“We’re fine,” Caz said, and settled back for the ride.

“No problem,” Ashley said.

The Jaguar prowled smoothly for the rest of the trip, and a short time later they pulled into a private garage at the studio’s lot. They had arrived.

Caspian got out first, with a “See ya,” and walked over to a tall, thin woman who stood only a few yards away, puffing on a cigarette.

Just past them, Dad appeared in a doorway. She waved, grabbed her backpack by its handle, and jogged over to hug him. Dad.

He hugged her and slung one arm around her shoulders as he moved toward the building. Ashley noticed he wore his pale blond hair short this summer, so she could clearly see his light blue eyes narrow when he looked back at Caz and the limo. His eyes were the same shade as hers, but at the moment they held a suspicious-looking frown. He must’ve smelled the beer. Ashley spoke quickly to head off the lecture. “The minibar exploded.” She lifted the end of her long hair and gave the blond strands a sniff. “Ew, right?”

Around Dad’s back, she saw Caz glancing at them. He shot a look from her to Dad. She’d seen that contemptuous expression before. At home, they’d guess father-daughter reunion, especially as they shared the same coloring. Here in LA, they always assumed older boyfriend—disgusting.

Dad’s arm tightened and he held the door for her to go in. They went down a gray hallway, then took one flight of stairs down to the basement level. Dad stopped at a door marked Human Resources. “Good luck.”

“My appointment was supposed to start thirty minutes ago.” Ashley swiped a hand at her shirt.

“It’s not a problem,” Dad said.

Ashley reached for the doorknob. Her first day on the job and she was about to make a beer-soaked impression. Luckily, she had a spare T-shirt in her bag and nepotism by her side.

***

Ashley’s second day on the job started out cleaner. She drove one of Dad’s cars and parked in the movie studio’s employee lot. Dad worked in one of the stucco executive buildings along the front. She thought they’d commute together, but Dad said his hours were too erratic, so here she was walking in alone.

She’d seen most of the lot as a tourist and on summer visits. Now she was seeing the studio with fresh employee eyes.

Grassy parks lined the lot and further back stood façades of fake towns. After those came a sea of concrete and a multitude of warehouses which held movie sets.

The warm air brushed against her skin, the dry climate amazing. If California could bottle their weather and sell it to the humid states, their budget crisis would be over, Ashley thought.

Her schedule placed her at the cast and crew kickoff meeting inside warehouse number 47. Ashley checked the signs carefully. The buildings looked the same to her: tin metal squares placed atop acres of concrete pavement. She thought it was odd for creative people to work in such bland buildings. Ah, there it was, number 47, her set for the next two months.

A security guard perched on a stool by the narrow doorway, opaque sunglasses shielding his eyes. He said, “Identification,” in a voice that implied she couldn’t provide a legitimate one.

Ashley showed him her driver’s license and her studio identification card. The guard shined a light on the back of the card, examined her face, and checked his clipboard. “You’re good.” He waved her in.

Inside, people milled near two long folding tables, lined up to speak with a pointy-faced man holding a computer tablet. Ashley dropped into line.

His eyes scanned the screen while his hand stroked his goatee. “Production Assistant?”

Ashley nodded.

“I’m the assistant director. Call me AD.” He paused, so Ashley nodded again. At her nod, he grunted and said, “Run this script over to Petra’s trailer.”

Yesterday, Ashley had received a small movie summary from Human Resources and knew that Petra Pelinski was the lead actress playing the part of a spy vixen. Even more interestingly,

Caspian Thaymore would play the tortured hero. She’d buy a ticket. Ashley took the script and the stack of red papers from the assistant director and left the line. Security must be tight around this film if they were printing scripts on red. Red paper couldn’t be photocopied.

“Trailer six,” the AD called after her and jerked his hand toward the rear of the warehouse. Ashley went in that direction.

Another security guard blocked the back exit. Ashley showed her identification and told him her task. The guard pointed beyond the building. A number of white trailers were parked along back, each labeled with a large black number. The quiet calm behind the building was a distinct contrast to the loud frenzy occurring steps away. The crunch of gravel under her sneakers echoed each step to trailer number 6.

She tapped on the door. No answer.

Tap, tap, tap.

No response and no mail slot. Not wanting to fail on her first assignment, Ashley turned the doorknob to Petra’s trailer. The door opened easily, and she leaned in, holding the knob in her left hand and the script in her right. A gust of heavy Asian perfume caused her nose to twitch, so she stuck her right hand under it, breathing in the neutral smell of paper, trying not to sneeze. A red leather sofa sat in a compact living room, underneath a long picture of Petra. Bingo. She was at the right trailer.

A female voice came from further back in the trailer. Hesitant to interrupt, Ashley paused in the doorway.

Petra’s East Coast accent said, “Like can you imagine? I’ll be on this set for at least two months. It is so much better than location shots. All the best salons are here. All the best of everything is here. Everyone knows me. I can get the right press.”

“Of course, you’ll make headlines for just being here,” a different female voice said in a barking tone. No way the barker was an actress, not with that voice. “But imagine if something exciting happened, like if you were to get pregnant—with Caspian’s baby.” The voice alternated between barking out the words and clipping them off.

“If I show up pregnant with Caspian’s baby? Why would I want that? I’d be so fat.” There was a pause, and Ashley stood very still in the doorway.

The barker said, “Imagine the press.”

“The coverage would be amazing,” Petra said. “And everyone is getting pregnant or adopting right now, so we could go maternity shopping, me and all the other big stars. I’ve worked with Caspian before, but we’ve never, you know. What if he doesn’t want a kid right now? He’s only like eighteen.”

“No guy can resist you,” the barker said. “How hard is it to get preggers? Punch a hole in the condom.”

There was a longer pause, then Petra said, “Then I could lose the baby tragically, or he’s loaded so I could keep the baby. I would look stunning in maternity clothes. And my child would be such a pretty baby because Caspian and I are both so good looking, and I could dress her like me.”

Ashley’s mouth fell open. The East Coast voice got louder, as if Petra was moving toward the living room, toward her.

She jerked back and closed the door as quietly as she could. Safely outside, she banged the side of her fist loudly on the sun-warmed trailer door and yelled out in a formal voice, “Script update for Petra.” After opening the door a crack, Ashley threw the red script in and snapped the door shut. She hopped down from the steps, her tennis shoes crunching into the gravel, and took off. Each pounding step kicked up more loose rocks.

Ashley crossed her fingers, hoping she wouldn’t slip, but she didn’t slow until she reached the warehouse entrance. Please don’t let me get caught.

Out of breath, she held up her identification badge from the lanyard around her neck and showed it to the security guard. While he reviewed it again, being as thorough as the guy in the front, she checked back over her shoulder, ensuring there was no one in pursuit. The alley remained empty, but the door on Petra’s trailer opened. Ashley flattened against the metal wall. At the guard’s nod, she passed the threshold into the cavernous warehouse. More people had filed in and most had taken seats on some temporary metal bleachers set against one of the walls. Ashley headed their way, eager to get lost in the crowd.