TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY Page 4

  I don’t understand.

  Is my appointment canceled?

  Is this like that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry makes a reservation to rent a car, but when he gets there, there are no cars to be had?

  Do I need telepathy to have this conversation?

  Give me something—anything—here.

  “Is she—?” I start to ask, but he cuts me off with a deep, annoyed sigh.

  “Just take a seat. I’ll let you know when she’s ready for you.”

  A sarcastic retort is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. It tastes like curdled milk—which makes sense. I’ve been pounding coffee with vanilla creamer all night long.

  “All righty, then. Sitting it is,” I mutter, making my way across the room to an older-style, black leather sofa. My ass isn’t even on the cushion before the receptionist is back to watching whatever he’s watching on his laptop.

  I can only hope someone watches my shit that avidly one day.

  I fidget with myself—mainly ironing out the wrinkles in my skirt only to watch them bounce right back—for what feels like an eternity while Adele finishes up whatever she’s in the middle of. A fluorescent lightbulb hums above me, obviously in its final hours, and boy oh boy, can I relate.

  When the receptionist clears his throat, a foreign sound in an otherwise white-noise-filled environment, I jerk my head up to find him looking directly at me.

  “Go.”

  Go?

  Oh God. Tell me this appointment is going to get me more than minimal face time with an NSYNC wannabe and acid reflux!

  “You. Can. Go. Inside,” he elucidates when he takes in my befuddled expression.

  Ooh. Go in. Got it. I stand up quickly and reach back to gather my belongings, only to find there aren’t really any. Other than my purse, I’ve got nothing. For some reason, I feel like I should have more stuff.

  For the love of God, get inside the office before the opportunity passes!

  I walk quickly through Adele’s door and straight up to her.

  “Billie Harris,” Adele says immediately, looking up at me over the top of a cat-eye-shaped pair of tiger’s-eye glasses.

  “That’s me.”

  She holds out her hand, but when I go to shake it, she shakes her head.

  “Headshots.”

  Shit. I don’t have any fucking headshots. I knew I was supposed to have more stuff!

  Her brow wrinkles when I make no move to hand over any professionally taken photos. I could show her my Instagram feed on my phone, but I really don’t think that’s what she’s after. “No headshots?”

  “I…” Lord help me. “…forgot them.”

  “An actress who forgets her headshots to a meeting with an agent,” she states, and I don’t miss the way her raspy voice crackles around the edges. “If you pulled that shit at an audition, they’d tell you to fuck right off.”

  I nod. Sounds right.

  “But you’ve got a pretty face. A sweet voice. And a cute little body,” she continues. “I guess I can let the headshot shit slide for now. Take a seat.”

  I do as she says, a little pep in my hip-bending at the comment about having a cute body, and send up a silent prayer that she remembers how good-looking she thinks I am when I get down to the real reason I’m here.

  “How long have you been in the biz, honey?”

  “Over four years.”

  “Do you have something prepared?”

  “Something prepared?”

  “A monologue? A song and dance? You know, something to give me an idea of what I’m working with.”

  “Oh, right, right.” Because I’m an actress who acts. And sings. Fucking hell, I really oversold myself in the name of ensuring I got this appointment.

  I wish I could do more than sit here as I try to figure out what to do now, but my stalling techniques are running dangerously low.

  I feel like she’s Oprah and I’m the only one in the audience. You get a dilemma! You get a dilemma! And you get a dilemma! One million dilemmas for Billie Harris!

  Adele pulls a cigarette out of her desk drawer and lights it. With her lips wrapped around the white stick, she takes one deep inhale and blows the residual smoke into the air. “Any day now would be great, doll.”

  Jesus, Mary, and all the saints.

  I inhale a shaky breath filled with secondhand smoke and stand up.

  To do what? I don’t have a clue, but I’m standing.

  And now, I’m pacing.

  I might have most of the movie Clueless memorized, but I doubt Adele wants to watch me give her an example of what it would look like if Cher Horowitz had been from West Virginia.

  Sincerely out of options and time bleeding perilously into I’ve got some kind of developmental deficit territory, I settle on telling the truth.

  It’s a shot in the dark, and there are a hell of a lot of not-so-good consequences—she kicks me out, I never find Luca Weaver, and Serena Koontz chooses Charles the Errand Boy over me—but I’ve come to the end of the line.

  It’s now or never.

  I sigh, push the thoughts out of my head, and just…do it.

  “So…I have a bit of a confession to make.” When Adele doesn’t immediately pull a shiv out of her drawer or threaten me with a lawsuit for fraud, I continue. “I lied about my appointment,” I admit. “Well, the reason for my appointment.”

  Still, she doesn’t do anything besides puff on her ciggy.

  “I’m not really an actress. Never acted in my life, actually. Kinda like a ballerina might not have the feet, I don’t have the chops. I’m just a girl trying like hell not to lose her job after she made the stupidest promise of her life, and, crazily enough, you might be the only person who can help me.”

  Two long drags. More puffs of smoke pushed into the air.

  “And I know this is a lot to ask, probably too much to ask given your disdain for the current state of Hollywood, but do you think, if I promise never to bring you avocado toast, you could help me?”

  The silence stretches out between us like a celebrity yoga instructor in downward dog, and I’m about two seconds away from getting on my damn knees and begging.

  But after another few puffs of her cig, she puts me out of my misery with a response.

  “It’s a little short, but I guess I can see some potential.”

  Huh?

  “A little desperate. Nervous,” she continues to comment. “You portrayed those emotions pretty well. Have you been using that monologue on auditions?”

  Oh, sweet baby kittens in a wicker basket. She thinks that was a monologue.

  Could this be any more awkward right now? Freaking hell, this is like having to tell your kids their fish died, only to get a new one and have it croak right away. Two fucking times I’ve gotta tell Adele about a dead fish.

  “Uh…shoo!” I take two deep breaths. “Okay… Adele, that wasn’t a monologue,” I confess somewhat crudely. “That was just me being honest with you. It seemed desperate because I am. Very.”

  She narrows her eyes. “You’re not an actress?”

  I shake my head with a sardonic laugh. “No, I’m not.”

  “Well then, pardon my French, but what in the fuck are you doing in my office?”

  Oh, holy hell. Make that three dead fish.

  “You…you represent someone I need to get in touch with.”

  She rips her glasses off her face and throws them onto the surface of her desk, and I swear I black out a little bit—just for a fraction of a fraction of a second.

  “By all means,” she says irritably. “Don’t hold me in suspense.”

  I choke on the frog in my throat and hope that later, when I throw it up in a Technicolor expression of my nerves, it at least turns out to be a stylish prince. “Luca Weaver.”

  A loud, raspy cackle escapes her lips. “Turns out Hollywood isn’t changing that much,” she muses. “Years ago, if I’d had a nickel for every person who asked me how to find Luca Weaver, I’d have mo
re money than he does.” She shakes her head with a mocking smile. “Let me guess. You’re a journalist.”

  “No,” I refute. “I…I’m a friend of the family.”

  “Bullshit. Luca Weaver doesn’t have any friends, and he doesn’t have any family. Not that he keeps in touch with anyway.”

  Desperation turns to dejection, and I sink into the chair in front of Adele’s desk and put my head in my hands.

  “Fine,” I mutter there before once again looking up. “I work with Serena Koontz, and I have the impossible task of delivering Luca for the lead role in her next movie or face certain career death.”

  “What movie?” she asks without hesitation.

  “Espionage. It’s a movie that Capo Brothers Studio just—”

  “Spare me the details, doll, because I’ve already heard them. Hell, everyone in Hollywood knows about the potential and the money that movie might bring in,” she cuts me off and studies my face closely before narrowing her eyes. “Wait…I know you from somewhere else. Where?”

  “Alfred’s. I was there when you were yesterday,” I admit, my voice shrinking in on itself like the melting witch in The Wizard of Oz.

  She nods resolutely before inclining her head toward the door. “If that’s all you really needed, then I think it’s safe to say this meeting is done. I might be his agent, but Luca Weaver has been done with Hollywood for a long fucking time. I can assure you that nothing will bring his tight ass back here.”

  Fuck. I climb from the chair slowly, turn on my heel, and walk toward her door, but just as my hand reaches out for the handle, I stop.

  I can’t let this go.

  I just…can’t. A woman shouldn’t have to die on her own sword, goddammit. If I’m going down, I’m going to do it fighting.

  I turn around and square my shoulders. “Look,” I say, and she picks up her head again, her scrutinizing gaze hitting me square in the eye. “I know you don’t know me. You almost definitely don’t like me at this point. And I’m sure I just seem like some random crazy person, but I’m not crazy. I’m motivated. I’ve got big, almost unreasonable dreams that brought me to this town, and making a largely impossible promise isn’t going to make me leave.”

  I pause to take a breath but keep going. “I can’t give up on this. I can’t accept no as the answer. Hell, Granny would come out of her grave and kill me herself if she knew I’d just walked away from this. We Harrises finish what we start, she always used to say. And dammit, I will finish what my big fat mouth started. I just need to know how to get in touch with Luca Weaver. That’s all. And I’ll handle the rest.”

  Adele shoves back in her chair and crosses her pale, freckled arms over her chest. “It’s illegal for me to give out one of my client’s personal information.”

  “I get that—”

  “But,” she cuts me off. “That doesn’t mean shit because I don’t even have anything that’s going to help you. I send Luca Weaver’s checks to a P.O. box in a town nobody’s ever heard of, and that’s the end of the line.”

  “You don’t send them to his house?”

  She laughs. “Nope. I imagine Luca Weaver was smart enough to realize that in Hollywood, any information is a liability.”

  Shit! What am I going to do now?

  I’m dead. I’m a walking, talking corpse with no possibility for resuscitation. I’m in my end-of-life transition and everything is going black and, oh God, I never thought I’d—

  “Probably pretty smart of him, seeing as I’m about to blab.”

  Wait…what?

  I peek open one eye, and she nods. “Something about you seems just pathetic enough to make me take pity.”

  I jump up and down, doing some kind of cheerleading move teenage me only wishes she could do.

  Adele laughs, a raspy cough making her grasp her chest dramatically.

  Dear God, Billie, don’t kill her before she helps you!

  “Goddamn LA smog,” she gripes.

  Sure, Delly, it’s the smog making it hard for you to breathe. Not the decades-long addiction to cigs.

  Still, I nod along and make a face in agreement. I’m not about to blow this deal by pointing out the obvious.

  She takes out another cigarette from her pack and lights it up, sucking it harshly between her wrinkle-lined lips.

  “Town’s called Rally, Alaska. I don’t know shit about it, and it don’t know shit about me. But I’d say going there is the best chance you’re gonna get at hitting your target in the dark.”

  I jump forward and grab her hand, patting the back of it like she’s royalty. “Thank you so much, Adele. Thank you.” I’m awkward and she’s uncomfortable, but I can’t help but fall all over myself now that I’m not completely hopeless.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replies. “Best of luck. You’re gonna need it.”

  Call me optimistic, but I think I’m back in the game.

  Billie

  I’ve never actually spit on a neighbor, but if I lived out here, I couldn’t hit ’em even if I tried. After three hours of scrambling to pack some kind of suitcase and get to the airport, seven hours of flying, a night in the cheapest motel I could find in Juneau, Alaska, and ninety minutes trying to rent a car that can handle whatever the Alaskan wilderness throws at me, I’m finally on the road to Rally.

  Rally, Alaska, that is, the only crumb of a clue I have on the path to Luca Weaver.

  I’m told Alaska is the land of adventure. An invigorating state that will show me things I’ve never seen—or at least that’s what a billboard near baggage claim said.

  Seeing as I’ve never seen Luca Weaver, I’m hoping to hell it’s right.

  So far, though, through the windshield of a Subaru Outback that smells like days-old cigarette smoke and gym socks, all I see are lots and lots of trees.

  Ninety miles into my lonely drive inside the Alaskan wilderness, and I start to wonder if I’m going the right direction.

  Does Luca Weaver really live out here?

  There’s literally nothing but two lanes of pavement. No traffic, no restaurants, no coffee shops—not even a Target. Just me, the open road, and Lady Gaga’s voice crackling through the radio.

  From what I can gather from the directions I printed off at home after freaking out about maybe not having strong cell service, I should be getting close.

  I hunch up over the wheel and squint to see if I can get a look at anything up ahead. A wooden sign with bright red lettering beckons in the distance, and I find myself stepping on the accelerator just to get there faster.

  Welcome to Rally, it says in bold letters. I throw a hand in the air and cheer. Yes! Signs of life do exist up here!

  I slow to twenty-five, the posted speed limit on the roadside, and coast through what must be the outskirts of town. There’s a rickety old cabin with a sign that reads Earl’s, a small white church with a bright red door, and another building set back in a field on the other side of the road.

  I look up ahead, ready for a downtown area or something, when another green sign approaches quickly. I slow down to read it as I’m passing.

  Thanks for visiting Rally! it proclaims. I hit the brakes hard and screech to a halt before looking behind me. Did I pass out briefly? Miss a turn? Three buildings can’t make up a whole town, can they?

  With a huff, I sit back in the cloth seat of my rental car and breathe. Dear God in heaven, what have I gotten myself into? I’ve taken pees that have lasted longer than Rally, Alaska.

  With a thrum of my fingers against the steering wheel and a lick of my lips, I summarize what I know before coming to a quick conclusion.

  There’s no telling what’s inside Earl’s. It could be food, it could be booze—Earl could sell dildos and porno flicks behind a dusty black curtain, for all I know.

  Earl could also be a serial killer and I could be setting myself up for an Alaskan revival of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but I’m not seeing a whole lot of options. It’s Earl’s, a mystery building, or a house of God, and even though
I’m not deeply religious, I’d like to avoid lying in a church if at all possible.

  Earl’s it is.

  I execute a U-turn and head back in the other direction. When I get to the rickety-looking cabin with a wraparound front porch and a sad excuse for a gravel parking lot, I pull in and put the car in park.

  I grab my phone from the cupholder, send Birdie and Serena texts letting them know I’ve arrived safely at my destination in the “North to the Future” state and get out of the car. With only a ten-day allowance from my boss to come through on my promise to produce Luca Weaver, I’ve got no time to waste.

  Caution, meet wind.

  The air is cooler than I’d expect for a spring day but not intolerable. No doubt, sunny California weather has spoiled me into a punk-ass wallflower, as my new queen, Adele Lang, would say.

  Faded wooden steps creak under my feet as I climb onto the porch, and a bell above the entrance door chimes my arrival when I open it.

  It’s dusky inside among all the shelves and racks stocked with camping, fishing, and hiking gear. And quiet. Almost eerily quiet for someone used to the hustle and bustle of virtually every place in LA.

  “Hello?” I call out cautiously. “Anybody here?”

  “Just a minute!” a male voice answers from somewhere in the back, perhaps tending to the adult franchise materials. “Be there in a jiffy!”

  I nod and rock faux-patiently back and forth between my cowgirl-boot-covered feet.

  Evidently, a jiffy is equivalent to about three minutes—because that’s how long it takes for the man to appear through a curtain-covered doorway behind a cash register that I refuse to believe is from this century. Seriously. If he made out his bills of sale on slabs of stone while writing in Sanskrit, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  With bushy gray eyebrows, a ball cap with a fish on it, and an ensemble of attire that is entirely khaki-focused, the man walks toward me and the corners of his lips wrinkle as he flashes a friendly smile my way. “I’m Earl,” he introduces himself. “How can I help you?”

  “Ah, right.” I swallow hard and gear myself up to steamroll another person with lies. Poor Earl, an innocent proprietor of this lovely business, has no idea what kind of a web he’s stepped into. “Yes. Yes, I’m hoping you can,” I say, trying really hard to smile in a way that will make Earl fall victim to either one of two acceptable options—fall in love with me so instantly and completely that he’s willing to do anything for me, or take pity on me enough that giving me his assistance seems like the only humane thing to do. “See, I’m visiting a…an old friend. I had directions, but I lost the paper with everything beyond the stuff that got me to here.” I pause, trying to decide if he’s skeptical or sympathetic. When I can’t figure it out, thankfully, he fills in the void.