A job. My jaw falls open, as my mind repeats his words over again just to ensure I heard him right. A big job! I spring from my bed and do a little dance, resisting the urge to scream. Holy crap! A feature film makeup artist job! I school my features and force myself to play it cool and collected. “Yes, I’m very interested.”
“Great. Fantastic. This email address on your Instagram account still best?”
“Yes, that works perfect.”
“Good. Sending now,” he says, and my phone buzzes with an alert. I pull it away from my ear enough to see the incoming email. “You have any questions, or decide it’s not a good fit, please let me know by tomorrow at nine. Otherwise, the job’s yours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ryan.” I want to ask him who referred me. I wonder if it was one of the techs, or if my work on set stood out to one of the producers. In this industry, it’s all about who you know, which is why I made a point to be friendly to everyone. Today’s struggling screenwriter could be tomorrow’s Spielberg.
“You have a good night.” He hangs up before I ask the question, though it doesn’t matter. Work is work, and I’m no longer looking at a month in the poor house.
Opening the email, I pull up the contract to scan the terms. The set—wow—my eyes bulge and I almost scream again. This is one of the larger ones usually reserved for films, and the pay—I blink to make sure I’m not mixing up the numbers. Holy . . . crap! Scrolling down to read the movie title, I plug it into a new web browser and when the articles populate showcasing Cora Bentley, one of the biggest female actors in Hollywood, I almost die. This gig isn’t just gonna pay my bills. This is going to be my big break.
A glimmer of hope breaks through the clouds and blooms with possibility. This is happening. All the struggle. All the doubt. The crappy days and hard work, it’ll all be worth it. My eyes sting with tears for the second time tonight. Things are finally happening. I squeal and jump off my bed to pump my fist. “Yes! Oh, my God! Yes!”
“Good news?” Jenni peeks her head in my open door.
“The best! I just got booked on a dream job.” I stop dancing but there’s no holding back the grin on my face. I swipe away a few happy tears. “Sorry!”
“Don’t apologize.” She laughs, skipping down the hallway to her bedroom. “Now we both have something to celebrate on Saturday.”
I slide onto my bed, my nightly beauty routine temporarily delayed. I’ve never been more delighted to read through the fine print of a contract. There’s no way I could sleep right now anyway. Hot damn. This week might’ve started out disastrous, but now the horizon is filled with promise.
On set: 8:00 AM.
Crap. My scrolling halts at that time. Not only because I’m not the biggest morning person. No, it’s because I need a ride, at least for a few days. Iron Maiden will still be in the shop by then, which means . . .
I have to ask Jude for a ride.
No. I could just Uber. I’ll be making good money on this job. I can afford it. But . . . I shake my head. I don’t have the freedom to throw cash around. At least not until I get my first paycheck. Maybe one of my roommates will take me? I cringe at the thought of asking anyone other than Jenni, and she has her own work to deal with.
I don’t want to ask Jude. I don’t want to be that needy woman reliant on a favor from a man to get to work. I don’t have to call him. He’d never know.
But I promised.
Ugh. Why did I do that? I’ll be riddled with my own guilt if I don’t ask him for a ride. Whatever. It’ll be a day or two at most. “Suck it up, buttercup,” I grumble to myself and pull up his contact on my phone. I decide to send a text rather than call.
Me: Looks like I’ll need that ride after all.
Jude: So what you’re saying is I’m right?
Me: Never mind.
Jude: Don’t be a poor loser. Besides, I take it this is good news?
Me: Yeah, I’ll be on set at Americana Studios. They want me there Monday morning.
Jude: That’s fantastic! Congrats.
My stomach flutters with excitement. I don’t know why his validation matters, but it does. Another smile blooms on my lips.
Me: Thank you.
Jude: What time should I pick you up?
Me: You really don’t have to do this. I’m only reaching out because I promised.
Jude: What time, sweetheart?
Does he really have to use pet names? And why do I like it so much? Ugh. He probably uses them with all women. I’ve known men like him. Privileged. Beautiful. Wealthy. A player in a well-made suit. Jude is the kind of man to make a woman feel special even when she’s just another one of many. Not like it matters, because I don’t have feelings for the man.
Liar.
Ugh. Not going there. So he rocks a suit like he’s born to wear them. That, and his smile gives me butterflies. Doesn’t matter. I didn’t come to Los Angeles for a man. He’s offering me a ride out of the goodness of his heart, and I’d be a fool to pass up the offer.
Me: Can you get here by 6:30? I need to be on set by 8.
Jude: It’d be my pleasure. Sweet dreams, beautiful.
I can almost hear him say the words in his deep timbre. Maybe his voice is scratchy with sleep. Where is he this moment? Home in his bed? Out of his suit and wearing nothing but boxers? Or maybe nothing at all. Fuck me. My eyes squeeze shut, but the image is still there. Is his chest clean-shaven
