Glitter Angel

Chapter Twelve

Lexi

My muscles ache and this “low everything” diet—low fat, no carbs, dairy-free, no red meat or pork—doesn’t come close to satisfying my hunger. A few paltry carrot sticks and eight ounces of purified water every hour just isn’t cutting it. Besides being starved, I’ve been shaved, exfoliated, buffed, and spray tanned to within an inch of my life. Is it worth all this to star in a movie? I question my career choice almost every day, but for now, this is my life.

“Lexi, the limo is here to take you to the read through,” Evelyn yells from down the hall.

Sighing, I grab my marked-up script and run down the stairs, frustrated that I let time slip away this morning. When am I going to have time to talk to Brady?

We said we would have nightly Skype calls, but I haven’t Skyped him even one time in the three weeks since I returned to California. Exchanging a few trivial text messages is not helping our long-distance relationship thrive. I’m sure he thinks that I left and forgot all about him.

Rufus gives me a curt nod as he opens the back door to the limo, and I slide in. He’s never been much for chatting, but he’s been my bodyguard and driver for over two years. You’d think he could at least greet me.

Deciding to switch up our routine, I issue a greeting, “Good morning, Rufus. Hope you’re having a pleasant day so far.”

He hesitates for a second before closing the door. “Thank you,” he replies in a gruff voice, caught off guard by my out of character action. His lips tip into a small smile as he clicks the door shut and jogs around to the driver’s side.

Pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head, I grab my phone and text Brady. This is my twelfth text to the man to apologize for never being available. He’s really going to think that I’m just stringing him along, although that isn’t my intention.

Me: I’m off to a read through and won’t be back until late (sad face emoji)

Me: I promise we’ll find time to Skype soon (fingers crossed emoji)

When my phone doesn’t ping back immediately, I silence it, stuff it back in my oversized bag, pull out the script, and read the scenes that we’ll be walking through today. I’m known for being a consummate professional on the set and I want to be prepared.

~*~

Nine hours later, Rufus still looks crisp as a cucumber while I look like a wilted piece of lettuce. He nods and a brief smile crosses his face. “Good evening, Miss Taylor,” he says while ushering me into the limo. I manage a quick head bob and a “thank you” as I sag down in the limo’s backseat, exhausted and hangry, certainly not my chipper self from this morning.

Rummaging through my voluminous bag, I discover a granola bar tucked in the bottom and I want to shout with joy. I rip open the wrapper and bite into the squished, misshapen bar. Closing my eyes, my head falls back onto the headrest while I savor the stale treat.

What a day! I like my co-stars, but the guy playing the overweight billionaire is a prima donna. He insisted on doing each scene at least twice and nothing any of us did was ever good enough.

He picked on me a lot and that really got on my nerves. Is it because I’m the youngest actress in the group? His unfair criticisms ring in my head. The inflection in my voice was wrong. . . I didn’t stand in the right place. . . The list went on and on. All he has to do is sit on his rather large derriere and deliver his lines, while us three actresses have to strut around, look sexy, and not get a hair out of place.

After my impromptu snack, I dredge up my phone, turn it off vibrate mode, and scan for messages. A smile lights my face when I see several from Brady.

Brady: I was under a sink when you texted (wrench emoji)

Brady: How about an early morning Skype session instead?

Groaning, I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. My early mornings are filled with my personal trainer as he whips me into shape. The sessions start at 6 AM and sometimes last until noon. My muscles are already screaming just at the thought of tomorrow’s morning of pain.

Is this relationship going to end before it even gets started?

Tossing the phone back into my bag, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion consume me. I don’t have a suggestion for Brady as to how we can find a time to actually talk. It’s like our schedules are mis-aligned. The time zone difference also doesn’t help. Too tired to ponder a solution, I succumb to the peaceful rocking of the limo as we roll down the freeway, and I drift off to sleep.