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Just a few more feet.
Finally, her hand gripped the door, and she yanked it open with enough force to have it hit the wall with a loud bang. Her heart was too heavy to cringe at the unexpected clamor. Michaela walked down the long hallway past the line of girls with nerves in their bellies and hope in their eyes. Same as she’d had ten minutes ago.
How many of these girls would walk out of that room with shattered dreams and demolished self-esteem? All? Some? Only her?
As she emerged into the heat of the California sun, the weight of despair sat heavily on her chest. The idea of climbing onto a stifling LA city bus and returning to her depressing shoebox of an apartment made her nauseous, so she turned in the opposite direction of the bus stop and walked.
And walked.
And walked.
Michaela strolled through the city until her feet blistered and her calves cramped.
What was she supposed to do now? Continue working hours upon hours serving coffee to ungrateful tourists? Tuck her tail between her legs and return to West Virginia? God, the thought of it had her wanting to grip her hair and scream at the top of her lungs. Small-town life wasn’t for her. After eighteen years of living it, she could say that with certainty. Her heart wanted more, bigger, grander. She wanted the world to know she was so much more than a penniless girl from West Virginia whose family had never amounted to anything. Not a single person in her family had ever left their town. Every relative as far back as she knew had lived and died in the same town. It hadn’t been enough for Michaela’s mother, but she’d been too afraid to take a chance. Now she never could. Michaela vowed she wouldn’t reach the end of her life with more regrets than accomplishments.
After hours of aimless wandering, she found herself on Hollywood Boulevard surrounded by tourists squatting next to the stars and taking hundreds of selfies. Their smiling faces and undisguised delight reminded her of herself just yesterday. Oddly enough, it seemed like years since she’d shared their wonder and awe though it had been less than twenty-four hours.
With an audible sigh and throbbing feet, Michaela stared down at the ground in front of her.
“Meryl Streep,” she whispered aloud as she gazed in reverence at the pink star at her feet.
A laugh bubbled up from her gut, pouring out into the air. A few of the sightseers glanced her way with scrunched brows before returning to their business.
Meryl Streep? Of all the places she could have ended up, Meryl Streep’s star it was.
Michaela’s lips curled in a genuine smile. This had to be a sign.
Early in her career, many told this multi-award-winning actress she’d never amount to anything in the film world because she wasn’t attractive enough. And look at her now. She sure as hell showed all the ignorant chauvinists who judged her.
What’s to keep you from doing the same?
Nothing. Not one damned thing.
Michaela straightened her shoulders.
Screw that casting director.
Screw the rest of those uppity jerks peering down their noses at her.
She’d show them. She’d show everyone.
She laughed again, longer and louder this time, drawing the attention of dozens of tourists. Let them look. She’d need to get used to people gawking at her as she walked down the street.
Michaela Hudson was going to be a star.
CHAPTER ONE
TEN YEARS LATER
“SCARLETT, HEY SCARLETT. You gotta get up!” A voice whisper-yelled into the darkness as a hand shook her shoulder, making her brain rattle around painfully in her skull.
Michaela blinked, then groaned. “Fuck, stop!” Even after all these years of going by her stage name, her mind reacted with confusion to being called Scarlett first thing in the morning. The stage name had been her talent agent’s idea after a series of crushing rejections early on. A name change and colored contacts, professional hair bleaching, shedding twenty pounds, and speech training to rid herself of the southern accent. He claimed the stage name gave her an allure of mystery.
Or some bullshit like that.
Sprawled on her stomach, Michaela lifted her head. “Becca?” she croaked. God, her throat felt dry as the freakin’ Sahara. “Why are you here? Why am I on my couch?”
“Because you needed to be up about twenty minutes ago,” her personal assistant whispered.
“The fuck?” she asked. “Why?”
“God, Scarlett, you’re really out of it this morning. Today is the first day where you’re filming the battle scene through sunrise. Remember? You’ve got a four thirty call time for the next five days. You’re due on set in an hour, and based on the look of things, you’re gonna need at least that long in hair and makeup.”
“Oh, shit,” Michaela said on a long groan. Now that she’d officially been awake for a few moments, unpleasant sensations bombarded her from all angles. Her head throbbed like a bongo drummer was whacking on it, her tongue felt like a dried-out slug, and someone might have actually rubbed her eyeballs with sandpaper before she’d passed out.
