Page 1 of All That Glitters
Chapter one
How Not to Sell Your Screenplay
Beneath a starry Beverly Hills sky stood the kind of mansion you see in movies, a sprawling Tudor of half-timber and pale stucco. A vast yard surrounded it, with clusters of trees, designer landscaping, and a ten-foot perimeter wall to keep out trouble.
They were going to need a bigger wall.
Tony Harding crouched behind a clump of trees near the wall, taking in the mansion and yard, and having serious second thoughts about this whole harebrained scheme. At twenty-three, Tony had the impulsiveness of a twelve-year-old, something his friends never tired of pointing out. And tonight was about to prove them right.
He scanned the yard, with the soft landscape lighting providing just enough illumination to spot his target. It was a massive oak near the house, with a branch extending over a second-floor balcony. Tony tightened the straps of his worn backpack, took a deep breath, and made his move.
Tony sprinted across the open yard toward the tree, keeping his footfalls as quiet as possible. He somehow managed to avoid triggering the motion sensors as he reached the tree and caught his breath. He looked up, gauging the distance to the branch above. It was maybe twenty feet.
“Just like the tree house,” he told himself. He and his friends had climbed plenty of trees as kids, so hopefully those childhood skills were still in there somewhere.
Tony wrapped his arms around the trunk and began his climb, using the rough bark for handholds. Halfway up, he made a mental note to bring gloves next time, assuming he was crazy enough to try this again. A fairly safe bet.
He finally reached the branch and eased out onto it, feeling it bend and creak ever so slightly beneath him. “Don’t you dare break,” he whispered as he inched along the branch toward the balcony, with nothing but a lot of empty air between him and the ground. He was near enough now to make out the expensive stone tiles and glass doors leading to what he presumed was a bedroom.
With a final push, Tony launched himself from the branch onto the balcony, landing with a soft thud. He crouched low, waiting, and listening. When no alarm sounded, he crept to the balcony door and tested it. To his surprise and relief, it slid open. He wouldn’t need the lock-pick in his backpack after all.
The bedroom inside was like a palace, with custom furnishings that probably cost more than his entire year’s rent. A California king took up one side of the room, with original paintings hung on the walls, looking like they just walked out of the Getty.
Tony tip-toed across the plush carpet to the hallway door. He eased it open and peered out into the hallway outside. Warm lights along the walls cast soft glows across framed movie posters, each bearing the name Preston Jordan as producer; the man whose home Tony just snuck into.
Tony slipped out the door into the hallway and quietly crept down it to a room at the far end. Through the cracked door, he saw what appeared to be another bedroom that had been converted into a home office.
Tony eased through the door into the new bedroom, finding it almost as spacious as the first one. Another king-size bed rested against one wall, with an antique desk in a corner. On the floor beside the desk stood several piles of screenplays, each one three-hole punched, with title pages in bold black type.
Tony quickly unzipped his backpack and pulled out his own screenplay for ‘The Frat,’ a horror-comedy about a fraternity of vampires. It had taken him several months to write this work of genius, burning through his savings and maxing out his last credit card, only to find out that no one with any power in Hollywood wanted to read an unsolicited screenplay from an unknown writer. So Tony’s unconventional mind had concocted this unconventional scheme to get it in front of a producer.
Tony had just slid his screenplay into one of the piles, when the faint sound of voices came from the hallway outside, heading his way. He quickly scanned the room for somewhere to hide and spotted a closet near the bed.
Tony rushed over and slipped inside the closet, easing the door closed behind him, with just enough of a crack to see through. Seconds later, the bedroom door swung open and in stumbled two people, drunk off their butts. The first was a stunning blonde woman who could have stepped right off the cover of a men’s magazine. Behind her came a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a heavy paunch, and a suit that had to cost more than Tony’s college tuition. Tony recognized him from photos of Hollywood premieres and glamor magazines he had read. He was Preston Jordan, a big-time Hollywood producer and owner of the mansion Tony was about to get caught in. And apparently, he was also a cheating husband.
“Come on, Preston,” the blonde purred, her voice slurred but still seductive. “Let’s play a game.”
Preston held his finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture of silence. ‘Shhh.’ He peeked out the door into the hallway, scanning it both ways, before shutting the door and locking it with a soft click. He turned back to the woman with a lecherous smile.
“What should we play?” he asked, sauntering toward her with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.
The blonde — Bambi or Barbie, or something like that — sprawled across the bed, posing like a vintage pinup. “How about I be the naïve young starlet,” she offered, her voice dropping to a breathy whisper, “and you be the big, mean Hollywood mogul.”
Preston’s grin widened. “I like that one. And you’ll be a naughty starlet?”
“Only if you promise you’ll punish me,” she said with a giggle that somehow managed to be both childish and provocative.
“Wait right there,” Preston said, heading toward what Tony presumed was a bathroom across the room.
Tony took a breath to steady his nerves. This was bad on an apocalyptic scale. His mind raced through different ways to extract himself from this mess, but each scenario played out even worse than the last.
“Ooh, mister studio mogul,” Bambi’s voice drifted through the closet door. “That’s not your camera.”
Tony cringed. You seriously couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried. He risked a glance through the crack in the door and saw Preston now hovering over the bed in a bondage getup of leather straps, a chest harness, and a gimp mask. It was as if the Village People and Darth Vader had a baby.
Just then, new footsteps came from the hallway. Determined footsteps, followed by a woman’s voice.
“Preston, honey. Are you in there?”
