"They ... uh ... well, they laughed at me."
Of course they did. She's pretty, blonde, and polite. The macho pinheads who run the rigging clearly need a petite blonde bitch to sort them out.
"Okay, Ainsly. I'll handle it. Where's James?"
"Not sure. I saw him talking to the publicist about red carpet arrivals about an hour ago but haven't seen him since."
James is the new assistant stage manager I hired when my best friend abandoned me, and although he talks a good game, I've barely seen him all morning. I have no idea what he's doing, but I'm damn sure he's doing it half as efficiently as Josh would have.
"Fine," I say, as I make a mental note to add James to the list of people I want to assault. "Get those dressing rooms finished, okay? Can't have the biggest A-list celebrities in Hollywood dealing with dirt and grime like normal people."
"Yes, Miss Holt."
I sigh and rub my eyes as she disappears into the throng of people bustling around backstage.
Tonight is the inaugural celebrity benefit concert for Liam's dyslexia charity, The James Quinn Foundation, and not only is Liam overseas filming in Mongolia of all places, I'm having to cope with a super tight production schedule in an unfamiliar theater without my right-hand man. I haven't had to deal with this kind of pressure without Josh for so long, I'd forgotten how much I hate it.
I shoot off a quick text. <You suck, Kane. You know that, right?>
Then another. <These L.A. people don't know enough about me to be afraid. They're inefficient and disrespectful. Not. Cool.>
After a few seconds, my phone vibrates with a response. <Then school them. You're Elissa Fucking Holt. Make them remember that name.>
I roll my eyes. Sure. Like that's easy to do. I've spent my whole career in New York, building relationships and training crews. Here in L.A. I'm just some bossy blonde chick from Broadway.
I tap out another text. <Can't believe you'd rather be with Angel in Australia instead of overworked & underpaid with me. That's hurtful, Joshua. You promised our friendship wouldn't change when you left NY. Liar.>
My phone buzzes. <Stop whining and get to work. All those spoiled stars aren't going to rehearse themselves.>
Even though Josh has been living with Angel in L.A. for a while now, he recently chose to go on location with her for a few months so they could pat koalas or whatever when Angel’s not filming. Talk about selfish. Just when I need him the most.
I stride across the stage, careful to avoid half-constructed set pieces and low-hanging lighting bars as I approach the group of burly men chatting and laughing near the fly ropes.
"Gentlemen, I need this stage cleared in five minutes."
The largest of the men gives me a cursory nod. "Yeah, yeah, sweetheart. Keep your panties on."
I stop dead. Oh, no he didn't.
"What did you just say to me?"
He turns and gives me a more thorough assessment, and this time his gaze lingers on my boobs long enough for me to imagine flaying him alive before burning his carcass.
"I said, we'll get to it when we get to it." He sneers. "Now run along and yap at someone else, short stuff."
I plaster on my sweetest smile to hide the hot anger crawling up my neck. "Oh, I see. Sorry to have bothered you. By the way, what's your name, big guy?"
His demeanor changes to one of outright lechery. "It's Tom, babe. As in Tom Cat." He links his thumbs through his belt loops in a way that screams, ME MAN. HAVE PENIS. WOMAN BE IMPRESSED NOW.
I laugh. "Well, that's just perfect." I beckon him closer and lower my voice. "So, let me tell you how this is going to go, Tom Cat. You're going to apologize to me for being a nauseating chauvinist douche, right before you get your crew to clear this stage. Then, you'll set those lighting bars in record time, because if you don't, not only are you going to be fired and blacklisted by every single theatrical producer I know, and believe me, I know a lot, I'm also going to tear off your puny, shriveled balls and use them as the centerpiece in the finale. Are you feeling me, sport?"
Tom's eyes glaze over in anger, and I have a strong feeling this guy has definite erectile issues. "Now, you listen here, missy—"
"No, Tom, you shut your Neanderthal mouth and listen to me. As far as you're concerned, this theater is the Sacred Church of the Kickass Bitch, and I am your Goddess, so you have three seconds to do exactly as you're told or face my unholy wrath. It's your choice."
He gives me a final glare before turning back to his men. "Fuck you, lady."
"Suit yourself."