Accidental Action Star

Accidental Action Star

by

Emily Evans

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Also by Emily Evans

Acknowledgements

I scoped out the movie studio’s art department for warning signs. Everything appeared normal. The artists worked with their heads down in the back, while Archie hunched over a canvas in the front. Nothing stood out. Maybe they wouldn’t prank me today. Maybe. I walked forward.

Archie stuck his paintbrush in my path. If I kept going to my desk, I risked being dabbed with wet neon-green paint. I stopped.

He wiggled the handle and paint dripped dangerously close to my new pink sneakers. He was the freaking boss. Couldn’t he act like a grown-ass man just this once? I backed up a step.

None of the other artists bothered to look up or acknowledge my arrival. Archie shoved some documents into a legal-sized manila envelope, not caring that paint dripped over the side of his hand in the process. “Take these over to Warehouse 47. Get Max Stone’s signature on the Character Approval forms for
Dragon Night
.”

Max Stone.

And here we go. Disbelief hit me, and I replayed Archie’s words in my head. Max Stone.
The
Max Stone? Dark hair. Golden eyes. Hot male break-out action star of last year? Pictures of Max Stone covered half the dorm rooms in my building: Max Stone centered inside red lipstick hearts. Max Stone photo-shopped over ex-boyfriends. And, above my bed—a shirtless Max Stone wearing karate pants. 

This task could not be real. Agents and executives dealt with movie stars, not part-time student interns. The artists were screwing with me. Again.

None of the guys met my gaze. They cowered behind their work like Archie’s trained prairie dogs. This was a prank. Like last week, when Justin, Archie’s top dog, had tasked me with picking up Lorene Dailer’s shoes—the shoes the actress had worn in the
Time Kick
movie poster. Her stilettos had perched on Justin’s desktop for two days before the wardrobe guy had come by to retrieve them. He’d screamed for twenty minutes about artists and their perversions, like there was nothing weird about the way he hugged the size sixes to his chest.

Archie dropped the envelope on the desk. “Use that pretty smile of yours and make this happen.”

Flattery? Annoyance and a desire not to be messed with filtered through me. I smiled a fake smile. “I appreciate the hazing, but there’s no way I’m hounding the latest teen dream for an autograph.”

Archie smirked and put his hands on his hips. Paint dripped down his pants leg. “Boys, looks like we’ve got a live one.”

The other artists raised their heads. Five men gaped at me, and not in the good way. Most checked the scene out and turned back to their work. Not Justin. He adjusted his squeaky drafting chair and blinked at me like a newly-awakened meerkat crawling from its underground hole.
Crawl back under, Justin. I’m not dealing with you too.

Archie pushed the office envelope toward me. The corner knocked into an open can of paint, but Archie didn’t notice. “Max Stone has final approval for
Dragon Night’s
film characters. He’s currently shooting
Time Kick
in Warehouse 47.” Archie spoke slowly like I was a moron.

The tone dug at me, but as a student intern, I was used to it. Trying to earn a job with these guys, maybe I
was
a moron. But if I didn’t get this job, Mom would make me work on her cooking reality show,
Scoop Out,
into the fall.  Blech.

“Do what Max Stone’s agent failed to do. Get Max to sign these forms or we don’t move forward with production.”

“You really want to send me? An intern?”

“What? You want me to send Justin?” Archie spared a glance at Justin, who was drooling over a picture of Lorene, and then he turned back to me with raised eyebrows and another ‘you’re a moron’ expression.

“We really need Max Stone’s signature?”

“
I
wouldn’t have given approval to a nineteen-year-old with a Kung Fu grip. But, hey, the studio didn’t ask me. Just like they didn’t ask my opinion on your uniform.”

I fought the urge to cross my arms over the doggie bag logo that covered the front of my shirt while Justin snickered as if Archie had said something clever. Like Justin’s T-shirt with the image of Lorene Dailer on the chest was any nicer than my black jeans and
Scoop Out
T-shirt. I looked down at the logo. Crap. Mom’s cooking show had definitely gone with the lowest bidder. Oh well, I could ditch my job on
Scoop Out
as soon as I got my dream job with the Art Department. Until then, I’d be doing double-duty.

Archie rubbed his belly with his free hand. “And bring us back a snack.”

Annoyance knocked out every other emotion, and I ignored that suggestion. I was not here to cater to Archie’s gastrointestinal needs. I was an art student, here to learn about art and carry out legitimate departmental tasks.

I wavered. The envelope on his desk did have
Property of Art Department
printed on the front and today’s date. Maybe Archie wasn’t scamming me. I stepped forward. The drop cloth wrinkled under my shoes. I adjusted my stance. Archie nudged the envelope again and the end slipped over the edge of his drafting table like a corporate cliff diver.

I grabbed for the documents. My sneakers twisted in the paper. I stretched and caught the envelope one-handed. Success! The position had me leaning forward, arms out, one leg behind me in the air. The Balancing Stick yoga pose. The pose I’d never mastered.

With that sinking realization, I wobbled and careened into the table. I went down. Hard.

The concrete floor knocked the breath from my body.

The can teetered and flipped over. Paint splashed free.

I held the forms up and away. “Ugh.” Cold. Wet. Neon green. So very neon green. I lay there gasping while humiliation and paint pooled around me.

My disaster brought laughter and better posture to the room as the artists abandoned their work and straightened up to gawk—my future colleagues. One day, we’d work together on movies, win Oscars, and set new standards for motion picture art. But not today. Today, they reveled in my slipup like we were all contestants in the same beauty pageant. I sucked in a breath and struggled to find my feet while mentally kicking myself. I freaking saw the setup coming and still landed in it.

Archie snickered and tossed a handful of napkins at me. The napkins, carrying the scent of pastrami from his lunch, flapped opened and stuck to the paint on my clothes, lending the smell of deli to my outfit. Paint, pastrami and perfume—yeah.

Archie looked at the office envelope I’d saved with my heroic struggle. He snickered louder. “We could have printed more.”

I didn’t respond. I peeled a napkin from my shirt and used it to swipe at the neon spatter on my forearm. The tissue clung to my skin and ripped in long tears. I gave up and dropped the remnants beside my paint-speckled shoes. Today’s activities had rendered my trip to the mall for new perfume and new shoes worthless. At least my new bra was protected.

Justin scurried over and squatted beside the drop cloth, eying the spill. “Not bad. We can use that for one of the Sci-Fi shows. Right or wrong, aliens always bite it. Their blood could pool like that.”

“Great.” My blunder had aided their art. I wanted to impress them but not by screwing up. I wanted to be the efficient intern. The one who did more than clean paint brushes. The one who worked on actual projects. The one who got offered a job in the fall.

I still could be. I squared my shoulders. I’d get these forms signed and back to Archie today. Tightening my hand on the delivery, I checked my footing, found new determination, and turned to the exit. “Later.”

“Wait.” Justin tossed me a long-sleeved T-shirt. “You’re kind of a bright mess. Wear that.”

I caught the soft white cotton fabric. It was a man’s large and had the image of a paintbrush on the front along with the words
Art Department
. It represented my ultimate dream, and I loved it. “Thanks.”

I shrugged the new shirt on over my old one and smoothed down the sides. So cool. I leaned on the exit door to escape the building. No revolving doors needed here. The temperature outside was the same as inside—California.

I blocked out the Hollywood sunshine with my sunglasses and admired the beautiful day. Orange flowers bloomed alongside exotic cacti—hardy, drought-resistant plants. The landscaping used pebbles instead of grass. The desert-friendly plants and attempts to conserve water reminded me of home, but not the temperature. It was 78 here while Austin was easily 108. 

My destination, Warehouse 47, was one of the behemoths in the back where they shot big budget films. The building’s vastness allowed for large sets, wardrobe and makeup areas. The cast’s importance allowed for a row of star trailers to park along the back. Interns didn’t have trailers. If we did, they’d be the size of port-a-potties and have a similar smell. Orange blossoms and large square footage were reserved for the talent.

Staff and crew, most dressed in black, went about the lot with purposeful strides. Not many stopped to talk or offered more than a friendly wave, so it was odd when two girls in matching teal mini-dresses matched my pace. Fifteen at most, they were definitely younger than the minimum age to work here. Studio lanyards and photo IDs hung around their necks, but the artist in me noted that their badges were squarer than mine, and something about them appeared off.

One girl giggled, and the other one elbowed her. She flashed her pink braces at me. “I’m Kursten.” She pointed a sparkly gold-tipped fingernail at the girl beside her. “This is Candace.”

I slowed to accommodate their high heels. “I’m Hannah. Cute shoes.”

“Thanks.” Candace didn’t return the compliment, given my paint-splattered sneakers. She smacked her lip gloss and eyed the warehouse up ahead. “Warehouse 47.” She giggled. “They’re shooting
Time Kick
in there.” Her voice rose. “Starring Max Stone and Garrett Campbell.”

“And Lorene Dailer,” Kursten said.

“Yeah.” Candace shrugged off the mention of the female lead. “Anyway. They’re in there.” Her voice pitched high, so high that only Chihuahuas could have heard the rest of her sentence. “Max
and
Garrett.”

Kursten elbowed her. “Chill.”

I eyed their questionable IDs. “Your parents work here or something? You visiting?”

Both looked away and blushed.

“Oh, something like that. You know,” Kursten said.

“Yeah. Visiting,” Candace said. “We’re visiting. We’re supposed to be here.” She spoke faster as she lied.

“Well, see you later.” I strode up to the guard post.

The guard compared my ID to my face and gestured to the door. “Okay.”

Candace and Kursten lurched forward, got on either side of me, and linked their elbows through mine. “We’re with her,” they said at the same time.

Big liars. This close, their candy-scented perfume overwhelmed the breathable air. I sniffed and squirmed to get away. Their arms tightened like the rubber bands on their braces.

The guard held out his palm. “Badges.”

I jerked free and stepped toward the door. “I’ll let y’all work this out.”

“Not so fast.” The guard stuck his arm straight in front of me like a Jedi wielding a light saber. “Badge.”

Minor frustration made me defensive. “You’ve checked mine.”

He met all three of our gazes with a cop’s stare. “No badge. No entrance.”

We handed them over.

Candace giggled, and Kursten elbowed her. The two must go home with elbow-sized bruises along their arms. The guard swiped Candace’s card into a slot at the top of his computer tablet. His face scrunched up. He tried Kursten’s next. “Nice try.” He tossed their badges into the trash at his feet. He raised a two-way radio to his ear and pressed a button on the side. “Bob. I need you over at Warehouse 47. A couple of girls got lost from their tour.”

Static sounded and then, “Copy that” came from the speaker.

The guard swiped my badge, scanned the data that popped up on his monitor and held it out to me. “You’re good.”

An excited gleam lit Kursten’s eyes. Moving fast, she seized my badge.