Shock Waves. Colleen Collins

      Ellie’s mood lifted. “Black. Cool.”

      “Okay, next—spray-on tan.”

      This time Ellie willingly followed her friend to the fake bake aisle, as Sara called it.

      Sara held up something called TechnoTan. “What about—”

      “Put it in, baby.”

      Sara, looking surprised but pleased, added it to the basket. “I won’t spray over your tattoos, but use one of my makeup brushes to paint the skin around them.”

      Ellie listened, sort of, but her attention had again been diverted by the beachettes who were giggling in front of the body cream section. It brought back how she’d felt earlier, Miss Black Spiked Hair Can You Move Your Benz, standing in the background, out of place and out of time, wearing her big, broken childhood heart on her sleeve. Okay, so she’d wanted to be better than ancient angst, but the truth was, she wasn’t.

      Suddenly, it felt as though all the years of caring and yearning and dreaming about Bill had crowded against her heart, squeezing it, constricting the memories into a throbbing lump of ache. Today, her world had stopped when she’d recognized Bill, but his didn’t even pause. He wasn’t interested in me. And as much as she told herself it didn’t matter, she felt rejected. Unacceptable.

      She picked up a box of something and pretended to read, as though focusing on random words might impose logic on her pain. On her heart. But the letters danced and swam, refusing to make sense.

      Maybe that’s how she should view the past. Make it blurry, indistinguishable, unimportant. Do what she came to do this week—chill, play matchmaker, audition to be an extra and screw the rest.

      “Hey!” enthused Sara, holding up a plastic case. “This will look fantastic with your turquoise eyes. Ghost Silver eye shadow!”

      Ghost…exactly how she should view Bill. A ghost from her past, nothing more.

      She took the container from Ellie and tossed it into the basket. “Sold.”

      2

      BILL, SITTING in the first row of the audience, shook his head at Mandy, the hyperefficient fortyish principal casting director sitting at the foot of the stage. She nodded, understanding his message that the girl who just auditioned was a no.

      “You didn’t like her?” asked Jimmie, Bill’s best pal and Sin on the Beach’s key grip.

      “Not hot enough,” Bill said, shifting. He tipped his coffee mug, which caused brown liquid to slosh down the front of his white polo shirt.

      “Shit.”

      He set the cup on the sand beneath their folding chairs and pulled the shirt away from his skin. “I’m used to easing into Monday mornings with 9:00 a.m. read-throughs, not getting up when the rooster crows to audition hundreds of extras for some publicity gig.” He flapped the shirt to cool the spilled liquid.

      “I won’t ask if that was hot enough,” quipped Jimmie.

      Bill shot him a look.

      “Sorry. But speaking of things that could be hot…have you given any more thought to you and I starting our own indie company?”

      Bill nodded. “Sure. Problem is, making big bucks with an independent film production company is a long shot.”

      “Who’s talking big bucks?”

      “Me. You know my take on the movie business. Dream big, make it big. No offense, but an indie company is too small for this boy.”

      Jimmie shook his head. “You’re letting your hard-luck roots get the better of you, pal. Producing our own films gives us control, which is big in a better way. Did I tell you Edge of the Universe placed first in its category at the WorldFest competition?”

      He and Jimmie had known each other from their first day at New York University film school, given each other a lot of support while they crawled up the dog-eat-dog success ladder of L.A. film and television work. Jimmie’s first love was screenwriting, but until he started making sales, he worked on film crews.

      Bill balled his hand into a fist, knocked it against Jimmie’s fist. “Edge of the Universe will be your breakthrough sale, no doubt about it.”

      Jimmie had spent the last few years writing this screenplay, about three friends from East L.A. whose lives take dramatically different paths. He’d loosely based the protagonist on Bill’s own coming of age story in East L.A.’ s gangland. Bill hadn’t minded sharing most aspects of what it’d been like growing up in the barrio but there was one thing he never shared with anyone, and never would.

      “It could be our first script, Bill. With a hot screenwriter and a hot up-and-coming director…” He jabbed his thumb at himself, Bill. “My parents are willing to be our first investors, although we’d need to raise the rest. I think we can do it.”

      Bill paused. “You’re my best friend, Jimmie, but I gotta say no. It took years to nail this first AD spot. Gordon’s still the director on this week’s shoot, but he’s stepping aside and letting me take the reins for a few days. If I pull it off, I’ll be bagging my first directing gig with Sin.”

      First AD—Assistant Director—was the number two spot on the set, right below director. As such, Bill was basically the jack-of-all-trades on the set, but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to call the shots, be number one. Being the oldest of five kids, as well the man of the house after his dad split, Bill had decided early on that the world belonged to those who stayed strong and focused.

      And his focus was to make his mark as a film director.

      Which meant he said no to anything that got in his way, even his best pal’s business idea.

      “Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “if I hear of anyone wanting to start up an indie, I’ll put them in touch with you, okay?”

      “Not that I don’t appreciate that, but my first choice will always be you.”

      Bill groaned. “Is this the part where I say ‘We’ll always have Paris’?”

      Jimmie laughed, gave his pal a friendly slap on the back. “I’ll stop laying on the guilt. Besides, you have better things to do. Do you know how many guys would kill to fill in for the director on a cattle call for babes in bikinis?”

      Bill caught Mandy’s wave. Next audition was ready.

      “Yeah, it’s a burden, but somebody’s gotta do it.”

      He gave a go-ahead nod to Mandy, a small gesture toward a big career. People like Jim just didn’t get it.

      IN THE BACKSTAGE TENT provided for those auditioning to be extras, Ellie checked herself out in a mirror, amazed yet again at her transformation from a goth chick to this bad-girl blonde in a good-time bikini. Most of it thanks to Sara, who’d woken Ellie up at the crack of dawn and helped wrangle her into beach babe shape.

      Ellie looked around at the other extra wannabes hanging out in the small blue tent. They’d all shown up at 7:00 a.m. to sign up, and in the hour since, they’d spent their time primping, talking and drinking the free coffee from one of several urns. Free, but disgustingly bad-tasting coffee, although no one except Ellie seemed to notice.

      Which was the only bad thing—besides her bad-girl blond hair—about this whole adventure. Now that she was here, she was psyched to audition. It felt silly but fun to try out for a walk-on part on Sin on the Beach. And although it felt a little odd, it was nice to do something for herself instead of everybody else.

      “Ellie Rockwell?” asked a harried teenage boy wearing a Sin on the Beach festival T-shirt and khaki shorts. He looked around the tent while speaking in low tones into his headset.

      “Yes?”

      “You’re next. Follow