SLEAZE: A Hollywood Comeback Story (Book #1)

Chapter 22

“Whatever, I trust you,” she said, the words causing beads of sweat to form around my hairline. Under different circumstances, I would’ve loved to hear that vote of confidence but effectively holding the next step of her career in my hands was enough pressure on its own.

My mom would’ve been horrified if she saw the moves that I pulled next, riding the bumper of a worn down pickup truck before darting into the lane of a semi. In my rearview mirror, I watched as the massive eighteen-wheeler rolled dangerously close to my car, hoping that my claim to fame wouldn’t be killing Sophie Winters on her way to an audition. As the truck’s brakes squealed and brought it to a halt, I sighed with relief and waved, knowing that the driver was likely flipping me off in response.

Throughout all of the swerving and close calls that followed, Sophie stared out the window, seemingly immune to the anxiety that I felt radiating from every one of my pores. I used the arm of my sweater to wipe my forehead before blurting, “How are you so calm?”

Sophie twisted in her seat to face me. “I’m not,” she said, pointing at the clock. “But it’s already 8:50.”

“I know,” I said through gritted teeth, my knuckles cracking as I gripped the steering wheel with increased intensity.

“It’s impossible, you know,” she said with a matter-of-factness that I found annoying after everything that we’d been through in the last twenty-four hours. “Unless your car can fly. Look, we’re still two miles away from Venice.”

“Sophie,” I said, grinding my molars until my jaw clicked.

“I’m just saying that no matter how many times you change lanes or cut people off, there’s no way for us to get there by nine.”

As I looked between the digital clock illuminated on my dashboard and the never-ending line of cars ahead, I realized that she was right. Instead of resigning myself to our inevitable fate, I decided that the least that I could do was keep trying to prove her wrong. If by some miracle I succeeded, I could say that I pulled off a bigger feat than Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit, delivering the cargo with minutes to spare after a harrowing no-speed race across west L.A.

Traffic eased as I exited the highway and sped through the quiet neighborhood of Palms, checking my mirrors with a paranoid urgency as I scanned the roads for cops. I was pushing it, I knew, by zipping through stale yellow lights and ignoring the most basic rules of defensive driving but I told myself that getting a ticket would be worth it if today ended the way that it was supposed to, namely, with Sophie going home as the frontrunner for a starring role.

But by the time I pulled up at Global Studios’ casting lot, Sophie’s prediction became a reality and my goal of becoming the real life Bandit went up in flames. Nine o’clock had come and gone, as had nine thirty and nine forty-five, leaving me with a pit in my stomach that felt more like a black hole.

“Go,” I said, ushering Sophie out of the car and checking to make sure that she was holding her portfolio in her hands. “I’ll meet you upstairs.” 

“Parker,” Sophie began but I shook my head and yanked the passenger’s side door shut from the inside.

As I drove towards the visitor parking structure, I looked over my shoulder to see that Sophie was making her way to the entrance of the secured compound. She seemed remarkably poised for someone who’d not only spent her night on an airport lounge chair but also survived my God awful driving. I wondered if Andrew’s ridiculous breathing exercises had actually done her some good—if not, and she was just faking it, then she really had been robbed of that Academy Award.

After getting clearance from the guard that manned the access gate, I flew up the floors of the parking garage in my car, pulling into the first available spot and hoping that the security staff wouldn’t take its ‘Compact’ designation too seriously. Jumping out, I was about to lock my car when I looked down and groaned. Sophie had been smart enough to bring a change of clothes in her carryon but I couldn’t say the same about myself. Standing in rumpled clothes and sneakers, I knew there was no way that anyone in Kelly’s office would take me seriously; at best I looked like a kid trying to sneak onto a set, at worst I looked like a sleep-deprived hobo looking to score off a hopped up production assistant.