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CHAPTER 1
Stella
Idraw in a long, quivering breath, tears pooling in my eyes.
“I’ve always loved you,” I whisper to the stony face in front of me. “Can’t you see that?”
“All I see is a selfish, spoiled, daddy’s girl who’s trying too hard to be one of the boys,” comes the frigid response.
“That’s not fair, Ashton!” I beg. “I’ve proven myself on the field! I’ve trained just as hard as any one of you! I’ve given it my all!”
The casting director, a woman with an imposing presence, sets her script down on the table next to her oversized latte and turns to her counterparts, the trio nodding amongst themselves, sending a swell of confidence through my soul.
A wave of hope washes over me. They might actually like it. They might like me. I want to jump for joy, but I force myself to stay calm.
“Thank you…” She glances at my headshot, then back at me. “Stella. We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve made our final decision.”
A grin spreads across my face, fueled by a blend of relief and excitement. Straightening my shoulders, I blink back the tears I had summoned for the scene, ready to face whatever comes next.“Not to be pushy, but do you know how long it will be? I have a few other auditions lined up this week.”
My agent would kill me if she heard me right now, but I don’t care. Veronica isn’t in the room with me, and I want these people to know that I’m not sitting around waiting for callbacks.
Although, waiting for callbacks is exactly what I do in my free time—the only time I have these days. I haven’t had an acting job in months, and I’m down to the last of my savings. I really need this. Mom needs this.
The casting director smiles thinly at me through a blanket of makeup and flicks her pale eyes toward the door. “As soon as we’ve made our decision,” she repeats, her meaning undeniable:Get out.
“Right.” That means I might hear from her later today or in three weeks. Welcome to show biz. “I’ll wait for the call. Thanks for the opportunity.”
Gathering my bag, I head out of the audition room and into the shockingly cramped hallway, squeezing past a dozen other hopefuls trying out for various parts in other productions. Anchor Studios handles everything from commercials to feature films, and the flurry of actors in all shapes and sizes is nonstop, regardless of the time of day.
But despite the casting director’s coolness toward me, I feel like the audition went well. It isn’t uncommon for the higher-ups to treat actors with thinly veiled contempt. They don’t want to get our hopes up, for obvious reasons, but I won’t let that dampen my spirits. I had given it my all, and I was sure that the directors found my interpretation of the scene intriguing.
The movie isn’t destined to be a blockbuster, but no one gets their bones stepping onto the set of a goldmine. I have to earn my bones, just like every other Hollywood big name. The handful of commercials and parts I’ve done won’t cut it. But it was like Veronica has said to me a million times before, babysteps. If I want to get anywhere in this business, I have to be tenacious and patient… no matter how difficult that’s becoming after half a decade of chasing this dream.
But my bank account isn’t going to sustain this lifestyle much longer—and neither is Mom’s health.
My heeled sandal barely touches the sidewalk outside, the smoggy Los Angeles air clogging my nostrils, when my phone rings.
Excitedly, I fumble for it in the depths of my purse, my senses on high alert for the area. I’ve lived in LA long enough to know purse snatchers thrive on the distracted.
“Yo!” Chris fires off in my ear. “How’d it go?”
I clear my throat nervously. “I’ll tell you at lunch,” I promise. “Are we still on?”
“You bet your sweet ass,” she says. “Meet me at the food truck caravan in twenty.”
The call disconnects in my ear, Chris never one for saying goodbye, even when we were kids. In many ways, she reminds me of a surly old man locked in the body of a twenty-five-year-old hottie. She refuses to text, gripes about “young people,” and drives around in a fifteen-year-old Lincoln. Not that my ten-year-old Civic is much better. Maybe I’m just as old a soul as she is, deep down.
I locate my rusting pink beast at the far end of the street and drive the ten blocks to our usual meeting spot, where Chris has already found a picnic table near our favorite Mexican-infusion food truck. At this hour of the afternoon, the area is almost deserted, the lunchtime rush a distant memory and the evening crowd yet to arrive.
Contrary to her old-timer personality, Christina Legere is a beautiful woman. She belongs on the big screen, with her shimmering blonde hair and innocent azure eyes, standing at five-ten without heels. If only she had any interest in showbusiness. She is perfectly content working as a dog walker or receptionist, picking up any odd job to sustain herself with the incredible cost of living in LA. I have no idea how she does it, honestly.
“Bulgogi or gyro tacos today?” she asks as I approach.
I’m not hungry, but I don’t dare tell her that. She’s worse than a mother, and in some ways, she’s taken care of me more than my own mom, especially after mine got diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, not long after my father passed away. Chris would show up at the house with bags of groceries or cleaning supplies and ensure that both of us were set before sailing off into the sunset again. Although how Chris managed to always have money, I chose not to ask.
“Don’t you dare say you’re not hungry,” my best friend growls, reading my expression without me uttering a word.
“Gyro,” I answer quickly. “But I’ll buy.”
