Shock Waves

“Sure.” Do something! Invite him to the beach house, ask him out for another cup of coffee to make up for the one he sloshed, ask his zodiac sign, something. “Nice seeing you.” Good one, El. Your big moment and you wuss out.

“Nice seeing you, too.” He started walking away, paused. “Going to the festival later?”

“I’m entering some of the events. My girlfriends and I want to win the grand prize. You can enter as a group, you know, so that’s what we’re doing.” I’m babbling. “Except for this audition. Not a group thing, obviously. We figured after I was done over as a beach babe…” Not good. Overbabble.

“Done over?”

She smiled shakily. “Girl talk for getting fixed up.” She’d never lied this much. “I probably wouldn’t have auditioned if they hadn’t made me do it.” At least that was the truth.

He looked her down, back up, making a zillion goose pimples skitter across her skin.

“I’m an idiot,” he mumbled. He hit the palm of his hand against his forehead. “I got so caught up seeing you again, I forgot to tell you something.” He smiled warmly. “It’s a good thing your girlfriends talked you into auditioning, because Ellie Rockwell, you’re hired.”

She blinked. “I am?”

He nodded.

“You get to pick people?”

“Just for today. See Peter, the casting assistant who’s sitting in the front row, and tell him I said you’re hired. He’ll explain how you’re paid, where to report, stuff like that.”

“Great. Thanks.”

They stared at each other for another long moment.

“I need to get out there,” Bill finally said.

“Right. You don’t want to blow this opportunity.”

He frowned.

She gestured lamely toward the audience out there. “You know, doing this casting gig you’re doing as a favor could lead to another job.”

He looked surprised, then sputtered a laugh. “I already have a job on Sin on the Beach. I’m the first assistant director.”

Her body felt as though a shock wave had passed through it. Not unlike how she’d felt years ago at a high-decibel, sensory-overload Marilyn Manson concert. Bill wasn’t some dreamy-eyed wannabe, he was the first assistant director. Of Sin on the Beach. A Big Man on the Set. He probably had bikini-clad chicky-babes hanging all over him 24/7.

So what if he came backstage to tell her she was hired, tell her he remembered her, there was no way such a hotshot would want anything more to do with an extra.

Bill scrubbed his knuckle over his chin. “A lot of those festival competitions require two people to compete.”

She nodded.

“Might be a little awkward to enter some of those with your girlfriends…unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

It took her a moment to get his drift.

“You think I’m—Oh, no.” She laughed at the thought of her being lesbo with Candy or Sara. “Not that they aren’t attractive and fascinating women, but I’m not into that. Anyway, they both appear to have guys they’re entering the contests with.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

“How terrible.” He gave her a look that made her kneecaps go soft.

“Yes,” she murmured, “downright horrible.”

He grinned, glanced at his watch. “After auditions, I’ll have the rest of the day off. Meet me backstage, same spot, at two o’clock and I’ll be your partner.”

It took a moment for the adrenaline rush to subside before she remembered how to nod yes. Partner. That had to be on par with “date,” right?

She was having a date with Bill Romero.

Bill take-my-heart-and-do-me-all-night-long Romero.

As long as she got home before her carriage turned into a pumpkin, and her bikini into her glam goth T-shirt, this could be a fairy-tale date to die for.

“Two it is,” she whispered.

3

ELLIE WAS TOO PUNCTUAL for her own good. Not that being on time was a bad thing, but it was when you were overly anxious to see the guy of your childhood dreams, who happened to not be punctual. Backstage again at the food table, she nibbled on grapes and hoped she looked okay in her red bikini, fishnet cover-up, retro polka-dot wedgies and over-theshoulder mini brocade purse. When she’d left the beach house, she’d felt fine, but after passing dozens of girls in Easter-egg color bikinis and nondescript sandals, she was starting to wonder if she looked too over-the-top.

That she, a glam goth diva, was actually fretting about looking over-the-top suddenly made her laugh. Back at her apartment, her entire wardrobe was a swirl of purple, black and red satins and laces. This beach babe makeover was frying her brain. Next she’d be buying frosted pink lipstick, eating granola and saying “dude.”

“Hey, how’s my Ellie?” said a familiar, deep voice. Bill.

Her heart thumped a wanton, pagan beat.

My Ellie. She lost the ability to speak for a moment. “Great.” My Bill.

He looked effing incredible. That mocha skin, those brown eyes, that windblown black ’fro—colors so rich and dark, they made her insides quiver.

Maybe it was because of the canvas tent, but the light seemed pale and ephemeral. Summer heat shimmered in the air, hot and intangible. And in the midst of it all stood Bill, like a chocolatey, rough-edged hip-hop prince. Wild on the outside, in control on the inside.

The moment was broken when a girl, who looked to be around nineteen, bounded up and tapped Bill on the arm. She wore short-shorts, a halter top, her shiny blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Daisy Mae’s long-lost twin, no doubt.

The girl looked up at Bill with round liquid-blue eyes and smiled.

“Curtiss is having some problems with the boom mike for tomorrow morning’s shoot,” she said in a baby-doll voice. “He wanted me to tell you he’s picking up a new one today as backup.”

“Thanks.” Bill nodded, turned his attention back to Ellie.

But Daisy Baby-Doll didn’t leave. “I’m the new PA. Name’s Phoebe.”

Bill looked at her. “Hi, Phoebe.”

“Actually, my name’s Diane, but that’s so boring, so a few years ago I started calling myself Phoebe, and now everybody remembers me!”