Chase Me (Broke and Beautiful #1)(6)

“You saw it, too?” Roxy asked casually.

“Maybe.”

They both sprinted for the door, ignoring the outraged clerk. Apparently not paying for your web surfing time was frowned upon in this Internet café. Roxy didn’t have time for rules, though. Not with the mother of all bargains on the line. With her new semi-dependable job humiliating herself, she could easily afford this place. Screw that, she’d have cash to spare, for the first time, well, ever. Acting classes would stop being an unreachable dream and become a reality.

Roxy zigzagged between a crew of delivery men unloading crates from a truck, then leapt over a poodle doing its business. Beside her, pink bandana huffed and puffed. “It’s probably already gone by now,” she said. “We’ll never make it.”

“Speak for yourself.” With that, Roxy hip-checked her competitor into a group of bushes. “Nothing personal!”

“Bitch!”

Comfortable with the insult, Roxy merely picked up her pace, ever-present heels striking the pavement with a succession of clicks. Three more blocks. She ran one block, then skidded to a halt at the stoplight. No. Cameras, white trailers, and giant spotlights everywhere. A quick glance up the block told her a movie was being filmed. The familiar scene of production assistants talking into earpieces usually comforted her, but today it was only thwarting her chances of landing a cheap place to lay her head. By tonight, she could be homeless, and the only thing standing between her and 110 Ninth Avenue was this movie shoot with . . . was that Liam Neeson? Huh. He’s actually pretty tall.

A group of extras caught her eye. They were being held back by a PA with a walkie-talkie up to his mouth. Roxy could tell from the group’s body language that they were getting ready to enter the shot. Just waiting for the signal. She flipped her hair once, then slipped across the intersection. When the PA turned his back, she inserted herself into the group of extras, smiling brightly when one of them gave her a curious look.

“When’s lunch, right?” she whispered. “I’m starving.”

“Uh, yeah. We just had lunch.”

“Oh, shut it.”

The PA waved his hand at them. “Action.”

At once, the extras started screaming and ducking as they moved along the sidewalk. Jesus, she should have known it was a f*cking action movie with Liam Neeson involved. With a lack of hesitation worthy of an advanced improv group, Roxy let out a shrill scream and tore at her hair, moving as one with the rest of the actors, even tripping once for added effect. Unlike them, however, when they reached the end of the shot, she kept running, right off the movie set. Straight toward 110 Ninth Avenue.

Another block of sprinting and she could see it. The building was located on a corner, increasing the likelihood that the bedroom had a window. Blisters be damned, she kicked her sprint into high gear. Three college-age girls reached the steps of the building at the same time as her. Briefly, she considered going with another hip-check to knock them out of the running, but she decided physical assault was only acceptable once per day.

Instead, she blocked their progress on the steps and pointed across the street with a gasp. “Oh, my God! Look! It’s James Franco.”

God bless them, they all looked. Roxy didn’t waste a second laughing, though, instead trucking her way up the final steps and hitting the buzzer for apartment 4D. A tinny noise filled the vestibule a moment later, and she pushed open the door with a cry of victory. One James Franco enthusiast tried to catch the door before it closed, but Roxy pulled it shut just in time.

“Bitch!”

“Yeah, I’m getting that more than usual today,” she called back through the glass, turning toward the stairs. “Hopefully I’ll be a bitch with a two-hundred-dollar rent, though. Wish me luck.”

When she reached the fourth floor, she saw that the door leading to apartment 4D was slightly ajar. A sinking feeling hit her in the stomach when she heard female voices coming from within. Too late. She was too late. Unless she could convince Crazy Pants she was the better candidate than the person who’d beat her to the punch. Fat chance, especially if she required a credit check. Or a deposit. Shit, she hadn’t really thought past getting here, had she? The twenty she’d snaked from Louis McNally the Second yesterday was all she had in her pocket. All she had to her name, actually. Ignoring the sliver of warmth in her belly at the thought of the shirtless kisser-of-the-century, Roxy entered the apartment sporting the biggest smile she could muster.

Two girls turned to look at her, their conversation grinding to a halt. A pretty blonde in Converses and a ratty jean skirt stood on one side of an antique dining room table. On the other side stood a brunette with a deer-in-the-headlights look. She wore a navy pantsuit that probably cost more than Roxy’s entire wardrobe. It had to be Crazy Pants. Roxy would bet . . . twenty bucks on it.

“Afternoon, ladies.”

“Hey,” said Converse, with a distinct Southern twang.

“Good afternoon,” Crazy Pants answered. “I assume you’re here about one of the rooms.”

“Rooms?” Roxy’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Plural?”

“Two. There’s two.” CP crossed the room to look out a massive window overlooking Ninth Avenue. She started wringing her hands, possibly because she’d spotted the gathering mob outside the building. As if on cue, the apartment’s buzzer went off three quick times. “In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have included my address in the ad. There should have been some kind of pre-screening involved. I’ve just . . . I’ve never done this kind of thing.”