Free Seasoned with Grace by Nigeria Lockley Page B

God had something else in mind. Her legs buckled at the mere sight of his name. Somehow he’d managed with this script to breach the fortress she had created around herself.
    Nope. I refuse to get sucked in again. I refuse to give up my sanity for a movie.
    Taking small strides, she walked to the steps that led to the second floor of her duplex apartment, then swiftly backed up and picked up the script from the floor. A peek into Javier’s mind couldn’t possibly be that bad.
    She took in shallow breaths and turned the pages, studying the character description. Ria, an ingenue, was the female lead. Grace’s name was scribbled next to it. Grace flipped the pages. The story seemed simple enough. Ria moved to the Big Apple to make it big, landed a huge role in a Broadway show, and found herself alone in the theater with the show’s producer, Derek, the night before the show was set to open.
    Grace flipped back to the cast list to see who would be playing the role of Derek. The name she couldn’t utter met her again.
    Javier Roberts.
    She let the script fall to the floor again and stomped on it repeatedly. The sick bum was trying to force her to relive the lowest point in her life. Grace had had to take Zoloft and attend some therapeutic hypnosis sessions to get over what had happened between them, and her nightmare was being brought to life again now.
    â€œI am a warrior,” Grace chanted, trying to reach for something higher than the valley she felt herself being sucked into as one of the worst days of her life played out in her memory. The chanting didn’t work; she couldn’t master her stance and crumbled into a ball on the floor. In her mind she found herself on the set of her first photo shoot with the award-winning Javier Roberts, getting her hair and makeup touched up.
    When I stepped from behind the bright lights of the hair and makeup chair and onto the set of the photo shoot, I noticed it was eerily quiet. My eyes roved the set as I searched for a face I recognized, but even the lighting guy was off the set. I twisted my feet into an about-face and headed back to hair and makeup.
    â€œAhem . . . Where do you think you’re going?” Javier called out to me from behind his tripod. “Get your tail back on this set. I don’t have any time or memory to waste.”
    I shuffled back to the set and stood before him in a long-sleeve button-down men’s shirt in orange. My dark skin glowed against the fabric.
    â€œWhere is everyone else?” I asked.
    Javier stepped from behind his camera and slowly walked closer to me. He raised his spindly fingers and stuck them into my jet-black hair, which stopped midshoulder. I flinched.
    â€œRelax. I want to get that ‘morning-after tousled hair’ look. Hmm . . . no tracks,” Javier noted between scalp rubs.
    â€œJavier, every black girl in the industry does not wear a weave,” I replied, smiling at his ignorance and his willingness to demonstrate it. “Where is everyone?”
    â€œAfter I looked at your proofs, I recognized that you have some real talent.... Just look at this bone structure,” he said while stroking my high cheekbones with the back of his hands. “The way I see it, you are the next superstar, and when I work with supermodels, I only shoot on a closed set. Thus I dismissed everyone,” he casually explained over his shoulder on his way back to his tripod.
    I felt uneasy being on a closed set with Javier. The last time I was alone with a man, I wound up pregnant, and that was the last thing I wanted right now. I shook myself. Buck up. Be professional. Javier is a world-renowned international photographer with a wife, and the last thing he wants is an inexperienced model, I told myself. I coached myself into trusting him.
    â€œLie down on the sofa,” he instructed, pointing to a modern, minimalist gray sofa in the middle of the set.
    â€œHow would you like