Shock Waves. Colleen Collins

What did that mean?

      He held open the flap to the tent for Ellie to follow. She grabbed her bag of makeup in one hand, her bag containing her killer stilettos in the other, and followed.

      They sprinted across a patch of hot sand and into another tent, this one huge, white and air-conditioned. Ellie paused, relishing the blast of cool air. The area was buzzing with people, props, equipment. In the far corner, next to a table set with rolls, fruit and drinks, a man sporting a handlebar mustache, lime-green turban and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt was pouring himself a big glass of iced tea. He looked up at Ellie and winked.

      Oh, hold me back.

      “You’re up,” the boy said, motioning toward an opening in the tent. “Walk onto the stage, head to the microphone and answer their questions. Afterward, exit stage left.”

      “Who’s they?”

      “Assistant director, casting director, maybe one of the producers.”

      Her stomach flip-flopped. These were the bigwigs, the muckety-mucks, the top dogs who ran her favorite show. Okay, sitting with all the extra wannabes, it had been easy to think this was fun and silly. But knowing who she’d be auditioning in front of, suddenly this felt freaking scary.

      “Stage left?” she rasped, kicking off her sandals. She cleared her throat. “Where’s that?”

      “The far side of the stage.”

      She slipped on a stiletto. “Did you say there’s a microphone?”

      But he was already engrossed in another conversation over his headset. Catching Ellie’s gaze, he impatiently pointed toward the stage and mouthed an emphatic “Go!” before zipping away.

      She quickly stepped into the second stiletto, trying to ignore the little voice in her head telling her to run away, she’d only make a fool of herself, people might laugh, she could fall on her face….

      Straightening, she sucked in a shaky breath. If I can’t tackle one silly audition, how do I expect to tackle a new business venture?

      She walked onto the stage.

      BILL WATCHED the next girl walk hesitantly out onto the stage. She walked stiff-kneed, staring wide-eyed at the audience that was mostly made up of friends of those auditioning, some crew, a few hungover partiers. When she reached the microphone, she stopped and smiled awkwardly.

      She was pretty, in a Kirsten Dunst kind of way, with her short, fluffy blond hair, dimpled smile and pert nose. The kind of girl one saw a hundred times a day in L.A.

      And yet…not.

      Something about her was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something provocative, simmering just below the surface…

      “Look at those shoes, man,” muttered Jimmie, sitting taller in his seat.

      Bill’s gaze dropped down the nicely filled black bikini, down long, coltish legs to a pair of black patent stilettos with silver chains. Whoa. That something different was hardly below the surface, it was just below the shapely calves.

      “Tell us your name, where you’re from and something special about yourself,” prompted Peter, the casting assistant in charge of extras, into his hand-held mike. Nearby sat Mandy, talking on her cell phone while eating a doughnut.

      The young woman leaned forward, at which point Bill noticed the edge of a tattoo peeking over the top of her bikini top. A spiderweb?

      She spoke so closely to the mike, it sounded like a thunderous whisper. “Ellie Rockwell.”

      “Step back and say your name again, please,” instructed Peter.

      She did. Bill liked the cadence of her voice. Soft, rhythmic like the waves.

      And familiar.

      She shifted from one spiked heel to the other. “I’m an L.A. girl—grew up in East L.A., currently living and working in West L.A.”

      A sense of déjà vu prickled his skin. He knew her. But from where? With the long hours he put in on the set these days, his only social outlet was Gold’s Gym, and he’d have recalled if their paths had crossed there. Maybe it was her voice, someone he’d conversed with in the course of his too-many business calls every day.

      Wait a minute.

       Rockwell?

       East L.A.?

      Hadn’t he had neighbors there, years ago, with that name? Right, now he remembered. Mrs. Rockwell, one of those fragile blondes who looked as though she’d crumble if you looked at her the wrong way, and her kids Mark—no, Matt—and a daughter. Yeah, had to be Ellie. He blew out a puff of air. That freckled, knobby-kneed girl had grown up to be this dom-shoed doll on the stage?

      “Four stars,” murmured Jimmie.

      But ever since Jimmie tied the knot last year, he’d been irritatingly intent on setting Bill up for wedded bliss, too. Every potential Mrs. Romero got a starrating from one—forget it—to four—go for it.

      “You and your damn numbers,” Bill muttered, tapping the pencil against his clipboard. But four was dead-on as his gaze raked up past that cleavage-spilling black top to that heart-shaped face to those eyes….

      He flashed on a memory from years ago. Ellie, auburn hair barely restrained in pigtails, those big questioning eyes. It had been long past midnight. He’d been sitting on the porch, contemplating his life changes to come, when suddenly he looked down and saw his young neighbor standing on the lawn in front of him. In a soft voice, she’d asked if what she’d heard was true—was he moving to New York?

      She’d sounded so anxious, so sad, which had confused him. But with younger siblings, he knew how a kid’s unresolved worries could be triggered by a seemingly unrelated event. If he remembered correctly, Ellie’s dad had split around this time five or so years before. Another adult figure leaving probably reminded her of that all over again.

      Bill had answered her yes, he was moving to New York to go to film school, and that little girls shouldn’t be out so late. He’d walked her back to her house where she’d lingered in the front doorway, those big eyes staring at him, before going inside.

      Those same eyes stared at him now, reeling him back to the present, and he offered a small smile of recognition. She smiled back, and he swore something in her look shifted, darkened, sparked. For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze and suddenly all he was aware of was a churning tension between them, not unlike the distant crashing waves.

      He’d at first observed a woman in a black bikini, but now all he saw were glistening limbs, full breasts, bare skin. Lust had fogged his brain and whatever memories he had of the girl evaporated, replaced by this hot woman.

      Jimmie coughed. “Five.”

      “Five what?”

      “That eye-lock, as though you two are the only people in this place, just bumped her from four to five stars.”

      “You’ve never given a five.”

      “Yeah, well, I’ve never seen you go brain-dead so quickly, either.”

      Bill broke the eye-lock and glanced at his buddy. “It’s an audition, Jimbo, nothing more.”

      “Bill-o, sell that bridge somewhere else.”

      Peter lit a cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke as he said into his mike, “You have one minute to share something special about yourself.”

      Ellie blinked, straightened, released a shaky breath. Over the speakers, the sound reverberated over the crowd like a throaty sigh, nearly bringing Bill to his knees.

      She zeroed in on him again. Later, he pondered if he’d imagined the look she gave him, one filled with a yearning that bordered on defiance. But he didn’t imagine her