Wheels of Fire

I read through the scene. Other than Brittany’s brother being an annoying pompous know-it-all, she seems to have a good life. I can do this. I can be Brittany from Nebraska. I showed up to Hollywood completely clueless too and now here I am reading for a Scout Southgate show.

In the next scene, Brittany waxes on about her love of cornfields to her new super-snobby friends. Seems like a strange thing for a teenage girl to be homesick about, but Nebraska is different than where I grew up, so I accept my character’s quirk and move on.

By the time I reach the end of the script, my heart’s thumping. I want this role. I flip back through it, considering how to deliver the lines. There’s limited direction in the script. What interpretation will impress the casting director?

The woman I met earlier returns. “What’d you think?”

“I love it.”

She smiles at me warmly. “Good. Scout wants you to read with Colby. Follow me.”

I swallow hard. I hadn’t expected to read in front of the executive producer today. I thought maybe they’d film the audition and show it to him later.

Mr. Southgate approaches and holds out his hand. I’m at least a few inches taller than him and almost have the urge to bend down so we’re at eye-level. “Thank you so much for coming in, Mallory.”

“Thank you. I’m really happy to be here.” I snap my mouth shut before I start gushing about how I’ve watched almost all of the shows he’s produced over the years. That they were some of my mother’s favorites. There’s plenty of time to make a fool of myself later.

The casting director and a few other people whose names and titles I immediately forget also introduce themselves.

The actor playing my brother, shakes my hand next. “Colby Bright. Love your work on Shallow End,” he says, and I don’t even think he’s mocking me.

“All right. Settle down,” someone yells.

A hush falls over the set.

“Go head,” Mr. Southgate says.

“Uh.” I stare at my script. “Are there any—”

“Nope. Let’s see how you interpret the role first, Mallory. We’ll go from there.”

Great.

Recalling how nervous I was my first few weeks in L.A. I don’t need direction or to have the lines memorized. I am Brittany, the fish out of water. The hopeful girl with a world of opportunity in front of her. The words come out easily and I only have to glance at the script a few times.

“Interesting interpretation,” Mr. Southgate says slowly. I can’t tell if that means he’s happy, impressed, or annoyed.

“Can you try the first scene with a little less of the tight-assed stiffness?” the casting agent calls out. “Looser. More sugar.”

Doesn’t sound like I impressed him.

Colby leans in closer. “He’s just testing you to see how well you take direction.”

We go through the scene and for some reason, I interpret “more sugar” as “southern belle” and end up doing my best Pamela impression—swaying hips, slow southern drawl, and all. And my character’s supposed to be from Nebraska.

Mr. Southgate and the casting agent are doubled-over laughing when we finish. My cheeks flame. Marilyn handed me an almost-guaranteed role and I blew it.

“That would have been perfect on Plantation, Mallory,” he says, naming one of his older shows. “Ignore Kurtis, darling. Your first interpretation of Brittany was divine.”

Kurtis side-eyes Mr. Southgate. “We’ll let you know, Mallory.”

Dismissed.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Mallory

The dull throb of exhaustion beats against my forehead as I slip my key into the front door lock. The last week of filming has been one sixteen-hour day after another. I’ve called Marilyn to ask about the Ocean Ave. audition so many times, I’m pretty sure she’s started dodging my calls.

Inside our house, Chaser’s rushing around the living room, stuffing his wallet in his pocket and searching the coffee table for something. All I’ve been looking forward to tonight is a nice, quiet evening home together, but he appears to have other plans.

He stops and smiles when he sees me. “Hey, how was your day?”

“Long. Where are you going?”

My clipped answer wipes the smile off his face. “We have a gig tonight.”

“What? Why? Where?” My voice rises in pitch with each question. I blow out a breath to calm myself. As we move closer to the date when Chaser has to leave to record the album, the more I resent any time we have to spend apart.

“Last minute thing Thom set up for us at the Cathouse. Supposed to be a big ‘surprise’ show.”

“Aren’t you guys too big to play the Cathouse now?”

He cocks his head. “The second I start thinking like that, is when this all goes away.”

“You know what I mean.” I don’t know why I’m bothering to argue with him. Obviously, this is a done deal. I can’t help the disappointment digging into my chest. “You just came off a huge tour. You’re about to leave to record an album and go on another tour.” Oh, I hate the bitter tone that crept into my voice on that last couple words.

Chaser notices it too. His face twists with annoyance. “We still need all the exposure we can get, Mallory.”

“I was looking forward to spending time with you tonight,” I admit. “That’s all.”

His face softens. “Me too. Believe me, I wasn’t thrilled when Thom called.”

Join the club. I’m never happy to hear from Thom. I keep that to myself as I walk down to the bedroom. Chaser follows and stands in the doorway, watching me undress.

“Thom also wants us to check out a band he thinks would be a good fit to open for us.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall.

“Why don’t you sound more excited about it?”

He shrugs.

“Who’s the band?”

“Iron Kiss. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of them.”

“The name sounds familiar. Are they not a good fit? Musically, I mean?”

“They’re all right. Their lead guitarist does some interesting stuff. Their image is similar enough to ours.”

“You still seem hesitant.”

He shrugs. “I’ll sound like a massive hypocrite.” His mouth twitches. “They have a big party reputation.”

“Ahhh, I see. You don’t want to be Shooting Fences, killing everyone’s fun with their sobriety coach.”

He doubles over laughing. “Jesus Christ, I hadn’t even thought of it that way, but yeah, I guess so.” Shaking his head, he wipes the smile off his face. “We could only be so lucky to have half the career Shooting Fences has had.”

“Did you talk to Thom about it?”

“They’re on our label, so they really want us to tour together.”

“So it’s a done deal?”

“Unless we really have a serious objection, it sounds like it. Thom says they’re excited about the tour and will behave, but—”

“Rock stars are so untrustworthy?” I tease.

He chuckles. “Exactly.”

“Did you have another band in mind?”

“Honestly, no. You know what an egomaniac I am. I’d play the whole three hours by myself.”

I snort. “Egomaniac sounds so harsh. More like, passionate about

your career.”

“Sure, that sounds better.”

“Give them a chance. Maybe they’ll impress you.”

“Come with me tonight.”

The thought of spending the next few hours jammed into a stuffy, smoky club and then waking up at the crack of dawn is so unappealing. “I have to be on set early tomorrow.”

His mouth curls into the devilish smile I can’t resist as he comes closer. “Come on,” he cajoles. “I’ll make you breakfast, and take you to work tomorrow so you can sleep in as late as possible.”

“You’ll be too tired.”

“I miss having you watch me play. You’ve missed all our rehearsals this week. I always sound better when you’re there.”

“That’s ridiculous. You sound amazing no matter what.”

“Nope. It’s a fact.”

“Says who?” My lips twitch. Cindy might have to dab on a lot more concealer under my eyes tomorrow—I’m seriously considering going.

“Me.” He captures me by the hips and yanks me toward him. “Please?”

“Okay.” I glance at my closet. The last thing I feel like doing is dressing up to go to a club.

“Throw on some jeans,” he suggests, reading my mind perfectly. “Nothing fancy. We don’t have a lot of time anyway.”

“Give me ten minutes?” I grab a pair of skintight purple-tinted acid wash jeans and a Kickstart tank top. A skinny red, studded belt drops to the floor and I scoop it up, wrapping it around my waist twice. I glance at the neat line of pretty heels stacked in my closet and my feet cry. Can’t do it. I grab a pair of black flats instead. My hair’s still teased and fluffy from filming today, but I gather it into a big, poofy ponytail to keep it out of my face, slick on some gloss and hurry out to the living room.

“Sexy.” Chaser runs his gaze over me and sets the phone down. “Do you mind if we take your car? I called the guys and told them they didn’t need to pick me up.”

“Not at all.”

He lugs his equipment out to the car and loads it up. Then we’re off.

The sidewalk in front of the club is clogged with people. We end up driving around the block a few times before finding a spot.