The Accidental Movie Star (2 page)

Caz repeated the toast automatically. “Cheers.” It was an ingrained reflex for the British.

The limo jerked to the right and the force of the motion propelled her across his lap and him against the wall. She dropped the bottle of orange juice and clutched his arm, trying to stay upright. The bottle rolled across the floorboard, emptying its pulpy orange contents into the plush weave of the carpet.

“Sorry.” Ashley tried to grab the back of the seat, but the car swerved again and her fingers slid across the leather without success. She gave in and grabbed Caz’s shoulder so she could pull herself upright. He helped with one arm, while retaining a grip on his beer bottle with the other. Another jerk of the car sloshed the beer on them.

With a sudden burst of speed, the Jaguar slid sideways, flinging them from side to side like a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Tires squealed as the Jaguar jolted to a stop, and they tumbled to the floor. Ashley found herself sprawled across Caz, face-to-face with him.

Chapter 2

Raising her head from his chest, through pale strands of her disheveled hair, she saw the empty beer bottle rolling on the floor above his head. The bottle didn’t stop until the base butted up against the hot-pink bra.

The limo door opened and a bright flash illuminated the car. Automatically, Ashley turned away. Another flash went off. Crawling backwards, she eased off Caz. He cursed as he sat up, and his hair flopped into his eyes. He looked like a bad-tempered fallen angel, impossibly beautiful even when angry. If the photographer got that shot, he’d make a mint.

From outside the car, the driver yelled, “Hey, you,” and shut the door on the photographer.

“You okay?” Caz’s voice sounded more clipped than before.

“Yeah.” Ashley got to her knees. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Ashley examined her beer-spattered T-shirt and jeans with regret. She couldn’t see the back of her shirt, but the stickiness of the drying orange juice assured her it was a mess. When the limo shifted forward, she grabbed the side of the seat and pulled back into it. She patted the wall until she found the seatbelt and secured it low and tight across her lap, like the airlines recommended.
Click.
Caz put his on too.

The intercom came on and the driver said, “The press is getting out of hand, I had to swerve to avoid them. You two okay back there?”

Caz didn’t look ruffled, and his clothes weren’t as wet as hers. Ashley watched his reaction with caution, bracing for the tears, the rage, the threat of lawsuits, and the list of personal injuries he’d endured.

“We’re fine,” Caz said, and settled back for the ride.

“No problem,” Ashley said.

The Jaguar prowled smoothly for the rest of the trip, and a short time later they pulled into a private garage at the studio’s lot. They had arrived.

Caspian got out first, with a “See ya,” and walked over to a tall, thin woman who stood only a few yards away, puffing on a cigarette.

Just past them, Dad appeared in a doorway. She waved, grabbed her backpack by its handle, and jogged over to hug him.
Dad.

He hugged her and slung one arm around her shoulders as he moved toward the building. Ashley noticed he wore his pale blond hair short this summer, so she could clearly see his
light blue eyes narrow when he looked back at Caz and the limo. His eyes were the same shade as hers, but at the moment they held a suspicious-looking frown. He must’ve smelled the beer. Ashley spoke quickly to head off the lecture. “The minibar exploded.” She lifted the end of her long hair and gave the blond strands a sniff. “Ew, right?”

Around Dad’s back, she saw Caz glancing at them. He shot a look from her to Dad. She’d seen that contemptuous expression before. At home, they’d guess father-daughter reunion, especially as they shared the same coloring. Here in LA, they always assumed older boyfriend—disgusting.

Dad’s arm tightened and he held the door for her to go in. They went down a gray hallway, then took one flight of stairs down to the basement level. Dad stopped at a door marked
Human Resources
. “Good luck.”

“My appointment was supposed to start thirty minutes ago.” Ashley swiped a hand at her shirt.

“It’s not a problem,” Dad said.

Ashley reached for the doorknob. Her first day on the job and she was about to make a beer-soaked impression. Luckily, she had a spare T-shirt in her bag and nepotism by her side.

***

Ashley’s second day on the job started out cleaner. She drove one of Dad’s cars and parked in the movie studio’s employee lot. Dad worked in one of the stucco executive buildings along the front. She thought they’d commute together, but Dad said his hours were too erratic, so here she was walking in alone.

She’d seen most of the lot as a tourist and on summer visits. Now she was seeing the studio with fresh employee eyes.

Grassy parks lined the lot and further back stood façades of fake towns. After those came a sea of concrete and a multitude of warehouses which held movie sets.

The warm air brushed against her skin, the dry climate amazing. If California could bottle their weather and sell it to the humid states, their budget crisis would be over, Ashley thought.

Her schedule placed her at the cast and crew kickoff meeting inside warehouse number 47. Ashley checked the signs carefully. The buildings looked the same to her: tin metal squares placed atop acres of concrete pavement. She thought it was odd for creative people to work in such bland buildings. Ah, there it was, number 47, her set for the next two months.

A security guard perched on a stool by the narrow doorway, opaque sunglasses shielding his eyes. He said, “Identification,” in a voice that implied she couldn’t provide a legitimate one.

Ashley showed him her driver’s license and her studio identification card. The guard shined a light on the back of the card, examined her face, and checked his clipboard. “You’re good.” He waved her in.

Inside, people milled near two long folding tables, lined up to speak with a pointy-faced man holding a computer tablet. Ashley dropped into line.

His eyes scanned the screen while his hand stroked his goatee. “Production Assistant?”

Ashley nodded.

“I’m the assistant director. Call me AD.” He paused, so Ashley nodded again. At her nod, he grunted and said, “Run this script over to Petra’s trailer.”

Yesterday, Ashley had received a small movie summary from Human Resources and knew that Petra Pelinski was the lead actress playing the part of a spy vixen. Even more interestingly,

Caspian Thaymore would play the tortured hero. She’d buy a ticket. Ashley took the script and the stack of red papers from the assistant director and left the line. Security must be tight around this film if they were printing scripts on red. Red paper couldn’t be photocopied.

“Trailer six,” the AD called after her and jerked his hand toward the rear of the warehouse. Ashley went in that direction.

Another security guard blocked the back exit. Ashley showed her identification and told him her task. The guard pointed beyond the building. A number of white trailers were parked along back, each labeled with a large black number. The quiet calm behind the building was a distinct contrast to the loud frenzy occurring steps away. The crunch of gravel under her sneakers echoed each step to trailer number 6.

She tapped on the door. No answer.

Tap, tap, tap.

No response and no mail slot. Not wanting to fail on her first assignment, Ashley turned the doorknob to Petra’s trailer. The door opened easily, and she leaned in, holding the knob in her left hand and the script in her right. A gust of heavy Asian perfume caused her nose to twitch, so she stuck her right hand under it, breathing in the neutral smell of paper, trying not to sneeze. A red leather sofa sat in a compact living room, underneath a long picture of Petra. Bingo. She was at the right trailer.

A female voice came from further back in the trailer. Hesitant to interrupt, Ashley paused in the doorway.

Petra’s East Coast accent said, “Like can you imagine? I’ll be on this set for at least two months. It is so much better than location shots. All the best salons are here. All the best of everything is here. Everyone knows me. I can get the right press.”

“Of course, you’ll make headlines for just being here,” a different female voice said in a barking tone. No way the barker was an actress, not with that voice. “But imagine if something exciting happened, like if you were to get pregnant—with Caspian’s baby.” The voice alternated between barking out the words and clipping them off.

“If I show up pregnant with Caspian’s baby? Why would I want that? I’d be so fat.” There was a pause, and Ashley stood very still in the doorway.

The barker said, “Imagine the press.”

“The coverage would be amazing,” Petra said. “And everyone is getting pregnant or adopting right now, so we could go maternity shopping, me and all the other big stars. I’ve worked with Caspian before, but we’ve never, you know. What if he doesn’t want a kid right now? He’s only like eighteen.”

“No guy can resist you,” the barker said. “How hard is it to get preggers? Punch a hole in the condom.”

There was a longer pause, then Petra said, “Then I could lose the baby tragically, or he’s loaded so I could keep the baby. I would look stunning in maternity clothes. And my child would be such a pretty baby because Caspian and I are both so good looking, and I could dress her like me.”

Ashley’s mouth fell open. The East Coast voice got louder, as if Petra was moving toward the living room, toward her.

She jerked back and closed the door as quietly as she could. Safely outside, she banged the side of her fist loudly on the sun-warmed trailer door and yelled out in a formal voice, “Script update for Petra.” After opening the door a crack, Ashley threw the red script in and snapped the door shut. She hopped down from the steps, her tennis shoes crunching into the gravel, and took off. Each pounding step kicked up more loose rocks.

Ashley crossed her fingers, hoping she wouldn’t slip, but she didn’t slow until she reached the warehouse entrance.
Please don’t let me get caught.

Out of breath, she held up her identification badge from the lanyard around her neck and showed it to the security guard. While he reviewed it again, being as thorough as the guy in the front, she checked back over her shoulder, ensuring there was no one in pursuit. The alley remained empty, but the door on Petra’s trailer opened. Ashley flattened against the metal wall. At the guard’s nod, she passed the threshold into the cavernous warehouse. More people had filed in and most had taken seats on some temporary metal bleachers set against one of the walls. Ashley headed their way, eager to get lost in the crowd.

“PA.” The pointy-faced AD waved another stack of papers at her, ignoring the line of people in front of him.

“Yes?”

“I need a cup of coffee.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black. Cart’s over there.” He pointed.

An eager voice jumped in. “I’ll get your coffee.”

Ashley stiffened. She recognized that barky voice. She examined the newcomer warily, but the barker hurried forward and didn’t bother to look in her direction.

The AD said, “You are…?” He scanned his list of names. Some of the people in line looked annoyed at the interruption; others chatted away, more self-involved.

“Olive Oma, PA, proud to be of service.” The barker held up her security badge in two hands and inclined her head. The glint in her hazel eyes was eager when she looked at the AD. When she swung toward Ashley, her expression was competitive.

Ash, average height, stood at about the same height as the AD, but Olive’s brunette head only came to the top of the tablet in his hands. Petite with a pixie cut, Olive wore a muted-green jumpsuit with a brown leather tool belt strapped around her waist.

The AD said, “I already gave this job to her.” He pointed his chin toward Ashley and eyed Olive’s tool belt. “They’re having some trouble with stage B’s mobile toilet. Go give ’em a hand.”

“Absolutely,” Olive said. “I wanted to help with the set.” Olive glared at Ashley as she stomped off, swinging one hand to propel her small body faster. Her other hand squeezed the handle of a wrench locked into her tool belt.

***

Ashley took a seat on the temporary bleachers. In the short time since her arrival, the space had filled like a movie theater on Friday night. Her soon-to-be co-workers spoke loudly, and several people hugged as if seeing old friends. Most dressed casually like Ashley: jeans, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. A few dressed well, and they stood out as actors or people in charge.

The AD moved toward a tall, broad-shouldered man. The man’s feet were braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin raised. With that commanding air, he had to be the director or an executive. The AD imitated his stance, and the two men assessed the crowd. Ashley checked her watch. They still had about ten minutes before the scheduled start time.

A broad-shouldered guy with a buzz cut climbed up the steps, and she shoved down the bench so he could get past. Ashley wished she had a friend with her. Her summer job would be much more fun if she worked with a friend. Marissa, her best friend back home, thought Ashley’s LA summers were glamorous and exotic. LA teens were the same as the teens back home, with just a few more extremists; there must be some kind of drama gene bred into the community.

Before leaving Houston, she’d called Rachel, an LA friend from summers past, but Rachel was vacationing in Europe. Which was probably just as well because most of Ashley’s days would be sucked up by work. She’d just need to make a friend with one of the other crew members.

An East Coast voice interrupted her thoughts. “You’re in my seat,” Petra said. She wore overlarge sunglasses and red lip stain. Her tone discouraged argument. Her spicy perfume discouraged breathing.

Ashley froze, recognizing the voice of the lead actress, the pregnancy plotter. She kept her eyes on the floor and slid down the cold, metal bleacher, hoping Petra hadn’t seen her back at the trailer. The first girl she’d seen who was her age, and Ashley already knew they wouldn’t be friends.