket in Eastern Europe. The flights, the food, and the fans came within an inch of finishing me off.”
“Eastern Europe! This guy,” my agent guffawed, his fingers twitching toward the buttons of the phone. “‘An inch of finishing me off,’ he says. Eastern Europe’s all about the metric system, buddy boy. But you know where they know from inches? Eastern…Wyoming!”
I frowned in confusion, then opened my mouth to object as he tapped a button on his phone and said, “Sheila? Yeah, I’ve got Connor here. Put D’Angelo through.”
“No, Trey—no way!” I exclaimed, but it was too late.
Over the speaker came the voice of D’Angelo Fox, director of The Designated Assassin.
“Hey, Connor. Reshoots,” he sang out. “You knew it was coming, player.”
I sighed, rubbing my forehead.
“How bad is it?” I repeated, this time addressing Mr. “action movies for people who don’t like action movies.”
“Just one scene,” the director’s disembodied voice replied.
“Which one?” I said.
“Opening scene,” D’Angelo said. Over the phone line, I could hear him unwrapping a Ginger Chew candy. He sucked them compulsively when things were going wrong on set. “CGI exteriors look like hell. No way around it. We’re going to have to venture out into the dreaded real world.”
We previously filmed the opening scene of The Designated Assassin on a Hollywood studio lot: fake coffee shop, painted backdrops behind the windows, a treadmill floor for me to walk on in front of a green screen to simulate a long march down a dusty rural highway. It was a difficult single take shot requiring a complicated camera rig, fifty feet of dolly tracks, and a custom crane. It was one of the hardest scenes I’ve ever done.
“Can’t we try it on the backlot in Burbank, or something?” I suggested.
“Nah-uh,” D’Angelo replied. “Me and the cinematography squad were rolling around the Yellowstone State shooting background—mountains, empty roads, big ol’ blue skies—when we stumbled across the perfect set for the opening scene. I’m not fooling with you, Connor. It’s ideal. Academy Award for Cinematography ideal.”
I drummed my fingertips against the smooth leather of my armrest. I scowled. I eyed my agent and shook my head.
“No,” I said.
“Reshoots are in your contract, Connor,” D’Angelo pronounced briskly, annoyance snaking between the syllables.
“True,” my agent put in.
“Not in Wyoming,” I replied. “Look, I held up my end. Shoot around me. That scene was murder. I’m not going through that again.”
“Connor—” the director interjected.
“Bro—” my agent began.
“Larson,” an unfamiliar voice on the phone suddenly boomed. “This is Morton Helms. I strongly urge you to reconsider your response.”
Dead silence filled the opulent office. I could hear the tinny chatter of my agent’s staff through the heavy door and the rush of freeway traffic through the thick panes of window glass.
My gaze jerked to my agent’s face. He avoided my eyes.
Over the phone, Morton Helms, Hollywood mega-producer, bankroller of The Designated Assassin, continued, “Reshoots in Wyoming. Four days from today. You’ll be there?”
“Yes,” I said, the defeat clearly audible in my voice
even to me. “I’ll be there. Sir.”
“Good egg,” he said, and that was that.
Now I’m sitting in a makeup chair in Bryce, Wyoming. Population 545. My costume is on, my hair has prop dust in it, and the fake scar—“A souvenir from my first kill,” my character snarls on page 78 of the script—has been applied to my left cheek.
I’m ready.
But I don’t feel ready.
I feel…unhappy.
I’m unhappy with my life and I’m not sure why.
“Ready to rock?” D’Angelo breezes through the door of the trailer and leans a hand on the back of my chair. His breath smells of ginger.
I shrug.
“Need to block the scene before we start rolling?” he asks.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. I don’t like the sour expression I see on my face. I could hide it, could use my acting skills to feign enthusiasm. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to pretend otherwise.
“I remember the scene just fine from the twenty-three takes we did in L.A.,” I retort.
In the mirror, D’Angelo’s face takes on an equally sour look.
“Don’t you turn diva on me, Connor. You hear me? You’re not that guy. You’re a pro. You never gripe.”
I sigh.
“I’m not going to turn into a diva. And I’m not griping. Let’s get this done so we can get back to L.A. and get on with our lives, okay?”
D’Angelo claps a hand on my shoulder.
“That’s my man,” he says. “Wardrobe’s wrangling the extras. The set’s dressed. Ready to go in fifteen minutes?”
“Fifteen minutes,” I agree.
D’Angelo gives my shoulder a squeeze and turns to leave.
“Hey D,” I say. “Any paparazzi out there?”
“Nope,” he answers.
“Any fans?”
He grins.
“I saw a couple sheep, maybe a cow,” he replies. “The entire state’s only got about twelve people living in it. I think you’re safe.”
“Good,” I say. “See you in fifteen.”
He exits, closing the door softly behind him.
A small sigh of relief rushes from between my lips.
Thank god I won’t have to deal with a throng of rabid press, screaming fans demanding autographs and selfies, the whole awful ordeal of playing “movie star” in public.
Even so, I wish I didn’t have to go out there. I wish I could go home.
But I don’t really have a home. I live out of hotels and Airbnbs and movie trailers. My apartment in L.A. isn’t even furnished.
As I sit alone in the makeup chair, staring into the mirror, I realize why I’m unhappy.
Growing up, I always thought that when I finally became famous, I’d feel complete.
Instead, I’m lonelier than I ever could have imagined.
3
Missy
When Volkie and I gallop onto Main Street, we get the shock of our lives.
Stretched across the thin, two-lane road is a line of white sawbucks with the words “Helmsman Productions Do Not Cross” emblazoned across the tops in blood-red paint. Hundreds of yards away, where the town’s single file of buildings peters out, I can see an identical barricade lying across the roadway.
Main Street is completely deserted, except around the café. The squat, one-story building is surrounded on all sides by trucks, fancy travel trailers, portable outdoor toilets, buffet tables, rickety scaffolding, and cranes mounted with peculiar electronics. Dozens of strangers are milling around the café, climbing onto its low roof, going in and out its weathered front door.
A crowd of locals is standing just outside the sawbucks, watching all this. Here in Bryce, a crowd is six people. Volkie comes to a hard halt a stone’s throw from the half-dozen townsfolk, rearing in alarm. I jerk on her reins, murmuring reassurances that I don’t actually believe, and bring her in at a trot.
My family’s been ranching in Bryce for generations. Out this way, neighbors do for each other when things need doing. That means when Verna Walker, our 83-year-old neighbor and the owner of the café, broke her hip three weeks ago, my dad and I stepped up to help.
I took on the chores at her handkerchief-sized ranch. My dad set himself to figuring out how to work the café’s grill, pour coffee, and make pies. To everyone’s surprise, he’s been running the place single-handed ever since. And, though he refuses to admit it, he seems to enjoy being a short order cook.
After his first day on the job, he said, “Went okay,” when I inquired. After his second day, he volunteered, “Ray says my eggs’re alright. And Terry told me my hash browns taste fine.” For Ray and Terry, these are synonyms for “glorious” and “transcendently perfect.” Three days in, I offered to trade jobs with him for the next week, and he replied, “Well…I don’t know about that,” which was his laconic way of saying, “No way in hell!”
I’ve been happy to keep out of the café. I’ve never liked being cooped up indoors. But keeping our ranch running by myself and helping out Verna every day is getting to be too much for me. Verna wants to sell the ranch and café, but nobody local can afford them, and nobody from outside the area is looking to buy.
“Hey, Jill,” I call down to the mayor, who’s leaning against a sawbuck. “What’s going on?”
“Left coasters’re shooting in the café,” she replies. “Brought in a whole army just before dawn.”
I let out a low groan.
A few weeks back, just after Verna had her accident, the town began to buzz with gossip about a film crew that was seen shooting footage in the area.
“Sounds to me like some kind of nature documentary,” the mayor opined to the regulars at the café when she stopped in for lunch, according to my dad. “They came by my office asking if they need a permit to film within town limits. I told them we never had anyone wanting to do that around here before, so I just sort of typed something up, printed it on the new printer—the one that always leaves streaks right down the middle of the page—and scrawled my signature at the bottom.”
It appears the documentarians made good on their threat to film in town.
I shade my eyes with my hand, studying the swarm of strangers. I don’t like what I see.
“Do me a favor,” I say, sliding off my horse. “Stable Volkie at your place, will you? Dad called for help, and I have a feeling this mess is gonna take some time to clean up.”
The mayor takes Volkie’s reins and croons, “Come on and visit your boyfriend. Poor ol’ Lightning’s been missing you something fierce, you big flirt.”
As she leads my horse away, I kick my leg over the barricade and begin to march down Main Street.
As soon as I reach the café, I’m surrounded by rushing bodies attached to loud voices. I try to push my way through them, and I almost succeed, when I suddenly slam into a broad chest. Down I go, landing hard on my backside.
“Oof!” I grunt, struggling to rise.
“Are you okay?” a deep voice above me queries. “I’m sorry—I didn’t see you coming at me.”
A hand extends. I take it and, as I’m gently tugged to my feet, I find myself face-to-face with the most overwhelmingly handsome man I’ve ever seen.
He towers over me, his shoulders large and powerful beneath a worn leather jacket covered with strange military patches. His skin above the just-so stubble of his beard is so smooth I long to stroke it. His eyes are devilishly bright. They rake my body, stripping my clothes away, leaving me feeling naked and wanton. His full, sensuous lips curve up slowly in a smile that melts me with its heat. The only thing that mars his perfect features is a wicked-looking scar that runs down his left cheek.
“No worries,” I say, forcing myself to stop staring hungrily at him. “What’s going on here?”
“We’re shooting a movie,” he replies.
And then, he waits.
For what?
There’s something wearily expectant in his expression, as if he’s anti
cipating a specific response from me. Something he’s heard a hundred times before and can recite from memory. It’s the same look I’ve seen on Dad’s face when he asks, “What can I get you, Earl?” knowing full well Earl always orders eggs over easy, biscuits with no gravy, and a cup of black coffee with two sugars.
“Who’s in charge here?” I ask.
“D’Angelo Fox. He’s the director,” the man replies. The expectant expression is still there; whatever he’s waiting for me to say, I haven’t said it yet.
Over his shoulder, I see a woman in a cherry picker lift roughly yanking the sign that reads “Verna’s Café” off the roof. Beneath her, a gaggle of workers are slathering the exterior siding with god-awful turquoise paint.
“Whoa, whoa—stop that!” I holler. “You can’t do that: this is my neighbor’s property!”
I turn to the gorgeous man and point my finger straight at his stunning face.
“I want to talk to this D’Angelo Fox guy.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” he says. “The ginger is strong today.”
“Oh, really? And who are you, exactly?” I demand.
He blinks. The expectant expression is replaced with astonishment.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.
“Are you serious?” he says.
“This is idiotic,” I snap, fed up. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
I push past him. I dodge the painters and the crane, and shove my way through the door of the café.
I let out a cry of dismay when I see the interior of the homey old place I’ve known all my life. It’s a wreck. Thick cables clutter the tiled floor. The sunflower-yellow wallpaper blisters with bolted-on microphones. The low ceiling drools lighting equipment. The cozy space is crawling with strangers.
And there, dead center behind the counter, stands my dad.
Wearing makeup.
I stop short.
I gape at him.
He beams at me—my father never beams!—and beckons.
“I’m an extra!” he crows. “Can you believe it, Missy? I’m a genuine extra in a Connor Larson movie!”