Not in the Script (5 page)

“Ill, Emma. You feel ill.”

“No, I feel
crappy
.” This is only a fitting. Costumes can work me in another time, right? “Why don't I just swap times with Brett and go Monday when he was supposed to?”

Mom comes over to check my forehead, like all good mommies
should do. “You
are
a bit clammy.” Her dark brows pinch together. “But calling back after I've already said you'd be fine with sharing your time might make you seem high maintenance—and no one likes a diva. So I surely hope you're not faking this.”

I wish I was. I would rather be known as a diva than
poor, poor, Emma Taylor
, the girl whose dating life is perfect fodder for the tabloids.

Rachel returns right then and immediately notices what my mother hadn't. “Oh my gosh!” she says, rushing for the cover of
Celebrity Seeker
and stuffing it back into a box. “I didn't realize
this
story was in the stack of tabloids I brought to your house. I'm so sorry!”

I shrug and shake my head, like it doesn't matter, and glance at my mom. I expect her to say something along the lines of “Heartbreak is
not
a legitimate reason to cancel an appointment.” But she just walks over to my box of photos, finishes unwrapping the frames while Rachel sits on the bed and tries to cheer me up, then leaves the room with a big box of toxic waste in her arms.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say as she shuts the door. And I mean it.

About thirty minutes later, Rachel presents me with a gift so awesome that I'm sure we'll laugh about it for years to come. She's used her mad photo-editing skills to cut off the head of the barely there bikini girl and put Troy's head in its place.

“Look at his scrawny little arms!” I say when I finally catch my breath. “But he looks surprisingly good in pink. And I love those itsy-bitsy polka dots you added.”

“I'm glad you like it,” Rachel replies. “Because I just anonymously posted it online, and it will probably go viral.”

Only a few weeks after my first meeting with Steve McGregor, I'm walking into Desert Productions Studios in Tucson. The entire cast and crew should be on set today. I check in with security and am escorted through the main doors to where a production assistant gives me a schedule and a hanging name tag:
JAKE ELLIOTT, CAST
.

A guy I recognize right away as Brett Crawford is talking on his phone just a few steps from me. “No, seriously,” he says. “I
do
remember you! I just forgot your name for a sec.”

While listening for a reply—I can hear a girl's high-pitched, flirty tone from here—Brett rolls his eyes and laughs. To himself, it seems. “Tonight? Ah, dang! I'm not in L.A., or I'd totally come over.” He notices that I'm watching him and shakes his head at me with a look of terror on his face, as though he's trying to tell me
she's scary
.

Brett is so loud that even after I turn away and walk toward the main area of the studio, I can still hear him say, “Sorry, gotta go! They need me on the set … yeah. Yeah, of course. I'll call you later.” Then somehow, he's right next to me again, slapping a hand on my shoulder. “Chicks, man. They're crazy. I have
no
idea how she got my number.”

I stop and look at him. “Caller ID?”

“Nah. I've never called her. We hooked up at a party … I think.”

This guy has mastered the art of first impressions. I start walking again, and he follows. “Was she ever alone with your phone?” I ask.

“Uh … I might've left it sitting around while I grabbed some drinks or whatever?”

“Then that's probably when she used it to call her own cell,” I explain.

Brett thinks this over as if he's doing long division in his head. “Dude, I hadn't even thought of that,” he says. “No wonder I get calls from girls I can't remember meeting.”

Several minutes later, Brett is finally finished giving me a tour of his big-time-famous career—as a player, that is. When I spot the row of cast chairs lined up in front of what looks to be a classroom set, I take my designated seat, and Brett says, “Wait, I thought you were crew!”

Taking a chance that he can actually read, I hold up my name tag.

“Oh!” More laughter. “I didn't recognize you—fully clothed, I mean. You look different than you do in those Abercrombie ads.”

“Armani,” I say. For a second, I think I might punch him. I've only done a few shirtless ads, but they're all people seem to
remember. Brett is making an attempt at male bonding, though, and I'm being a jerk, so I add, “Abercrombie requires full exposure of a guy's
eight
-pack, and I draw the line at six.”

He finds this comeback hysterical—or if the last fifteen minutes is any indication, he laughs at everything anyone says to him—and starts into anecdotes he's collected during his
many
years of doing photo shoots. I turn my attention to more interesting things.

From the street the studio looks like a massive warehouse, but the interior is more like a gigantic house that's been turned inside out. The exterior walls of each set are rough with exposed two-by-fours, plywood, and electrical wires. Furniture and smaller props are scattered everywhere I look. The air is infused with the smells of duct tape, lumber, and … chaos.

Just from my viewpoint, I count over fifty crew members. The constant flow of movement reminds me of an amusement park on a busy day.

The crew hauls around equipment and props, and sets up cameras and lighting. Assistant directors and department heads are easy to spot—they're the ones talking nonstop and pointing fingers in all directions. Then there's Steve McGregor, shooting between sets like a torpedo. Two-way radios and earpieces are glued to pretty much everyone.

The only cast member I've met before today is Kimmi, and once was enough. She had caused the costume department to be an hour behind schedule when I showed up for my fitting. I'd overheard McGregor trying to calm the costume designer—he said it wasn't easy to dress a pit viper with legs—then Kimmi had stormed out of the room, nearly bulldozing me, and said, “These people are
impossible
to work with.”

McGregor now stops in front of where Brett and I sit and scans over the cast chairs. “Where are the girls?” he asks no one in particular.

A production assistant appears out of thin air—PAs seem to be everywhere, all at once—with folded papers sticking out of both back pockets, a radio in one hand, and a clipboard in the other. “There was a transpo issue with Miss Taylor,” he says. “We hadn't been cleared at her security gate to pick her up, and we had a wrong cell number. But we got it sorted out.”

McGregor keeps his hard stare locked on the guy. “And Kimmi?”

The PA speaks into his radio. “Anyone have eyes on Kimmi?” A few seconds later the radio blurts something about heads flying because her dressing room isn't ready, and the PA replies, “Copy that.” He starts to answer McGregor, then stops to motion in the direction of a tirade making its way toward us. “I think we just found her.”

Kimmi emerges from a hallway, and even with all the noise, I can still hear her heels clicking on the concrete floor. “Good morning, Miss Weston,” says the PA who's stationed at the entrance. She walks right past him, and he follows. “I just need to give you a name tag.”

“You're kidding, right?” Kimmi says, as if he's asked her to put on Mickey Mouse ears. She's almost as hot as she thinks she is—shaped like a runway model, smoky brown eyes, flawless face—but the prima donna thing is always a deal killer for me. She's wearing an off-the-shoulder top, light pink with rhinestones, a tight black miniskirt, and stilettos, also with rhinestones. Also deal killers.

Brett turns around in his chair for a better look. “I think I know her,” he says as Kimmi gets closer. When she finally stops in front
of us and poses with a hand on her hip, Brett stands and opens his arms as though he's inviting her into a hug. “Hey, it's been a while!”

Kimmi's tight smile loosens, and she looks back at him, confused. “Sorry, but I—”

“The Hard Rock Hotel. Vegas. Remember?” Brett prompts her, followed by a grin filled with mischief. “We met in the hot tub. Just the two of us … it was a great night.”

Yeah, clearly unforgettable, judging by Kimmi's narrowed eyes.

“
What?
” Her scorching glare shifts from Brett to the crew members who have stopped in their tracks after his bold announcement. They practically trip over each other as they get back to work. “I've never met you before,” Kimmi tells Brett. “Let alone in a hot tub.”

She seems not only humiliated by Brett's suggestion, but insulted. Brett, however, just appears stumped. “Are you sure?” He pauses, giving her a completely shameless full-body scan. “Huh. Maybe I just recognize you from your headshot in McGregor's office.”

“Ya think?” Kimmi snaps. She glances around again like she's hoping the previous crew members are still close enough to hear
this
part of their conversation. But they're not.

Brett throws his hands in the air. “Jeez! It was a simple mistake. I'm sorry.”

“Great. Then stop looking me over like that. It will
never
happen, got it?”

“Well, it's not like I was hitting on you anyway. So … whatever.”

Kimmi doesn't reply. She just settles into her cast chair, to my
right, then flips her highlighted hair to her other shoulder and starts digging through her Fendi handbag. “I hope you're at least more civilized than Brett,” she tells me. “As in, not an ape.”

I scratch my head, apelike. “Depends on who you ask.”

Brett folds his arms. “Kimmi, Jake probably won't be interested in you either—not when the only curve on your body is your turned-up nose. But there's help for that, you know.”

When Kimmi raises her head, she looks dangerous enough to pound Brett into dust. “Thanks for the suggestion,” she says. “But I don't take advice from Hollywood has-beens.”

Color seeps over Brett's neck. “Just offering my professional opinion.”

This guy is begging for a harassment charge.

“Dude, are you
on
something,” I ask, “or are you just naturally this stupid?”

He sits on the other side of Kimmi and grins at her. “Born this way. Sad, isn't it?”

“It's sad that you were born at all,” she replies, and I laugh.

This girl can take care of herself.

McGregor's booming voice is behind us now. “Ah, Miss Taylor,” he says, causing everyone to look. “So sorry about the confusion this morning. It won't happen again.”

“It was actually
my
fault. My car got delayed in shipping, and I forgot to …,” Emma replies, and everything else is a blur.
Whoa
. Cameras don't do her justice—I can see the color of her famous cobalt-blue eyes even from here. She's in a white shirt, scoop-necked and kinda lacy, and tight jeans. Her dark wavy hair pours over her shoulders like hot fudge on a sundae.

I think of my poor friends in Phoenix who would sell their
souls to get within a hundred feet of Emma Taylor, and here I am, within ten … nine … eight …

She stops dead still, stares right back at me, and then gasps.

“Hi,” I say. At least I think I do.

Emma keeps her eyes locked on mine and laughs.
Laughs
. “No. Freaking. WAY!” she says before coming around the row of chairs to sit to my left, her shoulders still shaking as she tries to calm down. “Sorry! I …
you
! … No … freaking …” She can't even finish.

“Way,” I add, wondering what I have on my face that's so darn funny to look at. “You already said that.”

Kimmi's hand moves to my knee, and she peeks around me to tell Emma, “I take it you guys already know each other. You hooked up in a hot tub too, huh?”