One Abigail
One
Abigail
My leg jangles nonstop on the floor, and I twist the leather purse strap in my hands, even though Jean’s giving me that look, the one that plainly says Get your shit together.
I can’t help it, though. This meeting with the owners of the LA Aces is so far out of my wheelhouse it may as well be in the Mariana Trench.
Is that what it’s called? I frown.
“What are you thinking about?” Jean asks. I can read her exasperation in the way her brows try to furrow but don’t quite make it there, thanks to her overenthusiasm for Botox injections.
“Underwater topography,” I blurt. “Is it called topography if it’s underwater?” I tilt my head and study the sunlight cascading through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Ah, yes, there’s the good old ADHD showing up right on time.
“Suuuure,” she sighs. “Listen, these men we’re meeting with—” She pauses, her eyes narrowing on me, likely making sure she has my scattered attention.
“They’re businessmen. Sharks, you get me?
Aaaand”—she draws out the word—“they know Richard Grace personally. You need to make a good impression. You know how men talk.”
I close one eye, then the other, finally squinting at her.
I know all this. She knows I know all this. Jean’s as nervous as I am. Her anxiety shouldn’t offend me. She wants me at my best. That’s a good thing.
We both want me to nail this project. Richard Grace is the director in Hollywood to work with, and the fact I’ve snagged a role in his film is everything I’ve ever wanted.
Sure, the press is going wild with rumors that my ditzy personality and less-than-stellar acting chops won’t be enough for a part of this caliber—but he believes in me.
Enough that he set up this meeting with the LA Aces owners so I could bring “the proper knowledge and gravitas” to his upcoming film about the International Football Federation’s corruption scandal.
I can do this. Probably. Most likely.
I inhale deeply, letting oxygen flood my body, trying to calm my nerves.
Not that breath work has ever really helped still the constant electric hum of energy that rattles through me every waking moment.
People call it a superpower, but they don’t seem to understand that sometimes all I want is peace and quiet in my own skull.
If I pull it off, this could be my big break.
It could finally mean a role that’s more than just the quirky best friend or the manic pixie love interest. I mean, a film about team owners and league officials taking bribes from cities who want to host the international soccer finals?
All the top brass were guilty of things like racketeering and fraud, even blackmail.
That spells a character I can really sink my teeth into, and Grace sending me out to research with the Aces…
it means more than just shutting up the press.
I am going to take this moment, this opportunity, and I’m sure as hell going to make the most of it.
My nose scrunches up.
Jean’s Italian leather heels tap lightly on the tasteful gray-veined marble floors.
A bird winging past the huge floor-to-ceiling windows catches my attention for a moment, and it arcs over the emerald-green practice field below.
My smile disappears, replaced by pursed lips I’m 99 percent sure will result in new lines guaranteed to be featured in before and after pictures on social media down the road.
Richard Grace is known to be as exacting and demanding as they come, and being cast in this film could change everything for me. It’s already generating Oscar buzz, and it won’t even come out for another couple of years.
Fear surges through me. What if the press is right? What if I can’t pull it off—
“Abigail,” Jean says, and her snappish tone tells me it’s not the first time she’s said my name.
“That’s me.” I make myself look away from the blue sun-soaked sky out the window and turn on my smile.
“Tell me you’re taking this seriously,” Jean pleads quietly. Her forehead spasms for a split second as she attempts to cinch her brows in seriousness. “Tell me you’re not going to go all over the top in there. Tell me you’re not going to start rambling about underwater topography.”
“I am a businesswoman,” I tell her, all stoic seriousness. “You know I’m ready for this. Just look at me. I’m business personified.” My heel taps the floor as I shake my leg. “You’ll find my headshot in the dictionary under businesswoman.”
My agent barely clamps down another sigh, giving me a frayed smile instead.
“After what happened last year, we need this to go well, hon. Okay?”
What, you don’t want me to blurt out that I think this project’s terrible writing is going to annoy fans everywhere, like when I ruined everything? The question swims at the back of my head, but I swallow it before I can make an ass of myself.
This time, at least.
I know all too well the incident from last year Jean’s referring to—the one that had me sacked from an up-and-coming teen drama series.
The one that had me labeled as ungrateful and difficult to work with, and had me killed off in the season finale, a fate that being the sidekick to a vampire mermaid couldn’t even save me from.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the embarrassing memory that tends to replay itself in situations like this, which are rare these days, and nearly every night as I fall asleep.
For an entire year.
As if my presleep shame ritual remembrance isn’t enough, no one else is going to let it go, either. I thought my career was over.
Finished.
Until I nailed the audition for Richard Grace and wound up here.
I blow out a slow breath, a rush of air that barely steadies me.
Jean’s irritation doesn’t bother me. Hell, I can’t blame her for worrying. I’ve certainly proved to be a cannon so loose I might as well fall right off the pirate ship I’m strapped to in a riotous explosion of wood splinters and smoke.
She’s one of the best in the business and helps me keep my shit together, which is more than I can say for myself. I’m the queen of random interviews, the princess of paparazzi weirdness, and if it weren’t for Jean, I’m positive my acting career would be even more of a joke.
For some reason, though, Jean believes in me.
She always has, ever since I came to LA as a teenager fresh out of school with high hopes and stars in my eyes.
My parents were semi-supportive, though they still constantly ask if I have a backup plan, ask if I’ve thought about going back to school, if I’m sure this is right for me.
Jean knows it’s right for me.
That means something.
I smooth my dress, ignoring the fact that my palms are sweating.
This is phase one in my plan to reinvent myself after the red carpet fiasco: impressing these guys and the celeb gossip sites. I have to demand respect to get it. Be so good they can’t ignore me.
What phase two looks like? I have no idea.
One step at a time.
I twist the buckle on the front of my off-brand leather tote, a present from my mom several Christmases ago, delivered with the message that it would be a great bag to carry a laptop in, and did I know my old high school was looking for a theater teacher?
She means well…but it still hurts.
My fingers work the buckle back and forth, back and forth, until Jean rests her hand on my wrist, silently telling me to stop. I flash her another smile, this time grateful for the physical reminder. Taking a deep breath, then another, I exhale slowly.
“They’re ready for you, Ms. Hunt,” a pretty blond woman says, opening the door. She’s the embodiment of LA—immaculate, toned, and tanned—a Sunset Boulevard demigoddess.
Jean and I stand, finally leaving the sunny waiting area we’ve been relegated to while the owners presumably readied themselves for us.
Here we go.
“Just Ms. Hunt,” the woman says to Jean sweetly.
“You okay with that, Abigail?” Jean asks, too professional to throw a fit in front of the secretary.
Am I okay with that?
I specifically asked Jean to come with me. She’s become a deft hand at blocking the foot I keep trying to shove in my mouth.
I swallow hard and channel my inner business baddie.
“Of course.” I nod brusquely but then soften it by grinning at her, and like most people, she smiles right back.
Worst comes to worst, I’ll just charm their pants off.
I step into the conference room and immediately regret that thought.
Two older men stand as I walk in the room, holding out their hands.
No pants off. Pants on. Pants very much on.
I very much do not want to envision anyone in this room sans pants.
“Charles Treadwick,” one introduces himself. “So nice to meet you. This is John Pugilisi. We own the Aces.”
“Hello, hi,” I say, shaking their hands and smiling as big as I can.
“Ms. Hunt, thank you so much for coming today,” John says.
A soft crop of snow-white hair sits atop his head, and if I hadn’t researched him already, I’d think him a kindly old grandpa.
He’s not, though. Not even close. John’s renowned as a killer in the business world, and I’d be an idiot to let his looks deceive me.
“We’re thrilled to have you here with us.
Dick told us you’d be in and out of here for the next few weeks? ”
It takes me a few seconds to realize that Dick is Richard Grace, and I’m so busy digesting the nickname that I don’t have time to falter at the extended timeline.
A few weeks?
I assumed it would be a couple of interviews at most. This is fantastic.
“Oh, no, thank you,” I tell him, beaming. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get to see the inner workings of the LA Aces. Thank you so much for meeting with me.”
The gray-haired man, Charles, nods, slightly surprised. “Are you a soccer fan? Dick didn’t mention that.”
“Absolutely.” My smile grows as I try to cover up the lie. Shit. Why did I lie about that? “I’m a casual fan more than anything, but what’s not to like?”
Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack.