Adapted for Film Read online

  Bravo, sir, and thank you for objectifying women in an equal-opportunity fashion.

  “Would you look at that?” Tandy rocked back on her heals, her arms crossing over her chest. “All these years I’ve been so worried The Solid Gold Dancers never found work again, and here they are making it happen. I want to applaud. Would that be tacky?”

  As quiet and subdued as our opinionated entrance was—and we had accomplished neither of those adjectives—we managed to catch the attention of the man in the chair. Batting the make-up artist’s hand aside, he swiveled in his chair.

  Placing his face wasn’t hard—Mateo Cruz. The hip hop god whose sales had surpassed the forty million mark. He was everywhere; sponsorship deals galore, a clothing line, even cologne and perfume launched by his branding department. The real question was, what was he doing on the True Love set?

  Adjusting his position in the chair, his bulging pecs visibly flexed beneath the fabric of his thin white tank. “Maya, bebe’, my personal massage wasn’t supposed to be until after I shoot my first scenes. But I do appreciate your enthusiasm, chica. And the choices you brought me? Muy Bueno.” Leisurely eye groping Tandy and I, his pointy pink tongued flicked over his gold-plated canine tooth.

  Maya’s cheeks bloomed bright red, the color seeping clear up to the tips of her earlobes. “Oh, these aren’t the massage therapists, Mr. Cruz—”

  “Mateo, por favor,” he interjected, hitching one eyebrow seductively.

  “Mateo,” she giggled and repeated his name. “This is the author of True Love, Aubrey Evans, and her personal assistant, Tandy Owens.”

  While this entire interaction was fascinating, I had heard one little snippet of information that I couldn’t quite compute. “Scenes?” I asked, in place of standard, more socially acceptable salutations. “What part are you playing? I didn’t see you on the casting list.”

  If he heard my question he was too distracted by his well-rehearsed swagger to respond. Rising from his chair, to what had to be his full five foot three glory, he strode straight toward us. His shoulders rolled with each step, up and down like the well lubricated pistons of a purring engine. Much to my surprise, mostly because it had never happened ever, his first stop was directly in front of me.

  Rocking back with a gangsta lean, he cocked his head to the side and took his time traveling the length of me with an appreciative leer. “Mad props for working that sexy librarian look, chica. You’re ownin’ that shit and it’s workin’ for you.”

  Glancing from Mateo to Tandy and back again, I found myself at a loss for the proper response for such a statement. “Not a look,” I corrected with a plaintive whimper, “my clothes.”

  The fact that I had spoken at all pinged off of him like a bug on the window of a cruising semi-truck. His head had since lolled toward Tandy, my existence all but forgotten.

  Sucking air through his teeth, he stepped well inside the boundaries of Tandy’s personal space and tipped his head back to peer up at my five foot ten friend. “And you …. Damn, girl, look at you. You’re like a mocha goddess. I could make you my Hip-Hop Queen. Would you like that, mami?”

  Tandy forced a tight smile, her death ray stare darkening the hue of her eyes to a deep espresso. “That’s a sweet offer, but I have some serious preconceived notions about where your ‘throne’ has been.”

  “Ask him who he was cast as,” I muttered in her ear, hoping to manipulate her hold over him to score myself a little information.

  “Mmmm, and she’s feisty, too.” Mateo stepped closer, his nipples—at full attention through his shirt—brushed against her firmly crossed arms. In a low, throaty whisper he murmured, “Si es verdad que tu eres guapa. Yo te voy a poner a gozar.”

  Behind him, Mateo’s entourage of skanks exchanged knowing smiles, as if it was just a matter of time before Tandy gave in to his charms as they had. The devil would need a scarf and mittens before that happened.

  “I’m not sure we want that translation,” I cringed, thinking the absolute worst—and I’m a writer, my imagination can go some dark places.

  Her shoulders raised like a little girl with a big secret, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and venom. “I’m going to pretend he said, ‘Punch me in the throat for being a pushy D-bag.’ ”

  “Damn, girl!” Laughing, Mateo playfully stumbled back a step, hiding his smirk behind his fist. “Talkin’ like that makes me wanna put it on ya.”

  “I don’t know what you’re planning to ‘put on me,’ but you’re gonna need a ladder to reach, then a plunger to remove whatever it is from your ass. So, ya know, come prepared.” Tandy stated, picking at her cuticles to further display her disinterest in the sexually-aggressive little Cuban.

  “All right, all right.” Mateo nodded, raising his hands in defeat. “I won’t chase. I’ll wait until you’re begging for it.”

  “Absolutely, let’s see which of us begs first,” Tandy suggested, her tone dripping with disdain. “Question, is pleading for me to move the car I just backed over you with considered ‘begging for it’?”

  “Um,” I tentatively raised my hand, desperate to break into this conversation for one lone morsel of information, “before you alienate us from him completely, maybe you could find out who—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Tandy snapped. “You’re like a dog with a friggin’ bone! Mateo, since I don’t have a tranquilizer dart and she won’t shut up otherwise, what character are you playing?”

  “Rocco,” Mateo chuckled at her sudden outburst. “The stunt man and Aiden’s best friend.”

  “Rocco?” I snorted in astonishment. If this was some sort of punchline I definitely didn’t get the joke. “The seven foot tall Russian street-fighter turned stunt man? That Rocco?”

  “I guess.” Mateo lifted one steroid-enhanced shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “I told my agent I wanted to make the jump to film and she hooked me up. I didn’t read much background on the hombre I’m playin’.”

  “Background? There’s no background here,” I hissed through my teeth, my jaw clenched tight. “These are basic character traits.”

  For a flash his cocky bravado faltered, his perfectly arched brows rocketing up his bald head. “D-do you want me to call Mr. Camden?”

  Seven sets of eyes stared my way, possibly waiting for my head to explode. I fought through my fog of frustration with shaky breaths, searching for a glimmer of rational thought. Mateo had a huge fan following, he could bring bodies into the theaters. Plus, he did have the brawn to play the part. They would just need a box, or three, for him to stand on. Maybe shoot all of his close ups from the ground up.

  My mouth opened, to apologize and give my assurance that everything was fine—and they wouldn’t need a young priest and an old priest to exorcise any lingering demons out of me—when the trailer door swung open.

  In strolled what I imagine the cartoon character Rainbow Brite would look like all grown up. Bright blue hair, with peek-a-boo purple and pink ombre stripes, was pulled up into high pigtails on either side of her head. She wore a plaid, pleated skirt with a pale yellow T-shirt that read “Ironic Hipster Shirt”. Her red cat-framed glasses slid down her nose as she jerked her head to catch the tape measures slipping from around her neck.

  “Mel, have you seen Willa? I need her to try on this skirt for her opening scene as Paige,” Rainbow-hair asked, stepping up into the trailer with the white garment in question held out in front of her.

  Any other day, any other moment, and I probably wouldn’t have cast another glance at the “skirt”. Unfortunately for that unsuspecting, colorful woman, that was not any other day.

  Clearing my throat, I tried my best not to caterwaul despite my growing desire to do just that. “That microscopic skirt is for Willa Lane?”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Rainbow-hair snipped and tossed a pigtail over her shoulder.

  “She’s the author, and she’s the chick about to beat dat ass.” Mateo ducked his head, rubbing a hand over the back of h
is neck. “Just answer her,” he advised.

  “Oh,” Rainbow blanched. “Sorry. I didn’t … Yes, it’s for Willa Lane.”

  “Willa Lane,” my voice rose, my explanation morphing into a long-winded rant, “started her career as a runway model and measures in somewhere between leggy and straight-up freakishly tall. That belt you’re trying to fit her for will barely cover her woo-ha. Which would be fine if this was one of those movies where she just has to run in high heels away from a monster. However, in this particular movie she is supposed to be a professional woman that only relinquishes her by-the-balls grip on life when she falls for Aiden St. Cloud.” Snatching the garment from her hands, I held it up for everyone in the room to see, focusing my somewhat manic stare from one of them to the next. “Does this fit that character description at all to any of you? Does it?”

  An awkward silence followed. My audience members were anxious to utter even a peep, lest my fury be turned on them.

  Rainbow tentatively reached for the hanger, the challenge in my glare causing her to drop the empty hand back to her side where it was safe. “Maybe you should talk to—”

  “Let me guess, Mr. Camben?” At her nod of agreement, I pressed on. “And where would I find him?”

  “Last time I saw him he was at the Craft Service table having breakfast with the camera crew.” Side-stepping out of my way, she allowed me to burst from the trailer like a charging bull. The skirt waved over my head, acting as my own call-to-arms for a war against an unsuspecting Kole Camden.

  Chapter 3

  You would think sprinting across a movie studio, frantically waving a skirt over my head while onlookers gaped in alarmed bewildered, would have calmed my frenzy. You would be wrong. With each stomped step I rehashed the script changes, prop swaps, recasting, and inferior costuming. Or, as I now liked to refer to them, the elements that pushed me over the brink to finally achieving full-blown, bat-shit crazy status.

  “Camden! Camden!” I shouted, loud enough to strain my throat, the instant I caught a glimpse of him.

  His thumbs were looped in his front pockets, and his denim shirt rolled up his forearms. An annoyingly charming smile curled across his face as he turned my way. That lone dimple plunged deep into his cheek.

  Between heaving pants, I recited the speech I’d mentally prepared on my long journey across the excessively large lot. “Hey! I’ve got a question for you. If we hit a local bookstore we could probably find every book I’ve ever released. If you want, I could gather them all up in a big pile so you can take a shit right on them. Would you like that?”

  Kole’s eyes narrowed while his amused smile held steady, as if he was struggling to find his place in an argument I’d jumped a few chapters ahead in. “I feel like I know the right answer here, but there’s a chance this is a trick question.”

  “No, I’m serious!” I ranted, flicking a stray lock of hair from my eyes. “Because you seem so hell bent on destroying everything I’ve created, maybe we could try this method as a time saver!”

  “You know,” Kole tilted his head, his arms crossing over his chest, “after the whole pizza and beer comment I was a little worried things would be awkward between us, but I was wrong. Now it’s awkward. I see the distinction.”

  “Aubrey!” Tandy hollered, her parts jiggling enough to catch the eye of every straight man on the premises in her jog to catch up. “Let’s take a time out before you yank your earrings off and forget you’re a lady.”

  “Nah, don’t tell her that!” Mateo rushed after her, holding his baggy pants up by his belt buckle. “Tackle her to the ground, roll around a little! I’ll video it and add it to my spank bank!”

  “Ugh! Why the hell are you following me, you perverted little troll?”

  Ignoring their banter, I clasped my trembling hands in front of me and brought them to my lips. I forced myself to take a minute before I blurted something I couldn’t take back. “I mean no disrespect, truly. I’m sure Killer Robots from Outer Space, or whatever it was called, was a cinematic masterpiece. I’m just not sure your … vision is right for this film.”

  “It was the sixth in the franchise, actually. That would make it KRFOS6, by your titling.” His smile tightened around the edges, acting as the only hint of his underlying annoyance. Taking a step closer, he dropped his voice to a gruff whisper only I could hear—much to the disappointment of the crowd that had gathered. “I’ve directed Shakespeare to historic war films, and everything in between. If the content is there, I can bring it to life. Simple as that.”

  “If?” I scoffed at his audacity, and I’m not an avid scoffer. “Two hundred and six weeks on the New York Times Best Sellers list says there’s something worthwhile there.”

  “Not every person that goes to the movies is a horny housewife,” he brought one hand to the side of his mouth as if revealing a huge secret to me alone, “so we may need to broaden our appeal just a tad.”

  A colorful spew of expletives was about to purge from my lips when Duncan stepped forward, nerves having drained his complexion waxy.

  “Mr. Camden?” he cautiously interjected from a safe distance—just in case one of us started swinging. “You’re needed on set. Greyson says he’s having trouble finding his motivation for the new scene.”

  “That’s my cue. Unless there was something else, Ms. Evans?” Kole grinned, one ebony brow raising in an open dare for me to make more of a spectacle of myself.

  Oh, how I wanted to call him every name I could think of, then make up a few new ones just for fun. Instead, I rose up on my tiptoes and jabbed my index finger into the dead center of his forehead. “This is me putting a pin in our conversation. It isn’t over.”

  In a bold move, his hand encircled my wrist and he tugged me to him. His firm but gentle grasp scorched my skin. My breath caught in a hitch, his penetrating stare making my muscles weak … despite my better judgment. “I’d be deeply disappointed if it was.”

  I wanted to be outraged he had dared touch me; however, I found my attentions were fixated on his lips as they formed each word. Dropping my hand, his lashes brushed the top of his cheek in a quick, cocky wink and then he was gone. Turning on his heel, he strode off with a determined gait, leaving Duncan scrambling to keep up and me stewing in my own pressure cooker of pheromones laced with contempt.

  That same afternoon found me bellied up to a table with the Powers That Be, aka the writers. A table read—whatever that was—had proven some of the Bed and Breakfast dialogue was coming across wooden and unnatural. Rewrites became mandatory, and I was invited to speak on behalf of the characters I created. I was sauntering from the room, pleased with the changes we had made, when Duncan waved a sketch pad over his head from down the hall to get my attention.

  “Ms. Evans! Mr. Camden sent me to find you!” Duncan closed the space between us, flipping pages in the pad as he walked.

  “This should be good,” I muttered under my breath, before fixing my hospitable smile into place. “What can I help you with?”

  A few more pages rustled as Duncan searched for a page with jittery hands. “Mr. Camden had wardrobe sketch some new ideas for Paige’s wardrobe. He wanted me to get your approval on them before he okayed them for creation.”

  Turning the book right side up for me, he handed it over. A quick glance down was all it took to trigger an incessant throbbing against my temples. Struggling to keep my composure, I dragged my tongue over my top teeth. Flipping the pages, I found more of the same: high-necked collars, long-sleeved blouses, and skirts that hung to ground. If the images stopped there I may have thought the director was trying to play nice. Unfortunately, they didn’t. Each sketched model was cinched tight at the waist by a laced corset. Black leather with silver spikes. White satin with embroidered red roses and silver vining. What appeared to be red vinyl was accented by diamond-shaped cut-aways in the blouse beneath, to really show off the ample cleavage pouring from the model’s bra cups. Subtle this little dig was not.

  “Mm-hmm,
mm-hmm.” I nodded, pretending to contemplate the artwork. “I just have a couple quick notes. May I?”

  “Absolutely!” Duncan pulled a pencil from behind his ear and passed it to me, his head bobbing like a hungry chicken.

  The pencil fervently scratched over paper as I made my “notes,” my irritation evident in every vigorously stroked line or stabbed punctuation.

  “There.” I cocked my head, smiled sweetly, and handed the pad back. “Would you mind reading that back? I want to make sure my message doesn’t get lost in translation.”

  Clearing his throat, Duncan adopted the same radio-friendly tone he’d used during my interview spot. “These costumes aren’t quite right for Paige,” he read, “however I do feel these pages would be better used if Mr. Camden rolled them up tight and …”

  Trailing off, he peered up at me. The blatant fear widening his eyes reminded me of a sweet little fawn hypnotized by the high-beams of an SUV barreling straight toward it.

  “It’s okay,” I encouraged. With my index finger I pushed my drifting reading glasses further up the bridge of my nose. “I wrote it. Not you. Think of this piece of paper as a free pass.”

  He ducked his head, but not before I caught a glimpse of the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “These pages would be better used if Mr. Camden rolled them up tight and rectally pleasured himself with them,” he finished.

  Rising up on tiptoe, I laid one palm to his cheek. “That’s a good boy. Now, didn’t that feel good? Almost cathartic,” I said, giving him a comforting pat. Reveling in the moment, I ducked around him and strode toward the exit.

  “Ms. Evans?” Duncan called after me. “What’s this little drawing at the bottom? It looks like a smiley face with a dot in the middle of its forehead.”

  “Oh!” I spun around, beaming at what I viewed to be the cherry on top of my rebuttal. “That’s the most important part! Thanks for the reminder. When he sees that, tell him that this isn’t over. If you’re up for it, poke him in the forehead when you say it.”