I waved away his prepared speech, which he’d been giving me for the last week ever since I told him I wanted to drive myself. He’d said much the same again last night when I arrived home at the cabin later than he and Henry did.
“Let me deal with Marta. You work for me, not Marta. If I want to drive myself or if I want to ride with someone else, then that’s my decision. Okay? You’re at the cabin with me all night. You’re here with me all day.” I glanced over my shoulder at Henry, who’d been shadowing me. “You guys are great, and I appreciate you. But I need a little break.”
He nodded somberly then took a bite of his doughnut. I stepped into the trailer and closed the door just as I heard him say, “Holy shit, this is a great doughnut.”
I smirked, because everyone had been talking about the doughnuts. I hadn’t eaten one yet because they were from the place Jethro had mentioned the morning before. Maybe I was odd, but I wanted to save the experience for when he and I were together.
Locking the door after me, I checked my watch, saw I had about an hour before Jethro would collect me for our date. Knowing I wouldn’t have an opportunity to change at Hank’s cabin before he picked me up, I’d borrowed an outfit from wardrobe.
I felt like a knockout in it.
A black knee-length dress with red fabric cutouts on either side of my waist, and a deep bosom-highlighting V-neck. It had been tailored specifically for this movie and specifically for me. I’d only worn it once before, for a promo photo shoot two months ago, but I loved it.
I took a shower, shimmied into my dress, and used Susie’s makeup kit to do my face, leaving my hair to air-dry around my shoulders into messy waves. My shoe options were: red flats, black heels, or hot pink chanclas—flip-flops for non-Spanish speakers.
The spot where Jethro dropped me off in the mornings and collected me in the evenings was close to the main temporary structures, but the road was hidden. It was a secluded area with very few, if any, people passing by. But it was also unpaved, which meant I’d be walking and standing in dirt until he arrived.
I decided to slip the heels into my bag and wear the chanclas out, not wanting the black shoes to slow me down or get caught in the grass. Tapping three times on the door, I waited for Dave to return the taps, which would signal the all-clear. If Tom or Elon were present, Dave had strict instructions to explain that I’d already left.
I opened the door and he helped me down. I caught his frown when my flip-flop clad feet hit the ground.
“Sienna, what are you wearing?”
“A dress. What are you wearing?”
“You’re not driving yourself, are you?” He scowled. “You have plans.”
“You are correct.” I hoisted my bag, which held my laptop, higher on my shoulder. I was carrying it everywhere these days.
“Please tell me it’s not Mr. Low,” he groaned, making a face.
“It’s not Mr. Low.” I laughed, hiding myself behind Dave’s big form until I could ensure no one was around to catch me sneaking off.
“Is it Ken Hess?” Ken Hess being one of the other leads in the film.
Ken was a nice guy, he and I got along great, but he was very much an adorable, rising star type. Meaning, he enjoyed his new fame with a harem of on-again, off-again girlfriends. This behavior was typical for most male actors and celebrities my age, or at the beginning of their career. Ken’s trajectory would follow a familiar pattern: He would string a horde of women along until his career began to flounder. Then he’d be forced by his agent and manager to pair off with another celebrity to increase his prominence and Q score.
“No, Doris. It’s not Ken.” Sometimes when Dave was being gossipy, I called him Doris. I also called him Doris because he had a habit of being excessively insightful. I know it’s not fair to generalize about men or women, but I’d never met a guy as intuitive as Dave; he had a sixth sense about situations and people. It certainly contributed to him being a great bodyguard.
“Thank God. That guy’s already slept with half of the production assistants.”
“They don’t seem to be complaining.”
“The guy’s a horndog,” Dave grumbled. “Makes a bad name for the rest of us.”
“The rest of you?”
“Men.”
I smirked but said nothing. Dave was a good guy and a staunch romantic. Dave gave me hope that other good guy romantics existed.
Depressing truth: 99% of actors, actresses, and celebrities who date each other only do so because their managers and agents forced them into it/thought it would help their career. And that’s a fact.
Which was why I was weary of male actors. However, that being said, these people would receive no flak from me. I understood the business just fine. I understood how celebrity worked. Capturing the public interest was one thing, keeping and holding it was something else entirely.