Free Cut to the Chase by Lisa Girolami Page A

remind herself again to ignore the ranting of a woman who cared only about herself, but it wasn’t easy. Her words still hurt.
    Tilting her head back, she let the Southern California sun warm her face. Marlene was obviously pissed and not getting what she wanted. Let her say what she wanted to. Paige took a deep breath, lowered her head, and walked down the street.
    Avalon’s production company was shooting only one action scene that day, and Avalon had said they’d film it after lunch. Friday traffic had treated her kindly and she was walking up Seward Street at ten minutes past one.
    Helen, Avalon’s assistant, cleared her with the police officer who guarded access to the set at Seward and Romaine Street.
    “She’s in her motor home,” Helen said. “It’s just past the honey wagon. On the right.”
    The thundering bass from some hip-hop song rumbled so loudly from the motor home that she stopped at the door, not sure what to do. She stared at a sign that read T HE L AST S TAND —A VALON R ANDOLPH . No one could possibly hear her knock because of the noise, so she decided to wait for the song to end. The windows shook like little children who’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. If she waited long enough, maybe the door might just jiggle open on its own.
    “That could go on for a while.”
    She turned to see Brent Hastings standing behind her. His sudden approach hadn’t surprised her as much as the knowledge that the biggest actor in Hollywood was a foot from her face. The only other time she’d seen him in person was the day before, but she’d been too busy capturing their last action scene to notice that up close, he had perfect hair and a startlingly chiseled face. But she hadn’t remembered much after he clocked Avalon just as startlingly.
    “Here,” he said, “let me help.” He put his hands on the side of motor home and, with all his weight, began to rock the large vehicle back and forth. It picked up some decent momentum and, within a few seconds, the music stopped and Avalon’s door flew open and she jumped out, eyes open wide.
    When she saw Paige and Brent, she immediately laughed. “I knew that couldn’t be an earthquake. Shit, Brent.”
    “Shit, nothing, Avalon. You were keeping this young lady waiting with that deafening racket you call music.”
    Avalon turned to look directly at her, smiling widely. “Brent is a sort of old-fashioned kind of guy. He comes from Texas and appreciates his music with more violin and banjo.”
    “That’d be fiddle and guitar,” he said, before stepping toward Paige. “You’re the photographer I saw yesterday, aren’t you?”
    As she nodded, Avalon quickly took her hand and pulled her into the motor home, calling out to Brent. “And no, you’re not going to see the pictures from yesterday.”
    With a click of the door, she was alone with Avalon.
    “How’s your head?” She followed Avalon to the little kitchen area.
    “You tell me.” Avalon turned toward her, offering the left side of her face.
    “No swelling,” she said, “but your bruise looks worse.” She winced, not sure if she should be so blunt.
    “I thought I was the one who doesn’t mince words.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. It’s refreshing, actually. Want some iced tea?”
    “If it’s as good as what I had last night, yes.”
    Avalon beamed widely as she retrieved a pitcher from her refrigerator and poured two glasses. “It should be. I made it myself. I have a lot of talents, Miss Cornish.”
    “That reminds me of a question I want to ask you.”
    Avalon handed her a glass and rested her hip against the counter, eyebrows raised expectantly.
    “If you couldn’t act, what would you do for a living?”
    Avalon took a sip and Paige liked the way she seemed to be considering her answer. Her green eyes were bright, the color of the delicate lichen found on river rocks. The lightness of her eyes, framed by the golden blond of her hair, made her appear fair and fragile.