There You'll Find Me (9 page)

“The dance is a huge deal round here.” Erin propped her chin in her hands. “We have an all-day festival, then at night bands play and the whole town comes for the dance. It’s all outside. Very romantic . . . or completely depressing.”

“Erin didn’t find a date last year.”

“I don’t know why we make such a fuss,” Erin said. “I’ve been stressing about it, and I’m starting to break out in zits.”

“All right, girls, what’ll you have?” Molly returned and set a trio of waters on the table.

“Hamburger.” Erin handed back the menu.

“Me too,” said Orla.

My good intentions for a salad wilted away. I’d just make up for it later. “Make that three.” Though with all this home-cooked food, it was obviously time for me to get back to running. Before my skirt got any tighter.

“So,” Orla said as Molly walked away, “any ideas on who you’ll ask to the dance, Finley? Anyone here you fancy?”

At that moment, we watched a crowd move up the sidewalk to the door. In walked Beckett, followed by five more cast members.

Including a girl I recognized as his beautiful costar.

Beckett waved to a man behind the bar. His eyes scanned the room as he greeted the good citizens of Abbeyglen.

Then he saw our table.

His gaze locked onto mine.

He smiled. A small, slow curve of his lips.

“No.” I looked away, bringing my attention back to the girls.

“Definitely no one here I fancy.”

After school I hopped on my bicycle and rode to the location of
Fangs in the Night
, sliding past the makeshift barricades lined up to keep obsessive fans away. I probably should’ve gone to visit Mrs. Sweeney, but for some reason I just wasn’t in the mood for her verbal harassment or stares of death.

That blissful fun would have to wait another day.

In the middle of filming an outdoor scene, the crew hovered all around the grounds like bees in search of honey, and, looking to the background, I could see what drew them to this particular town. A giant stone castle sat boldly in the meadow. But this wasn’t just a ruin, a piece of a tower. Though worn and battered, it was, from the outside, standing nearly whole, as if waiting for someone to lower the drawbridge and commence with court. With windows missing and turrets crumbling, whether by time, weather, or man, I knew it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed in a good editing studio. I envisioned women with big, sweeping dresses inside and men riding up on steeds after a day of hunting and warring.

Members of the crew walked past me as if I were invisible. Two women with ghostly white-powdered faces. A man carrying a light. A lady balancing three coffees. All these people, and yet, bless my sweet luck, Beatrice was the first person who took notice of my presence.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Beatrice stood there in a skintight bodice and ballooning skirt that dragged the ground, holding a brownie and Coke. My brain went into calculator mode, and I totaled up her fat, calories, carbs, divided by the square root of her obnoxious scorn.

“I asked you a question,” she said.

I took a step back as another girl approached. Taylor Risdale, the queen of twentysomething movies. She was even more beautiful in person with her spun-honey hair and waifish figure. Her skin was airbrushed perfection; I couldn’t find a single blemish. I could hate her for that reason alone.

“What’s going on?” Taylor asked. “Another intruder?”

“I, um, came to see Beckett.” Why had I agreed to this? Because I needed Beckett’s truck.

“You came to see Beckett. Isn’t that sweet?” Beatrice bit into her brownie, and my stomach pulled at the sight of her red lips chewing.

“This is a closed set,” Taylor said with a little less hostility than her cousin.

“I know.” I looked past her for signs of Beckett. “I’m not here to stalk. I—”

“That’s what they all say.” Taylor laughed.

“Seriously, if you’ll let me explain.”

“Don’t embarrass yourself further.” Beatrice shook her head like a hassled mother. “Have a little dignity.”

I was losing my patience. And my courage. “Beckett asked me to be here.”

“Sure he did.” Beatrice took a delicate sip of her Coke. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

“Is there a problem?”

At the sight of Beckett, I wanted to weep with gratitude. Bob trotted along beside him, a soggy tennis ball in his teeth, and I knew I was rescued.

“I’m taking care of it.” Taylor slithered up next to him and wrapped her arm around his bicep. “Just another silly fan girl.”

According to the tabloids, these two had been dating for months in an on-again, off-again relationship that was as volatile as it was mysterious.

Beckett gave the girls a bland smile as Bob wagged his tail against his master’s knee. “I invited Finley.”

Taylor’s face froze as if she had just sat on a pair of fangs.

“Beckett, can I talk to you?”

“Later.” He extracted himself from her grip and stood beside me. “Finley’s my new assistant. Mary left, and I need some help.” I looked ridiculous standing next to Taylor. She was a model. A goddess. Beatrice might’ve been pretty, but she wasn’t perfect. She had some curves. And a bump on her nose.

“I could help you,” Beatrice said.

“No.” Beckett’s voice was smooth as an alto sax. “You have too much to do already. We need you fresh for your part. I couldn’t stand the thought that I had taken you from your true calling.”

“But—”

“Thanks anyway.”

Beckett took hold of my arm and steered me in the other direction. “Very smooth,” I whispered.

He looked down and grinned. “Beatrice? She’s not too bad.”

“Yeah, because when she’s around you she gushes with charm and oozes with kindness. Before you got there she’d sprouted demon horns and was hissing smoke.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got her number.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet you do.” On speed dial.

Beckett laughed, then pointed to a trailer. “That’s mine. Go on in.”

“If your next line is ‘make yourself more comfortable,’ I’m pretty sure my daddy would expect me to punch you in the nose.”

“Ciara’s waiting for me in there to touch up my makeup, and we can . . . what? That’s funny to you?” He opened the trailer door and Bob hopped inside.

“You come with your own makeup crew. I’m just going to need a minute to process this, Mary Kay.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he held the door for me to step inside. “Finley, this is Ciara, one of the makeup artists.” He handed me a script as he took a seat in front of the woman and her magical box of cosmetics. “Finley’s going to be helping me out, so make sure she feels at home.”

“Welcome, Finley.” Ciara looked about the same age as Erin’s mom, and her own face was makeup free and framed by a cherry Kool-Aid stripe of hair on either side. Her smile revealed a gap between her teeth that added to her rebel cuteness. “Oh.” She reached for a powder brush from a tool belt around her waist. “You-know-who showed up today.”

I flipped through the script and tried to fade out of the circle of their conversation. But looking through my lashes, I saw Beckett’s lips thin and his fingers tighten on the arm of the chair. “Thanks for the heads-up.” He turned to me, the smile back in place. “Page fifty-two. Let’s start from the top.”

As we read the scene, I watched Ciara touch up his vampire look. The makeup should’ve feminized Beckett, but somehow it didn’t. Ciara’s deft hand had only sharpened his edges, making him even more rough . . . dangerous . . . earthy. His clothing came straight from the 1800s, and the cut of the charcoal pants and jacket gave me a new appreciation for historical detail.

“There you go, boss.” She gathered up her brushes and put them away. “See you in ten.”

“Thanks, Ciara. Now take a break. You’ve been on your feet all day.”

“I’m gonna go read that book you gave me,” she said. “This boy”—she gave his shoulders a sisterly squeeze—“always reading books and passing them on. He’s yet to suggest a bad one.”

Ciara shuffled out of the trailer and the wind slammed the door shut, jarring Bob from his growl time with his ball.

“So . . . ,” I began.

“Don’t believe a word she said.”

“You read. And often, it seems.”

“She just said that to make me sound smart.”

“It almost worked.”

He tapped the script. “Start again.”

I flipped the page back to the beginning of the scene just as the door opened again. Bob’s ears twitched and his tail stopped wagging.

“Hello, son.”

A man who could’ve been Tom Cruise’s twin stepped inside. He pulled off his Ray-Bans and surveyed the room. “And you are?”

My eyes widened at his curt tone. I opened my mouth to respond, but Beckett beat me to it. “This is Finley. She’s my temporary assistant. Finley, meet me father, Montgomery Rush.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Rush held out his hand, and a large diamond sparkled on one of his fingers. “Beckett,” he said, dismissing me, “did you get that script I overnighted you?”

“Yeah.
Bite Night
the sequel.”

“And you read it?”

Beckett reached into a small refrigerator and pulled out two water bottles, handing one to me before twisting the cap on his own and bringing it to his lips. “Haven’t read it yet.”

“Get on it. We need to negotiate. Those terms they sent us are quite unacceptable. Read the script.”

“What’s the point?” He set his water down and eyed his father.

“It will be a slightly altered version of this movie. And the one before it. And the one before that.”

“And that’s why they pay us the big bucks. And this time”—his eyes lit up like Christmas—“they’re going to pay you double. I’ve got it all planned out.”

Beckett snapped his fingers for Bob, then opened the door, staring into the cloudy sky. “I’m just sure you do.”

Chapter Eight

• Breakfast: grapefruit, tea, no sugar/cream

• Lunch: soup, apple

• Calories: 425

• Exercise: 2 miles on bicycle

• Days ’til audition: 40

D
ysfunction was apparently a family epidemic. I had it. I didn’t know anyone who didn’t.

Bundled up against the wind, I sat at lunch outside the school with the girls and pondered the previous day’s weird exchange between Beckett and his dad. I’d read that his dad was his manager and very hands-on in his career. But apparently it’d been a successful formula. Otherwise Walmart wouldn’t carry Steele Markov dolls on their shelves and teenagers wouldn’t come in spastic herds to see the midnight openings of his movies.

“Don’t you like your soup?” Erin lifted her spoon to her mouth and peered at the barely touched thermos her mom had packed for me. “It’s still warm. You know, vegetables provide powerful antioxidants, which can delay the aging process. I was just reading this fascinating article yesterday—”