The Siren, KATHERINE JOHN [positive books to read .txt] 📗

monochromatic black of his character and shaded his eyes from the lights, looking toward us. “Anybody have pages?”

Jackson groaned audibly. Of course Cole had put off memorizing his lines until five minutes before we rolled. Price called for pages over the walkie while Cole ambled over to Felicity and massaged her shoulders. On the monitors, I could see a flicker of distaste flash across her face before she quickly covered it with a friendly smile.

Shit. This wasn’t the nineties. What the hell was wrong with him? Everyone knew his reputation as a “method” actor who didn’t break character while on set, but come on. Felicity was just a stand-in, and the guy didn’t even know his lines. He couldn’t exactly claim to be living in the skin of his character. He had to step into the twenty-first century or we were going to get sued. Yet another fun conversation I was going to get to have with the boss I’d apparently attempted to bed.

Before I could come up with an appropriate solution that wouldn’t get me fired, a production assistant mercifully handed Cole his sides, occupying his paws and rescuing Felicity from his clutches. He sank onto the couch next to her, his shoulder grazing hers.

Vigilance didn’t come as naturally to me as it did most women in film, having been sheltered by my father’s power my entire life. Until now I’d never been harassed by a colleague, sexually or otherwise, because no one wanted to incur the Wrath of David, who had quite a temper and an arsenal of dirt on seemingly everyone in Hollywood. Not that he would have noticed or cared. In fact, if someone assured him the molestation of his only child would ensure a profit for any of his films, he would likely give his famous half shrug, the left side of his mouth downturned, acquiescing with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Whatever it takes. In the long run, of course, he was the one I should have been afraid of.

How my mother was ever married to him, I had no idea. And from the time they finally broke up when I was four, she valiantly made excuses for every recital and birthday party he missed, never once attempting to correct my conviction that he was Superman. She enforced the rules and made my lunches, chauffeured me and helped with my homework, while he’d swoop in for a few hours every few weeks to take me to premieres where movie stars fawned over me, I realized later, to get into his good graces. Naturally, I wanted to work in Hollywood when I grew up, just like him, never be a teacher or a mom, like her. Even after years of manipulation and verbal abuse as his employee, I was not fully disabused of the illusion of his grandeur until he brutally murdered my career.

“Where’s Stella?” Jackson demanded of no one in particular. “We need to get Stella in to do a blocking rehearsal. She doesn’t have to be camera ready.”

I activated my walkie. “Taylor for Price.”

“Go for Price.”

“We need Stella for blocking. Makeup and wardrobe can finish after.”

“Copy.”

Jackson strode onto the set and turned an apple box on its end to sit in front of Cole and Felicity. I looked on, curious, never actually having seen him direct outside of the audition room. I’d watched the experimental short film that had ostensibly convinced his dad to fund this, but I had no idea what his on-set style would be.

“Taylor.”

I turned to see Price shaking his head. “What? Where’s Stella?” I asked.

“She says she doesn’t do blocking rehearsals until she’s camera ready.”

This wasn’t normally the kind of thing that Price would come to me for. He would work it out, concoct a way to get her to set when the director wanted her. She must’ve really put her foot down. “That’s crazy. Lemme talk to her.”

We were spending about $100,000 per day, which meant every minute of each twelve-hour day was worth roughly $138. I’d done the math. We simply couldn’t afford any diva antics.

I plotted how to convince the woman to do her damn job as I trod toward the makeup room, tucked away into the darkest corner of the warehouse. Light spilled from underneath the closed door. The handle was locked. I took a deep breath and knocked more loudly than necessary. “Stella, Evelyn, Stephanie!” I called in a singsong voice.

Nothing. I rapped again. “Ladies, open the door please.”

“We’re still thirty away,” came Evelyn’s voice.

I clenched my fists. “I know, I just need Stella for a quick blocking rehearsal.”

“I told the AD already,” Stella snipped, “I don’t do blocking rehearsals until I’m ready. Use Felicity.”

“Please open the door so we can talk about it.”

The lock turned, and Evelyn’s assistant opened the door. “Sorry,” she mouthed. Stephanie was in the corner curling a wig, and Stella sat in the center makeup chair with her cocoa and honey hair in curlers, nursing a coffee while Evelyn contoured her face. She looked up at me, tired. The bright lights around the mirrors exposed the bags under her anxious red eyes, her uneven skin. Immediately I understood the big dark glasses and hat this morning, the locked door and camera-ready demands. I reached for the spiel I’d prepared about why she needed to stop acting like the Queen of Sheba and report to set immediately, but my tongue couldn’t find the words. “I’ll have Felicity do the blocking,” I said feebly.

She nodded.

Jackson was waiting with his arms crossed when I returned to video village. “Well?”

“Not gonna happen,” I said. “Rehearse with Felicity.”

He threw his script on the ground. “You’re fucking kidding me. Who’s calling the shots around here?”

“Jackson,” I warned with a small shake of my head. “You want the best performance out of your lead actress, don’t you?”

He stared holes into me, rage bubbling from his eyes.

“It’s gonna be okay.” I patted his back like a baby. “You gotta let this stuff go. Inhale through your