Jack_A Cryptocurrency Billionaire Romance Read online

  I get busy grinding two coffees. Rita’s beady eyes bounce around my minimalist office with undisguised curiosity. She can’t seem to tear her jealous gaze away from my team’s Academy award for best editing, sitting—ostentatiously, I’ll admit—alone on the topmost shelf. Below it sits a medley of trophies from lesser festivals, well dusted by my cleaner, Lola, who charmingly takes a pride in these things and who (I’m told) secretly holds acceptance speeches of her own in front of the mirror. Rita, it must be noted, got nominated for the Academy twice—one of those times being last year as best director for Cannibals in Love—but I guess it just wasn’t her year. Or cannibals’ year. Who knows.

  “Look, Mia needs a job. She’s talented but fresh to the game.”

  Mia, I suppose, is the niece. Rita seems keen to continue our previous conversation, and she is alone in that regard.

  “I heard you say in an interview with OnStage that part of your job satisfaction comes from spotlighting new talent,” she adds.

  I slump into my seat opposite and slide her coffee over the glass surface of my desk. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

  “Granted, it was three years ago.” Rita’s smile turns sardonic. “A long time in Hollywood.”

  “About the length of a typical marriage.” I take off my glasses and slowly polish the lenses.

  She sinks her head back against the leather, faux-orgasmic style. “Oh god, you make good coffee.”

  “One of my many talents.”

  Beyond the fake flirting, I feel a connection with this woman and I have a ton of respect for what she’s achieved in a still male-dominated field. She’s like the bossy older sister I never had. I just have my twin, Felix, and I’m always the older, more responsible one in that particular relationship.

  A wave of magnanimity overcomes me, or maybe it’s naked curiosity. “OK. What’s her story?”

  Rita’s smile widens so that her golden molar is visible. “I’ll zip over her résumé right away.”

  “I’m not in the mood for reading fiction tonight.”

  Her face drops.

  “But bring her in tomorrow,” I continue, “for the extras auditions. If she fits the physical requirements, get her costumed up as a red alien. Or blue. I don’t mind.”

  No matter how talentless—or plain ugly—this little blob of nepotism turns out to be, the risk is minimal. In the worst case, we can accidentally have her fall out of the frame. Oops. Editing.

  Rita’s lips purse together as if holding back a grenade explosion behind her teeth, a signal that makes me brace myself. “No, Jack, she should try for a speaking role. As Sola. She’d be the perfect foil for Scarlett. Come on, at least she should be given the chance.”

  My shoulders stiffen. “You do realize that if she’s chosen, and that’s a big if, she’ll be sharing scenes with one of Hollywood’s A-listers?”

  “She can handle it.”

  “And she’ll have to come with us to Islas Las Aves.”

  Rita doesn’t bat an eyelid. “No problem. That’s why I double-checked that she has a passport.”

  ***

  AS A RULE, I don’t sit in on minor role auditions, but I want to nip any potential disasters in the bud. One bad apple on a team can sour the atmosphere for everyone. Stuff those apples on a small plane heading to a deserted island off the coast of Venezuela and right there you have the recipe for full-blown catastrophe.

  Aliens in Distress’s casting director, Jamie Caan, is far too enthralled by Rita to even dream of saying no to little Ms. Nepotizz (which is how I’m thinking of her niece, square-faced and beady-eyed, vaguely resembling the kid in the Exorcist.) Next thing, we’ll have everybody’s daughters, sons, cousins, and house pets knocking on our doors demanding proper speaking roles. Part of me just wants to make the point that this kind of behavior is not going to fly.

  The set is hyperventilating with activity—sound technicians laughing with wardrobe staff, floor managers arguing with props design, fine-featured actors preening themselves nervously in the shadows, avoiding any conversations of depth whatsoever. I’m sitting in my canvas deck chair (I insist on having the old-fashioned variety you see in the movies because, well, nostalgia), the script heavy in my lap, and I’m almost enjoying the moment.

  Movie production is about arranging lights and images to win hearts and minds. That’s the romantic viewpoint. But for it to be profitable in the real world, you have to respect it as a colossus of global commerce that requires militaristic logistical precision and extreme discipline to tame it to your will. Which is where I come in.

  I stay awake at night second-guessing my decisions. That’s the unglamorous, behind-the-scenes at 4 a.m. part that others don’t see. While the Hollywood rags think I’m between the sheets with famous actresses, I’m more likely to be stuck in Excel sheets. I take necessary gambles with investors’ money, and when lines come out red in my profit and loss charts, I obsess about numbers and forget to eat or drink or sleep in my desperate quest to set the balances right. Eventually, I’ll figure it out, get a grip, and go for a long walk or watch a low-budget movie that still made it huge, like Rocky or Mad Max. The originals, not the sequels.

  My last two movies broke even, and balancing the books felt like teetering along the edge of a deep abyss. It’s so easy to forget the panic surrounding the end of production both of those times. With this movie, it’s even riskier, as it’s cult rather than mainstream. I thought Scarlett’s appearance in it would make it a clear smash hit, but now that I’ve seen the first scenes played out…well, I’m not so sure. I have to ask myself why a huge name like hers opted for this movie in the first place.

  But I need to stay positive. One jackpot is all I need to shoot my company into profitability, and this one’s it. After release day, I can finally take time off to sort out Felix. He’s on a path to self-destruction, just like our father—lounge rat and world-class poker player. For the record, we are nothing alike.

  The floor manager calls, “Mia Green.”

  My head darts up.

  Here we go.

  A young woman waddles forward in costume. Bouncing, wavy blond hair, perky…shoulders. Beautiful by anyone’s definition of the word—shapely ass, tidy breasts, perfectly shown off by the skimpy breastplates. Her bare arms are too muscular to be called waif-like or even feminine. The bitten nails and red welt on her wrist suggest hard work of the stressful kind. She’s fucking gorgeous in that careless, lush way of the young, and not even the hideous red alien costume can disguise it.

  I don’t want to give Rita the satisfaction of gaping at her, asking, “Is this her?” But I can’t seem to drag my eyes away.

  Then her face, oh God, that face, those eyes—blazing, crystalline hardness in otherwise soft features. I’m reminded of a Norse goddess going into battle, albeit in strange red body armor. There is no way this is Rita’s niece.

  I peer down at the notes on my lap, feeling Rita’s questioning gaze burning into the side of my head. I shuffle the pages, lost. Why couldn’t she be ugly and then this wouldn’t be an issue?

  Child actress, her file says. And then a gap, patched up with some story about performing to sick kids in a hospital. So, what went wrong? Anorexia or drugs, I reckon. It would explain why Rita never mentioned her before yesterday.

  When I look up, Mia’s gaze catches me full on. Her eyes, with their unexpected directness, make me feel like a lesser man than I was five minutes ago. Judging by her tight little jaw, she’s not breezing along here for the fun of it.

  Good.

  Because nothing about this is going to be fun.

  3

  MIA

  OH MY GOD, THIS COSTUME is so damn itchy. It reminds me of a mermaid costume I once wore in a kids’ pantomime, only ten times worse. There is nothing breathable about this revolting polycarbonic fabric that feels as alien as the skin it’s meant to represent. There’s got to be trade union legislation against this sort of thing.

  Pools of swe
at have formed at my waistline and below the belt—no, I don’t even want to go there. I glance back at the lumbering tail slowing my progress across the floor, its surface displaying a slug-like consistency as it makes a trail through the dust on the floor. I look like a Stegosaurus crossed with Jabba the Hut.

  I don’t see why we have to audition in full costume. The woman in wardrobe mumbled something about management not wanting to discover too late that someone can’t pull off the costume. Yeah, well, pulling off this costume is all I want to do right now.

  I try to leave the world behind and focus on the scene. I’ve memorized the lines—they’re not that hard. But I seem to be the only one without a sheaf of paper in her hands.

  New-on-the-scene actor Chase Welch snagged the part of Captain John Carter earlier today, and he’s standing there in the corner ready to read his part. He’s got the burly, Navy Seal look down pat. Not a look I go for in real life, but this scene is all about me, Sola, seducing John Carter with my alien charms. So far, so primitive.

  Luckily, it’s not supposed to get as far as kissing or anything. And I’m also glad Scarlett’s not in this scene yet. I don’t think I’d keep my cool around such a megastar. I need to slide into this thing nice and gradually, because I still can’t believe it’s actually happening. Just twelve hours ago I was mopping mayonnaise off a floor.

  I squelch my way across to the makeshift set, where the lights are blinding. Like the three candidates before me, I’m supposed to lean against a fake boulder thingy, waiting for Chase to saunter up and rock my universe. Aunt Rita smiles reassuringly from the shadows behind the spotlights. I’d hate to let her down after all she’s done for me.

  Then on the call for action, I swing my arms as far as they go within the confines of the costume. Will I manage to get past the first page, unlike the first three who the casting director cut off with a “thank you, thank you”? Caan’s sitting to the left of Rita, and there’s another guy beside him obscured by the shadows who Caan consults regularly before yelling out his dreaded order to stop.

  I shut the world out… I’m not in this stifling studio. I’m back in the hospital where my mother used to work, performing to the kids in her ward. Kids who’d delight in these crazy costumes and willingly transport themselves to a distant world sixty-nine light years from Earth. Kids who believe in good and evil and lap up every emotion you convey to them. Kids who have been given only months to live.

  Swaying closer to Chase, I’m mindful that my boney hips don’t pierce him in a delicate area. He blinks nervously back at me.

  “So, John Carter, you seek our leader?” I was shooting for a sultry voice but this comes out more like a freshman asking a senior to the prom. Ugh.

  “Yes,” he grunts, “unless you have some kind of decentralized system of governance.”

  “Our governance is centralized. The locus is here.” I indicate a wide arc with my three scaly fingers. “The supreme leader resides in this very dwelling.” I give him a tight alien smile to match the tight human smile on his face that suggests he finds the script as idiotic as I do.

  “Take me to him.”

  “Her,” I correct.

  John Carter’s supposed to convey surprise at this point, which demonstrates how far the scriptwriters think mankind has come in the next millennia. And Chase duly widens his eyes while I focus on not rolling mine. Who wrote this crap anyway?

  “Cut!”

  “OK, let’s try the second scene,” Rita calls out.

  Caan is nodding. The man beside him has advanced into the light and I can make out his features—handsome and square-jawed.

  Jack Palmer, the big shot producer himself.

  “The fuck’s he doing here?” Chase mutters.

  “God knows,” I answer under my breath. “But we better get back in position.”

  Has he been watching the whole time, lurking there in the shadows in his designer suit and implausibly shiny shoes? That brooding, tanned face emits no emotion, other than a hint of boredom. Maybe he shouldn’t waste his precious time on minor role auditions then.

  Truth is, I’m not overly fond of Jack Palmer’s womanizing reputation, and his unexplained presence here is making my skin itch, as if the costume weren’t bad enough. Any bullshit from his corner and I’ll outsmart him.

  Chase has shuffled back into position a few feet away. I inhale and hitching up the costume that is sagging at my hips, off I go again.

  ***

  ALL SIX APPLICANTS have been given their run and I’m taking a break at the refreshment stand. The tension has left the set and people around me are talking and laughing in little groups. They all seem to know each other.

  I can’t even describe how great it feels to have my skin exposed to the air again. If I have to wear that costume every day my evolution into an alien life form will be detrimental to the skin I strive to keep glowing and healthy.

  “Come here,” a deep, hard, imperious voice breaks my bubble.

  I turn in blank obedience. Jack Palmer is standing there. Something about his commanding tone makes my heart quicken, thumping in my ears as he scans me over with dark blue eyes set off so beautifully by the thin stripes in his crisp, blue, button-down shirt. He’s leaning against a concrete column, twisting an expensive-looking phone in his long, nimble fingers. The frown etching a deep groove in his broad forehead is the only thing nudging him from the “suave male model” into the “harried boss” category.

  I swallow back my dislike of male authority in general. “Mr. Palmer,” I say pleasantly.

  “Ms. Green.”

  “Mia,” I offer.

  He nods curtly. “Rita’s niece.”

  There’s a nasty undercurrent to his tone, but I choose not to dwell on it. Instead, I tilt my chin higher and meet his unrelenting gaze. “That’s correct.”

  He’s holding my résumé, which is about as sketchy as my outfit today. My camisole even has a cigarette burn in it. I didn’t think I’d be meeting such a big shot.

  “This is your first audition in quite some time.”

  It’s not a question, so I see no need to answer as such. He has all the details he needs, if he needs them. If his purpose is to intimidate me into spilling my life story, he’ll have to come up with better than this. If he’s after anything other than my signature on a contract, he can fuck right off.

  His eyes narrow, assessing me. He seems to get my drift. And because, unlike so many men, he seems to have a firm grip on his emotions, I feel suddenly like throwing him a bone.

  “I’m choosy about my roles.”

  He gives me a nod, acknowledging this for the BS it actually is. “Good. We can honor your good taste by offering you a place as red alien extra on the production. You have the required physique.” He manages to say this with only the briefest glance below my eye level, and it makes me prickle in the back of my brain. But then my heart plunges and a wave of cold disappointment washes over me.

  “I didn’t get the part of Sola?”

  “I’m afraid not. However, your part isn’t insignificant—at least a fourth of the movie’s running time.”

  “But only in the background.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to add, “I was the best.” By some miracle, I manage to bite that back. I have no proof of that. It’s just my big old ego speaking.

  “You’re disappointed.” His voice goes a notch deeper.

  I toss my head. “No,” I say automatically. Show no weakness; no desperation to get this role. No willingness whatsoever to do anything “extra,” if that’s what this is all about. My free fist is clenched tight, so I relax it and give him my most bored look.

  “Good. Deborah in accounts will get you set up. Or you could just ask your aunt.”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  “And don’t drink that coffee.” He nods toward the cup in my hand. “Place across the road will give better stuff for free if you say it’s for Jack.”

  I smirk at him. Like I’m going to do that. I take a huge swig
of my cup and swallow the lukewarm contents. He folds his arms and gives me the “have it your way” look. Then he shrugs and turns.

  He’s right about one thing—the coffee’s as revolting as this whole setup. My gag reflex kicks in, and I look for somewhere to spit the coffee out.

  ***

  AUNT RITA READS the disappointment in my face immediately.

  “You did your best, sweetie.” Her sly, gray eyes rove over my face. “Please don’t tell me you’re not going to take the role even if it’s not the one you wanted?”

  “It’s not even a speaking role. I mean, I just thought I did better than the others.”

  She looks pinched, like she wants to say something but can’t. “Look. There are many factors—”

  “Riiita,” someone yells from a corner.

  She clicks her tongue. “Have to skedaddle, hon. Scarlett’s due to arrive any second. Talk later.” She scurries off, waving her clipboard at me. I probably won’t see her again until the day is well over.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon getting the paperwork sorted with the (lovely) Deborah in HR and then hanging around with the other extras and bottom-of-the-food-chain folk that haunt the shadowy recesses of the studio: assistants, floor staff, catering.

  In my general excitement at being on a real set again with a real production crew, the disappointment of earlier simmers down. I tell myself that no matter how meager the role and how uncomfortable the costume, this is still a definite step back onto the career ladder I slipped off at age fourteen after Monkey, and I’m determined never, ever, to slip off again because there’s no way back on. If this doesn’t work out, I may as well sign up for a lifetime of waitressing. My mother wants me to join a nursing college, but I don’t even have the school grades to do that.

  Scarlett and her entourage finally enter the fray and a hush descends over the entire set. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Scenery-rigging machinery gets switched off. I find a bench to sit on to watch her stately progress through the area, greeting old friends and new acquaintances with air kisses.