Selena resisted rolling her eyes. She’d put in so much work for so little reason. Flying all the way out to Hawaii was pointless. They could have hit the L.A. Arboretum and shot the same commercial. There was something almost obscene about using Maui as a backdrop for a stupid commercial shoot.
She originally assumed the whole shoot was an excuse to expense out a Hawaiian vacation, but over the last couple of days, Bill had spent all his time holed up in his room, continuing to plan out the shots and blocking for the thirty-second spot like he was shooting the single most important film in all of cinematic history.
There were other holes in the vacation theory. Production staff weren’t authorized to wander too far away from the hotel, in case some sudden jolt of creative inspiration struck the director and he needed to perform some ad-hoc filming somewhere other than his current location obsession. Too bad he wouldn’t give in more to that idea.
Even their annoying puffed-up talent, Chris, seemed far less interested in exploring the beautiful island of Maui rather than complaining that Hawaii didn’t have all his favorite L.A. specialty snacks easily available. The guy acted like he would die an agonizing death if he didn’t get his hand-prepared organic gluten-free artisan pretzels from one particular shop. Of course, the stupid pretzels required a special mustard made at a different place.
Who the hell cared so much about pretzels? Selena was beginning to think she preferred some of the deadly animals in the nature documentary shoots. No bear or lion ever complained about their meal having to come from a specific store. They ate what was available. Though, technically, it was mostly organic and locally sourced.
Chris lifted a water bottle out of an ice bucket sitting on the table. He looked it up and down carefully before handing it to the closest assistant to open with a snap of his fingers. The nervous-looking recipient twisted off the top before handing it back to the star who took a careful sip and looked disappointed.
It was hard not to laugh at the ridiculous man. He thought he was some sort of god, and not a pathetic nitwit coasting by on fading decent looks and luck. In ten years, he’d probably be on some sad reality show focused on stars with dead careers, talking about how he’d been wronged by Hollywood.
Selena didn’t see the big deal about Chris Silvers. His face was okay, but his blond mop and smooth features made him a clone of a dozen other on-the-move actors out there, most of who were far more talented. She also liked her men tall, big, and muscular, not pretty boys, especially asshole pretty boys who wouldn’t open their own water bottles.
Chris sipped at his water, a bored look on his face. “All that location stuff is important, but did you get my pretzels and mustard yet, Selena?”
She had never understood the phrase punchable face until that exact moment. The guy wasn’t a brilliant thespian with decades of experience on stage and screen. His main claim to fame was a modestly successful premium cable dark comedy series, Flaming Hot. She didn’t think playing a nymphomaniac alcoholic firefighter made the guy a master of stage and screen.
Her review of a couple of episodes in conjunction with meeting Chris confirmed two things to Selena. First, the show was only successful because of the brilliant supporting cast. Everyone else on the show could outact Chris, and she didn’t get why he was headlining. Second, Chris Silvers obviously used a body double for sex scenes. There was no way the nice butt on the show belonged to him.
Sure, she hadn’t seen the offending questionable butt directly yet for comparison purposes, but it was obvious from his tight pants that the muscular ass on the show was a fraud. That probably wasn’t the only part of him that was a disappointment, but she prayed she would never be in a position to find out.
Selena shivered at the thought and managed not to roll her eyes at the butt fraud. “The shop is out of mustard and won’t have any more until the weekend, but some of your stu… your pretzels will be coming in tonight. I don’t know if you understand the difficulties in getting pretzels made by a specific shop in L.A. over to Hawaii without it costing an arm and a leg. You might want to adjust your expectations given our limited time frame.”
Another woman at the table winced. A man facepalmed and shook his head. Bill watched impassively.
That was a good sign. She’d expected the director to shut her down, but he must have been as sick of Chris’s prima donna act as she was, or it didn’t fit in with the artistic vision for the commercial.
Selena refused to back down. She wasn’t going to get fired over mustard and pretzels. If she let one pampered asshole walk all over her, it would never end for the rest of her career. She needed to establish a mutual respect.
“I don’t need to understand the difficulty,” Chris said, his voice full of venom. He slammed his water bottle down, splashing some of the precious liquid onto the table. “My rider for this commercial specifies that I’ll be provided with ‘any and all reasonable food and drink requests, including my foods normally consumed on a weekly basis.’” His nostrils flared. “I’m not asking for pho straight on a rocket from Vietnam. What the hell is wrong with you?” He flicked his wrist dismissively at her. “I’m already regretting doing this commercial. I was assured that I wouldn’t need my personal assistant on the shoot and that I would be provided with all the
