Page 41 of Broken Bridges

“Sure,” Cole said.

“Look forward to it.” I waved goodnight.

But we didn’t see her in the morning. She left early for work. Cole and I rehearsed at Flint’s until just after midnight.

Then someone hit the you-won’t-have-time-to-shit button. Every day, I joined the three guys at intense marketing meetings, posed for wicked photoshoot after photoshoot, attended more harrowing media training, or practiced our promo set lists. I’d never worked this long and hard in my life. I loved every second of it. I’d learned more in the past two and a half months than I had in twelve years with The Saylors. No wonder we’d never made it. We had no clue on how to market ourselves or run a business.

My moments with Tia had been fleeting—quick hellos before she rushed out the door to work, quick goodnights when we got home from practice, quick catch-you-laters as Cole and I headed out most evenings. But no matter how often we asked, she never came with us to the clubs, bars, or parties we had to attend for publicity.

She needed to get out of the house for something other than work. But when we’d be able to take her out, I had no idea. Our schedule was hectic.

At the beginning of March, the band and I flew with our team to Mexico for four days to film the video for the first single. When we landed back in LA, we hit our prelaunch schedule hard—we had interviews with magazine editors, held private sessions for key industry representatives to hear the album, and rehearsed at every chance we got for the promotional tour.

But each time Cole and I walked through the door, one glance at Tia was all it took to unravel me.

Fuck this shit.

I had to put an end to this once and for all.

But how?

Yep. I had the answer.

I needed a wild night out.

I needed a hot hook up.

I needed one before the single launched next week.

Chapter 12

TIA

On the Angels in LA soundstage at Warner Bros. Studios, I leaned back in my director’s chair, drove the balls of my hands into my eyes, and screamed inside my head. Somebody shoot me, please? Or throw me off a building, chase me down the 101 in a high-speed car chase, or take me on in a fist fight. Two months into working on my new show, I was bored out of my brains. I’d kill for some action.

Waiting to shoot my scene, with my hair twisted into a French knot and my makeup done, and dressed in a tailored Prada pantsuit, was slow torture. Going from action star to unlucky-in-love lawyer was mind-numbing. Ergh! Our pilot had passed screen testing; now I had three-and-a-half more months of season one to shoot. Did I want to keep doing this? Take up the option to re-sign for season two? What other acting options did I have? None.

So suck it up.

“Tia. You’re on,” Frank, our director, called me to join the other girls on set.

I slid off my chair and feigned a smile. About time.

Frank spoke like an abrupt asshole but was soft as a teddy bear once you got to know him. He loved everyone he worked with. He knew everybody’s name—even the caterers and cleaners—had an eye for detail and hated wasting time. Somehow, with a click of his fingers and quick directions, he got the best out of everyone.

Digging my nails into my palm to distract me from the ache in my ankle, I walked toward Sutton, Mia, and Peyton, my fellow cast members. Don’t limp. You can do this. Fuck, my ankle hurts. Thank God, I’d had my agent negotiate as part of my contract that my wardrobe only consisted of flat shoes and long pants or skirts to cover my scars. There was no way I could do this show in high heels.

“Hold up,” Frank snapped. “Tia, what the hell have you done?”

Shit! My breath hitched. Had I limped? Had he seen? I didn’t want anyone to know I was injured. I didn’t want them to treat me differently.

He hollered over his shoulder, “Jill? Come fix Tia’s face again. She’s smudged the shit out of her eye shadow.”

Oh...oops. No touching my face after being made up. Jill, our makeup artist, spent more time fixing my ruined makeup than prepping the other three girls for the day’s shoot. This was another reason why I’d preferred action shows and stunt work. I’d hardly ever had to wear foundation, mascara, and lipstick.

After a quick fix, I joined the girls. We were about to film a friends-catching-up-for-dinner scene where Sutton’s character, Sienna, a marketing executive at an advertising agency, would tell us she had the hots for her boss. I could relate to the drama of being attracted to someone you shouldn’t be drawn too. Lewis still starred in too many of my hot dreams. Seeing him at home every night was a torturous hell, a sweet pleasure, and a pain because we got along so well. But next week, the guys would hit their promo tour and I’d have a month of reprieve. Yay!

“You okay?” Sutton asked. “How’s the ankle?”

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