by Ember Casey
Penny laughs. “So the whole panty thing was on purpose, am I right?”
“Not on purpose.” Not with dingy granny panties, that’s for sure. That vodka tonic must be going to my head, because I go on before I can stop myself. “But seriously, you’d have to be blind not to think he was hot. I know you guys work in Hollywood and probably see attractive people all the time, but he’s the hottest person I’ve ever seen in real life. There’s just something about his eyes. They’re so…intense. You guys have noticed that, right?”
“Oh, girl,” Phoenix says. “Sounds like someone has a crush.”
“I don’t have a crush on Orlando,” I insist. “I just like his eyes, that’s all.”
“That’s good to know,” comes a familiar voice that makes all of us jump.
Orlando stands just inside the tent, looking fully amused by the conversation he’s just overheard. Immediately the makeup crew jumps back into action, and their director observes them for a moment before coming straight toward me.
I pretend not to see him. I keep my gaze on Penny—who’s working on my other knee now—but I watch his approach out of the corner of my eye. What are the chances he’ll think my blush is just an effect of this Georgia heat?
Next to none. First you throw your panties at him, then you joke about him being on top of you, and finally you let him overhear you gushing about how hot he is. You’ve officially crossed over into weird stalker territory now. You’ve only known him a few hours! Between the stalker-y crush and the fact that I almost got us both hit by a car, I’m kind of surprised he hasn’t fired me yet. I’m only an extra, after all, and I know firsthand that I can be replaced by any professionally dressed woman right off the street.
“I just wanted to see how you were doing, Maggie,” he says, forcing me to look up at him. “I heard the medics okayed you, but I wanted to check for myself. Still feeling okay?”
“I’m doing fine,” I tell him. “I don’t have any injuries that Penny can’t cover up.”
“Glad to hear it. In that case, I have a question for you—what’s your availability looking like?”
His question surprises me. “My availability?”
“Your schedule. We originally only had the assistant in the two scenes we’re shooting today, but I was thinking about the bit we’ll be working on later this week. Do you have any acting experience?”
“No,” I tell him. “None at all.”
“Hm. Well, you fake it well.” His gaze is analytical, but it still makes me squirm as if he were undressing me with his eyes. “Do you think you could handle a couple of lines?”
Wait—he wants me to speak in his movie? After everything that’s happened today?
“Is this because of the whole car thing?” I ask him.
It’s his turn to look confused. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to worry—I’m not going to sue you or your production company or anything. It was my fault.” That has to be why he’s offering this to me—I bet all these Hollywood people are really concerned with all that legal stuff. Or maybe he’s more concerned about the press. “I won’t talk to the paparazzi, either.” Not that I’ve seen many paparazzi around Atlanta, but there might be some.
To my surprise, Orlando just laughs. It’s a deep, rumbling sound. “No, nothing like that. You just have a good camera presence and I thought I’d extend the offer.”
And for all that I still have absolutely no idea what I’m doing—that part I had in Peter Pan during summer camp when I was twelve hardly counts—I’m not about to turn this down.
“I can try,” I say. What the heck are you doing? Fake it until you make it! I force a smile. “In fact, I’m sure I can do it.”
“Great.” He’s no longer laughing, but his eyes still hold humor. That gaze is as mesmerizing as it was the first time—half amusement, half burning intensity, swirled together into a look that makes my stomach go all twisty. I want to keep staring at him, learn his secrets.
“I’ll need you back on set in half an hour,” he tells me. He leans forward, dropping his voice so that only I can hear. “Take care, Panty Girl.”
With that, he nods to the makeup crew before exiting the tent again.
The minute he returns inside the building, everyone in the tent breaks into laughter.
“Well, that was weird. And intense,” Penny says.
I frown. “Weird?”
“He laughed,” she explains. “Orlando never laughs on set.”
“Yeah, he’s usually all business,” Phoenix adds. “But you made him laugh.”
This is the second time someone’s mentioned that he never laughs, but I have a hard time believing it.
“I didn’t even say anything particularly funny,” I point out.
“Either way, it looks like you get to spend more time with those eyes of his,” Penny teases. “He must like you, if he’s asking you to come back for more.”
“Nadia better watch out!” says Phoenix.
“Who’s Nadia?” I ask.
“Nadia Sweet. Orlando’s latest fling.” Phoenix tucks a loose strand of hair into my ponytail.
“She’s a supermodel. They met when he was at a film festival in Milan,” Penny tells me. “I don’t know why she’s here in Atlanta—maybe she’s shooting a campaign or something.”
Phoenix jumps back in. “She’s stopped by our set three times in the last week. And they left together on Friday. I saw them when I was packing up.”
“Apparently he’s okay with bringing his girlfriends to set, just not finding them there,” Jade adds.
Any confidence boost I got from Orlando’s attention to me is quickly deflating. I should have known he’d have a girlfriend already—or at least someone to warm his bed at night, an outlet for all the tension he builds up on set every day. I have no idea what Nadia looks like, but I guarantee she’s much hotter than me. There’s no way he’d look twice at an extra when he has a supermodel to go home to. I’m just Panty Girl.
Who cares? I try to tell myself. It’s only a crush. Did you ever honestly believe it could be anything more? Good God, Maggie, he’s just some celebrity you met this morning!
I’d rather not dwell on this, though, so I decide to change the subject and take advantage of the founts of knowledge I have in front of me. I’m beginning to suspect these guys know more about what goes on around here than just about anyone else.
“So, uh, what’s this movie about, anyway?” I ask them.
“Oh, honey, they really did just grab you off the street, didn’t they?” Penny clucks her tongue. “How much do you know?”
“Practically zero,” I confess. “And Karen found me in the bathroom, not on the street.”
That earns me another laugh, but the whole team jumps in to fill me in on some of the details about the production. Death and Deadly Night, apparently, is from a line in Shakespeare’s play Henry VI, Part 1, on which this movie is loosely based. Apparently it’s Orlando’s favorite Shakespearean work, and he’s been trying to get this movie made for several years. In addition to Omar and Ford, it features several other up-and-coming actors. Most aren’t household names yet, but several have had some success in television or smaller pictures and are trying to make names for themselves on the big screen. Orlando’s reputation as a filmmaker is growing, but so far he’s only done smaller, artsier movies, and the reception has been mixed. In fact, one of his earliest films was completely panned by the critics, but he’s had much better reviews since then. This is the first time one of his films is getting a wide release—though the budget is still relatively small, in part because he’s funding much of it himself—which means there’s a lot resting on this.
That might explain his intensity, but it also raises more questions, too. Like—why didn’t Orlando take advantage of his famous brothers? Having Luca or Dante involved might have given him an even bigger chance at success.
I don’t have the opportunity to ask the makeup team. The official lunch break is over, and that m
eans they have work to do on a couple of other extras before this afternoon’s scene begins.
And, as it turns out, I’m not needed for the first part of the next scene anyway, so Karen has me sit on a bench out of the way. I take the opportunity to pull my sketchbook out of my purse and do some quick pen-and-ink drawings of the cast and crew while they work. Everything I’ve learned in the last hour has given me a lot to think about, and I always do my best processing through my doodles.
I start with the easy stuff. With Omar, towering the length of the page, and then Ford, whose head seems to get bigger with every sketch. I draw Karen pursing her lips and tapping her fingers against her earpiece. I even doodle a few of the cameras and cameramen to complete the scene.
Finally, I get to Orlando. And I do several sketches—Orlando sitting in the director’s chair, Orlando saving me from a car, Orlando talking animatedly to one of his actors. No matter how many times I draw him, though, I can’t seem to get the eyes right. He either looks too happy or too serious—I can’t capture the true complexity that lies somewhere in between, that balance of passion and brightness. Frustrated, I end up giving him laser eyes again. And then scribbling through the drawing with frustration.
Who is this man? A genius? A sex fiend? Just another sexy, cocky, Hollywood hunk? Why can’t I wrap my brain around him? I have more important things to do than moon over some guy!
I’m about to scribble over my last drawing again when I notice someone new standing at the edge of the set.
I guess who she is immediately, even though I have no reason to recognize Nadia Sweet.
Without even thinking about it, I begin sketching her—long, shapely legs, an ass most women would kill for, a waist that probably makes all the other models weep. Her breasts are on the smaller side, but it doesn’t really matter, considering how stunning the rest of her is. Her blond hair definitely comes from a bottle, but it’s big and full and the waves are impossibly perfect. Rather than turning her into another generic blonde, the dye job actually makes her features pop.
I look down at my sketch. It’s not bad, but I haven’t quite captured her…attitude. Her confidence. That je ne sais quoi that probably makes men follow her like puppies. That girl probably causes traffic accidents when she walks down the street.
When I look up at her again, though, she’s no longer standing at the edge of the set. It takes me a moment to find her, especially since the crew is humming with movement again—it looks like they might be taking a break. Finally I spot her with Orlando, pulling him aside to speak. I lean forward on my bench, following them with my eyes.
Even if I hadn’t heard the makeup team’s speculations about Orlando and Nadia, that look he’s giving her would have ignited my suspicions. He can’t hide the energy in his gaze.
They’re heading down the side of the lobby, toward the elevator bank, and I’m leaning over so far, following them with my eyes, that I nearly fall off the bench. My sketchbook slides off my lap, almost tripping a woman in a dark suit with a briefcase, some office worker just going about her normal day.
The sight of that woman makes me pause, guilt surging through me again. I completely forgot that I was going to go upstairs and beg for another chance at an interview. Sure, I can blame the whole almost-getting-hit-by-a-car thing, but that’s not really an excuse. I still feel like the least responsible person on the face of the planet.
But if Orlando has walked away for the moment, maybe this is my chance. Maybe I can dart upstairs and be back before they need me!
I scramble for my notebook, but as I pick it up Karen appears in front of me. She’s frowning.
I gesture toward the elevators. “If I could just have a minute to—”
“You’ve had plenty of time to dilly-dally already,” she says. “I need you on set now.”
I glance back toward the elevators, and to my shock, I find Orlando looking back at me as he holds the elevator door open for Nadia. When our eyes meet, that now-familiar jolt of desire hits me, and for a moment I’m paralyzed again.
“Ms. Blankenship!” Karen snaps. “You have five seconds to get in front of the cameras or you’re fired!”
I move. In the back of my mind, I’m aware that I still have a choice—that I could still walk upstairs and do the responsible adult thing—but I’m pretty sure I lost my mind the first time I laid eyes on Orlando.
Besides, I tell myself. You’re getting paid to be on this set. And they want you to come back later this week! Why sacrifice a guaranteed paycheck—small though it may be—when it’s unlikely that woman upstairs would give me another interview, anyway?
I still feel bad as I scurry toward the cluster of crew and cameras. But when I glance over my shoulder and find Orlando still watching me, I know I couldn’t have made any other decision. The energy of my life changed when I accepted this role. And the look in Orlando’s eyes promises that this is only the beginning.
CHAPTER FOUR
“What’d you do, go back to school when I wasn’t looking?” my brother asks me. “I hate to say it, Maggie, but taking on even more student loans is probably not the best idea right now.”
I look up from the huge book in my lap. I can only imagine what Justin is thinking—there he is, just home from his respectable, grown-up job, still in his suit and tie, and the first thing he sees is me spread out on his couch, flipping through a huge book with the TV on in the background. And wearing leggings that definitely don’t pass the bend-over test. Chadwick, his cat, is curled up on my stomach, purring.
“Shouldn’t you be sending out more resumes or something?” he says.
“I sent out sixteen today,” I tell him patiently. I also called and emailed the woman who was supposed to interview me but—no surprise—she hasn’t returned any of my messages. My brother of all people knows how hard I’ve been working to find a job—he’s not the sort of guy who would let me stay with him otherwise—but he’s always a little grumpy when he gets home. His job might be respectable and grown-up, but it’s also incredibly soul sucking. Add a forty-five-minute commute in Atlanta traffic, and he’s a regular sourpuss until well after dinner. But I’m used to it by now. And I’m too grateful to him to pick a fight over it, either way.
I nudge Chadwick off my lap and sit up all the way. “And don’t worry—no more student loans for me. The way things are going, I’ll be paying off my current ones until I’m dead. And probably ten years after.” I flick my ponytail back over my shoulder. “I’m just reading some Shakespeare.”
He drops his briefcase on the ground and stalks over to the kitchen. A cold beer usually perks him up a little. “Why the sudden interest in Romeo and Juliet?”
“I’m not reading Romeo and Juliet. I’m reading Henry VI. Did you know it’s three plays long?” I’m halfway through Part 2 already. Chadwick nuzzles my side, trying to get me to lie down again. I affectionately shove him away.
“Never heard of it,” Justin says. He uses the bottle opener on his keys to flick the cap off his beer.
“It’s one of Shakespeare’s history plays,” I say. “Which makes it sound boring, but it’s not. It’s much more interesting than Hamlet, if you ask me.” Back in tenth grade when they tried to force me to read Hamlet, I ended up watching the movie instead. The character Hamlet was still way too whiny for my tastes, but at least it was over faster. When my grandmother bought me this giant Complete Works of Shakespeare volume the following year for Christmas, I’d popped it onto my bookshelf without even cracking the spine. I never thought it would come in handy.
“It’s all about the War of the Roses,” I tell Justin. “Lots of plotting and murder and stuff. I understand why Orlando thought it would make a good movie.”
“Hm,” Justin grunts, taking a swig of his beer. It’s been two days since filming my first scene in Death and Deadly Night, and my brother still isn’t sure what he thinks about it. He is excited that I’ve earned some money, though. And that I have the potential to earn more. Apparently the
minute you get to say a line on camera, even as an extra, your payrate goes way up. Tomorrow is the big day, and I’m so nervous I haven’t been able to eat anything all day.
“By the way,” I say, “Mom called. She wants to do something special with Dad this weekend. She told me to tell you to check your email.”
I probably should have waited until Justin has had his dinner and calmed down a little to bring up our parents, but to my brother’s credit, his grumpiness fades away at the mention of our dad. Like me, he’s had a hard time adjusting to Dad’s illness.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll make sure to read it.” He glances around the kitchen, looking lost for a moment. “Feel like pizza tonight? My treat.”
Justin usually thinks ordering out is decadent—he argues that it’s stupid to pay twice as much for something just because you’re too lazy to go pick it up yourself—so the fact that he’s suggesting pizza is a big deal. And not one I’m about to turn down, even if my nerves have completely destroyed my appetite.
“Sure,” I tell him, grinning.
An hour later, we’re both on the couch, Chadwick curled up between us, and I’m force-feeding myself a slice of pepperoni. The last thing I want is to show up on set tomorrow with an empty, gurgling stomach.
Justin’s mood has greatly improved. In fact, he seems almost relaxed for once as he flips through the TV channels.
“You’ll never guess who I saw today at the coffee shop by my building,” he says, stopping on a rerun of one of our favorite sitcoms.
“Who?”
“Nadia Sweet.” His mouth widens into a grin that reminds me of the frat boy he once was. “You know, that underwear model? She’s…fuck, Maggie, I know you don’t care about this, but she’s stunning in person. Mind-blowingly stunning.”
“I’m sure she is,” I say, trying not to sound bitter and jealous. Even if I am a little bitter and jealous. I’m still not sure what happened between her and Orlando when she came to set, and I don’t want to think about it. And if I added devil horns and a tail to my sketch of her in my journal… I mean, that’s not that petty, is it?