Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(81)

“She was nervous. Skittish. I don’t need another Summer, who will require a pep talk. I want a girl who wants to be seen.” He reclined in the seat and rested his boot on the table’s axle. “Half the girls on this campus dance topless at house parties on the weekend. Let’s find them and get this done.” There was a large whoop from outside the trailer, and Justin stepped back inside, a smile on his face.

“Girls are doing body shots off the radio station van.”

“See?” Cole spread his hands and leaned back in the chair. “Easy.” Maybe Summer was right. Maybe he would lose the bet after all. Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe, with a different girl under his hands, he’d finally get her out from under his skin.

The door opened, a fresh blonde walking in, and he turned, his eyes locking with hers. She grinned, and confidence, with this one, wouldn’t be a problem.





CHAPTER 88


This was a stupid stupid stupid idea of mine. Especially because, riding back to Quincy, I was stuck in the far back of the truck, listening to a twenty-two-year-old girl prattle on about Emma Stone as if anyone gave two craps. Apparently Emma Stone was Carly’s favorite actress. And she saw that movie that Emma and Cole were in together—you know, the one with the theme park killer? And she loved it. And she really really really thought that Emma Stone and Cole should do something else together. A love story. And she wanted to know if Emma Stone was as sweet in person—KILL ME NOW. Seriously. I just wanted them to pull this car over, let me hop out into the street, and then just plow me down. Cole would probably enjoy it. And I could finally end the torture of listening to this woman.

She had a tattoo on the back of her neck. I would have pointed it out to someone, but that would have lost me my bet and—thirty minutes earlier—I was so excited about winning that I overlooked the little discrepancies that made her different than me. Like her chest, which was definitely bigger. And the belly button ring, sparkling out from the bottom edge of her shirt. Ida Pinkerton would not have a tattoo or a belly button ring. The tattoo was of a dove. Why would someone want a dove permanently etched on the back of their neck? Or anywhere else for that matter.

When I was fourteen, I’d wanted a tattoo. Had big plans for my eighteenth birthday: the Chinese symbol for grace tattooed along my ribs. Because, yeah, what was more graceful than a country hillbilly with a rib tattoo? Thank God that I outgrew that phase. Otherwise I’d have nothing to sit back here and mentally trash talk about. I sighed and settled deeper into the tiny third row. Tattoo and belly ring aside, the girl was perfect. Ridiculously perfect. I peeked at the photos they shot of her. Photos where she was butt naked and smiling sunnily into the camera, not an ounce of insecurity on that face. Nothing like me, my sniffling, baby self, curled into a ball on my trailer’s couch. Lord, I must have looked dumb. I was surprised that Cole did all this, allowed all this. I was surprised he didn’t just laugh at me and tell me to toughen up. That was probably what I would have done to a girl wasting everyone’s time and money.

I looked up front and saw him watching me. He glanced away, and I looked down. I felt sick. It was probably from riding in the back.





CHAPTER 89


It turned out that sex scenes have rehearsals just like a traditional scene. That would have been a good thing to know when I was in a stage three panic. It might have calmed my nerves to understand that Cole and I would walk through the scene fully clothed, just to understand what was happening, which cameras would be where, what would be said when. Also, instead of the camera operator right there by the bed, they were using the remotely operated cameraheads. Meaning there was some illusion of privacy. Unlike our kissing and office scenes, there wouldn’t be someone right there looking between my legs.

We were on the fourth set, which was supposed to be Royce’s bedroom. It was the ugliest bedroom I’d ever seen, but I guess, back in the thirties, that was what you got. Dark green carpet, horribly wallpapered walls, and a plaid bedspread: that was the décor a bachelor had. Not exactly the sleek Mad Men look I was expecting, but that was why these guys made the big bucks, and I watched YouTube videos on scrapbooking.

I’d also been wrong about the lights. I’d pictured the huge bright spotlights that we’d filmed under. But here, on this set, it seemed almost dim. And instead of five cameras, there were only two. Much more manageable. There was also no crowd of people. The grips and caterers and production assistants upon production assistants all gone, there were only six of us and—in the big room—it felt almost empty. It felt almost, with the dim lights, intimate. And that, for some reason, bugged me. It shouldn’t have. I wasn’t the one on the bed. Carly was. She was the one who’d been giggling like a banshee, even though Don had asked her twice to be serious. And she was the one on her back, naked as the day she was born—no pasties for her—her back arched off the mattress as Cole ran his lips down the center line of her stomach, one of his hands moving up one thigh. My stomach flipped in an unnatural way and I turned away from the bed, my hands shaking as I pushed my hair away from my face.

I felt a silent hand at my back and turned my head, careful not to look at the bed, wanting to cover my ears and drown out the sounds of Carly. “It’s not that bad,” Eileen whispered, her mouth close to my ear. “I promise, your part will be easy.”