Winter Wolf (10 page)

I lifted my chin, determined not to be distracted by his good looks. “No sane girl films without a contract in hand.”

He parked the SUV in one of the last free spots in the lot, killed the engine, and reached over to pat my shoulder. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing. You show the director you’re worth your spot and all you’ll have to do is read your contract and sign. I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.”

I sighed. “You always do.”

“That’s my girl. If it makes you feel better, there will only be a few dogs sticking around for the whole film. Most are one or two day extras. I already read over the script and I think you’ll like it. From my understanding, you’ll be working with two animals most of the time. I suspect the closed audition is more for the
animals
than for
you.
If I’m right—”

“—and you usually are,” I interrupted with a grin of my own.

He graced me with another one of his brilliant smiles. “If I’m right, and I usually am, today will prove more of a formality than anything. I have it from a very reliable source that they want you, come hell or high water, for this role.”

There was something nice about feeling
wanted
, but I wasn’t going to tell Dominic that. I hid those feelings behind a smile of my own. “It would’ve been nice to know this before I left my apartment, Dominic. I would’ve dressed up.” I grumbled for show. “You also know I have no real experience working with animals on set.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“So long as the packs of dire dachshunds don’t get me.”

Dominic laughed. “You’re needed in makeup, young lady. It’ll be my head if I make you late.”

True to his word, a girl late in her teens ran across the lot, staring at Dominic, then at me. My agent gave her a nod and she looked so relieved I felt sorry for her—probably a new intern to the studio. She opened the door of Dominic’s SUV, shyly bowing her head.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the girl said, her eyes fixed on the asphalt.

I climbed out of his SUV, chuckling at the thought of someone setting Dominic straight. Turning my attention to the girl, I smiled at her, reached out, and lifted her chin with a finger. “Chin up, young lady. Can you please go run and tell them I’m on the way to makeup?”

“Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you want coffee?”

Amused by her antics and behavior, I sent her off with a request for tea. Once she left, I turned to Dominic, arching an eyebrow at him. “You weren’t kidding. They have an intern for me?”

“I told you, they want you and only you.”

“Just what kind of film is this anyway, Dominic? Dachshunds and chihuahuas?”

“The best kind,” he said.

I’m not sure why I thought he was lying, but there was something about his tone that made me wonder what was wrong with my being cast in the film. But I was in no position to complain. I needed the work and we both knew it.

“It’s fine.” Dominic patted my shoulder. “I’ll be honest—maybe you don’t mind dogs, but if another one of those rats nips at my ankles, I’ll kick it. Two of them came at me yesterday.”

I whacked his arm with the back of my hand. “That’s not nice.”

“Neither is getting my ankles gnawed off by a rat disguised as a dog.”

“It’s not so bad for the rest of us. You’re too tall anyway.” Laughing at his expense, I led the way into the studio.

~~*~~

I didn’t recognize anyone in the makeup room. The two women put in charge of me looked me down from head to toe. They were dressed casually enough I didn’t feel too out of place, but there was something predatory about their gazes as they inspected me. Their attire took me by surprise; normally those in makeup and wardrobe dressed as well as the talents. The older of the two, almost old enough to be my grandmother, clucked her tongue.

“We need to do full body makeup today, so strip to your underwear, please,” she ordered, tapping her soft-bristled brush against her chin.

Privacy was normally given by makeup and wardrobe, but my scars made me an unusual actress. While the request would have offended many in Hollywood, it was par for the course for me. It was also the part I hated the most, when the makeup and wardrobe realized there were a lot of scars they needed to hide. Some people were body shy because of their insecurities, but I hated the sympathetic hissing and the looks I got when people noticed my scars.

There was nothing wrong with my body. There was a lot wrong with how people perceived it, though.

Stifling a sigh, I obeyed the woman, standing with my hands braced on my hips. I was experienced enough that I wasn’t going to lose my temper over a brisk makeup artist. They had a job to do, and I gave them more work than most actresses. I had a job to do, too, and it didn’t involve starting problems with the staff.

Other actresses probably would have tried to have the women fired for their behavior, but not me.

“Not enough scars,” was the declaration after a long moment of silence.

My mouth opened, but I couldn’t make a sound. I didn’t have
enough
scars?

There was a first for everything.

When I didn’t protest, the two women descended on me like a pack of hungry hyenas, cackling as they worked their magic on me. Instead of hiding my scars, they enhanced them, paling the marks stretching from shoulder and throat to stomach so they stood out against my skin.

Then they took photographs, and lots of them.

When they were finished, wardrobe dressed me in a pair of shorts modest for Hollywood’s standards and a pink spaghetti-strapped shirt that exposed my belly. They wrapped my calves in strips of ratty linens before stuffing my feet into combat boots.

It was the older woman who, grinning with far too much enthusiasm for my liking, buckled a holster complete with handgun around my hips and shoved some sort of rifle into my hand. No sooner had I wrapped my fingers around the weapon, I realized that it didn’t feel like a plastic prop. Prop guns I could handle, but the real things tended to make my skin crawl.

Like me, guns were weapons and I couldn’t get past that fact.

Some of my hesitance must have showed on my face, because the younger woman patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. The safety is on and it’s loaded with blanks. Just don’t play with it or point it at anyone, okay? Justin will be in charge of your weapon for the shoot, but he was needed elsewhere for a while.”

That didn’t comfort me at all—why would they give me a real gun at a closed audition, even if it was loaded with blanks? Especially
before
I had any training in its use? It went against every safety code I knew of. With nervous awareness of what I held, I made sure I kept the gun pointed away from anyone and my finger far from the trigger.

Before I could question—or ask them for their names—I was guided out of the makeup room along with a script. I was herded onto set, juggling the rifle and the thick pad of paper.

Someone had spent a great deal of time and effort building a scale model of some sort of power plant, which was surrounded by the ruins of a city. The burnt out, skeletal remains of skyscrapers tilted and threatened to fall. Surrounding the structure was an intricate fence, miniaturized to scale. I couldn’t help but crouch next to it, marveling at the thin wires making up the chain-linked panels.

I’d seen labors of love in the movie business before, but never quite to the detail level of this model. I was afraid to breathe, in case the ash and dust littering the fake ground wasn’t paint.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice asked from beside me.

I straightened, glanced out of the corner of my eye at him, and nodded. Judging from his jeans, utility belt, and the cables looped under the man’s arm, he was a part of the crew.

He wasn’t much older than Scott and I wondered if they had known each other.

I hid my discomfort behind a smile. “Sure is. With so much digital, it’s nice to see some models in use.”

“Luck,” he said, shuffling off to the main set. Green screen was layered on the floor and hung as a backdrop, while a reproduction of part of the model and fence served as physical props.

Dominic emerged from deeper within the studio, taking hold of my elbow as he drew near. “We’re going to be taking promotional photos, plus a screen test,” he explained, guiding me to the elevated chairs for the director and producers.

I didn’t know the casually dressed man perched on the chair, his baseball cap on backwards and crooked. While he looked young, I got the feeling he probably knew his way around a set better than most. Age was a number, but he stared at me with old eyes. I was a little surprised the man had time to sit—most directors I knew scrambled non-stop during filming making sure everything was just right.

“The outfit suits you,” he announced, his tone satisfied. “You ever fire a gun loaded with blanks before, ma’am?”

Something warned me, maybe some basic instinct I didn’t know I had, that the director was as old fashioned as he sounded. Until a contract was signed and sealed, I wasn’t about to go irritating the man who controlled my fate—and placement in the film.

Old fashioned I could handle. I nodded my head, careful to look polite without grovelling. “Thank you, sir. I’ve never shot a gun before, loaded with blanks or otherwise.”

I think my answer satisfied him—old fashioned, traditional women didn’t handle guns. “You’ll learn, then. Dominic, I’ll call you with the name and number of an instructor. Miss Thomas, in this scene, you’ll be observing an approaching group. You’ll be accompanied by a few dogs, as well as one of your co-stars. Your job is to put her in her place. You’re the boss, and she led the enemy straight to you.” The director pulled a sheet off of his clipboard and handed it to me. “I understand you haven’t had a chance to read the script, so use this and improvise. Justin, the tall fellow with the blue shirt and ripped jeans over there, will show you how to fire the rifle if we need you shooting it today. Ask him if you have any questions. Don’t be afraid to use any force you deem necessary, even if you need to call a cut to learn how to handle the rifle properly.”

I hid my surprise behind a nod. What kind of force he did he expect me to use? Why force? What sort of person was I supposed to be for the camera? And what sort of person would return to someone they had betrayed?

Excitement accelerated my pulse rate. All I could do was hope my role wasn’t minor and that Dominic wasn’t getting my hopes up unnecessarily. My career was a graveyard of minor roles.

I turned to stare at the model, trying to deduce what sort of character I played. What sort of person would set up shop at a power plant, among a bunch of ruins? Not someone soft, that’s for sure. There were no feather beds in such a place. But if I played someone who would consider accepting a betrayer back, she was a fair individual—harsh, but reasonable.

I could act like that.

At the director’s gesture, I stood on the set. “One more thing, Miss Thomas.”

“Yes, sir?”

Maybe the director had taken lessons from Dominic, but there was an unpleasant edge to his smile. “Your co-stars.”

“Sir?”

No one moved; everyone found something interesting to stare at—that didn’t involve me or the director.

Interesting.

I felt like I was walking into a trap, but I couldn’t figure out what sort it was. What was so wrong with my co-stars to get this sort of reaction from the crew?

The director hit a button on his radio. “Bring them.”

‘Them’ proved to be two of the largest dogs I had ever seen. Their handler, a muscular brute of a man with dull eyes, held their leashes in a white-knuckled grip. Despite both of the animals walking at a sedate pace at their handler’s heels, those in the studio shied away from them.

The handler looked ready to be sick all over the floor.

I wasn’t a fan of dogs or their over-sized Fenerec cousins, but I hated the hesitant way the animals moved. The humans were afraid, but so were the dogs.

Unable to pinpoint why it bothered me so much made me frustrated, but I couldn’t leave it alone. Slinging the rifle’s strap over my shoulder, I met the handler halfway. Without a word, I snatched the leashes, claiming responsibility for the dogs. Both animals regarded me for a moment, then as if deciding I was less likely to kick their furry butts in, they huddled around my legs, as far as they could get from their handler.

I thought I had managed to keep from scowling, but the man saw something he didn’t like in my expression and beat a hasty retreat across the studio.

When I turned around to head back to the set, the director looked pleased. “The gray one is named Silver. The darker one is Rocky. They’re German shepherds.”

If Silver and Rocky were German shepherds, I was a harmless little girl with the voice of an angel. No German shepherd I had ever seen came up higher than my waist at the shoulder. Rocky was the larger of the two, leaving Silver dwarfed in comparison—and Silver was easily the equal of any mastiff I’d ever seen.

With both of them crowding me, I felt smaller than usual.