Chapter 4
“That’s a wrap!” the assistant director called as the cast and crew scattered from the set.
Skylar glanced at her phone and sighed. Five days. Rafe hadn’t responded to her text. Left her on read.
“Just another fuckboy,” she muttered under her breath and peeled off her police uniform.
She stared at the black hole in her blue shirt, blobs of fake blood spattered all over it. Destroyed, just like her acting career. They’d put her character in a coma. The showrunner had changed direction for the storyline, they’d told her. Epic fail.
Skylar slid out of her tattered police slacks and folded the clothes. She offered a small smile as a costume assistant retrieved the clothing.
Her mind raced with thoughts as she dressed and collected her things out of her cubby.
She supposed she should be grateful that at least she’d be paid for the five episodes.
She sighed, resigned to her fate. Disappointment weighed on her like a ton of bricks.
She hadn’t even had much time on the set to make connections. Her big break had been crushed.
Skylar considered going to visit her parents in Washington. In a few weeks she could go back to New Orleans, tend to Verses. But since she’d already agreed to rent her home, she’d need to find another place to live while she made new arrangements with her tenant.
And then there was Rafe, who she’d likely inevitably see again whenever he visited his friend. But New Orleans was a big city, she told herself. Big enough to avoid him.
She began typing a text to her group chat with Eva and Hailey to let them know she’d be leaving L.A. by the end of the week. As she was about to press send, her phone buzzed. Best Agent Ever flashed across the screen and she tapped the message.
Don’t say no. Just pack your bags. I’ve got a new job for you. Vegas, baby!
When one door closes, another one opens. Skylar smiled as she fell back into her king-sized bed and stared out the floor to ceiling windows, taking in the sight of the twinkling lights of the Las Vegas strip.
Emily Atkins, aka Best Agent Ever, had booked her a two-month gig at a new studio filming an indie miniseries. She told her that an associate had seen Skylar and loved her performance.
First day on set had gone amazing. No more blood or single-episode roles for her.
No, this time Skylar’s character had a name.
‘Betty the Waitress’ worked in a fifties diner, and when she wasn’t serving up pie and coffee, the flirty, wise-cracking town detective solved cozy crimes.
Not only did Skylar have a shot at a second season, but production had also picked up her housing.
For the next two months, Skylar would call her condo in the high-rise hotel home.
She rolled onto her back and stared at her phone, rereading the text she’d sent Rafe.
As she went to delete her message, she hesitated.
She brought her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes, recalling how he’d kissed her and her body’s electrifying reaction.
The moment had been surreal, stirring a deep desire that had long evaded her.
He’d pulled away before they’d gone further, leaving her wanting another amazing, delicious kiss. And then, he’d ghosted her.
Skylar swiped her message again, revealing the red trash can of death. With the swift speed of ripping off a band-aid, she deleted the message and tossed her phone across the bed.
“You’ve got a job, Sky. Better days are ahead.” She smiled, reminded that she didn’t have work tomorrow.
She’d been invited to a cast get together, and the night was young. Determined to make the best of things, she forced herself to rally and socialize. If luck was a lady, maybe she’d meet someone else who’d make the fuckboy from New Orleans nothing more than a distant memory.
Best way to get over someone is to get under someone, she’d always heard.
Or maybe it just involved keeping busy? Determined not to let moss grow under her feet, Skylar strode into the bar.
Wearing her favorite little black dress and fuck me heels, she walked with confidence, hoping she was just the right level of sexy to make for a fun night in Vegas.
The second she walked into the dark foyer, she questioned her choice to leave her comfy bed.
Far from the lively piano bar she’d been promised, its dark somber vibe immediately prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.
Where is everyone? She swiped her finger over her cell, searching for the email invitation.
“Name?”
Skylar’s head snapped up, startled by the sound of the low male voice. A tall wiry man dressed in an old tuxedo with deep creases in his forehead and thick black glasses, stood silent, waiting on her to answer.
“Um, sorry. I didn’t see you.” The older gentleman tapped at his tablet screen and glanced up at her. “My name is Skylar. I was invited by Scott Ryder. He’s the producer of Milton Diner.”
As she scanned the room, a couple in the corner appeared engrossed in conversation. The rest of the bar appeared empty of patrons.
“This is a private party. Please. This way.” The unusual man ushered her toward the bar.
“Oh, okay.” Confused, Skylar took a deep breath and followed him, noticing the sparse crowd. “Um. Is the restaurant closed?”
“This way, please,” he repeated, ignoring her question.
Her pulse raced as he retrieved a set of keys from his pocket. Silence filled the bar save the jingling metal.
Skylar looked over her shoulder as they exited the empty bar. Where are all the people? The sound of a lock clicking open drew her attention followed by the humming of a pocket door that disappeared into the wall.
“Hey, I think that—” A pounding beat filtered through the doorway, the echo of laughter in the distance.
“Follow the lights. They’re waiting for you.” The host stood aside, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Do you know if Scott is here?” Skylar could have sworn the invite had specifically said piano bar but there was no mistaking the speakeasy pop-up vibe.
“Yes, yes. Your party awaits.” He fiddled with a pen and pointed to an exit.
Skylar’s instincts warned her something was off. “But I thought the party was in a piano bar. Scott said that I was supposed to meet him here.”
“Private party,” he repeated as if in a trance. “Follow the lights. They’re waiting.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” She nodded with a tight smile, concern curling in her stomach as she stepped through another doorway into a short hallway. Strips of neon lights lined the floor, shining up onto the mirrored walls and ceiling.
She pressed through purple beaded fringe, relieved as she caught sight of several crew members engaged in conversations. As she glanced upward, she caught sight of an unusual amethyst crystal chandelier which appeared to pulse to the sound of the music.
Skylar inwardly laughed at the Vegas styled vampire-themed décor.
Though stories of vampires, witches and wolves were part and parcel of living in New Orleans, she’d kept her distance from the dark seedy blood bars that cultivated within the city’s underbelly.
It was rumored the wolves ran in the bayou and could tear you apart if they found you on their land.
The vampires, though, were far more cunning, concealing their true lethal nature… until dinnertime.
Skylar approached the partygoers with caution, observing their every move.
She glanced at the crucifix above the bar and wondered if they’d been taken from the set of a horror movie.
The other alternative was far more sinister.
Though Vegas wasn’t known for vampires, she’d known they had blood clubs in every town.
Relief flooded through her as Scott appeared at the bar. A pretty, tall, blonde woman laughed at his joke and reached for a vape on the bar.
Scott Ryder. Indie producer extraordinaire. He specialized in made-for-streaming reality shows but had recently switched it up, creating compelling miniseries dramas. With coiffed black hair, the stylish insider worked the room in a bright crimson suit.
Skylar recognized the actress who played a fellow waitress. Tina, a bubbly, voluptuous redhead, had been incredibly kind to her on set. Excited to see her, Skylar waved and slid into an empty seat beside her at the bar.
“Hey girl. Glad you made it,” she said as she shoved a twenty towards the bartender. “You look hot.”
“Thank you. You look amazing. Love your dress.” Distracted by the sound of fingers tapping on the bar, Skylar glanced up to the impatient barkeep.
“What can I get you lovely ladies?” With slicked-back hair, the man wore a well-worn black tuxedo. The deep creases in his face told her he’d lived a long life.
“Chardonnay. Anything white would be great.”
“White sounds good to me too.” Tina spun her stool to face Skylar. “I’m so excited we’re working this project together. I’m loving it.” She accepted her glass from the bartender. “I feel like I’m finally getting a lucky break.”
“Yeah, same. I was working on this thing in L.A. and I was shot. I left in a coma.” Skylar leaned her head to the side and stuck out her tongue.
“Police drama? It’s always a tough gig. One minute you have a line and the next you’re the corpse.” She laughed.
“Kiss of death. One and done. But hey, when one door closes, another one opens. After this, I’m headed back home to New Orleans.” Skylar reached for her glass, avoiding eye contact with the strange bartender. She held the glass up to the air. “But for the next eight weeks, viva Las Vegas!”
“Long live diner waitresses!” Their glasses clinked.
As Skylar brought the rim to her lips, she heard Scott’s voice behind her. She set down her glass without drinking and turned to him.
“Darling, Sky! You look fabulous. What is this dress? Chanel?” He reached for her, giving her a hug.