Last time on L.A. Connections…

Miranda learned of Vaughan Novak’s scheme to steal her prized client, then confronted Siobahn at her fortieth birthday party, where Siobahn refused to deny it. Stormy reeled as Sunset Studio’s upcoming release leaked online, while he and Jane struggled to conceive. Natalie slipped Riley into the party, where fate introduced him to casting powerhouse Willow Grant. And in Brett’s office, Sadie Knox played her cards for her sister’s big break—only to have Brett call her bluff, then shock her by agreeing to a screen test for Iris.

* * *

Weezer’s Say It Ain’t So played low from the sound system, its melancholic guitar riffs and wounded vocals emanating through the cabin of Miranda’s SUV as they made their way to the M.B.A offices the morning after the party.

“Last night was so much fun,” Heather said from the passenger’s seat, then glanced back at Jane.  “Hey, where did you and Stormy sneak off to, anyway?”

She grinned mischievously. “He…ummm…wanted to show me something in his old bedroom.” 

Heather stifled a laugh as she and Kelly chimed in together, “I’ve heard that one before.”

The three women exchanged knowing glances before bursting into laughter—amused that each of them, at one point or another, had been Mrs. Stormy Blackthorne.

“Hey, Miranda, you’re awfully quiet this morning,” Jane said, her attention directed to the front seat. 

“Yeah, you haven’t said anything about the party,” Heather agreed.

“Come to think of it, you kind of disappeared after Eddie’s toast,” Kelly noted. “What happened?” 

Miranda had only been partially listening to the chatter between the other women, her mind razor focused on her talk with Siobahn in the game room the night before. 

“I talked to Siobahn,” she told them, her tone full of ominous dread. “If we want to keep her as a client, she’s gonna make us work for it.”  

The others exchanged looks of disbelief as they arrived at the sleek glass tower that headquartered The Miranda Blackthorne Agency.  Miranda moved intently, each click of her stilettos cutting through the momentary silence. The others followed close behind, trailing her like an army on a life and death mission.

Once inside the clean, modern office, they launched straight into strategy mode.

“I say we just appeal to her on an emotional level,” Heather suggested. “Remind her of everything we’ve built together. Her first callback, her first big role. Miranda, you championed her when no one else would, including Vaughan Novak.”

Miranda shook her head as she paced the bullpen area outside her office. “Come on, Heather, this is Siobahn Saxton we’re talking about. She doesn’t do emotions. She does success, and very well I might add.” 

“How about a subtle threat?” Kelly said. “Titan Artists Group, or any other agency for that matter, will exploit her brand and completely mismanage her.  Look what happened to your step-mother. After Malibu High, she switched agents and turned into an alcoholic. Here’s what you say: ‘hey, if you want to end up doing toothpaste commercials and Celebrity AA like Lara Devon, I won’t stop you.’”

Miranda shot her an incredulous look. “I don’t think reverse psychology is going to work in this instance.”  

“Well, we’ve got to do something,” Kelly said matter-of-factly. “If Siobahn leaves, it’s only a matter of time before others follow suit.”  

“I’m well aware of what’s at stake,” Miranda said, wringing her hands together as she paced.  

Suddenly, Jane stood up from her desk. “Look, we just have to offer her something that she can’t say no to.”

“And what would that be?” Heather asked.  

Shrugging, Jane searched her thoughts. “A three-picture deal with Sunset Studios,” she suggested. “You know Stormy will go for anything to help us.” 

“You’re forgetting what happened with the last Sunset Studios film she did,” Kelly reminded her. “The director almost fired her after that tantrum on the set. I don’t think she’s been too keen on going back. And for three films? No, never.”

“Well, diva antics aside, I don’t hate where you’re going with this, Janey,” Miranda said. 

Heather snapped. “We turn her into the next Nicole Kidman.”

“Meaning?” Miranda asked. 

Heather walked away from her desk and stood before the other women. “How many limited series on streaming platforms has she done in the last ten years?  Those networks are now part of her brand.  Remember that article in Variety a few months ago?  What was it she said—?”

Jane was already searching the internet for the story. “Found it,” she said and summarized the text as she read. “Kidman finds creative fulfillment in the long format for greater character building…the process is more engaging than doing film…uses her position to support other women in the industry…provides opportunities for women to write and be mentored…”

Miranda stopped in her tracks and spun around. “That’s it,” she said with a snap of her fingers. “The women-supporting-women angle. That’s brilliant. Can you imagine Vaughan Novak pitching something like that? Please. He’s old-school Hollywood, stuck in the era where men called all the shots. Heather, it’s perfect.”

“We could get a meeting with Blake today and get the ball rolling,” Heather further suggested.  “FlickFix must have dozens of projects in the works.” 

“I’ll call him,” Miranda said. “I’m his sister-in-law. That’s got to come with some perks, right?” 

With that, she made her way into her office. Finally things were looking up. Finally, they had a hook. 

* * *

“Look, it’s just that I thought the whole point of sneaking me into the party last night was for me to meet people,” Riley was saying as he stalked around he and Natalie’s apartment. He pulled a pair of socks from a laundry basket of clean clothes before walking back to the bedroom. He was bare-chested, a pair of tight-fitting jeans that hugged his thighs and ass pulled to his waist but not yet buttoned.

Natalie followed him, her string bikini leaving little to the imagination, the fabric barely concealing the curve of her breasts. “It’s just that I’d hoped this was going to be an opportunity for us both. Instead, you’re the one who got a meeting with a casting director. All I got was blisters on my feet from working that party.”

Seated on their bed, Riley pulled the socks on and slipped into a pair of J Crew sneakers.  He got up and examined his face in the mirror. “Nat, you were working. I don’t know what you expected me to do. Drag Willow Grant over to the punch table and say ‘by the way, this is my wife, and she’d like a screen test too’.  Come on!”

“Well, at least it would have shown me you could think of someone other than yourself,” she said, irritated that he was fussing with his clothes and hair so much. “Would you stop and look at me for a minute? You’re more interested in this meeting than you are in our marriage.” 

He shot her a look of warning. “That is not true! And fuck you for saying it. Am I not allowed to be excited that I’m finally getting a break? Yours will come in time.”

Dejected, she dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry, Ry, I just—I’m just frustrated,” she said and sat down on the bed. “And a little jealous, to be honest. I mean, you’re at a party for ten minutes and you meet a casting director.” 

He pulled an oxford shirt on and began buttoning it. “Probably because I was new. It’s the same ol’ people at those Hollywood parties, and finally there was someone they hadn’t seen before.”  He stopped, knelt down in front of her and looked her in the eyes. The look that always made her melt. “If I get in good with Monarch Pictures, the first thing I’m going to do is to mention my beautiful, talented, sexy wife and how they’d be missing out if they didn’t give her a meeting.”  

“Promise?” she asked with a pout.  

He kissed her.  “Promise,” he said, rising to his feet and rolling his sleeves up to showcase his toned forearms. 

Turning to give himself one final look before he left, he tousled his hair a bit and popped a breath mint in his mouth.  

“Showtime.”  

* * *

Brett had almost forgotten about his meeting with Sadie’s sister, Iris. He’d gone to the Rydell Productions offices in Studio City that morning to get some paperwork done and was confused at first when his receptionist walked in with a young woman trailing behind.

“You must be Iris,” Brett said and rose to his feet, walking around his desk to shake her hand.  “I’m Brett Armstrong.”

Brett wasn’t one to gush, but he had to admit that her body was bangin’. Tight little waist, hips that knew how to move, and legs that went on and on. Total smoke show.  She definitely had the equipment. As far as screen presence and talent, however, there wasn’t much there. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking after watching her YouTube channel. Sometimes the only way to tell was to see someone in person. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Armstrong,” Iris said dreamily as she looked around his enormous high-end office. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m here.”  

Could she be any more of an amateur?  Brett turned his gaze to his receptionist. “That’ll be all, Sam.” 

The young woman gave Iris a smug once-over before slipping out of the office and pulling the door closed behind her.

Gesturing to the sofa in the corner, Brett led Iris across the room and handed her a script. Had to make it seem legit, after all. He wasn’t cruel enough to just send her packing two minutes after she got there.

“Why don’t we run some lines together,” he said and gestured to an earmarked page of the script.  “Just relax and start whenever you’re ready.” 

“Okay,” she said nervously.  She’d gone with the original outfit she’d tried on. The lavender top with the denim mini skirt and platform sneakers. Sadie had disapproved, of course, but she felt comfortable. “Is it okay if I stand?” 

Brett shrugged. “Whatever you want.” He referred to his script and stood up. “This is the scene where your character tells him she’s falling in love. No need to go full drama. Just keep it natural. You’re just two people alone at night. Let it come naturally.”

“Got it.”  She cleared her throat and shifted into character.  “I didn’t expect this. You, me…this feeling.  It’s terrifying, and kind of amazing.”  

“Neither did I,” Brett read. “But it’s here. Right now. And it’s real.” 

“It can’t be. Not like this.” 

“Why not? Because it’s messy? Because it scares you?”  He paused, stepping closer.  “You scare me too.” 

Iris continued, “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”  

“I do. Every time I see you, I forget what I was saying or what I was doing. I walk into a room and all I notice is you.”  

“You don’t mean that.”

“Look at me and tell me you don’t feel it too,” Brett said.  He stepped closer, his hand reaching up and brushing her cheek.  

Iris frowned, breaking character.  “That’s not in the script.”

“Call it artistic freedom,” Brett said. He leaned in and kissed her. Not a peck but a full, purposeful kiss. Instantly, he grew aroused. While Iris wasn’t a Rydell Productions worthy actress, she got his motor roaring.  

She jerked back, stunned. “What was that?” 

Brett shrugged sheepishly. “It felt right. Come on, Iris. That wasn’t just acting. You’ve got to feel the heat too.”

“You’re the producer, not my scene partner,” Iris insisted. 

“Exactly. I know real chemistry when I see it. Come on, why don’t I lock the door and—”

Iris slapped the script against his chest.  “God, how could I have been so stupid?” she asked. “I actually thought you wanted to help me. Turns out you’re exactly like the sleazy producers I always hear about.” 

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. 

“Don’t overreact,” Brett called after her, touching his lips with his fingers. “You actually did pretty good.  And that was a hell of a kiss.”

“Yeah? Felt like a cheap test to see what you could get away with,” Iris said.

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Brett stood, breathing hard, lips still parted, and grinning. 

* * *

Eddie’s office was tucked into a discreet suite on the ground floor of a low-rise building just off Canon Drive—close enough to the heart of Beverly Hills but far enough to avoid the tourists and influencers clogging the sidewalks.

He had tried to trace the leak at Sunset Studios, but every digital trail led to a dead end. The rough cut of Dominion Protocol had been uploaded through a maze of proxies and encrypted servers, all hidden behind layers of firewalls and data-wiping software. Whoever did it knew how to cover their tracks—and they did it well.

He requested access to internal server logs at the studio, but their IT team claimed the data was incomplete or already overwritten. Too convenient. Eddie wasn’t buying it.  Someone inside the studio either didn’t want him to find out—or worse, was intentionally feeding him wrong information. And the more he pushed, the more deflections he got. He’d seen this before. It wasn’t just a leak. It was almost as if someone within Sunset Studios wanted the film out there and wanted him off the scent. 

Stormy stopped by that morning and Eddie filled him in. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Stormy said.  “Who on the inside would have actively tried sabotaging the movie? A mole planted by another studio?”

“I scrubbed employee files on every person working in your I.T. department and they’re clean,” Eddie said with a shake of his head.

They were in the middle of a Nerf basketball showdown, firing foam shots at a hoop mounted over the office door, each trying to outdo the other with increasingly impossible distances.

“Two points!” Eddie shouted as he made a shot from the furthest possible spot. He threw his hands up and took a victory lap around the office.  “I just won this week’s bragging rights, playa!”

The office door opened and his secretary walked in. “Did you call me?”

“Sorry, Jules,” he replied, trying to maintain a professional decorum. “That’ll be all.” 

She smiled and ducked back out of the office.  Stormy stifled a laugh. 

“What was that?”

Eddie shrugged dismissively and took a seat behind his desk—cluttered with papers, empty coffee cups and a few take out boxes. “She new. She’s trying to impress me.”

“Then have her do something about this mess,” Stormy said and used two hesitant fingers to pick up an empty donut box.  “Jesus, man, you’re a freaking disaster.”  

“It’s called being busy,” Eddie told him.  “What brings you by? I told you I’d let you know if I found anything concrete about the leak. Besides, I thought Miranda and I were coming to your place tonight.”

“It’s tomorrow night, actually, but I wanted to talk to you before that,” Stormy said, suddenly serious. “I don’t want you or Miranda to say anything about…you know, us trying to get pregnant. It’s all Jane can think about lately. I mean, I’m excited too, don’t get me wrong, but I’m afraid that if it doesn’t happen—” 

“That it’ll be like last time,” Eddie finished for him. “I get it, man. The more you talk about it, the more real it seems, and then when it doesn’t happen, it’s a big letdown.”  

“Big time.  Was it like that when you and Miranda were trying?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, but it was different for us. Right when we thought there might be a problem, we saw a specialist and that’s when we found out she couldn’t have any more kids. It’s not like that with you and Jane.”

“Yeah, well, I just don’t want her to get hurt again.”

“Hey, I don’t want either one of you to get hurt,” Eddie said. “I know how much you wanted to give R.J. a little brother or sister.”  

“Thanks,” Stormy said.  “Anyway, let me know if you find anything more about the leak.”

“Will do,” Eddie said, firing off one final foam basketball—this one bouncing off of Stormy’s head who gave his best friend an incredulous look before leaving.

* * *

Riley adjusted his collar as he stepped off the elevator onto the 14th floor of Monarch Pictures in Century City. The hallway screamed Hollywood with black-and-white portraits of old film legends and movie one-sheets. A receptionist with perfect eyebrows motioned him toward the glass conference room where Willow Grant stood with a tablet in one hand and a bored expression in the other.

She didn’t look up right away.

“Riley Dean Weir,” she finally said, eyeing him closely. “Thanks for coming in. Feels different being invited into a room, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Riley said with a smile. “Not my finest moment crashing a Hollywood birthday party. But something good did come out of it.  You said I had… something.”

Willow glanced up. “I said you had a look. That’s not the same thing.”

She tapped her tablet, then motioned toward the small studio space toward the front of the conference room. A plain white backdrop was set up with a spotlight and a camera on a tripod.

“Let’s do a quick screen test,” she said. “No lines, just presence. Take off your shirt.”

Riley blinked. “Oh, you want me to—”

“It’s a look test. Shirtless. You’ve got the torso for it. Let’s see if it translates onto camera.”

He didn’t further hesitate, unbuttoning the top few buttons on his oxford shirt and pulling it over his head, muscles flexing under the fluorescent light. Willow’s eyes scanned slowly over his body, and although the corners of her mouth twitched, it was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Willow hit record. “Walk to the mark, then turn and look into the lens. Give me… smolder.”

He did as instructed, and with confidence. Thoughts of Natalie and their argument didn’t even make their way into his mind. He was in show-off mode, which was his specialty. 

After a minute, Willow clicked off the camera. “Okay. You can put your shirt back on.”

Riley slipped it over his head, heart still pounding. “Well?”

She exhaled, carefully reviewing the footage on her tablet. “You’re good-looking, Riley, and very photogenic,” she said flatly. “But Monarch material? That’s something else.”

His body language stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we make stars here. Icons. People who can light up a screen from the inside. You? You’re all surface. And surface gets old fast.”

He stared at her, his cheeks hot and flushed. “So that’s it?”

Willow set down the tablet. “That’s it. Leave your headshot with the receptionist and we’ll keep it on file in case we need abs for a body double. Otherwise good luck out there and thanks for coming in today.”

Riley nodded awkwardly, turned, and walked out, the sound of his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.  He almost couldn’t believe what had just happened. He didn’t say anything until the elevator doors slid shut, and then it was just a single word murmured under his breath.

“Fuck.”

* * *

Sadie breezed past Sam, Brett’s oversexed receptionist at Rydell Productions, and barged into his office without knocking, the door slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the windows.

Brett looked up from his desk, unfazed. “Sadie, are you forgetting a conversation we had the other day where I told you to stay away from me?”

She approached the desk, one finger pointing at him like a dagger. “That was when you said you were going to help my sister.”

“I never said I’d help her. I said I’d meet with her.  And I did.  The simple truth is she just wasn’t what I was hoping for.”

Sadie leaned in, planting both hands on his desk.  “And did you come to that conclusion before or after you put the moves on her, you sleazy over-sexed creep?”

He blinked. “It was part of the scene.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “The scene didn’t call for your tongue thrust down her throat.”

Brett raised a brow. “She didn’t say stop.”

“She also didn’t say, ‘Hey Brett, please grind on me like you’re auditioning for Magic Mike 3.’”

He stood, trying to keep it light. “Look, I got caught up in the moment. Chemistry happens.”

“No. Chemistry is an energy exchange, when frequencies match in a moment. What you did is a fireable offense.”

Brett’s smile faded slightly and he chuckled.  “Oh? What are you going to do?”

“Hmmm, what would I do…?” Sadie said, stepping closer. “You think your little gig here is untouchable? Please. All I need is one call to the Rydell board, one leaked email, one quote from Iris with just the right amount of trembling in her voice, and poof—you’re out. Replaced. Call it karmic justice.”

Brett ran a hand down his face. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

Sadie narrowed her eyes. “Try me.”

She turned, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she marched to the door. Then she paused, her hand on the handle.

“I hope it was worth it, Brett,” she said, her voice low and cutting. “Because I have a feeling your days at Rydell are numbered.  And to think, this could have all been avoided if you’d just given my sister a break.” 

She opened the door and walked out without looking back, the soft click behind her somehow louder than a slam.

Brett stayed frozen for a moment. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

“This chic is fucking nuts.”

* * *

Blake Distefano’s house was situated just off Ocean Avenue in the Santa Monica Gold Coast. The home, a 1920s Spanish revival with arched doorways and a terra cotta roof, had once belonged to a silent film star who had been contracted by Jonas Lamont, and it still held that air of Hollywood luxury, modernized with just enough edge to suit Blake’s taste.

Blake sat on the tiled ledge of his front porch, one foot braced on the step as he laced up his white Coach Soho sneakers. He always went for a run at lunchtime whether he was at home working or at the FlickFix offices in Studio City. 

“Listen, Blake, I’m desperate,” Miranda was saying, her shadow looming over him from above. “All I’m asking for is a meeting.” 

“Hey, you don’t have to convince me,” Blake said, standing to his full height and doing a series of warm-up stretches. “But I’m not the only one calling the shots on casting. And you haven’t even told me what you want—first-look rights, backend points, exclusivity—”

“That’s what the meeting’s for!” she interrupted. “Besides, I’m not getting lost in the fine print right now. I just need to know if I can go back to my client with something real.”

Blake called over to his golden retriever who was sniffing at a dead seagull in the sand a few feet away. “Here, Betsy,” he called over to her, then returned his gaze to Miranda.  “You want a meeting, Miranda? You’ve got it. Just be ready to talk specifics.” 

“Thanks, Blake,” she said and gave him a quick squeeze. 

“I’ll text you with details,” Blake told her as he backed up to the beach. 

“You’re the best,” Miranda said as she watched him disappear along the crowded sand.  

Turning, she shot a quick text to the rest of her team.  “Meeting with FlickFix confirmed. It’s go-time.”  

* * *

Traffic was worse than usual on Riley’s drive home, which only put him in an even worse mood than when he’d left the screen test. To make matters worse, the valet supervisor at the club called him and said they were overstaffed and they were cutting his shift that night.

“Look, I really need the hours,” he said, deadlocked on Pico. “Can’t you just—?  Yeah, I understand.  Ok. Thanks.” 

Frustrated, he tossed the phone onto the passenger’s seat of his 2017 Mustang—the car his parents had bought him for high school graduation.

When he got home to the apartment, Natalie was making sandwiches in the kitchen.  She saw him enter and quickly ran over to greet him. 

“How did it go?” she asked, excitement building. “I thought maybe you’d call on your way home to fill me in. Come on, I want to know everything.”

Riley steered away from her and walked back to the bedroom where he started changing into his workout clothes.  “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay?  I just want to go to the gym for a while.” 

“Ry, what’s wrong?” she asked. “What did she say?”

He exploded into a fit of frustration and anger.  “I said I didn’t want to talk about it, okay!? Just drop it, Natalie!”  

She recoiled with shock over the tone in his voice. Rarely had she seen him this angry. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to—”  Her eyes stinging, she turned and went back to the kitchen. 

Sighing, Riley realized he was directing his frustration at the wrong person. Natalie had always been there for him—supported him and cheered him on. That’s why their marriage worked so well. They were each other’s rocks, especially since moving to L.A.

“I’m sorry, hon,” he said and followed her out to the kitchen.  “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m just…”

“What?”

He looked away because he couldn’t bear having to see her face when he told her he’d failed yet again. “She said I wasn’t Monarch material.  She said all I had going for me were my looks.”  

“Ry,” Natalie said sadly and pulled him into an embrace.  “I’m so sorry. That must have been hard to hear.”  

He resisted the temptation to wallow in self-pity. That wasn’t who he was. He was determined, and a fighter.  “It’s okay,” he said, forcing a smile. “What does she know, right?”

“It’s her loss,” Natalie said.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I’m okay.” 

“You want a sandwich?”

He shook his head and kissed her softly.  “Maybe after my workout.  I’ll see you in a bit.” 

As he walked to the door, she called after him.  “Oh, I almost forgot. Steve called and said the complex is raising rent so we need to come up with an extra two-hundred next month.”  

Today was full of good news, Riley thought sarcastically to himself.  His acting career was going nowhere, money was running out, and apparently all he had going for him was a defined torso.  

He walked across the pool deck to the gym and stepped into the cool, air conditioned space.  Dejected, he nodded politely to a guy on the stair climber. Usually when he suffered a setback like this, he rallied almost immediately, keeping focus and strategizing his next move.  But this time it felt different. He felt hopeless. That, on top of compounding money problems, made him question everything. 

Suddenly, he pulled his iPhone from his pocket. Navigating to the app store, he went back to the Noir Companions app and hesitated. The two grand a day that Wyatt said he made would come in handy.  At least he could focus on his career and not have finances to worry about.  But in his short twenty-six years on earth, he’d learned one thing for certain—there was no such thing as easy money. There was always a catch. 

Straddling the bench press, he moved his finger to the Get button and watched as the app began downloading. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures, he told himself. Besides, he was just exploring the idea. There was no saying he had to go through with anything. 

* * *

After Iris told Sadie about her disastrous meeting with Brett Armstrong, Sadie took off talking about going to find some healing crystals and herbal tranquilizers. As if that would take away the humiliation and the disappointment she felt leaving his office.  Why was it that anytime something good came her way, another shoe would drop and cancel it out?  Was that really how things worked in Hollywood? 

She headed to the beach to clear her mind. Ever since leaving Edmonton, it was the one place she felt connected to herself. Sometimes she’d stroll past the sprawling homes along Santa Monica Beach, imagining the day she’d own one—her name on the gate, a grand staircase inside lined with framed stills from the movies that made her a star. 

Staring dreamily, the next thing she felt was something wet on her ankle. She wasn’t close enough to the water to—

“Betsy, come here girl!” a voice suddenly called out.  

When Iris came back to reality, she turned to see a golden retriever licking her and the dreamboat who had saved her script from becoming ocean litter running toward her. Instantly, her foul mood improved. 

“Oh, hi,” she said, pushing away a wisp of hair that the breeze blew into her eyes. “It’s you.”  

Blake grinned as he successfully got Betsy back in line. “It is indeed,” he said, then gestured to the dog. “I’m sorry about her.”

“That’s okay! I like dogs.” 

“She must like you too because she doesn’t just lick anybody,” Blake said.  

She looked flattered until he laughed and shook his head. 

“Just kidding. She licks everybody. But don’t take it personally. I’m sure you’re very lickable.”  

“Oh,” Iris said, her face flushing hot. This time she wasn’t going to let him run off without an introduction. “I’m Iris, by the way.” 

“I like that name.”  

“Yeah?” Iris said. She suddenly remembered something her high school drama teacher had told her once. Be vulnerable and take chances.  So she decided to take a chance. “Well, if you like that you should hear my phone number.” 

Blake laughed. “You’re quick. I like that.”  He extended his hand. “I’m Blake, and this is Betsy, but you’ve already been acquainted.”  

“Nice to meet you, and you too Betsy.”  She knelt down and called the dog over, petting her and rubbing her ears, which Betsy enjoyed so thoroughly that she started licking Iris’s face.  Iris laughed.  “She’s a really good dog.”  

“She is,” Blake said.  “So what brings you to the beach today? No script this time?”

“I think I learned my lesson and left it at home.  What about you?” 

“Just finished a run.”  He pointed to the row of houses lining the Gold Coast.  “I live over there.”  

Iris’s eyes widened.  “You live in one of those houses?” she asked in dismay. “Wow! You must be really successful.”

Blake laughed.  “I mean, I do okay.  I’m just an executive. My father’s an actor, though. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Victor Distefano.” 

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him!” Iris exclaimed. “I think I’ve seen all of his movies.”

“What was your favorite?”

Iris contemplated, twisting her face in concentration. “Ummm…Kidding.  It was funny.” 

“Yeah, it was,” Blake agreed. “You have good taste.”

Before long, they were strolling down the beach like it came naturally to them, Betsy trotting along behind. To anyone watching, they could have passed for old friends—or even a couple—rather than two strangers brought together randomly.

“So what do you do, Iris?”

“I’m an actress,” she said, her eyes lighting up when she said it. It still felt weird to say.

Blake raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? What have you been in?”

Iris’s tone shifted. “Well, I mean, nothing yet technically. I just moved out here a few weeks ago with my sister, Sadie. She’s my agent. I’ve just been doing the audition thing.  I just had one today as a matter of fact.

“How did it go?”

He asked as if he genuinely cared, which made Iris grin from ear to ear. “Well, not very good actually. I decided it wasn’t a good match.” 

“Nothing wrong with that. You’re going out for pilot season, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh,” she said.

After a few minutes of strolling and casual chatting, Blake stopped and gestured back to the gleaming row of homes behind them. “Well, I gotta get going, but it was nice running into you again, Iris…” He paused as if waiting for her to finish. 

“Knox,” she said, a little a little disappointed that their walk was over. “Nice running into you too. Maybe I’ll see you again.” 

Blake nodded, his trademark grin in place. “Maybe,” he said, a hint of hope in his voice. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part.

He turned and headed inland, picking up a stick and throwing it to prompt Betsy into action. The golden retriever sprung forward and fetched the stick seconds after it hit the ground. 

Watching them go, Iris decided she couldn’t leave seeing him again to chance. “Hey!” she called after him.  

Blake stopped and turned.

“Do you want to get coffee or something sometime?” she asked, suggesting the first thing that came to mind. “I’d love to hear more about growing up with a famous actor for a father.”  

“Sure,” he said with a shrug.  “Why not?”

Giddy, Iris was glad that she took the chance. Her drama teacher had rallied again. 

* * *

Heather went to her father’s house for dinner that evening. When she arrived, Alex told her he was in his office, so she proceeded with caution. When she walked in, he was on the phone, his forehead creased into oblivion. He waved her in while finishing the call.

Jordan Rydell’s home office was a blend of classic Hollywood and his own personal history. The large space was tucked in a quiet wing of his Beverly Hills estate complete with walnut-paneled walls lined with shelves of leather-bound screenplays and vintage film reels. A large, mid-century desk was the focal point of the room, facing a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the manicured backyard and pool.

“All right,” he said to the caller. “Yes, I’m taking care of it this evening. Consider it done.” 

After he hung up, Heather walked further into the room. “You seem stressed.  Everything okay?” 

“We’ll have to see,” he said enigmatically and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  “Hi Princess.  Where’s Violet?” 

“At home studying,” Heather told him. “The busy life of an honor roll student.”  

“Well, tell her I still want to see the car you bought her for her sixteenth,” Jordan said. “She needs to come give her grandpa a ride.”  

Heather smiled. “Oh, she’d love that.” 

She flopped into a leather club chair, letting one leg dangle over the side. Studying her father’s face, she could tell something was up. She knew him too well.

“Dad, what is it?  You look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.”  

He sighed and leaned against the desk, arms folded across his chest. “Brett will be here in a minute. There’s a problem at the studio.”

“Is it serious?”

“It could be,” Jordan replied. 

Heather groaned.  “Oh brother, what has he done this time?”

“Let’s just say a leopard doesn’t change its spots.” A pause while he changed subjects. “Have you heard from your mother lately?”

“She just started her new book tour,” Heather replied. “I think she’s on the east coast this week, then here in L.A. next week. We’re getting together.”  

“Ah,” Jordan said and picked up a book buried beneath papers on his desk.  “A Journey Back to You by Suzanne Rogers. The latest from the self-help guru. Have you read it?” 

Heather laughed. “Yeah, actually I have. It’s not bad. Better than her last one: Stop Apologizing for Breathing.” 

A soft knock at the door signaled Brett’s arrival. Heather stood, sensing it was time to give them space to talk studio business.

“Hi,” she said, resting a hand briefly on Brett’s shoulder before glancing back at Jordan. “I think I’ll go see what Alex is up to.”

She made her way out of the office, closing the doors gently behind.

* * *

On his way home from his run, Blake got a call from Sheldon asking if he could stop by. He took a quick shower. By the time he finished, the doorbell was already ringing. Still damp, he wrapped a towel around his hips and headed for the door, water dripping down his chest. He opened it with a casual smirk.

“Guess I should’ve waited five more minutes,” Sheldon said. His eyes drifted slowly from Blake’s face, to his bare chest, and down to the towel. “Caught the full show.”

Blake leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Sorry, just wanted to shower quick after my run.”

Sheldon stepped inside without waiting for an invite. “You always answer the door like that now, or just for me?”

Blake closed the door behind him, their bodies brushing against one another. “What do you want, Sheldon?”

The smile faded from Sheldon’s face, replaced with something more primal.

“You,” he said. “No games. No distractions. Just you. Right now. Finishing what we started the other night at Miranda’s party.”

Blake stopped breathing for a second but his expression didn’t budge. He studied Sheldon’s face, looking for any sign of hesitation, but surprisingly found none. “Towel’s gonna hit the floor if you keep talking like that,” he murmured, his face flushed.

“That’s kind of the idea.”

Blake didn’t say anything, then turned and started up the stairs. Sheldon followed slowly and tentatively, his eyes fixated to the curve of Blake’s back and the way the towel clung to his hips with each step.

At the top, Blake paused in the hallway and glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”

“Clearly,” Sheldon said under his breath.

Blake smirked and pushed open the bedroom door. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, casting soft shadows across the unmade bed. It was the maid’s day off. He stepped inside, finally letting the towel fall to the floor in one fluid motion. Sheldon followed, his shirt already half unbuttoned as he walked into the room. 

Then Blake closed the space between them, placing a hand lightly against Sheldon’s chest. “No more games, huh?”

Sheldon leaned in, their foreheads almost touching. “Not unless you’re into that.”

Blake’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “Get on the bed.”

Sheldon obeyed, laying on his back while Blake pulled his jeans from his legs and tossed them aside. He used his teeth to pull off his Versace briefs. Now both of them naked, Blake covered Sheldon’s body with his. They kissed with the same passion as they had in the hallway at the Blackthorne mansion.  But this time, there was relief in sight. 

Lifting Sheldon’s legs over his shoulders, Blake entered him slowly, staring into his eyes as he did—first the head, then inch by inch until their bodies were joined. They went slowly at first, building to a feverish intensity. Changing positions didn’t occur to Blake. While he usually preferred topping a man from behind, he didn’t want to lose the connection he felt between them as their eyes locked.

As they always did, they both climaxed at the same time. Blake lay on top of him, breathing heavily, feeling not just release, but relief from the longing of the past year. 

* * *

Sadie had made good on her threats, planting a seed of discord with one of the Rydell Productions board members, who promptly went to Jordan.

“What have you been doing up there in that office of yours, Brett?” Jordan had asked back at his house in Beverly Hills. “Setting up casting meetings just to get your dick wet?  Remember what happened last time? Come on, man. Use your brain. That’s why I handed the reins over to you. I told the board I trusted you to run the studio.”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Brett had told him. 

“Big enough for this Sadie Knox woman to start causing problems. Fix it so I can tell the board it was a mistake.” 

“How?”

“I don’t care how!” Jordan had insisted. 

That’s what brought Brett to the small pool house in Hollywood where Sadie and Iris lived. Moving stealthily along the Spanish-tiled patio that wrapped around the kidney-shaped pool, he stayed in the shadows as he approached the door and knocked deliberately. When Iris came to the door, she glowered angrily. 

“You,” she hissed before turning and making her way to the bedroom in the back.  “I don’t want to talk to you!” 

“Well, well, well,” Sadie said as she emerged from the kitchen, her large frame sporting a flowy caftan.  “Look what the cat dragged in. I knew you couldn’t stay away from me, naughty boy. Mrs. Tremond up in the main house might get the wrong idea.” 

“I may be physically ill,” Brett said, grimacing at the thought. “Look, Sadie, you’ve made your point. I’m sorry for coming on to your sister.  It was a mistake and I apologize for my unprofessional behavior.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “For starters.”  

“So will you recant your complaint that I’m a—quote— walking erection?” 

Sadie hesitated before shaking her head.  “No,” she said. “Sorry, no can do.”  

“What?” he asked incredulously. “So what do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Sadie told him matter-of-factly.

Brett shook his head. “I’m not casting your sister. She’s not what I’m looking for and I’m standing by that decision.”

“Wrong answer,” Sadie said pointedly before attempting to shut the door on him. 

Desperation reigning supreme, Brett forced the door open again. He didn’t want to have to do this or to bring anyone else into the fold, but he had no choice. Jordan had made it perfectly clear what would happen if he didn’t fix it.  

“Alright,” he said with resignation. “Here’s what I can do. I’ll call in a favor. My ex-wife—well, two of them, actually—run one of the biggest talent agencies in town. I’ll get Iris on as a client.” 

“Forget it,” Sadie said, not biting. “I’m her agent and manager.”  

“Honey, face it, whatever you’re doing is not getting the job done,” Brett leveled with her. “Your sister needs a real agent with real connections. Besides, you’ll still be her manager. That’s way better, anyway.” 

Sadie considered his offer, making a bold show of uncertainty before nodding firmly.  “Deal,” she said, extending her hand. 

Brett shook her sweaty hand quickly before snatching it away.  “So you’ll take care of it? My job is on the line, Sadie.” 

“I always follow through with a bargain,” she said, obviously elated.  “We’ll be expecting your call.”

Satisfied he’d rectified things, Brett rolled his eyes before turning and walking back along the patio.  He’d never been happier to have his association with someone done and over. Crazy Sadie and her sister were now going to be Miranda’s problem. 

* * *

The San Vicente Bungalows oozed power and discretion with the sound of whispered conversations and clinking glasses. Waiters in uniforms moved through the garden-like courtyard, serving cocktails and elegant entrees to producers dressed in Loro Piana, actresses with fresh blowouts, and industry clients who didn’t need to introduce themselves.

Miranda sat across the table from Siobahn Saxton, whose ebony skin radiated in the glow of candlelight. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Siobahn said, eyeing her. “Which usually means you’re about to drop a bomb.”

Miranda gave a sly smile, swirling her glass of pinot. “I’ve learned not to play every card face up.”

“Miranda,” Siobahn said, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “You obviously have something on your mind after our conversation the other night. What is it?”

Miranda leaned in, elbows on the table, voice low but loaded. “Let’s just say… I’ve had some very interesting conversations with FlickFix today.”

Siobahn blinked. “Is that so?”

“You and I have a meeting with their executive board next Thursday,” Miranda announced.  Blake had come through at the last minute, moments before she considered canceling her dinner invitation out of fear she’d have nothing to present. “You walk in with me, and you walk out with real leverage. You pick your writers, your directors, your crew. This could be a new beginning for you and women in Hollywood.” 

Siobahn stared at the candle, then back at Miranda. “Is this you trying to steer me away from Vaughan Novak?”

“No,” Miranda said. “This is me reminding you what happens when you stay with the woman who made you a star.”

A smile crept across Siobahn’s face. “Damn. That’s cold.”

Miranda sipped her wine, eyes sparkling. “That’s business.”

* * *

In the dark solitude of his cell, The Beast sat on the edge of his bunk, fingers knotted beneath his chin. The television across the room played muted coverage of a restaurant in L.A. where photographers were hounding a glamorous looking black woman on her way inside. Cameras flashed and paparazzi called out to her. 

“That was Siobahn Saxton arriving at the San Vicente Bungalows last night with her agent, Miranda Blackthorne,” an announcer’s voice said over the shaky footage.

Miranda Blackthorne. 

Fists clenched, The Beast’s gaze became transfixed onto the screen. He hadn’t seen her in twenty-five years. She looked older, more refined—no longer a pimply faced teenager. She walked with purpose, with intent, like she wasn’t one of the assholes who’d ruined his life.

His jaw flexed. He fantasized about his hands around her slender neck, squeezing until the smug grin disappeared from her eyes. Until her body sagged, helpless and silent.

A tremor ran through him. Rage turned to arousal at the thought of her lifeless body lying
at his feet.  He reached beneath the waistband of his prison uniform, his hand clasping around his dick. He performed a few pumps through his closed fist while staring at her on the television.  When he erupted with jolts of pleasure coursing through his entire body, his anger subsided momentarily. But it would be back. It always did.