Читать книгу Shock Waves - Colleen Collins - Страница 8

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BILL, SITTING in the first row of the audience, shook his head at Mandy, the hyperefficient fortyish principal casting director sitting at the foot of the stage. She nodded, understanding his message that the girl who just auditioned was a no.

“You didn’t like her?” asked Jimmie, Bill’s best pal and Sin on the Beach’s key grip.

“Not hot enough,” Bill said, shifting. He tipped his coffee mug, which caused brown liquid to slosh down the front of his white polo shirt.

“Shit.”

He set the cup on the sand beneath their folding chairs and pulled the shirt away from his skin. “I’m used to easing into Monday mornings with 9:00 a.m. read-throughs, not getting up when the rooster crows to audition hundreds of extras for some publicity gig.” He flapped the shirt to cool the spilled liquid.

“I won’t ask if that was hot enough,” quipped Jimmie.

Bill shot him a look.

“Sorry. But speaking of things that could be hot…have you given any more thought to you and I starting our own indie company?”

Bill nodded. “Sure. Problem is, making big bucks with an independent film production company is a long shot.”

“Who’s talking big bucks?”

“Me. You know my take on the movie business. Dream big, make it big. No offense, but an indie company is too small for this boy.”

Jimmie shook his head. “You’re letting your hard-luck roots get the better of you, pal. Producing our own films gives us control, which is big in a better way. Did I tell you Edge of the Universe placed first in its category at the WorldFest competition?”

He and Jimmie had known each other from their first day at New York University film school, given each other a lot of support while they crawled up the dog-eat-dog success ladder of L.A. film and television work. Jimmie’s first love was screenwriting, but until he started making sales, he worked on film crews.

Bill balled his hand into a fist, knocked it against Jimmie’s fist. “Edge of the Universe will be your breakthrough sale, no doubt about it.”

Jimmie had spent the last few years writing this screenplay, about three friends from East L.A. whose lives take dramatically different paths. He’d loosely based the protagonist on Bill’s own coming of age story in East L.A.’ s gangland. Bill hadn’t minded sharing most aspects of what it’d been like growing up in the barrio but there was one thing he never shared with anyone, and never would.

“It could be our first script, Bill. With a hot screenwriter and a hot up-and-coming director…” He jabbed his thumb at himself, Bill. “My parents are willing to be our first investors, although we’d need to raise the rest. I think we can do it.”

Bill paused. “You’re my best friend, Jimmie, but I gotta say no. It took years to nail this first AD spot. Gordon’s still the director on this week’s shoot, but he’s stepping aside and letting me take the reins for a few days. If I pull it off, I’ll be bagging my first directing gig with Sin.”

First AD—Assistant Director—was the number two spot on the set, right below director. As such, Bill was basically the jack-of-all-trades on the set, but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to call the shots, be number one. Being the oldest of five kids, as well the man of the house after his dad split, Bill had decided early on that the world belonged to those who stayed strong and focused.

And his focus was to make his mark as a film director.

Which meant he said no to anything that got in his way, even his best pal’s business idea.

“Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “if I hear of anyone wanting to start up an indie, I’ll put them in touch with you, okay?”

“Not that I don’t appreciate that, but my first choice will always be you.”

Bill groaned. “Is this the part where I say ‘We’ll always have Paris’?”

Jimmie laughed, gave his pal a friendly slap on the back. “I’ll stop laying on the guilt. Besides, you have better things to do. Do you know how many guys would kill to fill in for the director on a cattle call for babes in bikinis?”

Bill caught Mandy’s wave. Next audition was ready.

“Yeah, it’s a burden, but somebody’s gotta do it.”

He gave a go-ahead nod to Mandy, a small gesture toward a big career. People like Jim just didn’t get it.

IN THE BACKSTAGE TENT provided for those auditioning to be extras, Ellie checked herself out in a mirror, amazed yet again at her transformation from a goth chick to this bad-girl blonde in a good-time bikini. Most of it thanks to Sara, who’d woken Ellie up at the crack of dawn and helped wrangle her into beach babe shape.

Ellie looked around at the other extra wannabes hanging out in the small blue tent. They’d all shown up at 7:00 a.m. to sign up, and in the hour since, they’d spent their time primping, talking and drinking the free coffee from one of several urns. Free, but disgustingly bad-tasting coffee, although no one except Ellie seemed to notice.

Which was the only bad thing—besides her bad-girl blond hair—about this whole adventure. Now that she was here, she was psyched to audition. It felt silly but fun to try out for a walk-on part on Sin on the Beach. And although it felt a little odd, it was nice to do something for herself instead of everybody else.

“Ellie Rockwell?” asked a harried teenage boy wearing a Sin on the Beach festival T-shirt and khaki shorts. He looked around the tent while speaking in low tones into his headset.

“Yes?”

“You’re next. Follow me.” He hurried away, reporting his movements to whoever was on the other end of the headset. “She’s here. Yes. Ellie Rockwell. Maybe.”

Maybe? What did that mean?

He held open the flap to the tent for Ellie to follow. She grabbed her bag of makeup in one hand, her bag containing her killer stilettos in the other, and followed.

They sprinted across a patch of hot sand and into another tent, this one huge, white and air-conditioned. Ellie paused, relishing the blast of cool air. The area was buzzing with people, props, equipment. In the far corner, next to a table set with rolls, fruit and drinks, a man sporting a handlebar mustache, lime-green turban and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt was pouring himself a big glass of iced tea. He looked up at Ellie and winked.

Oh, hold me back.

“You’re up,” the boy said, motioning toward an opening in the tent. “Walk onto the stage, head to the microphone and answer their questions. Afterward, exit stage left.”

“Who’s they?”

“Assistant director, casting director, maybe one of the producers.”

Her stomach flip-flopped. These were the bigwigs, the muckety-mucks, the top dogs who ran her favorite show. Okay, sitting with all the extra wannabes, it had been easy to think this was fun and silly. But knowing who she’d be auditioning in front of, suddenly this felt freaking scary.

“Stage left?” she rasped, kicking off her sandals. She cleared her throat. “Where’s that?”

“The far side of the stage.”

She slipped on a stiletto. “Did you say there’s a microphone?”

But he was already engrossed in another conversation over his headset. Catching Ellie’s gaze, he impatiently pointed toward the stage and mouthed an emphatic “Go!” before zipping away.

She quickly stepped into the second stiletto, trying to ignore the little voice in her head telling her to run away, she’d only make a fool of herself, people might laugh, she could fall on her face….

Straightening, she sucked in a shaky breath. If I can’t tackle one silly audition, how do I expect to tackle a new business venture?

She walked onto the stage.

BILL WATCHED the next girl walk hesitantly out onto the stage. She walked stiff-kneed, staring wide-eyed at the audience that was mostly made up of friends of those auditioning, some crew, a few hungover partiers. When she reached the microphone, she stopped and smiled awkwardly.

She was pretty, in a Kirsten Dunst kind of way, with her short, fluffy blond hair, dimpled smile and pert nose. The kind of girl one saw a hundred times a day in L.A.

And yet…not.

Something about her was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something provocative, simmering just below the surface…

“Look at those shoes, man,” muttered Jimmie, sitting taller in his seat.

Bill’s gaze dropped down the nicely filled black bikini, down long, coltish legs to a pair of black patent stilettos with silver chains. Whoa. That something different was hardly below the surface, it was just below the shapely calves.

“Tell us your name, where you’re from and something special about yourself,” prompted Peter, the casting assistant in charge of extras, into his hand-held mike. Nearby sat Mandy, talking on her cell phone while eating a doughnut.

The young woman leaned forward, at which point Bill noticed the edge of a tattoo peeking over the top of her bikini top. A spiderweb?

She spoke so closely to the mike, it sounded like a thunderous whisper. “Ellie Rockwell.”

“Step back and say your name again, please,” instructed Peter.

She did. Bill liked the cadence of her voice. Soft, rhythmic like the waves.

And familiar.

She shifted from one spiked heel to the other. “I’m an L.A. girl—grew up in East L.A., currently living and working in West L.A.”

A sense of déjà vu prickled his skin. He knew her. But from where? With the long hours he put in on the set these days, his only social outlet was Gold’s Gym, and he’d have recalled if their paths had crossed there. Maybe it was her voice, someone he’d conversed with in the course of his too-many business calls every day.

Wait a minute.

Rockwell?

East L.A.?

Hadn’t he had neighbors there, years ago, with that name? Right, now he remembered. Mrs. Rockwell, one of those fragile blondes who looked as though she’d crumble if you looked at her the wrong way, and her kids Mark—no, Matt—and a daughter. Yeah, had to be Ellie. He blew out a puff of air. That freckled, knobby-kneed girl had grown up to be this dom-shoed doll on the stage?

“Four stars,” murmured Jimmie.

But ever since Jimmie tied the knot last year, he’d been irritatingly intent on setting Bill up for wedded bliss, too. Every potential Mrs. Romero got a starrating from one—forget it—to four—go for it.

“You and your damn numbers,” Bill muttered, tapping the pencil against his clipboard. But four was dead-on as his gaze raked up past that cleavage-spilling black top to that heart-shaped face to those eyes….

He flashed on a memory from years ago. Ellie, auburn hair barely restrained in pigtails, those big questioning eyes. It had been long past midnight. He’d been sitting on the porch, contemplating his life changes to come, when suddenly he looked down and saw his young neighbor standing on the lawn in front of him. In a soft voice, she’d asked if what she’d heard was true—was he moving to New York?

She’d sounded so anxious, so sad, which had confused him. But with younger siblings, he knew how a kid’s unresolved worries could be triggered by a seemingly unrelated event. If he remembered correctly, Ellie’s dad had split around this time five or so years before. Another adult figure leaving probably reminded her of that all over again.

Bill had answered her yes, he was moving to New York to go to film school, and that little girls shouldn’t be out so late. He’d walked her back to her house where she’d lingered in the front doorway, those big eyes staring at him, before going inside.

Those same eyes stared at him now, reeling him back to the present, and he offered a small smile of recognition. She smiled back, and he swore something in her look shifted, darkened, sparked. For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze and suddenly all he was aware of was a churning tension between them, not unlike the distant crashing waves.

He’d at first observed a woman in a black bikini, but now all he saw were glistening limbs, full breasts, bare skin. Lust had fogged his brain and whatever memories he had of the girl evaporated, replaced by this hot woman.

Jimmie coughed. “Five.”

“Five what?”

“That eye-lock, as though you two are the only people in this place, just bumped her from four to five stars.”

“You’ve never given a five.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never seen you go brain-dead so quickly, either.”

Bill broke the eye-lock and glanced at his buddy. “It’s an audition, Jimbo, nothing more.”

“Bill-o, sell that bridge somewhere else.”

Peter lit a cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke as he said into his mike, “You have one minute to share something special about yourself.”

Ellie blinked, straightened, released a shaky breath. Over the speakers, the sound reverberated over the crowd like a throaty sigh, nearly bringing Bill to his knees.

She zeroed in on him again. Later, he pondered if he’d imagined the look she gave him, one filled with a yearning that bordered on defiance. But he didn’t imagine her next words.

“I want to share this with you.”

Slowly, she turned so her back was to the audience. God. Those heels worked magic on a great ass and a pair of killer legs.

“You’re gnawing on your pencil,” whispered Jimmie.

Bill released the eraser tip from his teeth. “Oh, shut up.”

Ellie slipped her thumbs underneath the waistband of her bikini bottoms and lowered them, slowly, an inch or so. Bill ground his teeth, his entire body on edge, as he read the black-scripted tattoo at the base of her spine.

“Queen of Evil?” he rasped.

“Yeah,” murmured Jimmie, “that’s what it says all right.”

Bill groaned.

Jimmie leaned closer. “So, is she a five?”

Bill returned his gaze to her, gave his head a slow shake. “She’s more than a number, Jimmie. I share a past with her.”

“ELLIE ROCKWELL.”

Standing at the food table in the backstage tent quaffing a blueberry muffin, she froze. Even with her back to him, she’d know that voice anywhere. Swallowing her bite, she set down the muffin and turned.

A shiver passed through her.

Bill was even hotter up close.

His skin, naturally mocha, was darker from the sun. His full, natural hair looked like a deliciously dark aura. Stubble coarsened his jaw, making her think he’d probably rolled out of bed and come straight here for today’s audition without shaving. She shouldn’t have thought about him rolling out of bed, because she started wondering if he was one of those men who slept in his shorts or pajama bottoms.

Or naked.

She sucked in a shaky breath. He’s only said my name and I already have him naked in bed.

A hint of a smile raised a corner of his mouth. She hadn’t noticed before that he sported a soul patch, neatly trimmed, underneath his full bottom lip.

“Ellie Rockwell, right?”

“Bill Romero,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “I saw you in the audience.”

“I thought you noticed me.” He looked her up and down. “You’ve…changed.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she murmured, her gaze sliding down to the colorful tattoo that trailed from underneath his sleeve down to his elbow. Appeared to be the tail of something.

“It’s a dragon,” he explained.

Her gaze traveled back up the green and burnished gold scales that disappeared underneath his sleeve.

“The rest,” he murmured, “goes up my arm. One claw’s on my back, and its head falls across my chest.”

She stared at his chest, imagining the head of the beast permanently inked on his molded pec.

“A fire-breathing, ice-breathing or acid-spitting dragon?”

“Fire.” He looked surprised. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

Being a good glam goth chick, she knew her dragon basics, but no way she’d admit that. Usually her attitude was if somebody didn’t like her style, tough. But this was different. This was Bill Romero. He’d obviously come backstage to see the beach babe Ellie, and no way she’d let on he’d fallen for a look that was the antithesis of the real her. This was Cinderella at the ball time. The prince was flirting with her, and she was going to run with it.

“I think I saw some of those dragons when I got my Queen of Evil tattoo,” she lied.

Bill made a murmur of approval. “Now that’s a tattoo I’d like to hear more about.” He glanced over her shoulder at the half-eaten muffin. “Looks like I interrupted your snack?”

She made a dismissive gesture toward it. “I’d skipped breakfast, so…”

“I skipped breakfast, too.” His gaze held hers for a moment. “If I didn’t have to get back, I’d suggest we grab a bite. Catch up.”

Get back? She flashed back to yesterday when he’d asked if that was her car. He hadn’t been dressed up either day…could he be making money parking cars? She wouldn’t ask, didn’t want to embarrass him. What had happened to his dreams?

“Last we saw each other,” she said nonchalantly, “you were leaving for film school.”

“Yeah, went to New York University.” He cocked that half smile again. “Surprised you remember.”

She shrugged as though, oh, sure, just one of those things that popped up from some distant memory instead of something she’d thought about a lot these past seventeen years. Everything about that night he’d told her he was moving away was burned indelibly into her brain. The moon had been full, yellow and waxy in a smoggy sky. Lavender scented the air. Down the block a radio blasted a popular Ice-T rap song.

She waited for Bill to say more, but nothing. Had he come back to L.A., armed with his degree, only to find nobody wanted to hire another starry-eyed wannabe? She’d seen a lot of people lose their dreams in the city of dreams. Actresses who thought they’d be the next Meryl Streep, writers who thought they’d be the next Eszterhas, directors who thought they’d be the next Scorsese. All of them waiting for their big breaks while serving tables or working on construction sites or…

Parking cars.

She dropped her gaze, caught the splatter of brown on his shirt. “Spill something?”

He looked down, back up with a sheepish smile. “Coffee. Actually, I took a break from my casting duties to see if I can get it out. My buddy’s covering for me.”

She blinked. “Casting duties?”

“Yeah.” He raked a hand through his thick, full hair. “I’m just helping out, for today only.”

“Part-time job?”

“More like a favor.”

So things hadn’t gone well. She’d get off the topic, help him save face. “I’d suggest dabbing that with soda water. If you can’t find that, cold water.” She smiled. “I run a coffee shop so I deal with stuff like this all the time.”

“Coffee shop, eh? I’ll definitely take your advice, then.” But he didn’t do a thing except stand there and stare at her. Was her bad-girl blonde makeover working?

“I should be getting back,” he murmured.

“Sure.” Do something! Invite him to the beach house, ask him out for another cup of coffee to make up for the one he sloshed, ask his zodiac sign, something. “Nice seeing you.” Good one, El. Your big moment and you wuss out.

“Nice seeing you, too.” He started walking away, paused. “Going to the festival later?”

“I’m entering some of the events. My girlfriends and I want to win the grand prize. You can enter as a group, you know, so that’s what we’re doing.” I’m babbling. “Except for this audition. Not a group thing, obviously. We figured after I was done over as a beach babe…” Not good. Overbabble.

“Done over?”

She smiled shakily. “Girl talk for getting fixed up.” She’d never lied this much. “I probably wouldn’t have auditioned if they hadn’t made me do it.” At least that was the truth.

He looked her down, back up, making a zillion goose pimples skitter across her skin.

“I’m an idiot,” he mumbled. He hit the palm of his hand against his forehead. “I got so caught up seeing you again, I forgot to tell you something.” He smiled warmly. “It’s a good thing your girlfriends talked you into auditioning, because Ellie Rockwell, you’re hired.”

She blinked. “I am?”

He nodded.

“You get to pick people?”

“Just for today. See Peter, the casting assistant who’s sitting in the front row, and tell him I said you’re hired. He’ll explain how you’re paid, where to report, stuff like that.”

“Great. Thanks.”

They stared at each other for another long moment.

“I need to get out there,” Bill finally said.

“Right. You don’t want to blow this opportunity.”

He frowned.

She gestured lamely toward the audience out there. “You know, doing this casting gig you’re doing as a favor could lead to another job.”

He looked surprised, then sputtered a laugh. “I already have a job on Sin on the Beach. I’m the first assistant director.”

Her body felt as though a shock wave had passed through it. Not unlike how she’d felt years ago at a high-decibel, sensory-overload Marilyn Manson concert. Bill wasn’t some dreamy-eyed wannabe, he was the first assistant director. Of Sin on the Beach. A Big Man on the Set. He probably had bikini-clad chicky-babes hanging all over him 24/7.

So what if he came backstage to tell her she was hired, tell her he remembered her, there was no way such a hotshot would want anything more to do with an extra.

Bill scrubbed his knuckle over his chin. “A lot of those festival competitions require two people to compete.”

She nodded.

“Might be a little awkward to enter some of those with your girlfriends…unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

It took her a moment to get his drift.

“You think I’m—Oh, no.” She laughed at the thought of her being lesbo with Candy or Sara. “Not that they aren’t attractive and fascinating women, but I’m not into that. Anyway, they both appear to have guys they’re entering the contests with.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

“How terrible.” He gave her a look that made her kneecaps go soft.

“Yes,” she murmured, “downright horrible.”

He grinned, glanced at his watch. “After auditions, I’ll have the rest of the day off. Meet me backstage, same spot, at two o’clock and I’ll be your partner.”

It took a moment for the adrenaline rush to subside before she remembered how to nod yes. Partner. That had to be on par with “date,” right?

She was having a date with Bill Romero.

Bill take-my-heart-and-do-me-all-night-long Romero.

As long as she got home before her carriage turned into a pumpkin, and her bikini into her glam goth T-shirt, this could be a fairy-tale date to die for.

“Two it is,” she whispered.