Now I snort. “Says the picky girl who won’t even touch cheese.”
Kylie ignores me, focusing instead on the schedule for today. “You’ve got the shoot at”—she rolls her dark eyes, drags out her iPhone, and punches the screen a few times—“10:30. Three or four days . . . as long as everyone cooperates.”
Meaning Sinjin’s not messed up out of his mind and Wyatt’s not f**king everything on set with a pu**y. I nod, suddenly aware that this shoot’ll probably take a good week or two just because my band can’t get their shit together long enough to make a decent video.
I clench my fist for a moment, before shutting the notebook I’d been working in before my sister showed up. Sensing my irritation, Kylie gives me a forced smile and pats my hand. Hers are sticky with donut icing, and my mouth drags into a frown.
“I’m sure it won’t be too bad.” But even as she tries to cheer me up, it’s easy to see that she’s still agitated. I wipe the back of my hand on the inside of my shirt and cast her the most pleasant look I can muster.
“You remember the last shoot, right?”
Kylie cringes but recovers fast. “I’ve heard they got a pretty actress for you to pretend sleep with.” Her voice takes on that high-pitched tone people use to lure their kids to the dentist.
“I’m jumping for f**king joy.”
“God, you suck. Too bad they can’t get a body double for you,” she says, reaching out to wipe her own hands down the front of my shirt. A low growl releases from the back of my throat and she looks up into my eyes, laughing—a genuine one. Then, Kylie stands, digging in her giant bag as she walks to the door. “Going to drop your laundry off at the cleaner and pick up your lame-ass groceries.”
“Could you possibly sound any more miserable about that?” I ask.
She spins and grins widely, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her lips. Oh yeah, she’s pissed—she hasn’t touched one in months. “Give me a raise and I’ll sound as cheerful as you want.”
I don’t remind her that she makes twenty bucks an hour because all she’ll do is give me shit and a million reasons why she deserves more.
When she comes back with bags of groceries and a dry cleaning receipt an hour later, I’m dressed. She looks less irritated than she did this morning, so I don’t bring it up as she drives me to the set where day one of shooting will take place. As we walk into the studio together, it’s obvious this is the last place she wants to be right now. She lags a few steps behind me, dragging her feet and making an annoying scraping noise across the concrete.
“Do you have somewhere to be?” I demand impatiently, tossing a glare over my shoulder at her.
Her face scrunches into a painful expression. “No, I just—”
“You’re running late,” a deep voice says, and before I turn to face Wyatt, I don’t miss the way Kylie’s face flushes. Not this shit again.
“Right on time,” I say, turning sideways so that I can look between the two of them. Kylie glares down at the floor and mumbles something and Wyatt’s shit-eating grin suddenly doesn’t seem so relaxed when he walks closer to us, cell phone in hand.
And as I stand here, caught between a decade of push and pull between my best friend and little sister, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like the biggest hypocrite who’s ever lived.
“Where’s this actress I’m supposed to pretend screw?” It’s the first thing that rolls past my lips, but apparently it does the trick. Kylie looks up, grinning, and Wyatt rolls his eyes and goes back to sending messages. Probably to a woman because that’s the way he and Kylie operate. They’re together, they break up, and then they date—or in Kylie’s case—marry other people. Over and over again.
As I stride in the direction of my personal dressing room, I cast one final glance over my shoulder at my sister and Wyatt, whose faces are inches away from each other and flushed with anger. They’re bitching at each other in hushed tones and when I turn the corner, I realize that there’s this twisted part of me that’s thankful for Sam—thankful that my ex is screwed up to the point of keeping me out of relationships.
Chapter Two
Sienna
I’ve never worked on a music video shoot.
No, scratch that. I’ve never worked in wardrobe for a shoot period, or been inside of an actual studio for that matter. And now that I’m here, I’ve got to admit I’m nervous. Like what the-hell-was-I-thinking-when-I-accepted- this-job nervous.
“Where’s that costume, Sienna?” Amber, my new boss, calls over her shoulder impatiently. She’s across the tiny room, bent over a small desk that looks like it belongs inside of a dorm room instead of a wardrobe department, studying a set of handwritten notes.
I swipe my damp palms down the front of my jeans and pluck a pair of lacy boy shorts and a camisole from the end of the costume rack and turn to face her, holding it up high for her to appraise them.
She purses her thin, glossy lips together as if she’s strongly considering what I’ve picked out for the blonde actress who’d be starring in “All Over You” as Lucas Wolfe’s love interest. Finally, she shakes her head from side to side. “Not going to work. This is a Your Toxic Sequel music video, honey. You’re going to have to be a little more creative.”
I start to ask Amber what exactly does she mean by a little more creative but then she shoves herself from the desk. She takes four short strides over to me, nudges me aside and skims through the rack of lingerie that consists of everything from sweet Fredericks of Hollywood numbers to Agent Provocateur to fetish pieces. When Amber steps back, she drops what looks like two ropes of pleather into my outstretched palms and gives me a triumphant smile.