Shock Waves Read online

  They laughed.

  “El,” Sara said, turning serious, “I know you’re not the type to easily talk about what’s on your heart, but I have to add one thing. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that you saw Bill today. I bet you’re going to run into him again.”

  See Bill again? Ellie didn’t know if her heart, mind or soul could handle it. What had happened this morning was enough to haunt her for months as it was. But no way did she want Sara to know that. Ellie Rockwell was so much better than some ancient crushed-out angst.

  She hoped.

  “As much as I’ve always wanted to have a real supernatural experience,” she said in her best breezy voice, “I doubt you’ve suddenly turned clairvoyant.”

  Before Sara could follow up with something else serious and heartfelt, Ellie pointed toward the end of the aisle. “Hey, down there are some awesome black hair colors.”

  Sara made a stopping gesture. “You promised to go blond, and I’m holding you to it. This one—” she grabbed a hair color labeled Lightning Blond “—is perfect. After we wash out your black rinse, this color will give you that Gwen Stefani bad-girl blond you want.”

  “Okay, we’re starting to talk bad.”

  Grinning, Sara picked up a second container. “Then we’ll add some gold highlights, which will give you that sunny, sparkling beach babe look.”

  Ellie looked over at a couple of sunny, sparkling beachettes. The type who’d snagged Bill’s attention today. Here she thought she’d so smoothly avoided further discussion of Bill, but she’d forgotten the nonstop banter in her own head.

  One of the beachettes laughed, reminding her of the bimbo Bill had chortled with earlier today. What did those types have that Ellie didn’t? Hell, if she could make herself over into the Mistress of the Dark, she could certainly make herself into a Gidget type, too. Not the sunny, sparkling variety, but definitely a Gidget on the Edge.

  “Bad-girl with gold streaks it is,” she said, turning back to Sara. “Sold.”

  “That’s my girl! Hey, El, this is fun taking care of you for a change. Oh, look at these yummy pastel lipsticks…”

  “Huhhhh.” Blond was one thing, but pastel makeup?

  Sara tossed a peachy lipstick into the basket. “I told you I bought several new bikinis for the trip, right? We’re about the same size, so let’s have you try a few on when we get back.”

  “What colors are they?” Not pastel, please God.

  “Pink, tangerine…oh, and black.”

  Ellie’s mood lifted. “Black. Cool.”

  “Okay, next—spray-on tan.”

  This time Ellie willingly followed her friend to the fake bake aisle, as Sara called it.

  Sara held up something called Techno Tan. “What about—”

  “Put it in, baby.”

  Sara, looking surprised but pleased, added it to the basket. “I won’t spray over your tattoos, but use one of my makeup brushes to paint the skin around them.”

  Ellie listened, sort of, but her attention had again been diverted by the beachettes who were giggling in front of the body cream section. It brought back how she’d felt earlier, Miss Black Spiked Hair Can You Move Your Benz, standing in the background, out of place and out of time, wearing her big, broken childhood heart on her sleeve. Okay, so she’d wanted to be better than ancient angst, but the truth was, she wasn’t.

  Suddenly, it felt as though all the years of caring and yearning and dreaming about Bill had crowded against her heart, squeezing it, constricting the memories into a throbbing lump of ache. Today, her world had stopped when she’d recognized Bill, but his didn’t even pause. He wasn’t interested in me. And as much as she told herself it didn’t matter, she felt rejected. Unacceptable.

  She picked up a box of something and pretended to read, as though focusing on random words might impose logic on her pain. On her heart. But the letters danced and swam, refusing to make sense.

  Maybe that’s how she should view the past. Make it blurry, indistinguishable, unimportant. Do what she came to do this week—chill, play matchmaker, audition to be an extra and screw the rest.

  “Hey!” enthused Sara, holding up a plastic case. “This will look fantastic with your turquoise eyes. Ghost Silver eye shadow!”

  Ghost…exactly how she should view Bill. A ghost from her past, nothing more.

  She took the container from Ellie and tossed it into the basket. “Sold.”

  2

  BILL, SITTING in the first row of the audience, shook his head at Mandy, the hyperefficient fortyish principal casting director sitting at the foot of the stage. She nodded, understanding his message that the girl who just auditioned was a no.

  “You didn’t like her?” asked Jimmie, Bill’s best pal and Sin on the Beach’s key grip.

  “Not hot enough,” Bill said, shifting. He tipped his coffee mug, which caused brown liquid to slosh down the front of his white polo shirt.

  “Shit.”

  He set the cup on the sand beneath their folding chairs and pulled the shirt away from his skin. “I’m used to easing into Monday mornings with 9:00 a.m. read-throughs, not getting up when the rooster crows to audition hundreds of extras for some publicity gig.” He flapped the shirt to cool the spilled liquid.

  “I won’t ask if that was hot enough,” quipped Jimmie.

  Bill shot him a look.

  “Sorry. But speaking of things that could be hot…have you given any more thought to you and I starting our own indie company?”

  Bill nodded. “Sure. Problem is, making big bucks with an independent film production company is a long shot.”

  “Who’s talking big bucks?”

  “Me. You know my take on the movie business. Dream big, make it big. No offense, but an indie company is too small for this boy.”

  Jimmie shook his head. “You’re letting your hard-luck roots get the better of you, pal. Producing our own films gives us control, which is big in a better way. Did I tell you Edge of the Universe placed first in its category at the WorldFest competition?”

  He and Jimmie had known each other from their first day at New York University film school, given each other a lot of support while they crawled up the dog-eat-dog success ladder of L.A. film and television work. Jimmie’s first love was screenwriting, but until he started making sales, he worked on film crews.

  Bill balled his hand into a fist, knocked it against Jimmie’s fist. “Edge of the Universe will be your breakthrough sale, no doubt about it.”

  Jimmie had spent the last few years writing this screenplay, about three friends from East L.A. whose lives take dramatically different paths. He’d loosely based the protagonist on Bill’s own coming of age story in East L.A.’s gangland. Bill hadn’t minded sharing most aspects of what it’d been like growing up in the barrio but there was one thing he never shared with anyone, and never would.

  “It could be our first script, Bill. With a hot screenwriter and a hot up-and-coming director…” He jabbed his thumb at himself, Bill. “My parents are willing to be our first investors, although we’d need to raise the rest. I think we can do it.”

  Bill paused. “You’re my best friend, Jimmie, but I gotta say no. It took years to nail this first AD spot. Gordon’s still the director on this week’s shoot, but he’s stepping aside and letting me take the reins for a few days. If I pull it off, I’ll be bagging my first directing gig with Sin.”

  First AD—Assistant Director—was the number two spot on the set, right below director. As such, Bill was basically the jack-of-all-trades on the set, but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to call the shots, be number one. Being the oldest of five kids, as well the man of the house after his dad split, Bill had decided early on that the world belonged to those who stayed strong and focused.

  And his focus was to make his mark as a film director.

  Which meant he said no to anything that got in his way, even his best pal’s business idea.

  “Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “if I hear of a
nyone wanting to start up an indie, I’ll put them in touch with you, okay?”

  “Not that I don’t appreciate that, but my first choice will always be you.”

  Bill groaned. “Is this the part where I say ‘We’ll always have Paris’?”

  Jimmie laughed, gave his pal a friendly slap on the back. “I’ll stop laying on the guilt. Besides, you have better things to do. Do you know how many guys would kill to fill in for the director on a cattle call for babes in bikinis?”

  Bill caught Mandy’s wave. Next audition was ready.

  “Yeah, it’s a burden, but somebody’s gotta do it.”

  He gave a go-ahead nod to Mandy, a small gesture toward a big career. People like Jim just didn’t get it.

  IN THE BACKSTAGE TENT provided for those auditioning to be extras, Ellie checked herself out in a mirror, amazed yet again at her transformation from a goth chick to this bad-girl blonde in a good-time bikini. Most of it thanks to Sara, who’d woken Ellie up at the crack of dawn and helped wrangle her into beach babe shape.

  Ellie looked around at the other extra wannabes hanging out in the small blue tent. They’d all shown up at 7:00 a.m. to sign up, and in the hour since, they’d spent their time primping, talking and drinking the free coffee from one of several urns. Free, but disgustingly bad-tasting coffee, although no one except Ellie seemed to notice.

  Which was the only bad thing—besides her bad-girl blond hair—about this whole adventure. Now that she was here, she was psyched to audition. It felt silly but fun to try out for a walk-on part on Sin on the Beach. And although it felt a little odd, it was nice to do something for herself instead of everybody else.

  “Ellie Rockwell?” asked a harried teenage boy wearing a Sin on the Beach festival T-shirt and khaki shorts. He looked around the tent while speaking in low tones into his headset.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re next. Follow me.” He hurried away, reporting his movements to whoever was on the other end of the headset. “She’s here. Yes. Ellie Rockwell. Maybe.”

  Maybe? What did that mean?

  He held open the flap to the tent for Ellie to follow. She grabbed her bag of makeup in one hand, her bag containing her killer stilettos in the other, and followed.

  They sprinted across a patch of hot sand and into another tent, this one huge, white and air-conditioned. Ellie paused, relishing the blast of cool air. The area was buzzing with people, props, equipment. In the far corner, next to a table set with rolls, fruit and drinks, a man sporting a handlebar mustache, lime-green turban and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt was pouring himself a big glass of iced tea. He looked up at Ellie and winked.

  Oh, hold me back.

  “You’re up,” the boy said, motioning toward an opening in the tent. “Walk onto the stage, head to the microphone and answer their questions. Afterward, exit stage left.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Assistant director, casting director, maybe one of the producers.”

  Her stomach flip-flopped. These were the bigwigs, the muckety-mucks, the top dogs who ran her favorite show. Okay, sitting with all the extra wannabes, it had been easy to think this was fun and silly. But knowing who she’d be auditioning in front of, suddenly this felt freaking scary.

  “Stage left?” she rasped, kicking off her sandals. She cleared her throat. “Where’s that?”

  “The far side of the stage.”

  She slipped on a stiletto. “Did you say there’s a microphone?”

  But he was already engrossed in another conversation over his headset. Catching Ellie’s gaze, he impatiently pointed toward the stage and mouthed an emphatic “Go!” before zipping away.

  She quickly stepped into the second stiletto, trying to ignore the little voice in her head telling her to run away, she’d only make a fool of herself, people might laugh, she could fall on her face….

  Straightening, she sucked in a shaky breath. If I can’t tackle one silly audition, how do I expect to tackle a new business venture?

  She walked onto the stage.

  BILL WATCHED the next girl walk hesitantly out onto the stage. She walked stiff-kneed, staring wide-eyed at the audience that was mostly made up of friends of those auditioning, some crew, a few hungover partiers. When she reached the microphone, she stopped and smiled awkwardly.

  She was pretty, in a Kirsten Dunst kind of way, with her short, fluffy blond hair, dimpled smile and pert nose. The kind of girl one saw a hundred times a day in L.A.

  And yet…not.

  Something about her was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something provocative, simmering just below the surface…

  “Look at those shoes, man,” muttered Jimmie, sitting taller in his seat.

  Bill’s gaze dropped down the nicely filled black bikini, down long, coltish legs to a pair of black patent stilettos with silver chains. Whoa. That something different was hardly below the surface, it was just below the shapely calves.

  “Tell us your name, where you’re from and something special about yourself,” prompted Peter, the casting assistant in charge of extras, into his handheld mike. Nearby sat Mandy, talking on her cell phone while eating a doughnut.

  The young woman leaned forward, at which point Bill noticed the edge of a tattoo peeking over the top of her bikini top. A spiderweb?

  She spoke so closely to the mike, it sounded like a thunderous whisper. “Ellie Rockwell.”

  “Step back and say your name again, please,” instructed Peter.

  She did. Bill liked the cadence of her voice. Soft, rhythmic like the waves.

  And familiar.

  She shifted from one spiked heel to the other. “I’m an L.A. girl—grew up in East L.A., currently living and working in West L.A.”

  A sense of déjà vu prickled his skin. He knew her. But from where? With the long hours he put in on the set these days, his only social outlet was Gold’s Gym, and he’d have recalled if their paths had crossed there. Maybe it was her voice, someone he’d conversed with in the course of his too-many business calls every day.

  Wait a minute.

  Rockwell?

  East L.A.?

  Hadn’t he had neighbors there, years ago, with that name? Right, now he remembered. Mrs. Rockwell, one of those fragile blondes who looked as though she’d crumble if you looked at her the wrong way, and her kids Mark—no, Matt—and a daughter. Yeah, had to be Ellie. He blew out a puff of air. That freckled, knobby-kneed girl had grown up to be this dom-shoed doll on the stage?

  “Four stars,” murmured Jimmie.

  But ever since Jimmie tied the knot last year, he’d been irritatingly intent on setting Bill up for wedded bliss, too. Every potential Mrs. Romero got a star-rating from one—forget it—to four—go for it.

  “You and your damn numbers,” Bill muttered, tapping the pencil against his clipboard. But four was dead-on as his gaze raked up past that cleavage-spilling black top to that heart-shaped face to those eyes….

  He flashed on a memory from years ago. Ellie, auburn hair barely restrained in pigtails, those big questioning eyes. It had been long past midnight. He’d been sitting on the porch, contemplating his life changes to come, when suddenly he looked down and saw his young neighbor standing on the lawn in front of him. In a soft voice, she’d asked if what she’d heard was true—was he moving to New York?

  She’d sounded so anxious, so sad, which had confused him. But with younger siblings, he knew how a kid’s unresolved worries could be triggered by a seemingly unrelated event. If he remembered correctly, Ellie’s dad had split around this time five or so years before. Another adult figure leaving probably reminded her of that all over again.

  Bill had answered her yes, he was moving to New York to go to film school, and that little girls shouldn’t be out so late. He’d walked her back to her house where she’d lingered in the front doorway, those big eyes staring at him, before going inside.

  Those same eyes stared at him now, reeling him back to the present, and he offered a sm
all smile of recognition. She smiled back, and he swore something in her look shifted, darkened, sparked. For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze and suddenly all he was aware of was a churning tension between them, not unlike the distant crashing waves.

  He’d at first observed a woman in a black bikini, but now all he saw were glistening limbs, full breasts, bare skin. Lust had fogged his brain and whatever memories he had of the girl evaporated, replaced by this hot woman.

  Jimmie coughed. “Five.”

  “Five what?”

  “That eye-lock, as though you two are the only people in this place, just bumped her from four to five stars.”

  “You’ve never given a five.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve never seen you go brain-dead so quickly, either.”

  Bill broke the eye-lock and glanced at his buddy. “It’s an audition, Jimbo, nothing more.”

  “Bill-o, sell that bridge somewhere else.”

  Peter lit a cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke as he said into his mike, “You have one minute to share something special about yourself.”

  Ellie blinked, straightened, released a shaky breath. Over the speakers, the sound reverberated over the crowd like a throaty sigh, nearly bringing Bill to his knees.

  She zeroed in on him again. Later, he pondered if he’d imagined the look she gave him, one filled with a yearning that bordered on defiance. But he didn’t imagine her next words.

  “I want to share this with you.”

  Slowly, she turned so her back was to the audience. God. Those heels worked magic on a great ass and a pair of killer legs.

  “You’re gnawing on your pencil,” whispered Jimmie.

  Bill released the eraser tip from his teeth. “Oh, shut up.”

  Ellie slipped her thumbs underneath the waistband of her bikini bottoms and lowered them, slowly, an inch or so. Bill ground his teeth, his entire body on edge, as he read the black-scripted tattoo at the base of her spine.

  “Queen of Evil?” he rasped.

  “Yeah,” murmured Jimmie, “that’s what it says all right.”