Adapted for Film Read online

  Adapted for Film

  Written by

  Stacey Rourke

  Copyright © 2015 Stacey Rourke

  Published by Anchor Group Publishing

  PO Box 551

  Flushing, MI 48433

  Anchorgrouppublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Published by Anchor Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Dedication; For all those that know love doesn't always look like you think it will.

  Chapter 1

  “Hollywood is a saucy vixen that would sooner chew you up and spit you out than ever really love you.” I pantomimed running my fingers over the brim of an imaginary fedora only to receive a blank stare from the Barbie look-alike reporter seated across from me.

  At her young twenty-something age she’d probably never even screamed her way through a New Kids on the Block concert. What did she know of funny?

  Clearing my throat, I dropped my hands into my lap and tried to fix my mask of professionalism back into place. “Campy noir, not a fan?”

  Uncrossing and recrossing her long, tanned legs, Reporter Barbie—RB as I had mentally dubbed her—scooted to the edge of her seat. Her wide blue eyes blink her sudden interest. “Isn’t that what Justin created with his Suit and Tie video? I loved that! He oozes class ... and sexual magnetism. Ugh, what I wouldn’t give to interview him!”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I contemplated correcting her. It would be a lot of work to explain in a way she would understand … and might involve diagrams or stick figures. “Sure, let’s go with that. Now, what was your question again? I’m sorry, I have spaghetti brain. Sometimes it takes me places even I don’t see coming.”

  RB tipped the edge of the digital voice recorder, resting on the table between us, toward her with one French manicured finger to ensure it was still on. “That creative mind of yours is why women everywhere adore your books and why they—and the rest of America—are in a tizzy about your upcoming wedding. The ceremony is rumored to be happening in this very hotel. Can you confirm or deny that?”

  I stared out the arched window of my hotel suite at the blue canvas sky painted with light fluffy clouds. If I dared utter a word of the hush-hush arrangements, a team of event planning, image-branding gurus would pluck and primp me to death. Shuddering at that fatally groomed mental image, I emphatically shook my head. “Sorry, those in the know stopped just short of a blood oath of secrecy.”

  “That’s fair.” RB’s tight smile, that didn’t quite reach her eyes, betrayed her by broadcasting her irritation at my silence. “Tell me this then; as the most iconic romance writer of our generation, did you ever think you would find love in Hollywood? I mean your swoon worthy love story could be the plot of one of your novels! Women everywhere want to be you! How did you end up here?”

  “Well,” I couldn’t have fought off the beaming smile curling its way across my lips if I tried, “it all began with a cab ride a little over a year ago…”

  “He was an angry little man that smelled of curry and regret,” I muttered under my breath. My hand, pressed firmly to the roof of the taxi, was the only thing stopping me from skidding across the seat at yet another abrupt lane change. “Who seemed to believe basic driving laws didn’t apply to him.”

  “Very good Descriptive Narrative,” Tandy Owens, my best friend since college, grasped the handle bar on the door only to have it break free in her hand. Silver duct tape, the only thing that had held it in place, dangled from the end of it. “That’s not what you want to see!” Casting it aside, she adopted my hand to the roof method. “Remind me, in your book how did the famous, bestselling author get to the movie studio?”

  Five lanes of bumper-to-bumper Los Angeles traffic surrounded us. Taking advantage of a break in the lane beside us, Raphael—our cab driver with clear homicidal tendencies—gunned the engine and swerved to a chorus of honking horns.

  “The studio flew her in on a private jet,” I scoffed, my hair and clothing still permeating the smell of stale air from our turbulent coach flight. “The second she landed they whisked her off to location in a limo stocked with champagne and caviar.”

  Tandy’s head lolled to the side to glance at me over her slender shoulder. Her caramel-colored eyes widened with mock innocence. “Do you think you’ll ever be as cool as the characters you write?”

  Snickering, I shook my head. A lone blonde strand broke free from the messy bun piled on top of my head. I didn’t relinquish my safety hold for even a second to fix it. “Paige wears Prada. I’m rocking a pair of jeggings. It’s safe to say I run no risk of that.”

  Tandy’s otherwise flawless mocha complexion crinkled in disgust. Her gaze ventured down to my travel wear as if I had voluntarily chosen to wear pants comprised of dog crap. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about those. Have you completely given up? Is this over-sized shirt and pretend skinny jeans ensemble just one step away from sweatpants and slippers in public? Tell me now if it is, because I fully intend to stage an intervention. You’re an international bestselling author of books that make women weak in the knees! Yet here you are, in a look that screams, ‘I don’t need a man, I have twenty cats.’ ”

  “Two. I have two cats. Stop rounding up.” My counterpoint was cut off by Raphael flipping off another driver and screaming a colorful string of expletives. Lips pressed in a firm line, I politely waited for him to finish venting his rage before I pushed on. “If I am such an embarrassment to be around, remind me again why you insisted I bring you? No, not insisted. Begged. There was definite pleading. I believe bargaining and negotiating even played into it.”

  “You’re damn right I begged!” Tandy sat up a little straighter, owning the accusation without an ounce of shame. “They cast Greyson Meyers as your main character. Greyson friggin’ Meyers! My car, wardrobe, 401K, apartment, hell, even a kidney would have been up for grabs in the negotiations to get me face-to-face with him. That boy is so beautiful I wanna build a shrine to his tight little bubble butt.”

  “And I agreed to bring you just because I love you?” I tsked. “Man, I should’ve held out for the big pay out.”

  Both of us were thrown against the left side of the car in a painful mash of limbs as Raphael swerved across two lanes of traffic. Tires squealed. Horns honked. The cab hit a dip in the pavement and went airborne, thanks to Raphael launching us down the exit ramp at daredevil speed.

  “Don’t worry,” Tandy groaned, righting herself on the seat. “After he and I fall in love, you can be the maid of honor at our lavish wedding at some stunning castle in the Greek isle.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I nodded in encouragement. “As a counterpoint, I have to ask; if you earn your first restraining order on this trip, do you think you’ll frame it?”

  “Most definitely.” A gleaming white smile brightened her face. “I’m going to hang it in my foyer so even the pizza delivery guy can see it. Then, I will happily tell the story of how I earned it. Thus insuring my legacy.”

  “If we don’t die in this cab, I look forward to doing my part to help build your infamy.”

  “Any chance it could be under Leonard Ethens?” The towering guard, who easily could’ve been cast as an extra as an Amazonian man-beast, tapped his pen against his clipboard. With notable indifference, he glanced up at me from under his caveman brow.

  “Probably not,” biting the inside of my cheek, I suppressed the urge to look around for a hidden camera, “because of the lack of penis, and the fact that my name is Aubrey Evans.”

  Straightening to his full intimidating height, the security gua
rd crossed his arms over his formidable chest. “There is no Aubrey Evans on the list, ma’am. And if you aren’t on the list, you don’t get on set.”

  Exhaustion was fast setting in now that the exhilarating ride in Hell’s Taxi was over. I let the strap from my carry-on bag slip from my shoulder and the bag flop to the ground. “I couldn’t help but notice that the front page of that clipboard is the cover sheet of the script,” I said in the most patient tone I could manage after a full day of traveling and three trips to Starbucks. “Think I could see that for a second?”

  Not even attempting to conceal his aggravated eye roll, he flipped the pages over and handed me his clipboard. Shooting him a smile that dripped with forced politeness, I turned the clipboard so we could both see it. Pointing to each word with my index finger, I guided his eye so he could read along with me. “True Love; Take Two, a Raven’s Claw Production. Directed by Kole Camden. Starring Greyson Meyers. Adapted from the best-selling novel written by Aubrey Evans. That’s me. I can show you my ID.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the silver-back gorilla dressed as a rent-a-cop huffed, his nostrils flaring. “You’re not on the list. I can’t let you in.”

  “If we want to get technical, the cover sheet rests on top of the list,” I pointed out. Raising my eyebrows in hopeful expectation, I nodded, hoping he would join in. “So, by those standards, my name is on the list.”

  Wordlessly, he snatched his clipboard from me and tucked it beneath his massive forearm.

  Out of ideas, I cast Tandy a beseeching look. Pocketing the cell phone she had been clicking away at, she threw back her shoulders and tossed her head. She sashayed past me with a gait that Mae West would’ve envied, and graced the unsuspecting officer with the same warm smile that had made men far more daunting than him melt.

  “What we have here,” Tandy leaned a little closer to read his name tag, and give him a teasing glimpse of ample cleavage, “Christopher, is a simple communication breakdown. You’re good at your job, we both know that.”

  Christopher’s gave a coy shrug, a rosy hue blooming on his cheeks. “I try, ma’am.”

  “I can see that. And I would hate for you to do anything that would jeopardize your job.” Laying a gentle hand on his forearm, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Which is why I really think you should call the director. Not only is Aubrey the author, she’s also chipping in money and earned herself a producer title. If they find out you didn’t even make a phone call before shooing her away, it could cost you your job. I would hate to see that happen.”

  “I guess a simple phone call wouldn’t hurt.” Christopher shrugged and returned to his booth to make the call.

  Tandy shot me a victorious grin. Her air of elegance and glamour combined with cover model good looks made her an unstoppable force few men stood a chance against. I held no grandiose delusions that my own feminine wiles would ever match hers. My love affair with chili cheese fries and loose fitting clothing would see to that. Still, I appreciated that she let me exploit her as the secret weapon in my arsenal.

  “Mr. Camden?” Hunching over the phone, Christopher’s tone was all business. “There is a woman out here claiming to be Aubrey Evans, the book lady, but she’s not on the access list.”

  “The book lady.” I jerked my chin at Tandy, acknowledging my new title. “Decade long career reduced to three little words. He’s efficient.”

  “Like a literary hipster?” Christopher parroted, turning to give me a quick once over. “She’s wearing cat-rimmed glasses, a huge ‘O Captain, My Captain’ T-shirt, and jeggings. So, yeah. You could say that.”

  “When did the jeggings become a bad thing?” I asked, throwing my hands in the air. “I thought they were kind of cool!”

  “No, honey. They never were. But bless your heart for trying,” Tandy soothed, patting my shoulder.

  “Yes, sir. Not a problem at all. Thank you,” Christopher said and hung up the receiver. Ducking beneath the booth door frame, he addressed Tandy with a shy smile. “All I have to do is check her identification. As long as she is who she says she is, you’re free to go inside.”

  I could’ve interrupted, demanded he acknowledge my status on the film by addressing me directly, but what would be the point? I write confrontational dialogue, yet avoid actually executing it at all cost. Instead, I handed her my wristlet with the identification compartment face up and let her show it to him.

  The formerly heaving beast granted us—or more accurately, Tandy—a friendly smile and waved us on to the sound stage where the words I wrote would come to life.

  The side door of the studio, which resembled an expansive warehouse, squealed on its hinges, allowing a fresh-faced young man with shaggy brown hair and an all-American look to peek out.

  “Aubrey Evans?” he asked, glancing from me to Tandy and back again.

  “That’s me,” I offered, and tried not to be offend by the sudden disappointment that sagged his features.

  Stepping forward, Tandy extended one expertly manicured hand. “Hi, I’m Tandy Owens, Aubrey’s personal assistant.”

  My head jerked so fast whiplash was a viable concern. “Personal assistant? When have you ever assisted me with anything?”

  “I told you those shoes make your ankles look fat.” She shrugged and tossed her hair for the benefit of our audience of one.

  “No, you didn’t!” I shouted, self-consciously checking for ankle flab.

  “Huh. I guess I just thought it. Still, it counts. Right ...” Tandy paused, allowing our confused onlooker to fill in his name.

  “Duncan, I’m Kole Camden’s assistant.” Duncan’s voice cracked with barely checked nerves. “Almost everyone has gone home for the night. However, Mr. Camden told me I wasn’t allowed to eat, sleep, or pee until I recorded your vocal spots for the promos we’re working on. You were supposed to be here two hours ago.”

  He shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. That, and his panicked inflection, gave me the only clues necessary to calculate he wasn’t suffering from nerves, but an urgent need for relief.

  “I’m sure he was kidding about the bathroom part there, Big D,” I snorted. “Unless Camden is a complete tyrant.”

  The epiphany dawned on young Duncan’s face, widening his moss green eyes and swinging his jaw slack.

  “Come on in,” he prompted, pushing the door open further. “I’ll be right back.”

  He was gone in a flash, disappearing down the narrow olive-green hall at a lock-kneed trot.

  Tandy’s head cocked as she watched him duck into the men’s room. “Sarcasm should never be attempted around those with painfully literal interpretation.”

  “Welcome to Hollywood,” I laughed. Unknotting my hair, I shook it out, twisted it back up, and secured it with a Booksurf pen I’d picked up at a signing.

  Duncan was back a moment later—noticeably more relaxed—to give us the briefest possible tour through the studio. “The sets are already dark for the night. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see those. For now, we’ll just go straight to the sound studio.”

  “If darkness is all we’re contending with, I can flip a switch with the best of ’em,” I said, flashing him a smile I hoped registered close to beguiling. “Kind of a lifelong dream to see one of my books come to life.”

  His eyebrows rocketed into his hairline, his head adamantly shaking. “Oh, no. I can’t touch the lights. That’s grounds for immediate termination.”

  “But, like, the fired kind? Or the never heard from again variety? Because from what I’ve read, that’s the ‘Old Hollywood’ way.” I didn’t have to air quote the word, yet it seemed worthwhile by the beads of sweat that sprouted across his brow.

  Blanching, Duncan quickened his strides.

  “That was the verbal equivalent of frying an ant with a magnifying glass,” Tandy whispered, nudging my ribs with her elbow.

  Trying to force a somber frown was a fruitless effort I quickly gave up on. “I’m sure the guilt over that will plague me fo
r days to come.”

  Duncan rounded a corner into a closet-sized room and clicked on the light. The quaint space was laid out like a small-budget radio station. One long desk was positioned in the middle of the room. On it sat a couple of computer monitors, a plethora of buttons and switches that looked capable of launching a Star Destroyer, four microphones, and coinciding headphone sets.

  “Have a seat.” He nodded toward the chair opposite him and busied himself clicking buttons, turning knobs, and bringing the studio to life around us. Oddly enough, in this cramped space of gizmos and gadgets, he appeared to be in his element. His earlier uncertainty was all but erased. “I’m just going to ask you a few quick and easy questions that we can draw quotes from for promos, like I mentioned before, and that we can use for the special features on the DVD release. Sound good?”

  Taking a deep breath, I eased myself into the hard plastic chair. “As long as you realize I write to avoid talking and therefore could wind up sounding like a blubbering idiot, we should be fine.”

  “I’ll edit it together to form coherent thoughts.” Duncan grinned, and adjusted his headphones into place. “Slap your headphones on. I’m going to count it down and we’ll get started.”

  The interview passed in an embarrassing display of ums and uhs on my part, Duncan feeding me lines to make me sound somewhat intelligent, while Tandy rolled her index fingers one over the other whenever I inadvertently went off on a long-winded ramble.

  “Last question,” Duncan declared with a compassionate half-grin after what felt like a yearlong interview.

  Through the glass wall behind him, a light flicked on. A flood of about a half-dozen bodies filled the neighboring space which appeared no larger than ours. In an instant I became a monkey at the zoo, with an audience observing this painfully uncomfortable experience. Why primates fling their poo suddenly became clear to me.