Excerpt from . . .

Only in L.A.
by Anne Gray

Chapter 1

Blake Webster had blood all over him. It soaked into the hair on his bare chest and ran down his arm to the knife in his hand. His victim, a sandy-haired, nineteen year-old boy, lay in a heap at his feet. The only sounds above the slight wind were Blake’s labored breaths and the soft plat-plat of blood dripping off the knife’s edge into the glossy, crimson pool surrounding him.

Murder was messy business.

He’d had enough of it. His muscles burned. His eyes stung. His sweat-and-blood-soaked body froze in the cold night air of the San Bernardino Mountains. He just wanted this to be over.

Gritting his teeth, he focused on what he had to do, clichéd or not. He raised the knife high over his head and shouted into the darkness, “See this, Salazar? You’re next! Run all you want, you hear me? I’m stamping your passport to hell!”

Vibrating with anger and staring straight ahead, he froze and waited.

It seemed like an eternity before the director yelled, “Cut!” and then, the words Blake had been waiting for all night, “That’s a wrap, everybody. Blake, see you tomorrow.”

Lights flooded on, voices rose from the set, and the body at his feet looked up.

“Great scene, Mr. Webster!”

Blake glanced down and grinned at his ‘victim,’ a young stunt guy, Denny something. Rookie, he thought. Then, he leaned down to help the kid up—and groaned. He’d be suffering tomorrow.

Fourteen hours of fight scenes had left him aching and exhausted. He didn’t know for sure, but he’d bet that pretending to beat up twelve guys was just as rough as actually doing it. He took a second to glare at Denny, who was now jumping around like a boxer, splashing in the special effects blood that had been poured all over the ground.

Blake tossed the knife down and started rubbing his face and shouting. “Somebody get me some water!” He tried to remember what it was like to be young and high on Hollywood and shook his head. Youthful exuberance had a short shelf-life in L.A.

A wet rag appeared in his hand. Blake scrubbed at his eyes, even though he knew rubbing would only make it worse. After six films, five of them violent, he knew the sticky, sweet-smelling stuff got everywhere and stayed there. On film it looked real enough, but in reality it stung like crazy and smelled like peaches. What he needed was a long, hot shower.

He headed towards his trailer, stepping over cables and equipment, accepting pats on the back from the crew and congrats from the director. Tomorrow would be another long, grueling day, but for now, he could savor the end of a hard day’s work and be thankful he’d gotten this job at all.

Another year without the phone ringing and he’d be lucky to get deodorant commercials.

Inside his trailer, he headed towards the bathroom, stripping as he went. He peeled off his jeans and tossed them near the trash can in the corner where they stuck against the wall and the side of the mini-fridge.

In the bathroom, he shut the bathroom door and turned on the water full force. Over the noise, he heard his trailer door open and close. He frowned. Who in the hell would walk in here unannounced? He glowered at the door and shouted, “I don’t care who you are or what you want, get out of my trailer. I’m naked and tired and you don’t want anything you can’t handle.”

Satisfied with that, he stepped under the spray, letting the hot water start to clean off the blood and filth that had become his career.

The bathroom door opened and Blake prepared to rip out someone’s spleen.

“Darlin’, even on your worst day, you don’t have anything behind that curtain that could intimidate me.”

Blake shook his head at the familiar voice and smiled. “Give me ten minutes.”

To Blake’s surprise, he heard the door close and then, “Take all the time you want, sugar,” followed by a sound that had Blake frowning and poking his head outside.

Sure enough, there on top of the closed lid of his toilet, sitting with all the comfort and ease of someone who intended to stay awhile was Sharon Ellis, his agent. He took in the short, powerful figure, the bluntly cut black hair and the familiar what-are-you-going-to-say-about-it expression she usually reserved for studio executives. He smiled at the only woman he knew who could look intimidating perched on the john. “Sharon, you know I love you, but this is a little—”

“We need to talk, Blake.”

He blinked. “Right now? Can’t it wait ten minutes?”

“Actually, it really can’t. In ten minutes, this place is going to be buzzing.” She hesitated before she continued, “And I want you to hear it from me first.”

Her expression softened and Blake felt a dense, cold dread form in the pit of his stomach. Sharon Ellis was not known for her gentle nature. If she was trying for tender, it was really bad news. He closed the curtain and picked up the soap. “How long have you been here?”

“An hour or so.”

“You see the last take?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you think?”

When he didn’t hear anything, he glanced through the opaque curtain to where he thought she was. “Sharon?”

“It looked really great, Blake.”

Good. As long as this movie was going well, he could handle anything else. “All right. Give it to me.” He wondered what it was. Another allegation that he was taking steroids? Another rumor about Kathryn?

“Worldwide Studios was just bought out by Marshall Brothers.”

Blake’s vision grayed. He leaned against the back wall of the shower. “What?”

“We all knew it was coming one day, but no one imagined it would be this soon.”

He took a deep breath before he said, “What does this mean for Mountain Heat?”

Sharon hesitated and he knew before she spoke. “They aren’t sure if they’re going to keep filming. Marshall Brothers doesn’t do a lot of action stuff. They don’t think this movie is one they’re going to pick up.”

“But we’re three months into it.”

“I know.”

Soap dripping into his eyes got him under the spray again. While the hot water battered his face, he thought of all the work, the months of combat training, the weeks of learning the fight choreography, the weeks of convincing producers and executives he’d be an asset for this film. All for nothing. His head sank into his hands.

“No way. They won’t stop it. I’ll talk to them.”

“I’ve already done that. I’ve pulled every string I could find. Nothing.”

After twenty-five years in the business, there wasn’t any trick Sharon didn’t know or a person she hadn’t met. If Sharon couldn’t get it done, he knew he couldn’t do any better. “When will everyone find out?”

“Tonight. From what I hear, the studio guys from Marshall are going to talk to the producers within the hour, if they aren’t in there already.”

His chance. His best chance to save his career was gone. It could take months to get another project and by then it might be too late.

He gave himself a moment to sink into what he’d lost. This movie would have been the kind of role that had made him famous—lots of violence and half-naked scenes. It was the kind of Blake Webster thrill ride his fans had come to expect from movies like Dead Lace and Blue Blade. He’d have been back on top in no time.

He’d be typecast as a monosyllabic action hero, but he didn’t care.

Typecast was still cast.

He took a deep breath, and started rinsing. “What now?”

There was such a long pause, he wasn’t sure she’d heard him. Then she said, “Actually, I may have an opportunity for you.” She paused again. “Now, keep an open mind.”

Blake frowned and leaned forward to turn off the water.

“I heard about this new project in the works.” Her voice echoed in the sudden quiet. “It’s small.”

He shrugged behind the curtain with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Okay.”

“Now, remember that new experiences are good for us.”

He shoved his hand outside to get his robe. “Sharon, what is it?”

“Listen, it’s small, but you’ll get lots of exposure, immediately.”

“I am not desperate enough to do porn.” He belted his robe.

“Get real, Blake. It’s not porn. It’s just a reality TV show.”

He threw the curtain aside. “That’s even worse.”

“What? How is that worse?” She stood up to give him room to step out.

He started shaking his head. “I’m not a ‘has-been’ yet. I’m not doing a reality TV show like some sit-com actor who hasn’t had a hit since 1993.” He slammed open the bathroom door and stepped out into the chill of the hallway. “I got two million dollars for my fourth movie, for Pete’s sake!”

“That was three years ago, Blake.” She followed him into the living room while he started pacing the two steps that took him from the mini-bar to the little leather sofa along the wall. “Face it. Hollywood is looking for guys younger than you. Your phone hasn’t been ringing since that disaster of a movie you did last year.”

Blake clenched his teeth to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t need to be reminded.

“I don’t know how long you’ll keep paying for it.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Just one. I wanted just one movie where I didn’t have to carry a gun or know the inner workings of nuclear weapon.”

She threw her hand through the air. “What’s wrong with being armed and knowing some mechanics?”

“It was a good script, Sharon.”

“It was Shakespeare, Blake.”

“Christ, Sharon. I was on Broadway for eight years before I came to Hollywood. I can be more than some stupid action hero.”

“Not if you’re not getting offers.”

Blake stalked over to the minibar to peel his jeans off the wall and shove them inside the trash can, careful not to get any more of the fruity blood on him than necessary.

He walked over to the tiny kitchen sink to wash his hands and cursed. “Reality TV, huh?”

She walked up to the small table and rested her hands on the back of a chair. “They’re filming the filming of a movie.”

“The filming of the filming?”

“Yes. The casting, the rehearsing, the production, all of it. Let the audience see the process of movie-making.”

He considered that while he dried his hands. “Big viewing audience?”

“Big enough. A major network is doing it and throwing two million dollars toward the movie itself.”

Blake snorted and tossed the towel aside. “Peanuts.”

“The movie isn’t the point, Blake.”

“No?”

“No. The point is the contest.”

Blake raised his eyebrows. “There’s a contest?”

“That’s the core of the show. They’re giving a shot to some new, young talent who might never otherwise have a chance in Hollywood. Three screenwriters and three directors chosen from over a thousand entries. The network is picking the finalists next week and flying them out here, where they’ll film not the movie, but also how the movie gets made.”

Blake crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. “Their filming three entire movies on that budget?”

Sharon lifted her hands to finger the hem of her jacket. “Well, not exactly. They’re just going to film a part of each finalist’s screenplay to determine the winner.”

“It’s not even a whole movie?” He asked, afraid that it really didn’t matter.

“Not yet. After they pick a winner, they’ll make the winner’s screenplay into a feature film. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, Blake.”

He shook his head, still in denial. “For them. Why would I want to do this? Can you imagine? Working with a brand-new director and a rookie screenwriter? What a mess.” Blake pulled out a chair and sank onto it.

“That’s exactly why you should do this. I know this isn’t what you wanted, but think of how much you could teach these kids. This is your chance to show your fans how you work, how much you know about filmmaking and acting, that you have more to contribute to the world than great fight scenes and a tight ass.”

Blake closed his eyes and wracked his brain for any other opportunity he could think of to save his career. Three years ago, he was on the cover of every magazine that mattered, getting two million per picture, and getting invited to every ‘it’ party in Hollywood.

But three years in Hollywood was a lifetime, and now, after one year out of the limelight and one mediocre picture, studios were afraid of him and his audience had forgotten him. After one bad decision, he was going to have to fight his way back to the top.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sharon. “I won’t consider doing this unless I get complete creative control.”

“Blake, the screenplay has already been written. The point of the contest is to see what the contestants can do. The director should—“

“Sharon, that’s the deal. I’ll only do it if I can make the picture I want.”

She sighed. “More Shakespeare, Blake?”

“No. I’ve learned my lesson.” He squared his shoulders. “I won’t risk my name being attached to another over-thought, under-directed disaster.” He didn’t even try to keep the resignation out of his voice. “Everyone wants hard-core action and sex from Blake Webster, right? I’ll make sure they get it.”

There was a short silence inside the trailer before Sharon quietly said, “This doesn’t mean you’re a has-been, Blake.”

Yes it does, he thought.

It just doesn’t matter.

***

As Haley hung up from the phone call of her lifetime, she surveyed her office gleefully and wondered if she’d miss it. She didn’t think so. Her office had been a janitor’s closet just last month. What had once held wood polish and a mop bucket now held haphazard piles of research and a battle-scarred table masquerading as her desk. She’d also managed to shove a two-drawer filing cabinet into the corner to hold exams and the tiny, lime-green cooler she packed her lunch in every day.

She smiled. Nope, she wouldn’t miss it.

She wouldn’t miss the tiny office or the worn furniture. She wouldn’t miss the pressure to publish or kids who slept in her class. In fact, when she thought about it, she wasn’t even sure why she’d chosen this career at all.

“I heard you put on quite a performance today.”

She glanced up. Oh, that’s right, she remembered. Guilt is a bitch.

The head of North Georgia University’s English literature department scowled at her from the doorway.

Jubilant mood gone, Haley withdrew her hand from the phone and wondered why the boss would choose today, of all days, for a visit. “I actually like to think it was a rather informative lecture.”

“Lecture? Is that what you call it?”

Haley scowled back and tried for haughty elegance, not easy when her orange naugahyde office chair was leaning slightly to the left and leaking foam. “It is, after all, what I get paid to do.”

“No.” The golden child of NGU’s English department stalked into Haley’s office and started shaking her finger. “No, you get paid to finish your dissertation. You teaching is just a ...a bonus for the university. That money is a scholarship for you to get your Ph.D.”

Haley took in the perfectly pressed beige suit, the neatly coiffed hair, and the black, sensibly-heeled shoes. There was something freakish about a woman who looked un-rumpled at 4:00 on a Friday afternoon.

Haley sighed. “Mom, I was just trying to make it interesting for my students.”

Dr. Ingrid Roberts, academic wonder and mother of two, put her hands on her hips and stared at her daughter. “Why?”

Haley stared back. “I don’t know, Mom. Because freshman comp is the single most boring class on the planet and Shakespeare can be fun?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Her voice, when it got shrill like that, held a slight, southern lilt. Quite a feat since she’d been born in Philadelphia.

“Not today, Mom.”

Her mother continued. “Costumes? Playacting with another one of the teaching assistants? Really, Haley, what does all that nonsense have to do with Shakespeare?”

Haley tried very hard to act every one of her thirty years, but a little sullen teenager always leaked out around her mother. “You do know that The Globe wasn’t just a little green and blue ball, right?”

Her mother took a deep breath and Haley could tell her mother was doing her breathing exercises. When she spoke again her voice had mellowed to the carefully expressionless tone she cultivated in her classroom.

Beige suit. Beige voice.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you. I’m simply concerned for your career. As it is, it’s going to take you six years to complete a degree that should have taken you four. I’m not even sure what kind of job you expect to get when you graduate from here. I’m worried for your future, Haley. ”

Haley felt herself softening. Of all the people in the world, no one had been more supportive of her than her mother.

“And all your erratic behavior lately. Honestly, Haley. It’s like you’re just constantly craving attention.”

Of course, that support had always come at a price.

Haley took a deep breath. “Mom, I have something to tell you.”

Her mother interrupted her to start clicking things off manicured fingers. “First, you stop seeing Ernest. Then, you buy that ridiculous car you can’t afford.” She leveled a look at Haley and continued, “Then, you take more interest in teaching your students than in your real job here at the university.”

Haley knew what her mother meant by her ‘real job.’ Some believed that being a professor was about teaching. Haley knew better. Being a professor meant publishing, as frequently as possible, in the most prestigious academic journals around. That’s what drew attention to the department and money to the university. ‘Publish or perish’ weren’t just pretty words; they were engraved into the foundation of every learning institution out there. And for Haley, it would all start with her Ph.D.

On her desk next to a lopsided pile of ungraded papers was a stone paperweight given to her as a birthday gift from one of her students. It was engraved with Haley’s favorite quote by Henry James: ‘It’s time to start living the life you’ve imagined.’

It was Haley’s favorite thing in her office. In the few days she’d had it, she traced the words dozens of times with her fingers and dared to wonder what her life would be like if she’d be born into another family.

Her mother, unaware of her daughter’s thoughts, tapped a thoughtful nail to her chin and mused out loud. “Maybe teaching summer school isn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe you should take a little time off and focus on finishing your dissertation.”

Haley knew she would finish her dissertation. Just like she knew she’d become a professor at some small, but adequately prestigious college, and that she’d work for years to publish literary articles about long-dead authors in long-dead academic publications. She knew she’d do it. And really, she didn’t mind. But she wasn’t going to do it today. Not yet. She took a deep breath. “Actually, I won’t be teaching summer school.”

Her mother’s smile was relieved. “Good.”

Haley braced before she added, “But I won’t be working on my dissertation, either.”

“What?”

Haley surged ahead. “I won a screenwriting contest and a Hollywood studio wants to film it.”

“A what?”

“A screenplay.”

Her mother swooned against the doorjamb. “Oh no, Haley. Not again.”

Haley frowned at her mother. “What ‘again’? I’ve never written a screenplay before. It’s actually kind of cool. It’s quite an honor considering I’ve never tried writing a screenplay. Of course, I’ve written novels, well, none that were published, but—“

“Haley! What about your dissertation? You have to defend it next semester.”

“I’ll be back next semester. I can defend it after that.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. After.” Haley reached up to tug at the neck of her jacket and wished she could have told anyone about this before she told her mother. “We have six weeks to film a small part of our screenplay and then they’ll pick one of the three to film the entire movie. Hopefully they’ll pick mine.”

“Forget it!” Her mother held up her hands and started shaking her head. “Forget it. You are not going. I was patient through Japan, through the waitressing at that ridiculous place, even when you ran off to join the circus—“

Haley closed her eyes so her mother wouldn’t see them rolling. “I never ran—“

“But there is absolutely no way I’ll allow you to postpone your future because you got another wild hair—“

“A wild hair—“

“At some point you have to grow up, Haley.”

Haley clenched her teeth.

“What about your future, Haley? What will you do when this screenplay goes splat and you have nothing to fall back on?”

Haley’s voice chilled. “Maybe it won’t ‘go splat,’ Mom.”

“Why do you do this? I’ll never understand it. It’s like you don’t even want to be successful. Every time you get close you do something crazy.”

“This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Mom. I think it just might be fun.”

“When will you learn, Haley, that being responsible is about more than having fun?”

Haley shoved back from her desk and set to work stacking papers and books in her bag.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be fine. And if there’s anything I need, I can always call Brian. If I need anything, he’s right around the corner.”

“I guess that’s true. Will you be staying with him?”

Haley braced. “No. I’ll be staying with Jackie.”

“Well, at least that’s good. Jackie’s responsible. She can take care of you if you need it.”

“Has it occurred to you that I’m almost thirty? Doesn’t it seem to you that I could take care of myself?”

The look her mother sent her was full of doubt and right in Haley’s eye. “I don’t know, Haley. Can you?”

For the hundredth time in her life, Haley stared at her mother and thought of telling her the truth, that she didn’t want to be a professor, that she didn’t want this life at all. As long as her mother stood there with a challenge in her eye and stubborn strength swarming around her, Haley could imagine that strength holding her up and keeping her safe while her youngest child turned her back on her as well.

And for the hundredth time in her life, Haley hesitated. And that hesitation was all it took for her mother to soften and then the moment was gone.

Haley stood still as her mother came behind Haley’s desk and pulled her to her feet.

“Is this really worth postponing your future? Spend all your time in that godforsaken city writing a silly movie for vapid actors like that Brittany Spears and that . . . that Blake Wilson character?”

Haley turned her hands over in her mother’s and held on. “Brittany Spears is a singer, Mom, and Blake’s last name is Webster. And no, I won’t write for him. He does action films. He does movies where he saves the world from armies of robotic bugs or something. It’s not the kind of stuff I watch and it’s not the kind of stuff I write. There won’t be a firearm or a busty blonde anywhere in it. I wrote a good movie.”

“Hmph. Good movie. What does that even mean?”

Haley gently removed her hands from her mother’s.

With one hand, she picked up the bag she’d overfilled, and with the other, she took her lunch bag out of the filing cabinet drawer. “Don’t be such a hypocrite, Mom. You love The Princess Bride, Casablanca—”

“Those are classics, Haley. Those are wonderful movies by brilliant writers.”

Haley looked away from her mother and her gaze fell on her paperweight once again.

Next to her, her mother sighed. “Honestly, Haley, what do you really expect to get from Hollywood?”

Haley snatched up her paperweight and dropped it into her bag. “I expect them to make room for another brilliant writer.” Then she maneuvered around her mother and walked out.          

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