Hollywood Dirt
Page 78
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“We need the scene, and she’s not doing it without it.” Cole smiled. “Relax, Don. It’s not your money, it’s mine.”
“And it’s my career if this movie tanks. Or runs out of funding. Or if my costars kill each other before the last shot is wrapped. We could have just covered her with a sheet and filmed it. All this…” Don watched a man run by, his arms full of clipboards, “is ridiculous.”
“I don’t want to film some fucking Nicholas Sparks love scene. I want raw, sexy footage. I told you that; you know that. We can’t build up to something and then leave the audience hanging.”
“Sure.” Don looked up at him. “Let’s pretend that’s what it’s about.” He stepped closer to Cole and lowered his voice. “But we both know that it’s not.”
Cole shrugged. “Just get me the scene I want. If I need a therapist, I’ll have…” He snapped his fingers in the direction of the departing PA.
“Tim Myers,” Don supplied.
“Yeah. Tim Myers will get me one.” He threw an arm over the director’s shoulder. “Now. Let’s get on the road.”
CHAPTER 86
I wanted to drive. It made sense for me to drive. I knew my way around Tallahassee, could get our two SUVs, plus the trailing semi, in the general area of where we needed to go without it becoming the circus act that it seemed destined to be. But I wasn’t on the insurance, and I was a woman, and between those two gigantic hurdles, I got stuck in the backseat, staring at the freshly cut hairline of Cole Masten, dark hair meeting in a straight union with tan skin. I’d bet his neck was shaved with a straight blade. Probably on set, the team all but trying to give me a bikini wax every time I set foot into the Hair & Makeup trailer.
I noticed, staring at that freshly cut hairline, that my bet with myself, made that first night in my kitchen, had never been won, his skin a golden hue of tan. Of course, he hadn’t burnt. Instead he’d bronzed, because gods like Cole Masten didn’t suffer from mortal problems like the rest of us. I looked away from the bane of my existence and out the window, the car slowing as we got deeper into the traffic disaster that was the capital city.
On Florida State’s campus, Landis Green stretched from one ugly traffic circle to the Strozier Library, a gorgeous building where—just a few years or so ago—a student brought in a gun and went crazy one late night during finals. Mama and I had sat in front of the TV, slices of lemon pie uneaten before us, and watched the live action unfold. Right there, Momma kept saying. Remember when I used to take you right there? I had remembered. Sunday afternoons, after church, we used to go into Tallahassee. We’d eat a late lunch at Momo’s, then head to the library. I’d sit down against a wall and read novels inappropriate for my age, and Momma would read their papers. She’d start with the New Yorker and work through three rows of publications before we’d pack up, walk back to our car, and head home for dinner. I could still remember the smell of the building, the green plaid print of their carpet, the look of pinched student faces, their books spread out over long tables like they were claiming spots, knees jumping, pens tapping. When I started high school, I stopped going, old enough to stay at home alone. A few years later, Momma also stopped going. Maybe she needed me with her to make it stick. Maybe, without me, it lost its fun. I looked out the window, at the big library, and felt a moment of sad nostalgia. When I moved away, would she stop making biscuits on Sunday morning? Would she stop taking walks on nice evenings? How much of her life would slowly stop?
“Summer.”
I heard my name and looked up to the front of the car, Cole’s eyes on mine in the rearview mirror. “What?”
“You gonna get out?”
I swallowed a smart response and reached for the handle, stopping when I saw the man at my door, his hand on the handle. I hesitated, my eyes catching everything that I had missed in my walk down memory lane. Three suits on this side of the car. A line of cops behind them, facing out. I turned to the front seat, to ask a question, but the doors were all being opened, mine included, and the men were stepping out. I grabbed my bag, and took the hand offered, stepping into the summer sun. A cheer broke out and I turned in the direction of the sound, my eyebrows raising, and saw Cole raise his hand, a bright white smile beaming out from that famous face, his index finger pushing his sunglasses on, the crowd on the other side of the cops surging forward, then pushed back, a living beast that seemed to have no decorum whatsoever. I suddenly appreciated the stoic pride that Quincy held, their refusal to fawn or fangirl. I couldn’t imagine if every day, every experience required this level of ridiculousness. I followed the trio of men, security following me closely, a stranger with an earpiece putting a protective hand on my shoulder. I glared at him, and he removed it.
Before us, a staked out orange safety fence led to the trailer, which was parked next to a fountain on the far end of the lawn. A second crowd had formed there, and it turned as one as we approached, hands and cell phones filling the air, an excited hum floating through the crowd. We were stopped halfway to the trailer, Eileen pulling a cell phone away from her ear long enough to dictate information.
“We’ll have a tent set up in fifteen minutes for the signups and age verifications. I’ll be there and will narrow down the pool as they register. If I see a possible candidate, I’ll have them escorted to the trailer. Cole, we’ll put you and Don in the viewing end. Summer, you stay with me.”
“And it’s my career if this movie tanks. Or runs out of funding. Or if my costars kill each other before the last shot is wrapped. We could have just covered her with a sheet and filmed it. All this…” Don watched a man run by, his arms full of clipboards, “is ridiculous.”
“I don’t want to film some fucking Nicholas Sparks love scene. I want raw, sexy footage. I told you that; you know that. We can’t build up to something and then leave the audience hanging.”
“Sure.” Don looked up at him. “Let’s pretend that’s what it’s about.” He stepped closer to Cole and lowered his voice. “But we both know that it’s not.”
Cole shrugged. “Just get me the scene I want. If I need a therapist, I’ll have…” He snapped his fingers in the direction of the departing PA.
“Tim Myers,” Don supplied.
“Yeah. Tim Myers will get me one.” He threw an arm over the director’s shoulder. “Now. Let’s get on the road.”
CHAPTER 86
I wanted to drive. It made sense for me to drive. I knew my way around Tallahassee, could get our two SUVs, plus the trailing semi, in the general area of where we needed to go without it becoming the circus act that it seemed destined to be. But I wasn’t on the insurance, and I was a woman, and between those two gigantic hurdles, I got stuck in the backseat, staring at the freshly cut hairline of Cole Masten, dark hair meeting in a straight union with tan skin. I’d bet his neck was shaved with a straight blade. Probably on set, the team all but trying to give me a bikini wax every time I set foot into the Hair & Makeup trailer.
I noticed, staring at that freshly cut hairline, that my bet with myself, made that first night in my kitchen, had never been won, his skin a golden hue of tan. Of course, he hadn’t burnt. Instead he’d bronzed, because gods like Cole Masten didn’t suffer from mortal problems like the rest of us. I looked away from the bane of my existence and out the window, the car slowing as we got deeper into the traffic disaster that was the capital city.
On Florida State’s campus, Landis Green stretched from one ugly traffic circle to the Strozier Library, a gorgeous building where—just a few years or so ago—a student brought in a gun and went crazy one late night during finals. Mama and I had sat in front of the TV, slices of lemon pie uneaten before us, and watched the live action unfold. Right there, Momma kept saying. Remember when I used to take you right there? I had remembered. Sunday afternoons, after church, we used to go into Tallahassee. We’d eat a late lunch at Momo’s, then head to the library. I’d sit down against a wall and read novels inappropriate for my age, and Momma would read their papers. She’d start with the New Yorker and work through three rows of publications before we’d pack up, walk back to our car, and head home for dinner. I could still remember the smell of the building, the green plaid print of their carpet, the look of pinched student faces, their books spread out over long tables like they were claiming spots, knees jumping, pens tapping. When I started high school, I stopped going, old enough to stay at home alone. A few years later, Momma also stopped going. Maybe she needed me with her to make it stick. Maybe, without me, it lost its fun. I looked out the window, at the big library, and felt a moment of sad nostalgia. When I moved away, would she stop making biscuits on Sunday morning? Would she stop taking walks on nice evenings? How much of her life would slowly stop?
“Summer.”
I heard my name and looked up to the front of the car, Cole’s eyes on mine in the rearview mirror. “What?”
“You gonna get out?”
I swallowed a smart response and reached for the handle, stopping when I saw the man at my door, his hand on the handle. I hesitated, my eyes catching everything that I had missed in my walk down memory lane. Three suits on this side of the car. A line of cops behind them, facing out. I turned to the front seat, to ask a question, but the doors were all being opened, mine included, and the men were stepping out. I grabbed my bag, and took the hand offered, stepping into the summer sun. A cheer broke out and I turned in the direction of the sound, my eyebrows raising, and saw Cole raise his hand, a bright white smile beaming out from that famous face, his index finger pushing his sunglasses on, the crowd on the other side of the cops surging forward, then pushed back, a living beast that seemed to have no decorum whatsoever. I suddenly appreciated the stoic pride that Quincy held, their refusal to fawn or fangirl. I couldn’t imagine if every day, every experience required this level of ridiculousness. I followed the trio of men, security following me closely, a stranger with an earpiece putting a protective hand on my shoulder. I glared at him, and he removed it.
Before us, a staked out orange safety fence led to the trailer, which was parked next to a fountain on the far end of the lawn. A second crowd had formed there, and it turned as one as we approached, hands and cell phones filling the air, an excited hum floating through the crowd. We were stopped halfway to the trailer, Eileen pulling a cell phone away from her ear long enough to dictate information.
“We’ll have a tent set up in fifteen minutes for the signups and age verifications. I’ll be there and will narrow down the pool as they register. If I see a possible candidate, I’ll have them escorted to the trailer. Cole, we’ll put you and Don in the viewing end. Summer, you stay with me.”
