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I cut my eyes at Serena as she musses her freshly dyed hair—deep brown now, instead of her usual blonde. Gotta get in character. I can sense her gaze, even though she’s wearing sunglasses. It’s a damn harsh glare. She isn’t happy with me this morning. Or any morning.
Not a morning person.
Across from her sits her long-time assistant, Amanda, ignoring us all as she busies herself filtering Serena's email, like every morning, weeding out anything that might trigger a tantrum.
“That true, Johnny?” Cliff asks. “Because as your manager, I want you to be happy, and as her manager, it’s my job to make sure her co-stars aren’t being moody pricks.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just been a long week.”
The metal barrier is moved out of the way as the limo approaches it, and we drive into the quartered off area, past a wall of security. There’s a slight commotion outside, a few fans screaming, as the limo slips past into a small alley and comes to a stop just out of view. Cliff helps Serena out, taking her hand, while I let Amanda go before stepping out of the limo.
Serena doesn’t hesitate, waltzing out of the alley and straight to the crowd, a smile suddenly plastered to her face. There are a few more screams, some shrieks as the fans freak out.
No hiding now.
I leave her to it. She loves that part and eats it right up. The limelight does her wonders—the adoring fans, the camera. Serena was always destined to be a star.
Me? I wanted to be an actor.
I head straight for the row of trailers set up along the backside of the alley, fanning out into the lot of a massive warehouse. Mostly interior shots today, with some filming in the street as they coordinated a mock explosion, according to the call sheet that Cliff shoves at me before disappearing… somewhere.
Sets are always chaos.
I’m greeted with a genuine smile as soon as I step into the first trailer. Hair & Makeup. Jazz, with her warm brown skin and bright red lips, is a welcoming sight. It’s not always easy finding a friendly face at this hour, everyone so focused on business. This trailer is the busiest, one of the biggest, half a dozen makeup artists scattered around at brightly lit stations, but I go straight to Jazz.
“Hey, superstar,” she says, patting the seat of a chair in front of a big mirror, motioning for me to sit down. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
“You always do,” I say, dropping down in the chair and taking my hat off, setting it aside before running my hands through my thick hair. It’s Jazz’s job to make me look good, and that isn’t always easy—especially when I’ve been sleeping like shit for over a week, dark bags under my bloodshot eyes.
She gets to work, doing what she does, babbling away about something. I’m vaguely listening, my mind drifting to some damn dangerous thoughts I keep having. Thoughts of a life I could’ve had but threw away like a fucking idiot. It always happens when I find myself back in New York, a magnetic pull that’s hard to ignore, but I do whatever I can to resist it.
It’s even harder this time, though.
I’m dragged back to reality when Jazz says, “So, I read something scandalous the other day.”
“One of those kinky whips and chains books?”
She laughs. “Not this time. No, I picked up a copy of Hollywood Chronicles…”
I groan, closing my eyes and leaning my head back, covering my face with my hands when she says that. I’m fucking up whatever progress she’s made in making me look human again, but I’d rather rip my own balls off and juggle them like a trained monkey than even acknowledge that piece of shit tabloid exists. They’ve been the bane of my existence for far too long, insisting on putting my face on the cover all the time.
“Why do you hate me, Jazz?” I mutter. “Please tell me you didn’t give those assholes your money.”
“What? Pfft, of course not,” she says with a laugh, snatching my hands away from my face to get back to work. “I said I picked it up, not that I bought it. I was in the checkout line at the store.”
“Yeah, well, whatever it said, I don’t want to know…”
“It said you and Miss Markson got married.”
I groan again. “I just said I didn’t want to know.”
“Well, I told you anyway,” she says. “So, what do you think about that?”
“I think you shouldn’t waste your brain cells on trashy tabloids. You’re better off sticking to the kinky books.”
She shoots me a look but drops the subject. I know what she’s asking. She's hinting around, trying to get me to spill what's been happening in my life since we filmed the last movie. She wants to know if there’s any truth to that story, but I’m not in the mood to get into it.
