Job. I’m here to work. Not flirt with the hot guy. I need to focus and perform well if I ever want to land another one.
Sure, this job’s for a cheesy glam metal video for a band I’ve never even heard of. But everyone has to start somewhere. Even me. The sheltered and protected daughter of a criminal.
Until his credit card schemes caught up to him, my father ruled my life with an iron fist. Almost never allowing me out of his sight, except to attend classes at the nearby community college. Out of everyone in my graduating class at the exclusive high school I attended, I was the only one who ended up at Bright Point Community College. So I could remain at home.
One would expect a man so determined to keep me pure and uncorrupted to make contingencies for his beloved daughter while he’s busy hanging out at Club Fed.
I can only imagine the nasty battle that’s probably happening right now back home to see who will take my father’s place. Thank God I escaped to the other side of the country where I won’t have to be a pawn in that bloody game.
“Mallory! Purse your lips and run your hands through your hair again,” the director yells.
The band chuckles. As far as I can tell, they haven’t done much but stand around looking bored all afternoon. Haven’t seen them touch an instrument yet. One of them whispers a few words while staring at me. Probably something crude if the way his buddies are all laughing is any indication.
Criminals or rockers, men are all the same.
The serious one catches my eye again. Compared to his friends, heck, compared to most people, he’s way more heavily muscled and tattooed. His ink doesn’t shock me though. In fact, I can’t pinpoint what it is about him that sends both a thrill of excitement and a lick of fear through me.
“Okay, Jacob. Time for your scene with hot girl,” the director says.
Great, now I’ve been reduced to “hot girl.”
Jacob almost seems apologetic as he approaches me. Not for the first time this afternoon, I wish someone had given me a script, so I knew what to expect. I may be new at this, but isn’t a script a major part of any acting job? I’d been so excited and grateful for the part that I hadn’t wanted to press for details.
Now I wish I had, because for some unfathomable reason, the script everyone—except me—has, calls for me to make out with the lead singer.
Um. Yeah.
It’s not that he’s bad looking—he’s not. But I’m in no way attracted to him. How could I be attracted to anyone in this ridiculous situation?
Except hot-muscled-inked-guy. Now him? If the script called for us to make out…
Woo! I have to fan myself.
Jacob attempts to put me at ease before jamming his tongue down my throat and slobbering all over my neck. I’m so tense and freaked out we have to repeat the shot a number of times.
That’s a lot of slobber to put up with.
After the third take, Jacob asks with an incredulous, but not cruel, expression, “Are you new at this, sweetheart?”
The lie rolls off my tongue easily. “No.”
Maybe I won’t be such a bad actress after all.
The absolute worst part, the part no one—not my agent, not the director, no one—warned me about comes last.
One of the director’s assistants unravels a long, thick hose onto the stage and positions the band in a line.
“What are they doing?” I ask the director.
“Nothing. This is the last take, don’t sweat it.” He dismisses my concern.
Don’t sweat it?
“Try to look sexy, Mallory. Pretend you’re home alone masturbating to pictures of Christian Slater.”
Eww. What a pig.
When he’s apparently satisfied I look horny enough, he signals someone offset with a flick of his hand. Understanding hits me too late. There’s no time to brace myself before I’m knocked back by a painful wall of ice-cold water pummeling my chest. Icy drops splash up my nose. Opening my mouth to scream is a mistake. I choke and sputter. The wall of water moves down my body, numbing my skin, plastering the already tiny wardrobe to my body. In seconds, they’ve soaked me, creating a sticky mess of my shellacked hair and perfectly made-up face.
My porn star pout might have been fake.
But my tears are real.
Chapter Two
Life changing events rarely announce themselves. More often, they slip into your world without warning and shred everything to pieces.
This video is supposed to be a game changer for my band.
Unfortunately, the headache to end all headaches has been fucking with me all day. Between the ridiculous strobe lights and cheesy video concept for a song I already hate, I’m ready to quit, hop on my bike and ride the three thousand miles home. This is supposed to be our big break. I should be more excited. Our manager assured us this video will be in heavy rotation on MTV. What she promised in order to secure that favor, I have no idea.
My bandmates are equally annoyed. They’re just better at hiding it. Growing up in an outlaw motorcycle club the way I did, concealing my irritation isn’t something I ever bothered to learn.
A few minutes later, when the “actress”—hired to play I’m not sure what in the video—steps onto the set, I’ve got a whole new problem.
She’s half-naked. Not uncommon in Hollywood. The odd part is how uncomfortable she looks in her own skin. Especially when you take into account that she’s set-my-blood-on-fire hot. Not your typical bleached stripper look most chicks seem to sport in California. White blonde hair down to her ass, lightly tanned skin and a decent-sized rack. Like a curvier version of the skinny blonde chick on Dynasty. I’d been jerking off to posters of that actress for years. And here’s my very own version.
So my new problem involves my dick getting way too excited for the tight leather pants the wardrobe person squeezed me into.
I haven’t gotten laid since I returned to L.A. Obviously, I need to fix that. Blondie’s exactly my type.
Watching her make out session with my friend Jacob, pisses me off. It’s a ridiculous reaction since I haven’t even talked to the chick yet. But there it is.
After we soak her with the firehose—and I’d love to know who came up with that bit of phallic symbolism, because I certainly didn’t vote in favor of it—she runs off the set, before I have a chance to sexually harass her properly.
I’m thwarted again by the director’s assistant. “Good job, guys. I’ll just need you back at noon tomorrow, so he can film you with your instruments.”
“What the fuck? Why didn’t he get those shots today?” I snarl at her, and she backs up a few steps.
“We only had the model booked for one day and needed to get all her shots in.”
Our singer, Jacob, steps up and glares down at her. “That’s totally bogus.”
“Take it up with your manager.” She snaps her gum at us, spins around, and hurries away.
We stand around complaining, and it doesn’t escape my notice that blondie hasn’t emerged from her dressing room.
As casually as possible, I step away from the guys and go knock on the door. By dressing room, I mean the closet someone threw a desk, lamp, mirror and chair in. There’s no window she could have crawled out of.
Faint sniffling reaches me, and I push the door open.