The Role Read online

  “Sir? We’re here. Let me get your bags.” The driver interrupted my depressing line of thinking with his pleasant Southern accent. I got the feeling that he’d been trying to get my attention for a while and felt a momentary stab of guilt.

  “Thanks, man. Listen, can you stick around for maybe fifteen minutes? I can check in and drop off my bags, then you could take me to the set?”

  The driver frowned at me, probably having trouble deciphering my accent, which always got thicker when I hit peak exhaustion, and even I could hear the slight slur in my words.

  “Sure, not a problem,” he said. “Uh, if it’s not too much trouble, do you think I could get a photo with you for my niece? Big fan of yours, Mr. Shellenberg.”

  “Yeah, when I get back down. You want a coffee or anything while I’m in there?”

  “That would be great, but don’t put yourself out. I’ll still be here.”

  I nodded, told him I didn’t need a hand with my bags and slid out of the car. Sunglasses back on, I stumbled into the hotel lobby and shrugged off the valets.

  “Checking in for P. Collins, please?” I asked the clerk.

  That’s right, Phil Collins, the maestro and my musical hero. We can all feel it coming in the air tonight, hang—

  “Your card, sir? For incidentals.” The clerk gave me a professional smile and finished checking me in, all the while pretending she didn’t recognize me—or maybe she actually didn’t, given the fact that I looked only slightly less dead than the roadkill raccoon I’d seen on the way from the airport—and I headed upstairs with my bags.

  My suitcase and duffle landed on the floor of my room with a definitive thud, like this was the end of the road for them and me. I dropped my backpack on a chair, pulled out a clean shirt and went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. As I shrugged on the shirt, I caught a passing glimpse of my reflection and winced. I looked like Christian Bale’s character in The Machinist.

  The ride to the shoot location was relatively uneventful and the driver rambled on about the history of the neighborhood. Trees with hanging moss and Victorian mansions behind mysterious iron gates flanked both sides of a shadowed boulevard. It was gorgeous, to be sure, but jet lag was starting to set in and everything seemed slightly surreal. When we pulled up to a gated compound, the driver gave the guard our IDs and we were waved through.

  “This is fine. Let me out here.”

  “Do you want me to come back later, Mr. Shellenberg?”

  “No, I have no idea how long this will take. I can get a ride back from someone later.”

  “All right, well, a pleasure meeting you and driving you. Here’s my card if you need a regular driver while you’re in town. Don’t hesitate to call!” He beamed at me with a practiced, professional smile.

  “Thanks, Beau,” I muttered after a quick glance at the card in my hand.

  * * * *

  Like every set, this one was chaotic, with people running around, the acrid smell of burnt coffee polluting the air and the sounds of a million egos vying for attention. I scanned the crowd, searching in vain for the tiny figure of Michael, but he was invisible among the comparative giants striding around purposefully. No one paid attention to me as I ghosted through the set, hat and sunglasses on, hands in pockets, searching for the swirl of energy and noise that I knew would contain Michael at its center.

  I wasn’t really focusing on anything when a figure in my peripheral vision stopped me dead. That wasn’t right, though. It wasn’t really seeing—more of a visceral experience. Like I’d taken a punch to the jaw, my head literally jerked in that direction. It was a compulsion. And when I obeyed it, I saw her.

  The entire set seemed to go low-res and fade to the back while she glowed, standing out from the foreground in sharp contrast. She was bright, detailed—down to the tiny freckles on her nose and cheeks, which I shouldn’t have been able to see from so far away. Except I somehow could. Dark-brown hair was pinned on the top of her head in a messy knot, the line of her slender neck bisected by the mic arm of a headset. Her green eyes flashed out from under thick, choppy bangs as she smiled at someone while tucking a wayward curl behind an ear.

  She was tall, a few inches under six feet, with the lithe build of a former athlete. Her mischievous grin immediately conjured an image of her naked and laughing on the rumpled sheets of my hotel bed. I shook my head, trying to remember the last time I’d had an even remotely sexual thought—definitely before Cambodia, probably even months before that given the emotional minefield that had been my previous relationship.

  The woman twirled around like a dancer to speak to someone beside her and tugged her T-shirt down. As she crouched to listen to the response, it was clear that she was totally unaware of the way her magnetism seemed to redirect the flow of the crowd around her. I drifted toward her in concert with the rest, not realizing that I too had been caught up in her current until someone crashed into my chest.

  After disentangling myself from a blushing and apologetic production assistant, I whipped around in search of the enigmatic woman, but she had disappeared back into the crowd. I shrugged, wiped the sweat off my brow and turned back to my seemingly endless quest to find the elusive conductor of this chaos. Maybe the woman had been a mirage, a strange, anomalous, attractive mirage. And maybe I’m losing it completely.

  “Where the fuck is Michael?” I muttered in frustration.

  “Ah, over there…talking to his M-U-S-E,” a man’s amused voice replied from behind me. “What the hell happened to you, Shellenberg? You look like complete shit.”

  I whirled around and pasted on a vague smile as I stared at a semi-familiar face—Rory Something-or-other.

  “Hey, man. Sorry, Rory, yes? How’s it going? Didn’t know you’d be here too.”

  “Yeah, it’s a pretty good gig, been around since the first season. Came for the role, stayed for the eye candy.” He raised his eyebrows at me.

  Ah, yes, now I remembered. Rory Sullivan was what my grandmother politely called “a ladies’ man” around Hollywood. Not that Rory really gave a shit. He was completely open with how he lived his life. The freedom to live so authentically was alien to me after the last five years I’d spent playing the role of Kate’s dutiful boyfriend. I knew how people saw me, how they’d seen us as a couple, but it had all been a pack of lies in the end. For one moment, I wished I could live as freely as this guy, or even my younger brother Matti, whose ability to give a shit about anyone else was practically nil.

  I tossed Rory a noncommittal salute over my shoulder as I started to move past him in the direction he’d pointed. He jogged a few steps to keep up and stopped me again with a hand to my arm. “Dude, you’re not looking so hot. Is everything okay with you? I don’t know if you remember, but we worked together on a film a few years ago when I was starting out. You were super chill with all of us noobs and I’ve never forgotten it.”

  For a second I was touched that he remembered, but then I realized that it meant he felt entitled to share with me. Like he knew me and could ask intrusive questions without fear of reprisal. Not that he was rude, but… I was rusty at human interaction outside of a terribly limited group of people, especially after the last three months. A classic ‘it’s not him, it’s me.’

  “I’m fine. Just a bit jet-lagged after a rough flight and shit three months filming in Cambodia with George Sellers.” I scrubbed a hand through my chopped-off prison haircut beneath my hat and sighed. “Sorry, where did you say Michael is? And what is this ‘muse’ nonsense?” I asked. The muse thing was new for Michael, who had never been short on artistic vision, and I couldn’t help making the air quotes with my fingers as I said the words.

  “He’s over there, by the tent. Talking to the tall chick with a headset and clipboard. That’s his ‘muse’.” Rory rolled his eyes as he made the same air-quote gesture and I immediately visualized the gorgeous mystery woman from a moment before.

  Not realizing he’d lost me, Rory continued yammering, �
�She’s one of the assistant producers, but Michael cannot keep away from her. Says she’s his inspiration for the entire season and refuses to make decisions without her. She does everything for him, probably wipes his ass.”

  “They hooking up?” I asked, still trying to see around the crowd to the tent.

  “I don’t think they are, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to get with her and she shot him down. I mean, she laughed and patted me on the head when I tried to shoot my shot,” Rory said, not at all embarrassed.

  I raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “She’s that special?”

  Before he could answer, the crowds parted and I finally saw Michael. I saw her as well, standing in front of him as he gestured and hopped around like an animated cartoon character. Again, everything dulled to a low buzz and faded away while she burned out in high relief.

  “Oh-ho! Mr. Super Famous Serious Actor with the Serious Girlfriend sees something he likes!” Rory crowed.

  I tried to deflect with a dirty look. “Don’t be a dick, man. I need to talk to Michael. See you around.” My fingers tingled with anticipation but my limbs were rigid as I moved robotically in their direction. I felt unprepared and vulnerable for what was to come—a job I needed to ensure future work and now this mystery woman who was yanking me toward her like a tractor beam. This was nerves, plain and simple, I realized belatedly. Something I hadn’t dealt with in years.

  I was almost to Michael when I heard Rory yell from behind me, “There’s a pool going on who gets to bang her. Let me know if you want in!”

  For a second I considered turning back and punching him in the face—like, how dare he take such a derogatory stance—but that wasn’t going to do me any favors, and I needed this job. Besides, he sounded like he felt sorry for me more than anything.

  As I made my way toward Michael, I noticed people pointing at me and whispering. I heard a woman say, “I thought he’d be bigger,” and another respond, “Yeah, I thought he’d be hotter. He looks like a homeless person.”

  I turned and gave the two a dirty look, but couldn’t help flushing in embarrassment. This was why I hated my job sometimes, why I hated Hollywood. The fact that they’d gossip pretty much right in my face was a red flag, at least to me, about how things were going to go on set.

  Michael turned as I approached him and his ‘muse’ and shrieked in my face. “Ah-ha! Shellenberg, you made it! You look like death. What happened to you?!”

  I winced as he said, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I forgot—Sellers, right?” At my nod, he went on more sympathetically. “Well, anyways, I’m glad you’re here. Meet Alina.” He gestured toward the woman who had pretty much stopped my heart a moment ago. “She’s one of our producers, probably the single most important reason this season is going to be a success, and my muse!” The woman’s eyes bugged out, like she was choking back a laugh so hard it had rebounded into the upper reaches of her skull as she extended her hand toward me to shake.

  For that matter, I was struggling to keep my mouth from doing much more than twitching. It was almost adorable how proud of himself he seemed, like a true artist with his ‘muse’, and he continued to ramble about her amazing work ethic and other stellar qualities. But he was serious, and it was actually kind of…reassuring.

  She was a serious person then, not someone he’d hired as a pretty distraction. And from the way he rambled on, it spoke volumes about her abilities and potential that she’d earned his trust. I’d known Michael for years and I’d never seen that level of reverence he’d directed at her with his introduction—and I’d officiated his last wedding to the love of his so-called life.

  It also didn’t hurt that she was so otherworldly gorgeous that an entire sublevel of my brain started to contemplate what it would feel like to have her ridiculously long legs wrapped around my waist while I drilled into her. I wrangled my focus back to the hand outstretched in front of me and wrapped my fingers around hers, squeezing carefully. I hoped she couldn’t feel the tremor.

  “Hello. Ah-lean-ah.” I said her name carefully, rolling out the syllables. “Nice to meet you.” I turned back to Michael, trying to block her face from my immediate view. “So, we need to discuss my role, yes?”

  I knew I sounded curt and dismissive, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to get out of there and away from her before the hot prickles of anxiety turned into something worse. Too many people in too short a time. Too much interaction compared to the last three monastic months after almost losing everything on Sellers’ set.

  Oh, and of course there was the fact that an unwanted chemical attraction had taken hold the minute I’d seen her. Some gut-level instinct warned me that this was one of those turning points in life, that she was a new star to orbit in my limited universe.

  She stepped back, big green eyes widened in surprise at my abrupt dismissal, clearly broadcasting the whole, “I didn’t think you’d be such a complete dickhead,” feeling. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her eyes narrow as she shook her head and exhaled hard to blow her bangs out of her face.

  “No worries, I was on my way out. Michael, I’ll drop off my edits later,” she muttered and stomped off.

  Michael looked at me curiously. “What was that about? You’re not usually an asshole.”

  “I’m sorry, a bad reaction. Listen, I’m incredibly drained. I only wanted to check in in person, let you know I arrived and see if you might want to grab dinner or a drink later after I catch a nap. No problem, though. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty, right?”

  “Yeah, seven-thirty. But let’s get that drink—how about ten-thirty tonight? Hotel lobby?”

  I nodded and strode off, briefly considering whether or not I should find Alina and apologize. I didn’t know what I’d say, though. Maybe, ‘Sorry for being my dysfunctional self, I need a quick nap and let’s try this again later?’ I should have realized that the unexpected compulsion to find her, to explain, apologize, was a sign—this woman was going to change everything.

  Chapter Three

  Alina

  Michael’s ongoing outrageous behavior, along with Markus Shellenberg’s brief initial appearance on set and professional brush-off, established the tone for the following day, which had to be one of my worst in the last two years. I rarely felt so professionally insignificant and couldn’t for the life of me figure out why Markus’ less than effusive greeting had affected me so deeply.

  Even though we’d started at the ungodly hour of five o’clock in the morning, everything—at first—seemed like it was clicking smoothly. Craft services had brought in Krispy Kreme, which they never did because actors are processed-sugar- and carb-phobic. The set’s resident caffeine connoisseur had made nuclear-grade coffee, and Michael was in a happy mood. The muse crap was working in my favor—for the second day in a row.

  The bad began to outweigh the good only two hours after we started, when Michael asked what I thought about using a heavier hand with foreshadowing the demise of Sebastian, Markus Schellenberg’s character. His character, although relatively minor, was a perfect foil for Ethan Thomas’ slightly more significant character, Joseph, and their battle to the death would be the season-ending cliffhanger.

  Markus was only doing a very brief arc on this one season, so I figured we should obviously foreshadow his character’s death—partially for plotting purposes, but also for insurance and publicity. Since he was only doing this one season, we did not want to deal with Markus Shellenberg-itis from the press or fans of the show. He wasn’t coming back, and we couldn’t afford to alienate viewers by making his ‘death’ seem less than one hundred percent certain. My reasoning did not sit well with Michael.

  “Alina, you’ve got to be kidding!” Michael shouted, loudly enough to be heard from five miles away. “That’s the stupidest reason possible. You have no concept of art, of plot pacing, of…of…of the beauty of death and surprise. How could you even think that would be an option? Christ, this shoot is a mess.”

  The set w
ent completely silent. Shocked looks ricocheted around the groups of people standing by, waiting for direction. Michael may have been an asshole to most people, but he rarely targeted me this publicly, or with such a violent response. This was not normal.

  I yanked him off to the side and snapped, “Michael. You asked what I thought. I told you. Not sure what your actual problem is, but you better figure it out.”

  He nodded stiffly, but his eyes still glittered with repressed rage. “Fine, yes, you’re right. I’m sorry I snapped. It’s not you, it’s the network suits—fuckers. Markus being here isn’t enough to satisfy them. They want more or the show is done.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and wiped off the sweat before cupping a hand around his mouth like a bullhorn to yell, “Break, everyone. We’ll pick it back up in ten.”

  On my way out, I dumped my headset and mic pack by the monitor station without acknowledging the sympathetic and curious looks from my colleagues and headed over a small rise behind the tents that shimmered through the early morning haze. I slumped down on a bench beneath a tree and finally allowed myself two minutes of deep breathing exercises. I even set a timer.

  By the time I’d pulled myself together, it was a little after seven-fifteen in the morning, Markus was due on set for his first day of shooting and I needed to triple-check that his last-minute espresso machine request was in his trailer. I also needed to publicly make nice with Michael and shut down the inevitable gossip about his meltdown. We couldn’t let the threat of cancellation get out or we’d lose everyone. I also didn’t need people speculating about our nonexistent personal relationship again. I heaved myself to my feet with all the grace of an eighty-year-old elephant and started plodding back to the set. The low buzz of a hundred voices issuing and taking orders sucked me right back in.

  “Where is he?” I spat out as I grabbed the first production assistant to cross my path.

  “Who?” she asked while batting her eyelashes at me, trying not to laugh.