Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(4)
Why on God’s green earth did I agree to this?
It doesn’t matter that they personally invited me for the audition, flew me from Nashville to LA courtesy of a private jet, put me up for a swanky stay at the Beverly Wilshire, preordered an over-the-top room service breakfast, and arranged this smooth limo ride through LA traffic—it doesn’t matter how much they try to convince me this is where I belong.
I’m a pond fish, taken way out of its little body of water and dropped into high seas in the middle of the ocean. The last twenty-four hours have been filled with the kind of luxury I never knew existed when I was a fifteen-year-old girl living in my granny’s small house in the mountains of West Virginia. My success in country music over the last nearly seven years has thrust me into plenty of rich circles, but I’m still the same twang-talking, simple girl I always was. And quite frankly, I always will be.
The thought of upending that—of squeezing myself into a lifestyle I’m not fully equipped to take on—downright terrifies me.
Billie’s found her place here with Luca, working toward her goal of becoming a Hollywood producer, but she’s had her fair share of bumps in the road. Not to mention, happy in Hollywood is not the norm. All I have to do is look to my friend Raquel to know that this place has the power to eat you alive.
I moved to Nashville at twenty-one. It’s what I know. It’s where I’m comfortable.
What in the hell made me even consider setting my sweet, seaworthy, dependable boat to rocking?
My final destination, Capo Brothers Studios, juts into the palm-tree-dotted blue sky out the window of the limo, and my heart skips a beat.
It’s really happening. I’m really entertaining the idea of taking on an acting gig. For an actual movie. That people will watch.
Gah. Do not vomit in this limo, Birdie.
I wonder if the driver will think it’s weird if I put my head between my knees and pass out for a little bit. Just, like, a couple minutes, tops. I’ll even try really hard not to pee myself when I do it. No one likes cleaning up other people’s bodily fluids, and I don’t want to be a total imposition.
My palms turn sweaty, overwhelming nerves and anxiety taking over my pulse and raising it to an outrageous rate.
Good God, what am I doing here? I’m not a freaking actress!
The driver looks at me over his shoulder. “Shall I get the door for you, ma’am?”
Right. Normally, people get out of the car when they get to where they’re going.
“Uh…” Crickets and crawdads, I’m not ready. “Can you give me a few minutes to make a quick phone call?”
“Of course,” he says, nodding and kindly pushing a button to make the privacy glass rise between us.
With shaky hands, I pull my phone out of my purse and call the person responsible for dragging me into this mess.
My sister answers on the second ring.
“I hate you so much right now,” I say, skipping over a friendly greeting and getting straight to the point. “I can’t do this, Billie! What were you thinking, having Luca suggest me for this role?”
After being MIA from Hollywood for eight years, Luca made a huge comeback, and now, everyone and their brother wants to work with him. And apparently, not only do they want to work with him, but they take his suggestions as gospel.
So, when he recommended me for the role of Arizona Lee to Howie King—who’s not only the screenwriter and director of this project but Luca’s personal friend—that recommendation turned into an actual audition.
“Just calm down and relax, for fuck’s sake. And I told Luca you’d be perfect for this part because you are.” I roll my eyes. “It was basically made for you, Birdie. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. You’re going to do fantastic.”
Grass Roots—the movie that brought me here and has been building buzz within Hollywood since the studio gave the project the green light—is about Arizona Lee, a twentysomething girl whose talented voice is discovered by a famous country music singer by the name of Cal Loggins. They fall in love, and a tumultuous romance ensues. According to my manager Neil, every role has been filled except for the part I’m auditioning for—Arizona Lee. I’ve heard more than a little speculation that that’s because she is me. Or I am her. And no one in the entire world would be as good a fit for bringing her to life as I would.
You’d think that would be a good thing, but in reality, I feel like a lowly vegetable, helpless inside the pressure cooker of expectation.
“Oh yeah, real fucking fantastic.” I shut my eyes and shove my head back into the leather headrest on a sigh. “What in the hell was I thinking when I let you and Neil talk to me into this? I can’t act, Billie!”
Why on earth didn’t I at least try to get some damn acting lessons over the past three months or something? Take some kind of action toward improving my skill level rather than spending all my time freaking out? Cripes, I’m a regular asshole. A real damsel in distress ditsy dame. I am the woman in the scary movie who thinks it’s a good idea to try to hide in the freaking house!
“Man, I thought we already discussed this at lunch with Rocky, but I should’ve known better.” A soft laugh bounces around in the speaker of my phone. “Stop worrying about the acting stuff. That’s what an acting coach is for, sweetie. And if they think you’re the right fit for the part, they’ll get you one.”