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of a down-turned smile when our eyes finally meet. He’s dressed in street clothes, worn jeans and a gray sweater pulled up his forearms. A tan kisses his cheeks, suggesting he’s just spent a few days in some exotic locale. Over his trademark steel-gray locks, he wears a black beanie, one that almost hides enough of his hair to also hide his age. Jesus, he’s even hotter in real life. The thought is in my head before I stop it. I turn away in protest, refusing to return his smile. He’s either laughing at me like everyone else, or thinking he’s awesome for saving me. Either reason makes my blood boil.
    Beside me, an extra lets out an audible moan, her hands falling weakly to her sides. I roll my eyes and turn to leave. Women are so pathetic!
    “An hour, Carly!” the director shouts at my back as he scampers to Devon’s side like a dog called to heel. It’s all I can do to keep my mouth shut and my feet moving.
    My trailer is a giant rust-flavored jelly bean that would be more at home in a junkyard than on a Hollywood production. I bet Devon’s trailer is huge and shiny and right next to set so he doesn’t have to freeze his ass off in this subarctic tundra between takes. Under a fur parka and layers of crinoline, my ass is frozen solid. I hustle toward the aluminum shell, my breath a puffy cloud. Unnerved by my encounter with Gavin, I’m almost in tears when my icicle fingers find the handle.
    The door flies against the metal exterior with a clattering whack. Inside the aluminum beast, a startled wardrobe assistant shrieks like she’s seen a ghost. My nerves are in no mood for this. Gavin isn’t the only beast I’ve got to slay this afternoon. When I think about my next scene a cold wave of unease tightens my shoulders. It exits my body as an audible snarl directed at the poor assistant.
    Full of soft apologies, she flutters over and takes my coat, tossing it on a worn polyester couch near the door. Wordlessly, I turn away so she can unlace the corseted bodice. With a sigh, I stare dully at the trailer that has become my on-set home. It’s dated and dank and everything one would expect a mass murderer to hide out in. My contract stipulated I have private dressing quarters instead of sharing with the other talent. It’s a standard ask for a female lead. This trailer is obviously the studio’s way of putting me in my place. Even the assistants enter with upturned noses.
    To my left, a stack of glossy headshots sits on a glass-top table, three purple Sharpies waiting in a neat row for me to sign autographs for the crew. These photos may be the cruelest joke yet.
    Eight-year-old Carly laughs at me from the photo. A little girl with blond braided pigtails and the pouty smile America loved. Little Carly Klein, young and sweet. Dennis the Menace in pigtails. That’s the only Carly anyone wants. Grown-up Carly Klein, struggling to make a comeback and save her pathetic existence, can’t even run a scene without making a huge mess of everything.
    If I were alone, I’d rip every one to shreds and strike a match. But I can’t. The assistant’s watching my every move with eager eyes, waiting for me to do something rash and newsworthy.
    “Get me a Smartwater with lime,” I bark over my shoulder, stepping from the gown. She scampers off. Most actresses get something a hell of a lot stronger to calm their nerves before sex scenes. Not me. Instead, I inhale, count to ten and exhale. A gust of wind howls into the trailer when the assistant opens the door to leave, popping goose bumps on my chilled, naked flesh. She doesn’t see the snake eyes I shoot at her back, but it makes me feel better. A little more in control of things.
    Serene music drifts from a single speaker attached to my phone. Pandora’s spa channel relaxes me further. I breathe deeply, concentrating on the sound of breaking waves. Anything to get my mind off the mess I left on set and the nightmare I’m returning to.
    It’s just tits , I tell myself