Sure, I knew parking my rusted, ten-year-old Chevy Impala in the exec lot was risky, but it blended with the chipped gray bin so nicely that I figured no one had noticed. In the three months I’d worked at the studio, I hadn’t received so much as a warning that they were on to me.
They wouldn’t just tow it, would they?
Fuck. Now what?
Hey, I was no stranger to bad luck, but I’d never gotten fired and had my car towed on the same day. That was a whole new level of sucky. I didn’t have time to deal with tracking my ride down. If I didn’t get my ass across town, I’d be out a second job, I mused, pulling my cell from my leather jacket.
Okay, technically the jacket that belonged to the studio, but screw them. One minor stumble on set should not have cost me this gig.
According to HR, my contract prohibited Brandini from terminating my employment outright. I’d been informed to expect a call from the casting director’s minion for another possible assignment in the film. Yeah, fucking right. I wasn’t going to hold my breath. Production was wrapping up soon, and I was going to miss the fucking boat…again.
I coached myself to inhale slowly and not lose my shit. Not easy in my current situation.
See, this was supposed to be my big shot—maybe my last shot—at breaking into the business. I hadn’t had much success as an actor, but I’d hoped stunt work would be different. I was in good shape and had some martial arts training. Jumping onto cushy mats from a three-foot precipice was a cakewalk. Usually, anyway.
I’d counted on this gig to give me exposure to the right people and ideally help me secure a spot in the next Baxter film. Sadly, I hadn’t foreseen a scenario where I was sacrificed by an asshole director agitated by yet another visit on set by the producer.
Who, I might add, was hot as hell.
No kidding. My spidey senses went into overdrive whenever Sebastian Rourke visited the set. The man oozed sophistication, confidence, and charisma with his designer suits, perfectly trimmed beard, and sexy silver streaks in his brown hair. He was the kind of man who demanded attention when he walked into a room.
Today was a perfect example.
Sebastian had changed the energy the second he’d slipped into the studio. Like a human magnet or something. I’d been prepared to feel that way about Pierce Allen. I mean, c’mon, Pierce portrayed the sexiest, most badass secret agent in modern cinema and he was a handsome dude. But he had nothing on Sebastian.
I’d studied Sebastian from my perch on the rafters while I waited for my cue, admiring his chiseled features and his deceptively chill mannerisms. His hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on the stage, and that wicked, knowing grin teasing the corner of his mouth. Of course, when he licked his lips, I’d missed my cue.
I’d overcompensated and rushed through the fight sequence, completely throwing off my timing. I was lucky I’d only fallen on my ass. It could have been much worse. But opportunity was all about timing, so I was probably fucked anyway.
Maybe my folks were right. Maybe show biz was for egomaniacs and misguided dreamers who never wanted to grow up. Regular schmucks were better off finding work with a steady source of income and decent benefits. Except, I’d never considered myself a regular schmuck. I’d thought I had a real shot at the big time.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
And on that depressing note…
I wandered to the sidewalk and called Macy, who—thankfully—answered on the first ring.
“What’dya want, Mackay?”
“Hi, there. I just called to see how you’re doing.”
“Liar.” She snorted, pausing to chomp her gum noisily into my ear. “You only call when you need something. Fess up before I hang up.”
“Will you swap shifts with me?”
“Yeah. Are you sure, though? I thought you needed the hours.”
“I do, but…I have a crisis to deal with.” I explained my missing car but kept the part about losing my studio gig to myself. I could only admit to so much defeat in one afternoon.
She let out a low whistle. “You really think someone stole your ride? It’s a piece of shit.”
“Sure, but it’s my piece of shit and I need it. Can you help?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover for you. I need the money anyway. Just don’t get pissed at me when Ravi tells me to cover both shifts,” she warned. “He hates when we swap.”
True. It was also true that Ravi wasn’t particularly fond of me. I tried, but I wasn’t always the world’s most accommodating waiter. Sue me. Reciting salad dressing choices twenty times a night was not my idea of fun. The fact that I could fake it at all was a testament to my acting skills. I had to keep up the ruse until I landed a steady role.