FF (February 2013) Lisa Girolami - Cut to the Chase

While doing research for her third book about Hollywood, Paige Cornish meets Avalon Randolph, a sexy and wild actress who takes her on a rollercoaster ride right down the red carpet. Writing about Hollywood is one thing, but living it is quite another. Personalities clash and boundaries are crossed as they navigate their attraction for each other through the exhilarating but precarious world of money and fame.

Can Paige and Avalon reconcile their differences and find a happy middle ground in a town that never lives in the middle?
(264 pages)

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Sample

Chapter One

I can do this, Avalon thought. She gripped the door’s armrest as the wind rushed across her face.

“We’re almost at sixty-five,” the driver yelled, though her mind was so attuned to every sensation that a whisper would have sounded like thunder.

All she needed was to do it again, but this time, she was to hang out of the window of the sports car a little farther, reach around the front windshield, point over the hood, and fire off two rounds.

As she waited for her cue, streetlights and darkened storefronts raced past her like silent soldiers.

The much-too-eager grin plastered on her face had to go, so she bit her lip and grimaced, and the corners of her mouth dropped in pain.

“Sixty-five!”

Avalon’s stomach jumped, which snagged a breath from her lungs. This was it. She lurched out the window and the windy assault blasted her eyes into a watery blur. The pavement below rushed by and she gritted her teeth so hard, she could have chipped a tooth. As piping-hot adrenaline shot through her body, she lifted up and over the windshield, focusing on a point over the hood to the left. In a split second, she fired once. Twice.

The radio resting in the driver’s lap came to life. “Cut! I think we got the shot, Avalon!”

A whoosh of air passed by her ears as she slid back inside. She sat down hard on the leather seat and slapped the driver’s knee.

“Whooo!” She tried to stretch her too-long legs in the cramped quarters of the sports car. Still high on adrenaline, she punched the stunt driver’s arm.

“Owww,” he said as he swerved from the blow.

He hit the gas, skidding into a U-turn in the middle of the street, and headed back to the director and camera crew. She looked out the window, watching the smear of colors that were buildings and neon signs.

At the top of her lungs, she yelled, “I could freakin’ do this all night!”

*

“Three out of five,” Paige Cornish said as she took a step closer and pointed the gamer remote at the television. “I thought I could beat you at this stupid tennis game.”

“Uh-uh. I won,” Chris Bergstrom said. “You lost, fair and square. “I’m Billie Jean King, I’m Billie Jean King…” She raised her hands and danced around, watching the animated version of herself mimic her moves. Bending over, she patted the butt of her holey jeans, laughing hard as her twin did the same.

Paige sat down on the couch, tired from a rather difficult day of rearranging the furniture in her house in an attempt to erase three years of bad memories from her life. She scooted over so Chris could sit down. She’d been in her gym shorts and a rumpled yellow T-shirt all day. Just like the comfort food she’d had for lunch, which was a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, these were her comfort clothes.

Chris had come over earlier to cheer her up. “Best friends aren’t supposed to let their best friend lose,” Paige said.

“You didn’t.” Chris smiled and put down the remote. “Anyway, this isn’t the way we should be spending a Friday night. My God, what have our lives come to?”

Paige pushed a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead. “What do you have in mind? Go to the bar and watch a bunch of lesbians get drunk and grind their hips into each other?”

Chris’s expression was as flat as unleavened bread. It was probably a look she gave a fair share of the people she pulled over to ticket. Her short-cropped, thick head of brown hair, lightly dusted with gray, the no-nonsense olive-green eyes, and her strong, chiseled jawline completed the I’m-not-amused cop look. “Oh yeah, that’d be boring. Not to mention stupid. I mean, why would two single women even think of going out to meet some new people?”

“New drunk people.”

“It’s early. Most of them aren’t drunk yet,” Chris said as she pulled Paige’s coffee table back over between the couch and television. “They look great.”

“What?”

“Your books.” Chris picked up Paige’s newest release from the coffee table and leafed through it. It was a large-format book of bold and revealing photographs with text to match on each page. “The End. I love that title because it’s so to the point. And the pictures are even better than the ones in your first one.”

Chris handed the book to her and Paige turned The End over. She liked the author’s picture on the back jacket. Her semi-curly brown hair usually behaved when she needed it to and had framed her eyes like a soft proscenium. She was glad to have worn a brown top that day because it complemented her blue eyes without making them look washed out. Her smile, however, was wider than she liked, but that was always the case.

“You think?”

Chris nodded to the other large-format book on the coffee table. “Don’t misunderstand me. The shots you got with Once Upon a Time are classic. I know there are a lot of books out there about the movie business, but you’ve been able to write about and photograph it from way on the inside. The pictures on the movie sets are so candid and amazing. How are both of them selling?”

“The End is doing exceptionally well. But having two of the stars I featured in The End die right before it was released has helped make sales skyrocket.”

“Strange coincidence. But it wasn’t like you killed them yourself.” Chris’s stare was almost droll. “You have an alibi for those nights, right?”

“Coming from a cop, I guess that question shouldn’t surprise me.”

Chris shrugged. “Well, sales are sales. I mean, what can you do?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“There is something, Miss Bestselling Author. We can go to the bar and let your fans maul you.”

“Hardly bestselling.”

“You told me yourself that you’re getting fan mail just because of your picture on the jacket cover.” She pinched Paige’s cheek. “You shouldn’t be stingy with the public.”

Paige batted her hand away. “Can’t we just go get a pizza or something?”

Eyeing her as she would if she’d just pulled her over for speeding, Chris said, “You’re afraid Marlene will be there, aren’t you?”

A surge of trepidation rose quickly, filling Paige’s stomach and throat with dread. “No.”

“Come on, it could be fun. We’re just two hapless gals, recently dumped by our exes and looking for love.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m not hapless. Just…unfortunate.”

“Let’s get out of the house.” Her whine grated, which was the objective.

“Do you really want to go? Fine, I’ll go with you. But don’t expect me to be the life of the party.”

Chris got up and held her hand out. Paige let herself be pulled up and sighed as she acquiesced to what might be a trip to Regretsville.

Groaning from the dead weight, Chris said, “I just expect my best friend to hang out with me and have a beer and a laugh.”

“And if I don’t laugh?”

Chris pulled her pants leg up to reveal an ankle holster. “Then I’ll just shoot you.”

“Okay, Officer Bergstrom. But you’re driving.”

*

“That’s Avalon Randolph,” one of two teenagers said behind her.

Avalon had stopped by a Starbucks to grab a double espresso. She knew they’d have lots of coffee on the movie set, but she was jonesing for a freshly pulled espresso.

She tried to ignore the conversation behind her but couldn’t help hearing bits of the dialogue. “She’s gorgeous!” “Should I ask her for an autograph?” “She doesn’t look like a party girl.”

Avalon ordered and paid and then made her way to the pick-up end of the coffee bar. She’d heard that this particular Starbucks was the best place to be left alone. It was secluded in an upscale neighborhood off Beverly Glen and Mulholland, and most people looked like they were from the neighborhood. A few over-Botoxed middle-aged women and the usual smattering of wannabe screenwriters sat tapping away on their laptops. The baristas were all attractive in the way that suggested they were only working at that location so they could get connections for a job in entertainment.

Sure enough, an exchange between two seated customers close by confirmed her observation.

“Any forward motion on that script you showed me last year?”

“Yeah. I think it’s getting hot. It’s at Ben Stiller’s office but I haven’t heard back. And my Pilates instructor is going to see if Seth McFarlane wants to read it!”

“Wow. Seth McFarlane.”

The two teenagers must have ordered because they were now standing right beside her. What came next was the uncomfortable silence that preceded some giggles and then hurried whispers. Avalon wasn’t a neophyte at this routine, but it never became any less awkward.

“Excuse me?” one of the girls said. She sounded as meek as a virgin bride.

Avalon turned and smiled. She knew what was next.

“May I have your autograph?”

“Of course,” Avalon said as the teenager thrust a pen and Starbucks nutrition guide at her.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Paula, and I love your films! I’ve seen every one! And you look beautiful in person! I told my friend, Valerie, here, that you would be nice and you are!”

Valerie joined in and they were talking at the same time. “I knew she’d be nice. You can tell by the roles she plays.”

“We can’t wait for your next movie, but I got everything else on DVD. I’m keeping them forevs! And I saw your interview about the movie you’re shooting now. It looks so cool!”

Avalon could tell that others around them were looking up from their drinks and conversations. A few cell phones came out of purses and pockets. She wrote a quick note and signed her name. The excited girls were still talking when she handed it back.

“I graduate from high school this May,” Paula said, “and I want to start acting. I should go to college and maybe I’ll go to film school, but my parents want me to study economics or something like that.”

One of the attractive baristas handed Avalon the espresso.

“No matter what college you choose, just get a good education,” she said.

As she walked away, she counted to four and, perfectly on cue, an eruption of giggles came.

Most of her actor friends not only loved the attention but sought it out. They’d walk up and down Melrose, drinking in the ardor and fervor of the public as if it were the Mojave Desert getting a long-awaited rainfall. Avalon would rather keep to herself more than not, but true moments of privacy were now scarce. And given the choice between awkward fan encounters and a paparazzi blitz, she’d take signing autographs for enthusiastic girls any day.

Plus, those teenagers were rather cute in their excitement, and she was grateful for their admiration. It hadn’t been that long ago that she would have acted the same way around a celebrity.

*

Paige and Chris sat on bar stools that looked out over the Lucky Strike bowling lanes. Though it was normally a heterosexual hangout, many Hollywood businesses included homosexual nights on their schedule since a buck was, in fact, a buck. So the third Friday of each month was lesbian bowling night. The place was crowded and Paige sipped her whiskey sour as she watched the playful bowlers fist pump and laugh at their varied athletic skills.

The ultra-plush contemporary décor would seem out of place given the retro shabbiness of the bowling lanes, but state-of-the-art lighting and fantastic music made it all come together nicely.

Paige had to admit that it was nice to get out of her apartment. She’d deliberately stayed away from bars and other nighttime activities to avoid running into her ex. But tonight, she felt a little stronger. The humiliation of being cheated on still simmered like a pot of thick, stewing soup, but the level was low now, just a roiling of crusty yuckiness clinging to the bottom.

The women at Lucky Strike were as diverse as Los Angeles, white, Latina, black, and Asian women mingled with jovial spirits. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, and none of the typical incidents of arm-waving, drunken drama were erupting from the crowd.

She checked her watch. Of course, it was still early.

“What do you think of those two?” Chris pointed her half-full shot glass toward lane number four.

Of the four women bowling, two were obviously together because they had their arms wrapped tight around each other. The other two were probably in their early thirties, and their relaxed, casual body language made them appear to be pals. One was tall with red hair and accessories so bohemian that Paige speculated she might be a poet. The other, an Asian woman, appeared to be a swimmer or volleyball player, judging by the definition of her shoulders. The women were dressed almost exactly alike in black pants and yellow tops.

“The ones that look like twins? I don’t know.”

“I think they’d like to have drinks sent over.”

“Meaning you want to hook up with one of them?”

“Well, maybe.”

Paige groaned out loud. “Can’t we just hang out and watch the supremely amusing sportiness of all these women heaving twelve-pound balls down the lane?”

“You need to get back on the horse, my friend.”

“My last horse had a fit of bucking and threw me into the dirt. I’m not sure my ass has recovered from the impact.”

“Can you tell what they’re drinking?”

“Chris, if you send drinks over, then we’ll have to talk to them.”

“That’s the point, ding-dong.”

A cocktail waitress plopped a shot of whiskey down in front of Chris. “This is for you.”

Paige raised her eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“Who’s it from?” Chris said.

The waitress jerked her head to her left. “Behind you. The woman in the white tank top.”

Paige and Chris turned around. Standing at the pool table, a fairly feminine woman with long blond hair raised her bottle of beer.

As the waitress walked away, Chris looked at Paige and grinned.

“Go on,” Paige told her.

“I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I’m fine. Just let me know if I need a ride home.”

Chris began to get up but hesitated. “No. I’m not leaving my buddy.”

“The twins are on frame seven and they’re neck and neck. I have to see how this game turns out.”

Chris smirked, knowing Paige was full of it.

Paige pushed her shoulder. “Go, already.”

Chris left and Paige raised her own glass of whiskey. She downed the rest of it, wincing at the potent, burnt-oak aftertaste.

She was single again, and that was okay with her. Sure, she’d like to meet someone nice, someone who wanted the same things she did. Marlene was now her ex. That sounded so weird. She really hadn’t ever thought their relationship would end. Especially in the deceitful way that it had. She thought they wanted the same things. And she thought they could work through anything. But obviously Marlene had a different opinion.

She waved to the cocktail waitress and felt the thick molasses of sadness coating her heart. It would eventually pass, she knew, but for now, she wouldn’t pursue any new relationships. She had to put together her thoughts on the next book. Writing and photography would be the twins she’d be dating for a while. They wouldn’t keep her warm at night, but neither had Marlene toward the end. And work couldn’t hurt you.

Chapter Two

"It’s a go.”

Paige listened to those big words coming through her small cell phone. She hadn’t expected the news so quickly, but then again, she hadn’t expected the extraordinary sales figures on her last book. “Go, as in start now?”

Carmen Garza, her publisher, minced few words. “Go as in yesterday. I’ll expect a draft in three months.”

“Three months?” Panic rose in her throat. It had taken a year to co