“Word must’ve leaked,” the flippant voice says from the seat in front of me, unfazed as usual. Clifford Caldwell, powerhouse talent manager. Nothing ever seems to bother him. Believe me, I’ve tested his limits, so I know. No PR is bad PR. He’s typing away on his beloved Blackberry, attention glued to the screen, but I know he’s talking about the crowd packing the streets.
“You think?” I mutter, glancing out the window as we crawl past at a snail's pace. Despite the fact that the tinting is pitch black, making it impossible for anyone to see inside, I keep my head lowered, an old black ball cap pulled down low, the battered brim shielding my eyes.
Production is running under a fake name to keep people away, so prying eyes won’t spoil things they might see on the set, but somebody must’ve already leaked that information for so many people to show up here this morning.
“I’ll talk to them about tightening security around you,” Cliff says. “See if we can work with the location department to shake up your schedule.”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “They’ll always be a few steps ahead.”
Cliff laughs under his breath. “Your optimism is astounding.”
“Tell me about it,” a lithe voice chimes in from the seat beside me. “Something about this movie turns him into a moody prick.”
I cut my eyes at Serena as she musses her freshly dyed hair—deep brown now, instead of her usual blonde. Gotta get in character. I can sense her gaze, even though she’s wearing sunglasses. It’s a damn harsh glare. She isn’t happy with me this morning. Or any morning.
Not a morning person.
Across from her sits her long-time assistant, Amanda, ignoring us all as she busies herself filtering Serena's email, like every morning, weeding out anything that might trigger a tantrum.
“That true, Johnny?” Cliff asks. “Because as your manager, I want you to be happy, and as her manager, it’s my job to make sure her co-stars aren’t being moody pricks.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just been a long week.”
The metal barrier is moved out of the way as the limo approaches it, and we drive into the quartered off area, past a wall of security. There’s a slight commotion outside, a few fans screaming, as the limo slips past into a small alley and comes to a stop just out of view. Cliff helps Serena out, taking her hand, while I let Amanda go before stepping out of the limo.
Serena doesn’t hesitate, waltzing out of the alley and straight to the crowd, a smile suddenly plastered to her face. There are a few more screams, some shrieks as the fans freak out.
No hiding now.
I leave her to it. She loves that part and eats it right up. The limelight does her wonders—the adoring fans, the camera. Serena was always destined to be a star.
Me? I wanted to be an actor.
I head straight for the row of trailers set up along the backside of the alley, fanning out into the lot of a massive warehouse. Mostly interior shots today, with some filming in the street as they coordinated a mock explosion, according to the call sheet that Cliff shoves at me before disappearing… somewhere.
Sets are always chaos.
I’m greeted with a genuine smile as soon as I step into the first trailer. Hair & Makeup. Jazz, with her warm brown skin and bright red lips, is a welcoming sight. It’s not always easy finding a friendly face at this hour, everyone so focused on business. This trailer is the busiest, one of the biggest, half a dozen makeup artists scattered around at brightly lit stations, but I go straight to Jazz.
“Hey, superstar,” she says, patting the seat of a chair in front of a big mirror, motioning for me to sit down. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
“You always do,” I say, dropping down in the chair and taking my hat off, setting it aside before running my hands through my thick hair. It’s Jazz’s job to make me look good, and that isn’t always easy—especially when I’ve been sleeping like shit for over a week, dark bags under my bloodshot eyes.
She gets to work, doing what she does, babbling away about something. I’m vaguely listening, my mind drifting to some damn dangerous thoughts I keep having. Thoughts of a life I could’ve had but threw away like a fucking idiot. It always happens when I find myself back in New York, a magnetic pull that’s hard to ignore, but I do whatever I can to resist it.
It’s even harder this time, though.
I’m dragged back to reality when Jazz says, “So, I read something scandalous the other day.”
“One of those kinky whips and chains books?”
She laughs. “Not this time. No, I picked up a copy of Hollywood Chronicles…”
I groan, closing my eyes and leaning my head back, covering my face with my hands when she says that. I’m fucking up whatever progress she’s made in making me look human again, but I’d rather rip my own balls off and juggle them like a trained monkey than even acknowledge that piece of shit tabloid exists. They’ve been the bane of my existence for far too long, insisting on putting my face on the cover all the time.
“Why do you hate me, Jazz?” I mutter. “Please tell me you didn’t give those assholes your money.”
“What? Pfft, of course not,” she says with a laugh, snatching my hands away from my face to get back to work. “I said I picked it up, not that I bought it. I was in the checkout line at the store.”
“Yeah, well, whatever it said, I don’t want to know…”
“It said you and Miss Markson got married.”
I groan again. “I just said I didn’t want to know.”
“Well, I told you anyway,” she says. “So, what do you think about that?”
“I think you shouldn’t waste your brain cells on trashy tabloids. You’re better off sticking to the kinky books.”
She shoots me a look but drops the subject. I know what she’s asking. She's hinting around, trying to get me to spill what's been happening in my life since we filmed the last movie. She wants to know if there’s any truth to that story, but I’m not in the mood to get into it.
Once the makeup is done, I switch over to hair, before I bid Jazz goodbye and head to the wardrobe trailer to get my costume on. My stunt-double is there, already rocking the slick light blue and white suit.
I slip mine on—or well, I get shoved into it like they’re stuffing fucking sausage into its casing, the material showing every goddamn ripple, so they poke and prod and tape down and tuck. Mesh, and chrome, and layers of foam, covered in tweaked flexible material made to look like simple spandex without, you know, being spandex.
It’s as uncomfortable as you’re imagining.
“Congratulations, buddy,” my stunt-double says, slapping me on the back. “Heard you got hitched! Lucky man.”
I cringe. “Who told you that?”
“Jasmine.”
Jazz.
I’m going to strangle that woman.
It takes damn near thirty minutes to get me situated in the suit, to get my junk looking right and my muscles padded up, since I’m nowhere near superhero strong. I walk out when I’m done, running right into Serena with her assistant at her heels.
“Well, well, well,” Serena says, grinning, as she looks me over. “It’s good to see you back in that suit.”
I glance down at myself, stretching to try to loosen up the material. “I look ridiculous.”
She laughs. “You do not. You should wear it all the time. I’m talking all day, every day—even at night.”
“Keep dreaming, Ser.”