Description: 17+
Meet two dysfunctional products of Hollywood.
Star Davis and Jake Wild: they’ve met their match.
19-year-old, Oscar winning Star Davis is an A-list movie star. Hell-raisingly beautiful, she tosses men aside like used Kleenex. She commands 20 million per movie—or at least did until drugs, alcohol, wild partying, and a police arrest sent her kicking and screaming into rehab.
Now she’s out, squeaky clean, and determined to win the role she was born to play: the lead in Skye’s The Limit—ready to re-conquer Hollywood.
26-year-old British director Jake Wild lives up to his name: he’s the wildest player in town. He’s also Hollywood royalty. From a family dynasty of powerful directors and producers, Jake’s home is a movie set. With reams of hot starlets at his beck and call, Jake can get any woman he wants. But with his new movie, Skye’s The Limit in pre-production, he’s decided it’s time to get serious and change his philandering ways.
Star is “liability on legs” and Jake doesn’t want her near his precious movie. But Star has wily ways of getting what she wants. And apart from the role of Skye, what she wants is Jake right where he belongs:
Under her thumb.
Lights, camera, action . . .
But the action is not what Jake expected.
EXCERPT
STAR:
THE FIRST THING EVERYBODY wanted to know about me (apart from who I was dating) was how the hell did a nineteen-year-old get (a) so rich and (b) so screwed-up? I asked myself the same thing, daily. When I glanced at myself in a passing mirror I’d say, Hey Star, what happened? And when? When exactly was it that things got so . . . so chaotic? And what, girl, are you going to do about it? I often wondered how I’d been so lucky, but I also took it all for granted. The way movie stars generally do when they feel fame is their birthright.
Still, I was no fool, every day I counted my lucky stars and knew that at any given click of God’s big fat thumb and index finger, all this could be taken away from me.
Not that I was some religious God freak. I had never even gone to church. But when the chips were down I found myself making deals with God. And after I’d hit an all-time low at rehab, I promised God—the last night I was there, in fact—that I’d be a good girl if he could just procure that part for me. The role I’d had my eye on.
The role I was born to play: Skye in Skye’s The Limit.
Most people think that actors are super-confident. But no. We’re all terrified. Terrified that we’ll be out of a job. That the last big success was a fluke—that we’ll be discovered as phonies. And that someone more beautiful, more talented or more something-or-other will topple us from our pedestals. The truth is, we are fakes. All of us. That’s the nature of our job. We lie. We trick people into believing we are someone else. When we cry, sometimes it’s real and other times an act. And nobody can tell the difference. We’re so good at what we do that we even fool ourselves.
Especially ourselves.
We glimmer on the red carpet. We are glorious. Victorious—but we’re also walking time bombs. Waiting to detonate. Waiting for our secret to be revealed. The big secret being that we’re no better than anybody else.
We get zits. We look like shit before Hair and Make-up gets their hands on us. People dump us. Hey, even Marilyn Monroe was treated like crap by various men.
Even goddam, luminescent, Marilyn freakin’ Monroe.
And although I wasn’t aware of it then, I was as vulnerable as Marilyn when I walked out of that clinic and stepped—in my Choos—into a velvet-carpeted limo, purring like a welcoming pussycat, waiting to take me away from the ugly world of imperfection, back to my cocoon of beautiful chaos, that shone so brilliantly on the outside—like a floating bubble that mirrored a cerulean-blue sky and the sun which glittered its golden rays—blinding all my fans.
That wonderful, hopeful afternoon I knew I was back.
Back to conquer Hollywood.
JAKE:
WHEN SHE WALKED into the read-through and I set eyes on her for the first time ever in the flesh, a bolt of electricity shot through me like I had been struck by lightening. I wasn’t expecting that. Not. One. Bit. I’ve seen enough stunning women in my life that usually I’m non-plussed. Of all the people in the world I was—and still am—the last person to be affected by movie star delirium. I’ve met hundreds of them over the years. Angelina and Brad, Al, Bob Redford. I sat on Cary Grant’s knee when I was a baby, played chess with Dustin, hung out at the Grand Prix in Monaco with Tom, lunch with Leonardo in Cannes—you name it, I’ve done it. Fame doesn’t faze me in the slightest because I grew up on movie sets and these people have been part of my everyday life.
But when Star Davis slipped quietly into the room, wearing skinny jeans and a baggy sweater—not even any make-up—my heart literally missed a beat. She looked at me and smiled and in that smile I saw such vulnerability and such wickedness rolled into one that I knew we were soul mates. The look in her gaze said I’ve got your number, buddy, don’t fuck with me and, We’re the same, you and I, and fate has brought us together. Her long wavy hair hung around her shoulders and her Robin’s Egg Blue eyes penetrated right through me. Stunning. None of the photos I’d seen of her, nor even any of her films portrayed her sheer magnetism. I was charged with anticipation and excitement. It was like some visceral force was pulling us together. Blood rushed through my veins, awakening every cell in my body, my heart hammered in my chest. She was born to play Skye and I knew right then that Star was my responsibility. It was up to me to get an Oscar-worthy performance out of her and if I didn’t it would be my failing, not hers.
But all I could come up with was, “You’re late, Skye.” I had a habit of calling actors by their character’s name. It sometimes helped them identify more with the part. Or maybe I didn’t call her Skye but just Star. “Sit down with the others at the table—they’re waiting for you. Have you been over your script?”
“You’ll see,” she answered enigmatically, and then strutted in her high heels with great confidence to where all the other actors were, and instead of going around to introduce herself to everyone individually, she blew them a Marilyn kiss and then said, “I’m Star, by the way, and none of you need to tell me your names because you’ve all been hanging out with me my whole life. In my living room.”
Everybody laughed and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell they already liked her and my only problem now? Was keeping temptation of every kind well away from her.
Myself included.
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Arianne Richmonde is the USA TODAY bestselling author of The Pearl Series: Shades of Pearl, Shadows of Pearl, Shimmers of Pearl, Pearl, and Belle Pearl. Also the USA TODAY Bestseller, Stolen Grace, a suspense novel. When she isn't writing you can find her hanging out with her husband and family of furry animals in the French countryside.
Arianne loves hearing from readers and is thrilled to bring you her latest three-part novella series, Shooting Star, Falling Star, and Shining Star which will be released at 20 day intervals throughout the summer - perfect for the beach!
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1 comment:
The book sounds amazing! I'm looking forward to reading this. Thanks for sharing.
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