Chapter 1
“STOP! DON’T SHOOT!” Macy Applegate held her arm out in a stop motion as her pulse raced. The urgency in her words caused every head in the room to swivel in her direction.
“Polar bears deserve to exist the same as humans do. I won’t let you shoot them!” Macy poured her heart and soul into every word.
“Get out of my way, or I’ll shoot you ,” growled the man in a menacing tone.
She lifted her chin and studied him. Her mind blanked when she locked onto the glacial stare of the fair-haired man firmly planted in front of her.
“Um... where did I leave off?” She frantically searched for her line, clutching the pages with trembling fingers.
“I’ll have to shoot you,” he said impatiently, waving his folded script.
“I sure hope not.” Macy raised her eyes to find him watching her. She fought to control her nerves and let out an impatient sigh. “May I please start again? I lost my concentration.” Heat radiated her cheeks as she chastised herself for her lack of professionalism.
“No,” he said tersely. “Continue.” He glanced at his wristwatch, then crossed his arms as if he had something better to do.
Nick Westwood had introduced himself as the assistant director for this movie. Before her audition, she’d looked up the production staff online. Westwood had earned a stellar reputation in the film industry—probably why he was so snooty.
He offered her an expectant, disgruntled look. “Well? I’m not getting any younger here.”
She sucked in a deep breath so as not to call him a smartass. Instead, she focused on her sides from the script. “Don’t want to shoot you,” she read, punching each word while she meant the opposite.
“Wrong line. Yours is the one after that.” His condescension gave her the impression he thought her to be one click short of being an idiot.
Normally, she was calm and composed during an audition, but her nerves jangled whenever she glanced at this guy with his beauty-school-dropout tousled hair. She figured he deliberately styled it to mimic a windswept look, like he’d just blown in from trekking a nearby glacier.
“Sorry. I knew that.” Her cheeks heated as she put her finger on the next line, afraid she’d mess it up. “I’m determined to save these polar bears. If I must, I’ll take a bullet for them—” She stopped and grimaced.
Westwood’s mosaics of blue ice locked her in a stony stare. “Why’d you stop? Keep going.” He darted another glance at his wristwatch.
I must be taking up too much time, she chided herself.
Macy leaned in to examine the script, and in the name of taking up even more time, she pointed something out. “Hate to toss a monkey wrench into this, but does it really make sense for this character to say she’d take a bullet for a polar bear? It sounds like dialogue from a cheesy ‘B’ movie. But who am I to judge? I’m not a screenwriter,” she added sweetly .
Westwood cocked a brow. “ Everybody Loves Polar Bears is a movie about saving polar bears from extinction,” he said with an air of condescension.
“My understanding is this movie is also about conserving arctic marine life and preventing population declines of keystone species in a climate change environment. Polar bears being one of those keystone species,” she said with an air of authority.
“That’s what I said in a nutshell.” Curiosity wrinkled his face. “And you know this because?”
“I study this subject in my line of work. It’s right there on my resume.” She pointed.
He glanced down at a clipboard on the small table next to him. “I see, but you aren’t here to evaluate the script. Please read what’s there. Cripes, everyone’s a critic,” he muttered, giving her a hard look. “And let’s see some emotion this time.”
I’ll bet he practices that crabby expression in the mirror to unnerve people. You want emotion? I’ll give you some emotion, buddy.
Resolute, Macy cleared her throat, eyeballing the camera on its tripod, the blinking red light reminding her it was recording. She pictured Westwood aiming an AR-15 on a blinky-eyed polar bear so she’d have motivation to narrow her gaze into a killer stink-eye.
“If you shoot these bears, I guarantee it’ll be the last thing you ever shoot!” she growled, punching every word. She almost said ‘punk’ like Harry Callahan in the 1970s Dirty Harry movie, but it was a tad outdated.
Westwood flinched and cocked a brow. “That’s not what the script says. ”
“I tweaked it to be more plausible. Don’t you think?” Macy beamed at him.
“I believe we’re done here. Thanks for coming in,” he said in a clipped manner.
Her proud smile dribbled to the floor. “But I’m not finished! Let me start over—I’m a local stage actress—I have excellent reviews with lead roles. Like I said, it’s all on my resume—”
He cut in. “I understand, but we’ve heard enough. Thank you.” He nudged the man sitting beside him, tapping maniacally on his phone. “Josh, get her headshot before she goes.”
The dark-haired man raised his phone. He smirked, ogling her with a lingering once-over. “Smile, beautiful.”
She tried forcing her mouth upward, but all she could summon was a stunned, pissed-off expression. If they needed a disgruntled extra, she could totally play that part. In spades.
The other guy tapped his phone to photograph her, then went back to splitting atoms or whatever the heck else he was doing.
“But... I’d like to finish this scene,” she pleaded. “I spent the entire weekend preparing for this audition. I can do this. I’m just nervous.”
“Everyone is nervous when they audition.” Westwood flashed her a stiff but pearly smile.
Macy was no stranger to auditioning—she knew the sting of obvious rejection but stayed composed out of principle. She regarded Nick Westwood with an unblinking stare. Despite her twisted insides, she steeled herself.
“You didn’t like my audition, did you?” she challenged .
Westwood picked up the clipboard with her audition sheet. “You did fine.”
“But not good enough, right? Let me do it again. Give me a chance, please...” Begging wasn’t her style, but she wanted this badly. She tried to gauge Westwood’s expression behind his cool mask of indifference but could only guess what he was thinking, since his glacial stare matched his frosty demeanor.
“Trust me, you did great,” he repeated, his voice devoid of expression, as he scribbled on her audition sheet.
I know where this is heading. Nowhere.
Macy sized the guy up. Hollywood handsome and then some, a few crow’s feet from squinting in the L.A. sunshine. She guessed him to be thirty-five, maybe forty if he did Botox, which he probably did. They all did. The muscular arms and broad shoulders told her he was no stranger to a gym.
“Miss Applegate?”
She snapped out of her jaded assessment. “Yes?”
“We’ll be in touch, to let you know.”
“Thank you,” Macy forced out. The words stuck like toads in her throat. She didn’t stand a snowball’s chance of getting cast in this movie.
Macy pictured Westwood next to his outdoor pool at his palatial digs up on Mulholland Drive, tall palms waving, the Hollywood Hills framing him while he barked into his phone with a studio executive—his bathrobe strategically hung open so his household staff could swoon over his gym-centric body.
“Thanks for coming in.” Westwood’s finger brushed hers as she handed him the script pages. She caught the scent of a great-smelling cologne, reeking of Rodeo Drive.
His eyes swept over her like an icy wave, and for a millisecond she thought she detected a smidgeon of amiability. But then, this guy couldn’t be friendly if his life depended on it.
“I look forward to hearing from you,” she said authoritatively, as if she were the one casting this movie. As she put on her bright-colored Alaskan parka, she noticed Westwood eyeballing it.
“This isn’t real fur,” she rushed to explain, fingering the arctic fox fur ruff around the hood and cuffs. It was indeed real, but she didn’t want the Hollywood contingent regarding Alaskans as animal-trapping savages. Then again, why should she care?
Because I want a part in this movie.
Macy berated herself for her last-ditch suck-up effort to get cast.
“I wasn’t judging,” Westwood tossed out lamely. His baseball cap sported a fighting salmon with a lure in its mouth.
Aww, how quaint: Hollywood guy wants to fit in with the locals.
“When can I expect to hear from you?” she asked as she removed her heels and bent to tug on her Xtratufs snow boots.
He stood with folded arms, studying her. “Someone will be in touch.”
She waited for the when, but he didn’t give her one. Instead, his words hung in the air between them like a suspension bridge over a rushing glacial river.
So much for this audition.
“Well, thank you. Good luck with your production.” Macy picked up her purse from a nearby chair and turned to go .
“Miss Applegate?” Westwood called after her. “What’s your reason for auditioning for Everybody Loves Polar Bears? ”
She twisted around in surprise and stared at him like he’d sprouted fairy wings.
Isn’t it obvious? Is this guy for real?
“Everyone has a reason. What do you hope to get out of this if we cast you?” He looked at her expectantly.
“All right.” She thought for a moment. “Polar bears are at the top of the food chain and play a vital role in the overall health of the Arctic marine environment. This movie will raise awareness of the plight of this species that is heading toward extinction. Without polar bears, the food chain would be severely disrupted...” she trailed off, catching his amused stare.
“You sound like an environmental impact statement.” He folded his arms and smirked, as if he’d heard this reasoning countless times. “Now, tell me the real reason.”
“That is the real reason,” she bristled, unappreciative of his deprecating attitude.
What the heck would Mr. Congeniality know about environmental impact statements? That was her line of work.
“Everyone wants to save the polar bears. Now, instead of narrating a National Geo documentary, how about you tell me why you’re here?” The intensity of his stare ruffled her stomach.
Macy swallowed and lifted her chin. “In that case, if you must know. I want an acting career. A real one, where I make a living. I have enough acting experience. I believe I have something to offer.” Her words came out more defiant than she’d intended, but there it was... her God’s honest truth.
Westwood raised his brows. “Now that I believe.”
“Okay then. Thank you for the opportunity to audition.” She punctuated it with a quick zip of her parka, grabbed her oversized purse, and headed for the door.
“Thanks for coming in,” he said evenly with a quick nod.
Disappointment burned through Macy as she hurried down the carpeted hallway of the midtown Anchorage office building. She exited onto the sidewalk leading to the parking lot on Northern Lights Boulevard, where ten-degree air assaulted her senses—a reminder that January was ready to hand off its torch of subarctic chill to February. She stepped across the patchy ice to her car.
A nosy raven perched atop a light pole sent cheerful, musical clicks down to her as if to say, “Don’t worry, honey, you’ve got this.” He followed up with a gurgling croak.
Macy looked up warily. “Thanks, Mr. Nevermore. Please don’t drop a gift on my windshield.” Raven turds on a windshield at ten degrees had a way of hardening like petrified wood.
She berated herself for her botched audition. Though the Westwood guy had been terse, Macy knew better than to burn bridges. She’d wanted a role in this movie, ever since the announcement on local news. Film acting classes had filled her schedule outside of work, and she’d practiced reading lines with any warm body she could find. She’d even practiced lines while driving around town.
She figured it would have been easier to start her career in Alaska before pursuing opportunities in Los Angeles. Down there, she’d be another in a long line of aspiring actors, working odd jobs and waiting for a breakout role. In the meantime, she’d likely be waiting tables, cleaning toilets, or vacuuming heaven knows what from a porn actor’s pool.
In Alaska, she could have distinguished herself. But her hopes went up in flames with her botched audition for Mr. Congeniality. Macy thought of Westwood’s no-nonsense expression. She’d grown accustomed to working in a mostly male environment in her federal agency and was used to dealing with the occasional grumpy sunshine, but this guy didn’t even give her a chance.
And there wasn’t any hint of sunshine. Not even grumpy sunshine.
More like a cranky polar bear... with attitude.