shielding her eyes from the light, reaching for a cigarette, lighting up, and inhaling deeply. “Y’know it’s not my scene.”
“No sex,” Alejandro said. “We talk.”
“About what?” she asked suspiciously, blowing a stream of smoke in his direction.
“Our movie.”
Those two words acted like a shot of adrenaline. Willow stubbed out her cigarette and sat up in bed, covering her breasts with the black satin sheet, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders.
“Coffee. I need coffee,” she gasped, surprised and yet thrilled that he’d remembered their conversation.
Alejandro buzzed for his maid, a surly Colombian woman who hated him almost as much as she hated her job. Unfortunately, her son worked for Pablo Fernandez Diego in Colombia, and Pablo wanted someone in his son’s apartment he could trust, so she was stuck with the job.
“How much?” Alejandro asked Willow after he’d instructed his maid to bring them coffee.
Willow shook her head, desperately attempting to get her thoughts in synch. “How much what?” she asked, thinking that maybe she should snort a line of coke to start the day.
“How much to make our own fucking movie?” Alejandro said, pacing up and down.
“Oh, finances,” she murmured vaguely. “We’re gonna have to hire a production manager to tell us that. Although I’ve heard one can make a decent independent movie for maybe fifteen mill.”
Alejandro nodded. The fifteen million figure didn’t faze him—in fact, it was less than he’d expected.
“What would be our first move?” he asked. “I’d like to see a big announcement in the Hollywood Reporter . Front page.”
“We gotta get a property first,” Willow said, realizing that he was serious. This must be her lucky day, so she’d better get it together fast.
“‘Property’?” Alejandro questioned.
“A book. A script. Something tangible.”
“Where do we get that?”
Her mind began working overtime. “There’s this screenwriter I met on one of my movies,” she said. “He’s kind of sweet and I know he likes me. When I met him he was a nonentity, but now he’s hot. I kinda remember him telling me about a script he’s got stashed away we could use. And he wants to direct, so what could be more perfect?”
“Who is this guy?” Alejandro asked suspiciously.
“I didn’t fuck him,” Willow offered.
“I don’t care,” Alejandro said.
“His name’s Sam. I’ll call him, see if he’s interested. I got a hunch he will be.”
“You do that. Let’s get this thing going,” Alejandro said, already imagining himself standing on a podium at the Academy Awards in front of a thousand cameras accepting an Oscar.
Yes, anything was possible.
And the winner is Alejandro Diego for his critically acclaimed movie …
It all sounded like he was on the road to mega-fame and success.
* * *
There was a time when Willow would disguise her voice and call the paparazzi pretending to be a shopkeeper or a waiter alerting the paps to where they could find Willow Price. Now she didn’t have to do that anymore. The paparazzi automatically followed her everywhere, waiting impatiently for her next bad move. It was annoying, for now she always had to try to look her best, otherwise the haters on the Internet and the TMZ watchers would pull her to pieces with their vile comments.
She knew full well that she’d screwed up an extremely promising career, and that it was nobody’s fault but her own. Surrounding herself with the wrong people had not helped. Enablers were everywhere.
Want some coke?
Done .
Pills?
Of course .
Smack? Heroin? Speedballs? Molly?
Why not?
Oh God, there wasn’t a drug she hadn’t tried, and all it got her was nowhere. She’d lost jobs, money, friends. Spent too much time in rehab fucking the wrong male or female. Yet she still looked amazing, with a little help from the right dermatologist. She was only twenty-five, and maybe this movie thing with Alejandro
“No sex,” Alejandro said. “We talk.”
“About what?” she asked suspiciously, blowing a stream of smoke in his direction.
“Our movie.”
Those two words acted like a shot of adrenaline. Willow stubbed out her cigarette and sat up in bed, covering her breasts with the black satin sheet, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders.
“Coffee. I need coffee,” she gasped, surprised and yet thrilled that he’d remembered their conversation.
Alejandro buzzed for his maid, a surly Colombian woman who hated him almost as much as she hated her job. Unfortunately, her son worked for Pablo Fernandez Diego in Colombia, and Pablo wanted someone in his son’s apartment he could trust, so she was stuck with the job.
“How much?” Alejandro asked Willow after he’d instructed his maid to bring them coffee.
Willow shook her head, desperately attempting to get her thoughts in synch. “How much what?” she asked, thinking that maybe she should snort a line of coke to start the day.
“How much to make our own fucking movie?” Alejandro said, pacing up and down.
“Oh, finances,” she murmured vaguely. “We’re gonna have to hire a production manager to tell us that. Although I’ve heard one can make a decent independent movie for maybe fifteen mill.”
Alejandro nodded. The fifteen million figure didn’t faze him—in fact, it was less than he’d expected.
“What would be our first move?” he asked. “I’d like to see a big announcement in the Hollywood Reporter . Front page.”
“We gotta get a property first,” Willow said, realizing that he was serious. This must be her lucky day, so she’d better get it together fast.
“‘Property’?” Alejandro questioned.
“A book. A script. Something tangible.”
“Where do we get that?”
Her mind began working overtime. “There’s this screenwriter I met on one of my movies,” she said. “He’s kind of sweet and I know he likes me. When I met him he was a nonentity, but now he’s hot. I kinda remember him telling me about a script he’s got stashed away we could use. And he wants to direct, so what could be more perfect?”
“Who is this guy?” Alejandro asked suspiciously.
“I didn’t fuck him,” Willow offered.
“I don’t care,” Alejandro said.
“His name’s Sam. I’ll call him, see if he’s interested. I got a hunch he will be.”
“You do that. Let’s get this thing going,” Alejandro said, already imagining himself standing on a podium at the Academy Awards in front of a thousand cameras accepting an Oscar.
Yes, anything was possible.
And the winner is Alejandro Diego for his critically acclaimed movie …
It all sounded like he was on the road to mega-fame and success.
* * *
There was a time when Willow would disguise her voice and call the paparazzi pretending to be a shopkeeper or a waiter alerting the paps to where they could find Willow Price. Now she didn’t have to do that anymore. The paparazzi automatically followed her everywhere, waiting impatiently for her next bad move. It was annoying, for now she always had to try to look her best, otherwise the haters on the Internet and the TMZ watchers would pull her to pieces with their vile comments.
She knew full well that she’d screwed up an extremely promising career, and that it was nobody’s fault but her own. Surrounding herself with the wrong people had not helped. Enablers were everywhere.
Want some coke?
Done .
Pills?
Of course .
Smack? Heroin? Speedballs? Molly?
Why not?
Oh God, there wasn’t a drug she hadn’t tried, and all it got her was nowhere. She’d lost jobs, money, friends. Spent too much time in rehab fucking the wrong male or female. Yet she still looked amazing, with a little help from the right dermatologist. She was only twenty-five, and maybe this movie thing with Alejandro
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