He wasn’t her usual type. Her dating history would suggest she preferred the tall, dark, and handsome stereotype. Though, that stereotype usually went hand in hand with the arrogant, self-centered asshole personality, she thought, an image of Brantley Cruise flashing in her mind. She couldn’t believe how quickly she’d fallen for his charm and good looks. Admittedly, she’d fallen even harder for the idea of the Hollywood power couple they represented. Walking on the red carpet with Brantley—not his kiss, not his touch—had been the thrill. What they’d had hadn’t been real. Never had he evoked the same urges in her that Tyson did by completely ignoring her.

As he disappeared from view, she pushed all thoughts of him and her past mistakes aside as she raised her fists, planted her right foot slightly in front of the other, rounded her shoulders, and positioned herself toward the heavy bag the way Dane had taught her.

She needed to get this part and she was determined to work her ass off that week to get it. She’d learned a lot and had come a long way already, but she knew it was only the beginning. The sound of the back door closing as Tyson left brought his smile back to the forefront of her mind as she threw an awkward combination at the bag.

She also wasn’t ready to quit training at Punisher Athletics yet and she refused to question the motivation behind that.

Chapter 4

Parker glanced at the address she’d typed into her calendar on her phone, then the numbers on the building in front of her. “Excuse me, are you sure we are on Caly Way?” she asked the taxi driver.

He shot her a look in the rearview mirror. “I drive all over this city for a living.”

“Okay . . .” This was the right place. Wow, Ian hadn’t been kidding about the auditions being held at a community center. Located right in the middle of a residential neighborhood, across the street from a junior high school, it was the last place anyone would expect movie auditions take place. Probably a good thing, she thought. She hadn’t told anyone other than her grandmother and the guys at the gym about the role and in case she didn’t get the part, she was keeping her audition to herself.

How embarrassing would it be if her fellow costars knew she hadn’t even been able to secure a role in an indie film?

She took a deep breath as she paid the taxi driver and stepped out into the warm October air. The sun was blazing overhead and a mild southern breeze made the palm trees lining the street sway back and forth. She closed her eyes, enjoying the humidity on her skin—Vegas’s dry heat couldn’t compare. Overall, she felt better just being back on the coast. And she was ready for this audition.

She knew the script by heart and she was ready to embody the complexity of Jessica “The Crusher” Carlisle. In a week, she’d learned more than she’d ever thought possible from Dane about fighter stance and moves, and she’d noticed muscles forming in her arms and legs—if she looked hard enough. Not a great improvement, but it was a start. If she could do that in a week, she could easily look the part before they started filming, she reassured herself.

Now, she just had to convince the director.

Opening the door labeled with a handwritten sign that read AUDITIONS THIS WAY, she went inside and followed more signs to the back of the community center. The place was empty except for a group of teenage boys in the main gymnasium playing basketball and they didn’t even notice as she passed. She scanned the hallways for a restroom, but didn’t see one, so she continued following the signs. She stopped when she reached a group of women waiting outside the closed door of what she assumed was the audition room.

About eight of them—all younger than her—were busy reading the script. She could quickly see that Ian had been right about the lack of big names at the audition—there was no one she recognized. They all flipped to various scenes, closing their eyes and mumbling and mouthing the lines and no one looked at her, which gave her time to study them . . . and get nervous. Really nervous. All of the women had athletic builds—strong-looking arms and shoulders, thick thighs, and well-defined calves. There wasn’t a B cup or bigger among the group and flat, tight asses leaned against the walls.

She looked nothing like them. No wonder they hadn’t even glanced her way. They probably thought she was lost. She studied their choices of audition clothes. Capri workout leggings, shorts, racerback tank tops, and runners . . . They looked the part.

She’d worn a slim-fitting suit. Her lucky suit—the one she always wore to auditions, but she was starting to question her wardrobe choice. Maybe she should remove the jacket at least, she thought, biting her lip . . . but it hid her unathletic build.

The audition room door opened; another woman, plain and muscular, left the room, and the next one went in. This had to be the most relaxed casting call she’d ever attended and she was the only big-name actress there . . . yet she was sweating and pacing nervously.

She couldn’t remember ever being so anxious about an audition or wanting a role so badly. Then again, she’d rarely had to work as hard to get one. Her career had benefited from her grandmother’s legacy on film and then most recently from her involvement with Brantley. This time she really was completely on her own.

That’s a good thing, she reminded herself, reaching into her Gucci bag for her copy of the script . . . Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure . . .

Too soon, the hallway had cleared out and, as the last woman exited the audition room, Parker took several deep breaths. She could do this. She’d been auditioning for movies since she was nine years old.

None had ever felt so important.

“They are ready for you,” the young woman said as she passed, giving her an odd look—one part recognition, one part disbelief.

Parker recognized her as a woman she’d seen training at Cage Masters the week before . . . Damn. Real fighters were auditioning. She moved past her quickly before the look destroyed any confidence she had. “Thanks,” she mumbled, going into the room.

Two men in their late twenties sat behind a long, fold-out plastic table. Casting call sheets and actor photos were laid in front of them. They took her in as she entered, their expressions unreadable.

She swallowed hard, her hands pressed against her thighs to keep them from shaking. “Hi. I’m Parker Hamilton.” Her attempt to sound confident failed as her voice creaked out barely above a whisper.

The first man nodded and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You made it. Great.”

Really? Didn’t sound great. Had they been hoping she wouldn’t actually show up? Her spine stiffened and she stood taller. Well, she was here and she was going to give them the audition of the day.

“I’m the director, Kilroy Clarke, and this is the film’s screenwriter, Dale.” He gestured to the man beside him, who nodded briefly at her. “You can pick a scene and start whenever you’re ready. Dale will read with you. Just let him know which page to start,” Kilroy told her, looking through the lens of the video camera on his cell phone they were using to record the auditions.

They were using a cell phone to record the auditions and she was nervous? All of a sudden, her professionalism and years of experience in the business took over and her self-doubt vanished, taking the pesky nerves with it.

She was Parker freaking Hamilton. She had this.

*   *   *

The sweat pouring off Connor as he lay shaking on the couch was more than Tyson had ever experienced wearing a sweat suit in a hundred-degree sauna. The puke bucket next to him had already been emptied several times in the last twenty-four hours and he was amazed there was anything left to the man withering away to nothing as he suffered through the most intense withdrawal symptoms. The first four or five days had been minor in comparison. He’d have thought the reverse would be true, but he suspected the extra stash of cocaine Connor had had on him had finally disappeared and now the real detoxing had started.