The Reel Romance Twin Pack: Reel Romance, #3

By Stacey Rourke

Private planes and designer labels. Movie deals and Hollywood hunks. Thrust into the world of glitz and glamour, best friends Aubrey and Tandy find sizzling temptation in the City of Angels. In this two-book twin pack, each sassy lady will try her hand at love in between jet-setting and elaborate PR hoaxes. 

Set includes: 
Book One- Adapted for Film 
Book Two- Turn Tables 

"A contemporary romance with a heavy dose of comedy! Or is it a comedy with a heavy dose of contemporary romance?" -Blogger For the Love of Books4

"This book met my expectations, plus some! I applaud Stacey Rourke for her phenomenal characters, and an enthralling plot line, that kept me turning the pages. I won't post any spoilers, but I would really like to see both Adapted for Film and Turn Tables actually be adapted for film and brought to the big screen!" -Amazon Reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anchor Group Publishing
• Release date: Jul 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386296805

Stacey Rourke

RONE Award Winner for Best YA Paranormal Work of 2012 for Embrace, a Gryphon Series Novel Young Adult and Teen Reader voted Author of the Year 2012 Turning Pages Magazine Winner for Best YA book of 2013 & Best Teen Book of 2013  Readers' Favorite Silver Medal Winner for Crane 2015 Stacey Rourke is the author of the award winning YA Gryphon Series, the chillingly suspenseful Legends Saga, the romantic comedy Reel Romance Series, and twisted fairy tale Unfortunate Soul Chronicles. She lives in Michigan with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and two giant dogs. She loves to travel, has an unhealthy shoe addiction, and considers herself blessed to make a career out of talking to the imaginary people that live in her head.  Visit her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/staceyrourkeauthor or on Twitter or instagram @Rourkewrites.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Hollywood is a saucy vixen that would sooner chew you up and spit you out than ever really love you. I pantomimed running my fingers over the brim of an imaginary fedora only to receive a blank stare from the Barbie look-alike reporter seated across from me.

At her young twenty-something age she’d probably never even screamed her way through a New Kids on the Block concert. What did she know of funny?

Clearing my throat, I dropped my hands into my lap and tried to fix my mask of professionalism back into place. Campy noir, not a fan?

Uncrossing and recrossing her long, tanned legs, Reporter Barbie—RB as I had mentally dubbed her—scooted to the edge of her seat. Her wide blue eyes blink her sudden interest. "Isn’t that what Justin created with his Suit and Tie video? I loved that! He oozes class ... and sexual magnetism. Ugh, what I wouldn’t give to interview him!"

Biting the inside of my cheek, I contemplated correcting her. It would be a lot of work to explain in a way she would understand ... and might involve diagrams or stick figures. Sure, let’s go with that. Now, what was your question again? I’m sorry, I have spaghetti brain. Sometimes it takes me places even I don’t see coming.

RB tipped the edge of the digital voice recorder, resting on the table between us, toward her with one French manicured finger to ensure it was still on. That creative mind of yours is why women everywhere adore your books and why they—and the rest of America—are in a tizzy about your upcoming wedding. The ceremony is rumored to be happening in this very hotel. Can you confirm or deny that?

I stared out the arched window of my hotel suite at the blue canvas sky painted with light fluffy clouds. If I dared utter a word of the hush-hush arrangements, a team of event planning, image-branding gurus would pluck and primp me to death. Shuddering at that fatally groomed mental image, I emphatically shook my head. Sorry, those in the know stopped just short of a blood oath of secrecy.

That’s fair. RB’s tight smile, that didn’t quite reach her eyes, betrayed her by broadcasting her irritation at my silence. "Tell me this then; as the most iconic romance writer of our generation, did you ever think you would find love in Hollywood? I mean your swoon worthy love story could be the plot of one of your novels! Women everywhere want to be you! How did you end up here?"

Well, I couldn’t have fought off the beaming smile curling its way across my lips if I tried, it all began with a cab ride a little over a year ago...

He was an angry little man that smelled of curry and regret, I muttered under my breath. My hand, pressed firmly to the roof of the taxi, was the only thing stopping me from skidding across the seat at yet another abrupt lane change. Who seemed to believe basic driving laws didn’t apply to him.

"Very good Descriptive Narrative, Tandy Owens, my best friend since college, grasped the handle bar on the door only to have it break free in her hand. Silver duct tape, the only thing that had held it in place, dangled from the end of it. That’s not what you want to see! Casting it aside, she adopted my hand to the roof method. Remind me, in your book how did the famous, bestselling author get to the movie studio?"

Five lanes of bumper-to-bumper Los Angeles traffic surrounded us. Taking advantage of a break in the lane beside us, Raphael—our cab driver with clear homicidal tendencies—gunned the engine and swerved to a chorus of honking horns.

The studio flew her in on a private jet, I scoffed, my hair and clothing still permeating the smell of stale air from our turbulent coach flight. The second she landed they whisked her off to location in a limo stocked with champagne and caviar.

Tandy’s head lolled to the side to glance at me over her slender shoulder. Her caramel-colored eyes widened with mock innocence. Do you think you’ll ever be as cool as the characters you write?

Snickering, I shook my head. A lone blonde strand broke free from the messy bun piled on top of my head. I didn’t relinquish my safety hold for even a second to fix it. Paige wears Prada. I’m rocking a pair of jeggings. It’s safe to say I run no risk of that.

Tandy’s otherwise flawless mocha complexion crinkled in disgust. Her gaze ventured down to my travel wear as if I had voluntarily chosen to wear pants comprised of dog crap. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about those. Have you completely given up? Is this over-sized shirt and pretend skinny jeans ensemble just one step away from sweatpants and slippers in public? Tell me now if it is, because I fully intend to stage an intervention. You’re an international bestselling author of books that make women weak in the knees! Yet here you are, in a look that screams, ‘I don’t need a man, I have twenty cats.’

"Two. I have two cats. Stop rounding up. My counterpoint was cut off by Raphael flipping off another driver and screaming a colorful string of expletives. Lips pressed in a firm line, I politely waited for him to finish venting his rage before I pushed on. If I am such an embarrassment to be around, remind me again why you insisted I bring you? No, not insisted. Begged. There was definite pleading. I believe bargaining and negotiating even played into it."

You’re damn right I begged! Tandy sat up a little straighter, owning the accusation without an ounce of shame. "They cast Greyson Meyers as your main character. Greyson friggin’ Meyers! My car, wardrobe, 401K, apartment, hell, even a kidney would have been up for grabs in the negotiations to get me face-to-face with him. That boy is so beautiful I wanna build a shrine to his tight little bubble butt."

And I agreed to bring you just because I love you? I tsked. Man, I should’ve held out for the big pay out.

Both of us were thrown against the left side of the car in a painful mash of limbs as Raphael swerved across two lanes of traffic. Tires squealed. Horns honked. The cab hit a dip in the pavement and went airborne, thanks to Raphael launching us down the exit ramp at daredevil speed.

Don’t worry, Tandy groaned, righting herself on the seat. After he and I fall in love, you can be the maid of honor at our lavish wedding at some stunning castle in the Greek isle.

Oh, yeah? I nodded in encouragement. As a counterpoint, I have to ask; if you earn your first restraining order on this trip, do you think you’ll frame it?

Most definitely. A gleaming white smile brightened her face. I’m going to hang it in my foyer so even the pizza delivery guy can see it. Then, I will happily tell the story of how I earned it. Thus insuring my legacy.

If we don’t die in this cab, I look forward to doing my part to help build your infamy.

Any chance it could be under Leonard Ethens? The towering guard, who easily could’ve been cast as an extra as an Amazonian man-beast, tapped his pen against his clipboard. With notable indifference, he glanced up at me from under his caveman brow.

Probably not, biting the inside of my cheek, I suppressed the urge to look around for a hidden camera, "because of the lack of penis, and the fact that my name is Aubrey Evans."

Straightening to his full intimidating height, the security guard crossed his arms over his formidable chest. There is no Aubrey Evans on the list, ma’am. And if you aren’t on the list, you don’t get on set.

Exhaustion was fast setting in now that the exhilarating ride in Hell’s Taxi was over. I let the strap from my carry-on bag slip from my shoulder and the bag flop to the ground. I couldn’t help but notice that the front page of that clipboard is the cover sheet of the script, I said in the most patient tone I could manage after a full day of traveling and three trips to Starbucks. Think I could see that for a second?

Not even attempting to conceal his aggravated eye roll, he flipped the pages over and handed me his clipboard. Shooting him a smile that dripped with forced politeness, I turned the clipboard so we could both see it. Pointing to each word with my index finger, I guided his eye so he could read along with me. "True Love; Take Two, a Raven’s Claw Production. Directed by Kole Camden. Starring Greyson Meyers. Adapted from the best-selling novel written by Aubrey Evans. That’s me. I can show you my ID."

Doesn’t matter, the silver-back gorilla dressed as a rent-a-cop huffed, his nostrils flaring. You’re not on the list. I can’t let you in.

"If we want to get technical, the cover sheet rests on top of the list, I pointed out. Raising my eyebrows in hopeful expectation, I nodded, hoping he would join in. So, by those standards, my name is on the list."

Wordlessly, he snatched his clipboard from me and tucked it beneath his massive forearm.

Out of ideas, I cast Tandy a beseeching look. Pocketing the cell phone she had been clicking away at, she threw back her shoulders and tossed her head. She sashayed past me with a gait that Mae West would’ve envied, and graced the unsuspecting officer with the same warm smile that had made men far more daunting than him melt.

What we have here, Tandy leaned a little closer to read his name tag, and give him a teasing glimpse of ample cleavage, "Christopher, is a simple communication breakdown. You’re good at your job, we both know that."

Christopher’s gave a coy shrug, a rosy hue blooming on his cheeks. I try, ma’am.

"I can see that. And I would hate for you to do anything that would jeopardize your job. Laying a gentle hand on his forearm, her voice dropped to a whisper. Which is why I really think you should call the director. Not only is Aubrey the author, she’s also chipping in money and earned herself a producer title. If they find out you didn’t even make a phone call before shooing her away, it could cost you your job. I would hate to see that happen."

I guess a simple phone call wouldn’t hurt. Christopher shrugged and returned to his booth to make the call.

Tandy shot me a victorious grin. Her air of elegance and glamour combined with cover model good looks made her an unstoppable force few men stood a chance against. I held no grandiose delusions that my own feminine wiles would ever match hers. My love affair with chili cheese fries and loose fitting clothing would see to that. Still, I appreciated that she let me exploit her as the secret weapon in my arsenal.

Mr. Camden? Hunching over the phone, Christopher’s tone was all business. There is a woman out here claiming to be Aubrey Evans, the book lady, but she’s not on the access list.

The book lady. I jerked my chin at Tandy, acknowledging my new title. Decade long career reduced to three little words. He’s efficient.

Like a literary hipster? Christopher parroted, turning to give me a quick once over. She’s wearing cat-rimmed glasses, a huge ‘O Captain, My Captain’ T-shirt, and jeggings. So, yeah. You could say that.

When did the jeggings become a bad thing? I asked, throwing my hands in the air. I thought they were kind of cool!

No, honey. They never were. But bless your heart for trying, Tandy soothed, patting my shoulder.

Yes, sir. Not a problem at all. Thank you, Christopher said and hung up the receiver. Ducking beneath the booth door frame, he addressed Tandy with a shy smile. All I have to do is check her identification. As long as she is who she says she is, you’re free to go inside.

I could’ve interrupted, demanded he acknowledge my status on the film by addressing me directly, but what would be the point? I write confrontational dialogue, yet avoid actually executing it at all cost. Instead, I handed her my wristlet with the identification compartment face up and let her show it to him.

The formerly heaving beast granted us—or more accurately, Tandy—a friendly smile and waved us on to the sound stage where the words I wrote would come to life.

The side door of the studio, which resembled an expansive warehouse, squealed on its hinges, allowing a fresh-faced young man with shaggy brown hair and an all-American look to peek out.

Aubrey Evans? he asked, glancing from me to Tandy and back again.

That’s me, I offered, and tried not to be offend by the sudden disappointment that sagged his features.

Stepping forward, Tandy extended one expertly manicured hand. Hi, I’m Tandy Owens, Aubrey’s personal assistant.

My head jerked so fast whiplash was a viable concern. "Personal assistant? When have you ever assisted me with anything?"

I told you those shoes make your ankles look fat. She shrugged and tossed her hair for the benefit of our audience of one.

"No, you didn’t!" I shouted, self-consciously checking for ankle flab.

Huh. I guess I just thought it. Still, it counts. Right ... Tandy paused, allowing our confused onlooker to fill in his name.

Duncan, I’m Kole Camden’s assistant. Duncan’s voice cracked with barely checked nerves. "Almost everyone has gone home for the night. However, Mr. Camden told me I wasn’t allowed to eat, sleep, or pee until I recorded your vocal spots for the promos we’re working on. You were supposed to be here two hours ago."

He shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. That, and his panicked inflection, gave me the only clues necessary to calculate he wasn’t suffering from nerves, but an urgent need for relief.

I’m sure he was kidding about the bathroom part there, Big D, I snorted. "Unless Camden is a complete tyrant."

The epiphany dawned on young Duncan’s face, widening his moss green eyes and swinging his jaw slack.

Come on in, he prompted, pushing the door open further. I’ll be right back.

He was gone in a flash, disappearing down the narrow olive-green hall at a lock-kneed trot.

Tandy’s head cocked as she watched him duck into the men’s room. Sarcasm should never be attempted around those with painfully literal interpretation.

Welcome to Hollywood, I laughed. Unknotting my hair, I shook it out, twisted it back up, and secured it with a Booksurf pen I’d picked up at a signing.

Duncan was back a moment later—noticeably more relaxed—to give us the briefest possible tour through the studio. The sets are already dark for the night. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see those. For now, we’ll just go straight to the sound studio.

If darkness is all we’re contending with, I can flip a switch with the best of ’em, I said, flashing him a smile I hoped registered close to beguiling. Kind of a lifelong dream to see one of my books come to life.

His eyebrows rocketed into his hairline, his head adamantly shaking. Oh, no. I can’t touch the lights. That’s grounds for immediate termination.

But, like, the fired kind? Or the never heard from again variety? Because from what I’ve read, that’s the ‘Old Hollywood’ way. I didn’t have to air quote the word, yet it seemed worthwhile by the beads of sweat that sprouted across his brow.

Blanching, Duncan quickened his strides.

That was the verbal equivalent of frying an ant with a magnifying glass, Tandy whispered, nudging my ribs with her elbow.

Trying to force a somber frown was a fruitless effort I quickly gave up on. I’m sure the guilt over that will plague me for days to come.

Duncan rounded a corner into a closet-sized room and clicked on the light. The quaint space was laid out like a small-budget radio station. One long desk was positioned in the middle of the room. On it sat a couple of computer monitors, a plethora of buttons and switches that looked capable of launching a Star Destroyer, four microphones, and coinciding headphone sets.

Have a seat. He nodded toward the chair opposite him and busied himself clicking buttons, turning knobs, and bringing the studio to life around us. Oddly enough, in this cramped space of gizmos and gadgets, he appeared to be in his element. His earlier uncertainty was all but erased. I’m just going to ask you a few quick and easy questions that we can draw quotes from for promos, like I mentioned before, and that we can use for the special features on the DVD release. Sound good?

Taking a deep breath, I eased myself into the hard plastic chair. As long as you realize I write to avoid talking and therefore could wind up sounding like a blubbering idiot, we should be fine.

I’ll edit it together to form coherent thoughts. Duncan grinned, and adjusted his headphones into place. Slap your headphones on. I’m going to count it down and we’ll get started.

The interview passed in an embarrassing display of ums and uhs on my part, Duncan feeding me lines to make me sound somewhat intelligent, while Tandy rolled her index fingers one over the other whenever I inadvertently went off on a long-winded ramble.

Last question, Duncan declared with a compassionate half-grin after what felt like a yearlong interview.

Through the glass wall behind him, a light flicked on. A flood of about a half-dozen bodies filled the neighboring space which appeared no larger than ours. In an instant I became a monkey at the zoo, with an audience observing this painfully uncomfortable experience. Why primates fling their poo suddenly became clear to me.

There was a great deal of controversy over Greyson Meyers, Duncan continued, oblivious to my panic inducing plight of impromptu public speaking, "who is known primarily for his blockbuster portrayal of the superhero The Vindicator, being cast in the alluring role of your sexually-charged main character, Aiden St. Cloud. Some fans even staged a protest and started a petition trying to get Meyers removed from the film. How do you respond to this powerful reaction from your readers, and are you confident with the casting decision?"

I knew this question was coming, had been asked it enough times for my answer to be reflex. Still, I cast a wary glance toward the room beside us. The newcomers were laughing and talking behind the soundproof glass, paying no mind to the sweaty introvert next-door living out her biggest phobia.

I ... uh. Clearing my throat, I locked eyes with Tandy.

She nodded her head, silently encouraging me to talk to her alone.

Filling my lungs, I recited the response just as I had the night she and I stuffed our faces with shrimp fried rice and scripted it. "I appreciate my readers feeling such a powerful and protective attachment to Aiden. Their passion for my character is the biggest compliment I could receive. That said, as a producer on the film I was privy to Mr. Meyers’s auditions tapes. I can say with complete honesty that I saw a side of him beyond The Vindicator. I watched him become Aiden St. Cloud, and I can ensure all of my readers they will not be disappointed. Especially during a certain meadow scene I know all True Love fans are looking forward to."

And cue throaty chuckle, I mentally directed myself, wincing at the sound that assaulted my ears. Wow, that landed closer to a donkey bray. Next interview pretend to have laryngitis.

I think we got it! Duncan slid off his headphones and unceremoniously dropped them to the table. His chair legs screeching across the floor, he pushed back from the table to stand up. Let me go check with the other producers and see if I missed anything. If not, we’ll go get you settled in for the night.

With the rapid-fire steps of the overly caffeinated, he ducked from their room and reappeared behind the glass next-door.

"So, those are the producers, Tandy leaned in, sizing up the crowd of what she probably viewed to be walking dollar signs. Hmmm, the guy in the flannel is totally your type."

Casually as I could, I glanced back over my shoulder. All I could see was the back of his frame; his red and white flannel shirt rolled mid-way up his forearms, a pair of faded jeans peeking out from beneath his untucked shirt tails. Be that as it may, it was enough to appreciate his tall, well-muscled physique.

What about him is my type? I asked, somewhat apprehensive of her answer.

He accomplishes that sexy, ruffled look without really trying or caring, just like you.

I hitched one eyebrow in her direction. "Somewhere in there I think there was a compliment. You have to really want to see it."

It was a compliment, she countered. Her face brightening with a fresh idea, Tandy rounded the table and leaned against it beside me. Let’s play Descriptive Narrative ... of him!

I don’t want to play Descriptive Narrative, I grumbled. Plucking my glasses off, I rubbed my tired, jet-lagged eyes.

Come on! He’s a perfect candidate! she prodded, nudging my foot with hers. Last time, and I won’t make you play again. I promise!

Never again? My resolve wavered at the prospect of never again having to pick apart innocent bystanders for her amusement.

"Never, ever. But you better hurry because Duncan is on his way back and this is a one-time offer."

Heaving a begrudging sigh, I turned back toward the glass to size up my target. I couldn’t see his full face, only his profile. A shadow of a beard, which toed the line somewhere between stubble and the full facial hair commitment, shaded his strong jaw-line. With his hands resting casually against the table behind him, the muscles of his back strained against the fabric of his shirt.

Running my tongue over my dry lips, I went with the very first description that popped into my head. He was the kind of guy you would ask to help you move, just so you could watch him work.

Suddenly, all the conversation and movement in the next room stopped. The temporary freeze broke with the two women in the group covering their mouths, and exchanging matching looks of astonishment. My eyebrows furrowed when the man with the bad comb-over slapped a hand on my target’s shoulder and mouthed something that looked an awful lot like, You’re a hottie.

No, my head shook to deny the ugly truth bouncing its way to the center stage of my reality, they couldn’t possibly have ...

Before I could finish my claim, built on pure blind hope, he turned around. Black hair darted off his head in a messy tangle, as if he’d spent all day combing his fingers through it. Cobalt blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Delectably inviting lips pulled back in a half-smile that caused a deep dimple to dip into his left cheek.

Leaning forward he clicked a button. A light soundtrack of static filled our room. Ms. Evans, I’m Kole Camden, the director. Thought you should know that your microphone is still on and playing loud and clear in here. And, if you ever need help moving, I can be bought with pizza and beer.

Shooting me a quick wink, he released the button and turned back to his chortling crew.

Slowly, I pivoted in my seat in Tandy’s direction. Did you know they could hear me?

I had my suspicions. Tandy had the good sense to at least pretend to be remorseful. The truth of her amusement revealed itself in the gold flecks twinkling in her mahogany eyes. They seemed to be mulling over your last answer.

Many thoughts and emotions slammed and swirled through me during my typhoon of embarrassment. I could’ve indulged any of them and hid under the table until they had to call security to physically pry me out. I did toy with that idea. Instead, I slapped one hand down on the table and shot Tandy a wide, forced smile.

So, hey! I mused, a hot blush filling my cheeks. I met the director!

Chapter 2

Did they put you up in a swanky hotel? RB asked, her shoulders rising in giddy anticipation of the fantasy she was constructing in her head without the benefit of my input.

I scratched the back of my neck, a wry laugh escaping me. They offered. After that cab ride I was afraid I was going to end up at a pay-by-the-hour dive deep in the bowels of Hollywood. A trailer on set was my second alternative and that’s what I went for. Not to mention, I didn’t want to miss a thing that went on at the set. I wanted to be submerged in every aspect of the movie-making process.

Her long side-bangs fell into her eyes as she tilted her head and sighed. And to think, little decisions like that could’ve made all of the difference. Had you opted for the hotel, the two of you may not have fallen in love.

She was my core demographic reader—the hopeless romantic. I respected her whimsy ... though I hadn’t always. About six months ago, my jaded outlook would’ve insisted I roll my eyes at her rosy outlook on matters of the heart.

Don’t jump ahead of the story, I playfully scolded with a half-smile. First, I had to dull my rush of humiliation with a bottle of wine and a good night’s sleep. Being greeted in the morning by the bright California sunshine notably improved my mood, even if I was woke up by an incessant woodpecker-like knock rattling the trailer door.

Ms. Evans? the pert little blonde in the doorway bubbled, flipping her waist-length ponytail. Even if I slammed the cup of coffee in my hand and let it scorch its way down my gullet, I could in no way match her level of pep. I’m Maya. The studio assigned me to you!

Not sure how comfortable I feel having another human assigned to me, I stated. Setting my coffee on the counter behind me, I twisted my hair up into a knot and secured it with my trusty pen. I can already feel myself becoming drunk with power.

You’re so funny! Maya swatted the air between us, her nose crinkling with her high-pitched giggle. Barely a blink and her mood changed to business somber. First things first, you had said you were fine with a trailer on set, but were you and your guest comfortable last night? I can still arrange a hotel suite!

Can I weigh in on this decision? Tandy interjected, sauntering from the bathroom with a terry cloth towel wrapped around her head.

Nope. Leaning against the narrow doorway, I crossed my arms over my quirky-owl-in-glasses tee that hung off of one shoulder. "Voting privileges are reserved to those that have spent time on the New York Times Best Sellers list."

Fascists, Tandy huffed with an indignant toss of her head and continued her quest to collect her toiletries bag from her suitcase.

Turning back to Maya, I found her waiting with brows raised as if someone had hit her personal pause button. This trailer—and I use that term loosely—has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and more bells and whistles than I can count. I have a closet-sized apartment in New York that constantly smells like curry from the take-out place below it. This place is so much better than what I’m used to, it may as well stomp on my puny apartment and insult its mama. We will be more than comfortable here.

Fantastic! Maya chirped, her head tilting to the side with a sprightly twitch. "In that case I would love, love, love to give you ladies a tour of the set!"

Wow, that’s a lot of love. Casting my gaze to my toes, which were desperately in need of a coat of polish, I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck to hide the derisive expression that threatened to destroy my polite persona. More than anything I wanted to take that tour and explore every facet of my fictional world coming to life. It was the part of my brain that hated people, crowds, and basic socialization that needed a minute to prepare herself for what was to come. Give me just a minute to throw on some clothes and pry Tandy away from the mirror, and we’ll be right out.

With my elbow on the arm of the over-stuffed chair and RB listening intently, I pressed the knuckle of my index finger to my lips and let the memory of that day play through my mind in intricate detail. Champagne bubbles of laughter tickled their way up my chest. The tour was amazing. Of course I was too busy being a crazy OCD troll to appreciate that ...

This is our screenwriter’s cave, Maya said, welcoming us into the conference room with a formal wave of her arm. They meet after the dailies are reviewed to tweak the script or do rewrites depending on the feedback from Mr. Camden and the producers. They may ask you to sit in from time to time. You being the author and all.

I am? That explains why my mom keeps writing that in my underwear. Skirting around Maya, and her plastered on smile, I ducked into the room. An open box of donuts rested in the middle of the table, crumbs dusting over the area around it. A cursory glance inside brought me to the sad realization that all of the crème filled treats were gone. Pining over pastry disappointment, I caught sight of a dry erase board at the far end of the room with my characters’ names scrawled on it. What’s that?

That’s the scratch board of The Powers That Be. Maya closed the donut box and wiped the crumbs off the table with a napkin. A few scratches of their magic pens, and the lives of our characters are forever altered.

My entire body bristling in dread of the horrors I would behold, I strode to the board like a dead-woman walking to her lethal injection of literary change. Not too much, I hope. My voice betrayed me by hiking up an octave—or six. "Faithful readers rioting the