Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 21

  Me: Oh boy… It appears I’ve struck a nerve. Sorry about that, Andy. My bad.

  Andrew: Very funny, FIRECRACKER.

  Me: I am VERY funny, ANDY.

  “What do you think, Birdie?” My sister’s voice fills my ears, and I glance up from my phone to find her staring at me.

  “What do I think about what?” I question, and she glances between my face and the phone in my hand.

  “Who are you texting?” she asks, curiosity in her voice.

  “No one,” I say, but when she narrows her eyes, it’s more than apparent she knows I’m full of shit. “I mean, just Samantha. She’s telling me about my schedule.”

  “Well, tell her to leave you alone because you’re having lunch with your very pregnant and hormonal sister who needs your help picking out colors for the nursery.”

  “Calm down,” I say through a laugh and pointedly set my phone screen-side down onto the table. “Now, I’m all ears, sis.”

  Billie doesn’t waste any time diving back into her options for nursery décor, and while I’m trying really hard to focus on what she’s saying, in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I just impulsively texted Andrew like we’re the best of friends.

  Good God, those pot brownies must have, like, an extended effect.

  Uh-huh, sure they do…

  Andrew

  The hype is real.

  We’ve been in Memphis for five days now, and this afternoon, our filming schedule is focused around that first, pivotal scene where Cal Loggins discovers Arizona Lee.

  Production scored big when they managed to rent out the ideal location for the next four days. A little dive bar in downtown Memphis called the Copper Door, the establishment is an eclectic mix of worn wooden floors, country and blues memorabilia, and faded copper embellishments across the bar and walls.

  I watch from behind Howie’s director’s chair as he walks up onto the stage and discusses a few things with Birdie and the rest of the actors playing Arizona’s Memphis band.

  In this scene, Arizona is a nobody in country music. A gorgeous, undiscovered musician who spends her nights singing her own songs in Grass Roots, a bar her uncle Joe owns.

  Birdie nods at whatever Howie tells her, and the instant he heads off set and back toward where I’m currently standing, she picks up her guitar, slides the strap around her chest, and steps back up to the microphone at the front of the stage.

  This is the first time I’ve really been able to watch her in action, in her musical element. Any music we’ve recorded for the movie, we’ve done it separately. Our busy shooting schedules make it impossible for us to be in the recording studio at the same time. And whenever she’s filmed scenes that include Arizona onstage, I was busy filming Cal’s flashback scenes.

  But today, I’m here, witnessing what Birdie Harris looks like up there, onstage, her undeniable talent front and center.

  Her long blond hair flows past her shoulders, and her cowgirl boots tap to the beat as she and the band take a quick test run of the song. And her pint-sized body just flows with the music as her fingers strum across her guitar.

  She doesn’t even have to think about what she’s doing up there. It’s all muscle memory at this point.

  The song she is about to sing is called “Ramblin’ Wisdom,” and it’s one Birdie wrote specifically for this film, specifically for my character, and one that I spent more than a few hours recording. With the help of a voice coach who started working with me well before filming started, I hope I managed to do it somewhat justice on the film’s soundtrack.

  “All right, guys, quiet on set!” Howie shouts as he sits back down in his chair, and I head to my place on set, just off to the right of the stage, with my elbow resting on the bar and a beer in my hand. “My extras in the crowd, I need to see a little more movement from you! Drinking, dancing, small talk with the people beside you. Big reactions to Arizona’s news. We all good?” he asks, glancing around the set. When he likes what he sees, he nods. “All right, let’s do this!”

  “Scene 3, Take 7,” a PA yells. “Action!”

  I take a sip of my beer, and Birdie begins.

  She looks out into the crowd, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not sure if y’all know this, but I’ve been told we have someone special here tonight.”

  Her eyes seek out mine, and she flashes a secret wink my way.

  “Actual country music royalty,” she continues, and her smile gets bigger as she looks back into the various faces of the crowd. “A man who’s going to make my uncle Joe mad he took a trip to Mississippi this weekend.” She laughs, and everyone in the audience starts to look around, trying to figure out who Arizona is talking about.

  She strums her guitar. “Do y’all want to know who it is?”

  “C’mon, Arizona, just tell us!” a man shouts from the crowd, and she laughs again.

  “Everyone, I need you to give a very warm Grass Roots welcome to Cal Loggins!”

  The crowd responds with wide, searching eyes, and once I’m spotted near the bar, surprised hushes morph into hoots and hollers.

  “That’s right,” she adds, her chocolate eyes grinning at me. “Cal Loggins has decided to stop by our little bar tonight, and I’m hoping y’all can convince him to join me onstage.”

  The audience responds in excitement and boisterous cheers.

  I smirk up at her. “Getting me onstage is going to depend on what you’re wanting me to sing, darlin’!”

  “Anything you want.” She strums her fingers over her guitar again and plays the first opening beats of one of Cal’s most popular songs—“Ramblin’ Wisdom.” “Or, you know, exactly what I want.”

  I laugh. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “C’mon, Cal, get your ass up here and sing with me!”

  As I’m walking up toward the stage to stand beside Arizona Lee, I can’t stop myself from noticing just how stunning this woman—Birdie Harris—really is.

  I can’t stop myself from marveling over how at ease she is with a guitar in her hands. And I most certainly don’t miss the way her mouth looks as we start to sing one of Cal’s songs together, our voices melding into the same microphone.

  Goddamn. All the Birdie Harris hype is spot-on.

  There is something about her that makes you want to watch her every move, but without rush, without haste. You just want to take her all the way in. Her wide, doe-like eyes, her full, plush mouth, and every adorable little emotion that’s evident on her face and in her body language.

  I’ve been in the business a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of stars—some worthy of success and fame. But most, sadly, are not. It’s all very fucking superficial, but that’s what makes Little Miss Harris so mesmerizing.

  There isn’t an ounce of superficial running through her veins. She is one-hundred-percent real. And fuck if that doesn’t make her all the more addictive. No pretentious attitude. No shallow persona. Birdie Harris is raw, with every single one of her emotions sitting on her sleeve.

  This gorgeous woman has star power.

  She has something no one can deny.

  Something I sure as fuck can’t deny.

  When I spot Johnny Johnston standing beside Howie, a smile playing on his lips as he watches and listens to this beautiful woman sing, my chest tightens with an emotion that feels a lot like irritation.

  Which is crazy.

  You know what’s even crazier, bro? The fact that, deep down, you’re more convinced than ever to make her yours…

  Birdie

  I get it from my granny.

  “Cal, this is crazy,” I say, staring down at my hands. “I can’t just leave Memphis and go on the road with you. What am I supposed to tell my uncle Joe? What am I supposed to tell my band?”

  Two gentle fingers reach down to lift my chin until I’m staring directly into soft blue.

  “Darlin’, it’s simple,” he says. “Tell them you’re going to be a star.”

  I stare bac
k at him, ready to respond, but the words, the damn words, they are nowhere to be found. Shit. Think, Birdie! Remember your lines!

  Panic tightens my chest as I rummage through every nook and cranny of my mind.

  And the ever-so-slight furrow in his brow tells me all I need to know—Andrew knows I’m forgetting my lines…again. Hell, everyone on set knows I’m messing up my lines again. We’ve rolled through this same scene what feels like a hundred times, and I’ve yet to get it right.

  Every single time, I’ve found a way to mess it up.

  I shut my eyes briefly, incredibly irritated with myself and my stupid brain that can’t seem to function today, but Andrew surprises me by going off script.

  “Don’t let this opportunity slip out of your hands, Arizona,” he whispers. “Reach out and take it. Make it yours.”

  He’s trying to help me.

  He’s trying to keep this scene rolling until I find my rhythm again.

  But my mind is already off to the self-deprecating races, too consumed with berating myself than actually trying to climb out of this hole I’ve dug.

  And let me tell you, this hole is fucking deep. Black holes in outer space have got nothing on it.

  Thirty more seconds of my embarrassing silence and Howie has had enough. He hops out of his director’s chair. “Cut! Cut!” he shouts, and frustration is evident in his now-strained voice.

  Pretty sure all the “Cut”s you’ve forced him to yell have given the poor man a sudden case of laryngitis…

  Ugh. Mortification in the form of heat flushes my cheeks.

  “What’s going on, Birdie?” he asks, and my shoulders sag.

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  Truthfully, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel out of sorts and unable to focus, and even though I should know these lines like the back of my hand, the words are a jumbled mess inside my head.

  “Are you going to be able to get it together sometime tonight?” he questions. “This is our fifteenth take on this scene.”

  This is the first time he’s ever gotten that direct or short with me, and my sweaty palms and racing heart prove it’s a shock to my system.

  I’m a total failure.

  The stress of this movie, and the fact that I’m not doing what I need to do, sits heavy on my shoulders. Tears prick my eyes, which only makes me more irritated with myself.

  Am I really going to freaking cry right now?

  Get it together, Birdie. I inhale a deep, steady breath and try to force the emotions that are bubbling up into my throat back down, but it’s no use. They’re a boulder lodged inside my windpipe, ready and waiting to make their big debut.

  Lord Almighty, I’m a mess today. A big fat failure.

  “I’m sorry, Howie.” My voice sounds so pathetic, so damn small and defeated. “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. I’m trying, I’m really trying, but…” I pause, unsure of what else to say. Frankly, I have zero clue why I’m having such a difficult time with this scene. It makes no sense.

  My flimsy words offer him zero reassurance.

  “We’re getting behind schedule,” he responds on a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “And I fucking hate to get behind schedule.” He looks toward Serena. “You think we can talk the owner into letting us rent out his bar and parking lot for one more day? We were supposed to be done tomorrow night, but after this, I’m certain we’re going to need an extra day.”

  She nods. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  With one last, incredibly frustrated look in my direction, Howie turns on his heel and strides back toward the cameras. “Did we get anything worth saving?”

  The director of photography offers a small shrug. “I got a few things we can make work with some edits. But certainly not everything.”

  “Yeah.” Howie barks out a laugh. “That’s more than apparent.” He glances down at his watch. “All right, guys. Since it’s already half past nine and things only seem to be going downhill from here, let’s call it a night and come back tomorrow. Serena, let me know if you have any issues getting approval from the owner for another day.”

  Heaven help me, I’ve screwed up this scene so much, my director doesn’t even want to continue. We were supposed to shoot for another two hours, but he’s already calling it a day. Because of you.

  Everything inside me wants to break the fuck down, but I will myself to stay strong. I hear Tom Hanks’s voice in A League of Their Own in my head. Only instead of him saying, “There’s no crying in baseball,” he’s saying, “There’s no crying in Hollywood.”

  While everyone starts to pack up for the day, I bite my lip hard enough to make it bleed and focus my energy on finding the quickest route off set. We’re still on location in the Copper Door, and thankfully, I have a small trailer just out the back doors and in the parking lot to the left of the building.

  Just get to your trailer so you can break down without anyone else around.

  I walk as fast as I possibly can without jumping into a freaking sprint. Off set, past the cameras, past the rest of the cast and crew, and out into the cool May air of a Tennessee night, my feet motor across the pavement like I’m trying to hit a speed-walking world record.

  The sun has already set, and the moon is starting to make its presence known by softly lighting up the dark sky, but I couldn’t care less about any of it. I’m solely fixated on getting inside my trailer and away from everyone and everything.

  When I spot the small white door that has my name plastered on the front in even black letters, I pick up the ankle-breaking pace, and the second I step inside, I slam the door shut behind me.

  Deep down, I know it’s okay to have a bad day. I know it’s okay to be slightly off my game every once in a while. These are all things I know to be rational and true, but rationality left the building about ten minutes ago, after my fifteenth fuckup, when I saw the exasperated look on Howie’s face.

  It doesn’t help that I have a lifelong track record of being a stubborn perfectionist.

  Pretty sure I get that from my granny. She was a wizard at baking pies, but God forbid one of her pies wasn’t up to snuff for the church bake sale. The woman went on the warpath, mad at everyone and everything, but mostly, ticked off at herself.

  Goddammit. I’m just like Granny.

  I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to push this painful weight of stress off my shoulders, but when I shut my eyes tight or open my mouth to let it all out, nothing happens. All those emotions that were boiling beneath the surface have disappeared, and the knot in my chest is so constricting it makes breathing feel like a chore.

  “Birdie?” The sound of Andrew’s voice and two knocks to my trailer door startle me, but I stay rooted to my spot with my back to the door and my eyes fixated on the wrinkles in the carpet beneath my feet.

  Maybe he’ll just go away…

  When I don’t answer, the door slides open, and the sound of footsteps makes its way up the two steps and into my trailer.

  Shit.

  “Birdie? Are you okay?” he asks, and the door clicks shut.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper, and I hate how shaky and unsteady my voice sounds. I swallow hard against the stupid emotion that all of a sudden wants to show up to my pity party, and I make no move to turn around. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  Two strong arms find their way around my shoulders and pull me back, tight against his firm chest. “We all have bad days,” he whispers into my ear. “Don’t let what Howie said get to you.”

  I don’t respond, the surprising kindness in his voice only making it harder to keep the tears at bay.

  “You’re drawn tight like a damn bow, sweetheart,” he continues, his voice smooth like honey, and I have to shut my eyes tight to keep the emotion behind my lids. “Keeping this all bottled up inside will only make it worse. You need to let it out. Just cry, scream, whatever you need to do, just let it out.”

  A part of me wants to fight ag
ainst him, push him away and tell him I’m fine. But his words are the equivalent of Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball, breaking straight through my emotional dam.

  Tears slip from my lids and my shoulders shake, and Andrew turns me around and hugs me tight to his chest. A part of me wants to resist this, resist him, but I simply can’t because he’s right. I just need to let it out.

  So, I do. With my head resting on his shoulder, I let myself fall into his embrace while my tears soak into the old leather jacket that’s part of his Cal costume.

  And Andrew just stands there, holding me, letting me cry it out.

  He doesn’t say or do anything else but that.

  “I don’t know why I kept screwing it all up,” I eventually whisper once I’ve cried the knot in my throat away.

  He leans back to look down at me, and his grayish-blue eyes show no judgment or scrutiny, just warmth and tenderness.

  “Birdie, we all fuck up sometimes,” he says. “It’s impossible to be perfect with this kind of production schedule. Hell, Serena wanted to wring my neck the other day when I couldn’t keep a straight face during a scene with Johnny.”

  His words urge an amused smile to quirk up the corners of my mouth. “It’s because of his beard, isn’t it?”

  “Christ, I didn’t think it was possible, but that thing keeps getting worse.”

  “You’re kind of evil the way you’re always ragging on Johnny’s beard.” A giggle jumps from my throat, and he grins down at me.

  “Yeah, but you can’t deny I only speak the truth about that monstrosity.” He gently taps my nose with his index finger. “You feel a little better?”

  I nod and blow out a shaky breath. “Getting there.”

  “Have you eaten anything today?”

  “No, not really.” I shake my head. “But food is the last thing on my mind.”

  “You’ve gotta eat, sweetheart.”

  I step away from his hold and snag my script off the vanity in my trailer, holding it up in the air. “No, I need to practice my damn lines, so I don’t fuck everything up tomorrow.”