Chasing the Dream: Dream Series, Book 3 (8 page)

“So, your name is Phoebe, huh?” I nodded, still star-struck and unable to talk. “Can I call you Fifi?”

Ouch!
I hated that nickname. My brothers used to call me that all the time.
Fifi La Fume
—the girl skunk from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. They used to say that I smelled worse than she did—on a good day. I used to always breakdown and cry. But how do I tell Chase Smythe that I
hate
that nickname. I dunno, maybe from Chase it’d be fine. To be honest, he could say anything and it would sound good in his slightly gravelly, not too deep, not too high, voice.

“You’re very pretty,” he said.
Oh shit! He did not just say that! Chase Smythe thinks I’m pretty????
I silently prayed that this was not a dream and started to imagine myself in a wedding dress on a beach staring into Chase Smythe’s eyes and saying ‘I do
.’

His violet-blue eyes pierced mine. His gaze was more than I could handle, and the look in his eye wasn’t one of someone simply paying a compliment. He wanted more. It was a similar gaze that first got me into bed with Dickwad.

Okay. Game over.
I scolded myself.
He says this to all the girls.
You need to calm the fuck down, Phoebs! This is work.

I thought about all the tabloids, Facebook articles, and even his own Twitter feed that I’d seen over the past few years, talking about his promiscuous and bad boy ways. I reminded myself of the former PA who had stormed into Valerie’s office only an hour or so ago ranting about his antics. He tore her shirt! It certainly seemed to confirm what the rumor magazines printed. This guy was clearly a player. I needed to derail this train. For one, I didn’t want to lose my job. And for two, I needed another Dickwad in my life like I needed another hole in my head.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I said, staring at him squarely, challenging him to deny it.

“She talks,” he said, grinning like he’d won some challenge. “And I only say it to some of the girls,” he admitted.
Jerk.
“Beauty is beauty. I’m just recognizing it, and commenting on it.”

My heart was pounding. Partly because
he was Chase Fucking Smythe calling me beautiful!
And partly because he thought he could play me.

Chase and I stared each other down—him looking at me for a reaction to his charms, me staring at him determined to stand my ground. The last thing I needed was to slip up on this assignment and have Valerie be disappointed. He reached up and ran a finger down my jaw line. Intense electrical tingling, an EMP, or electromagnetic pulse, was left in the wake of his touch. Like tiny bolts of lightening, or static electricity, forming between his finger and my skin. My physics classes ran through my head again. Ohm’s Law and the physics lab from last semester came to mind. Ohm’s law is the principal that ‘the current through a conductor between two points is directly proportional to the potential difference across the two points.’ In short there was an electromagnetic force between us, and it could either be really good, or
really
bad. Adding up the variables here: Dana’s torn shirt, the tabloids, and his intense gaze…the answer I came up with was
really bad.

I tore my eyes from Chase’s to change the physics going on here and avoid an electromagnetic catastrophe. I focused my attention out the window, and noticed that the car stopped. The driver called back, “I’ll be back at four, is that right, Miss?”

I looked at Chase, questioning.

“Don’t look at me, babe. I don’t know my schedule. That’s your job,” he said, tapping on the clipboard in my lap; the one that I was gripping for dear life.
Oh shit! The driver was asking me a question. The PA.
Quickly, for the first time, I scanned down the schedule on the clipboard.

COPS UNDERCOVER: CHASE SMYTHE (DETECTIVE YOUNG)

TUESDAY, MAY 28, 2013

“Um, it looks like four-thirty, actually,” I stammered, trying to sound together, and grown up, and official. I looked at Chase. “Do I have that right?” I asked Chase.

He shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t ever pay attention to schedules. That’s your job. Besides, time is relative,” he said winking at me and brushing his finger under my chin. My body temp shot up and my heart started to slam against my chest. I couldn’t think. His touch effectively erased my memory of everything going on.

We sat in silence for a couple of moments more, sizing each other up. Did Chase know he had gotten to me? Did he feel the same thing when he touched me? Did he know I was going to fight whatever this was between us?

We both jumped in our seats when there was a knock on the window. I looked out and saw a guy wearing a baseball cap that had the
Law and Order: SVU
logo on it, and a headset. It dawned on me that he must be a production person and that we had stopped driving because we’d made it to the set. The baseball-capped man opened the door, and I watched Chase literally transform before my very eyes. From steamy
I-want-in-your-pants-and-in-your-pants-I’ll-be
stare to the
affable-everyone’s-friend
that he seemed to be in the interviews I’d seen.

“Hi, David!” he chuckled with his mega-watt superstar grin. He shoved his hand through his thick blonde hair tousling it gently and making my heart flutter. “We’re not late, are we?”

He stepped over me and exited the car and I caught a good whiff of him. I let the scent swirl around me. How had I not noticed that delicious smell was
him
earlier? Spicy and sweet, a little cologne, and a distinct man smell. My heart started to race again. I took a few deep breaths, and just as I started to get my breathing, but that was futile. Now all I could smell was his scent in that car.

Chase ducked his head back inside, extending a hand to me. “You coming? My babysitter is supposed to be on set with me,” he said with a wink.

Um, babysitter?
Yeah, I guess that’s what I was.
Right. This was my job.
I declined his hand, and got out of the car on my own. My heart couldn’t risk another electromagnetic touch.

The next three hours went quickly as Chase was on set charming everyone around him, except maybe the director who was annoyed that Chase needed to be reminded of his lines every time the scene changed. However, from the girls in the wardrobe and makeup trailer, to everyone else on set, Chase was treated like royalty. No wonder he behaved like he did; that everyone loved him and that he didn’t really have to work for anything. I sat in a chair that was offered to me, took the water that some crew person handed me, and sat back to watch the buzz on set. It was fascinating to watch the filming.

For starters, we were at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. So surreal. I’d seen this building in a few movies, and now I was sitting here, as it was the set of a TV show. Secondly, I kind of knew this area. It wasn’t too far from my apartment.
Ah,
I sighed.
My apartment.
How I wished I could run over there, curl up in my bed, and take a nap. I was exhausted after this crazy internship day.

The pace on set was crazy. Sometimes wicked fast, other times slow and almost painful. In between takes, sound, lighting and camera people got busy adjusting things. Chase, the other actors, the director, and a few other people who looked like they were in charge, poured over the script book that they referred to as ‘the bible.’ Then they started shooting. Would shoot the scene several times, often because Chase would forget a line, and then they would do it all over again. All the while, New Yorkers walked by, most acting as if everyone on set were homeless bums, not giving the extravaganza a second glance. Some had stopped and craned their necks to see if it was anyone famous, a few girls recognized Chase and stood watching his every move. When Chase noticed them,
he
would call “Cut,” driving the director out of his mind, and Chase would go over to sign autographs and take selfies with the elated teens.

Everywhere Chase went, people watched. Truth be told, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him either. He wasn’t taller than six-feet, but he stood like a seven-foot man, built solidly with broad shoulders and a trim waist. His thighs filled his jeans well enough to let you know he was sturdy, but not husky. His snug shirt and jeans made quite a statement as he moved. He moved effortlessly, either taking direction from the director or interacting with cast members or fans. There wasn’t an awkward ounce about him.

Around four, a text from Jenny came through my phone.

4:18pm

Wanna grab dinner after

work? Mexican?

Hmm, what to text back?
I’m apparently having dinner with Chase Smythe?
Nah. That’d sound like I’m bragging. Besides. I was convinced that any moment I’d wake up and find that this was all an elaborate dream brought on by whatever was on the TV while I was asleep in front of it.

4:19pm

I’ve got plans, but how

about tomorrow?

That was a good reply. Not showing a hand, a dreamt hand.

She texted right back.

4:19pm

Sounds good.

The director finally called “wrap,” and the crew started to break down the set, coiling up cords and packing up ‘bounce boards.’

“And that, my girl, is how you shoot twelve and half minutes of a TV show,” Chase said, plopping down in the chair next to me.

“All of that was for twelve and a half minutes?!” I asked.

“Yup. Welcome to showbiz.”

“But you shot for three hours!”

“Yeah. Wide shots. Close ups of me. Close ups of Jared. From the left, from the right. And the odd take where the sound guy caught a horn overriding our dialogue.”
And the times when you needed to be reminded of your lines,
I thought in my head, but wouldn’t dare say out loud. “On location single camera shoots have to be the most exhausting. I’m starving! What do you say we get a bite to eat? You like onion rings?”

“It says here,” I said looking down at the schedule again, “that we’re supposed to eat in Midtown?”

“Meh. It’s fine. Trust me,” he grabbed my hand and the instant our hands touched, I felt my heart skip, like I’d been hit with a defibrillator. This damn EMP was going to kill me!

Chase snatched a baseball cap and a jacket off the back of the director’s chair. He stuffed his gorgeous thick blonde locks inside and seconds later we were running, hand in hand, past the Town Car and down Seventy-ninth Street.

“The car is back there,” I said, thumbing behind us.

“Town Car equals fans following. I need a break,” he said, tugging us along, slipping the jacket he’d just swiped onto his back.

M
aking Dreary Dana quit was fun. If I had to endure another day of her sucking up to me and fan-girling, I was going to lose it. Granted, my little performance of swigging back a flask I told her was filled with vodka, and coming on to her like she was begging for it, was a bit much. I didn’t mean to tear her shirt, but once I slip into a role, sometimes it’s hard not to go full throttle. I wouldn’t have had sex with her. I would have come up with something before I ‘had my way’ with her. But the slap she delivered me, and my fake passing out from it, worked well. Best improv ever!

And my reward? Phoebe.

Phoebe was so cute, so innocent. And she seemed like a caring girl. She had a sparkle in her eye. She wasn’t full of herself and giggling like every other twit that came my way. She wasn’t constantly complimenting me, and telling me what a wonderful actor I was. She wasn’t having me pull out the various accents and talk to her like a Brit, or Aussie, or my favorite, the Jersey guy.

Maybe she was playing hard to get.
Oh, I’ll get her all right. I always get the girl.