Page 1 of A Spy is Born
Prologue
I am naked,bruised, and clutching a blood-stained Oscar statue.
I didn't mean to kill him. The last thing I want is the director of my film—my first big role—dead.
Now the cops are here, and even though it's obviously self-defense, I'm done for…my life is over. I'll never work in this town again even if I manage to avoid jail time.I'll be infamous instead of famous.
Unless...
Chapter One
I grip my keys,the point of one protruding between my knuckles. The entrance to my apartment is right beyond the dumpsters.Ten feet away.Water mists the air, swirling in gray tendrils, turning the dark alley foggy and creepy. Brick walls rise on either side of me, closing me in—the street at my back is quiet, deserted.
Fear tickles over my skin, raising hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. A scuffling comes from near my door, and I freeze, my heart hammering. A shadowy figure steps out from behind the stinking trash dumpster. I stay frozen, breath gone, blood rushing loudly in my ears.
“Hey, cutie,” a man’s voice says behind me.There are two of them!
I whirl around, panic closing my throat, my fists tightening—one clutching my purse strap and the other my keys.My weapon.A tall man with greasy hair, wearing a peacoat and a smug expression, blocks my only exit.
My gaze ping-pongs between the two men.I know what they want.The shadowed figure by my door steps forward, revealing dark eyes and the low brow of a Neanderthal.
They move in unison, closing in on me. Peacoat’s smug smile morphs into a hungry grin as his gaze falls onto my heaving chest. Even through the trench coat, it’s obvious I’m stacked.That’s half the reason I got this job.
Crap. Stay in the moment.
I plant my feet, the stiletto, thigh-high boots I’m wearing both an asset and a liability. Taking a deep breath, I bring my purse up fast and hard, whipping it at Neanderthal’s face. He steps back in mild, almost amused, surprise, and I lash out with my back leg at Peacoat.
My heel catches him in the stomach, and he stumbles away with a muttered curse. I pivot, twisting around, and step forward into a roundhouse kick that catches Neanderthal in the chin. The heel of my boot gouges him, and blood pours down his neck as he gives a cry of pain.
“CUT!!!”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping forward toward the actor playing Neanderthal. He is holding his chin, blood spilling between his fingers.
“What the hell, Angela?” Jack Axelrod, my director, asks from his perch above me—he and the camerawoman, Darlene Jackson, are in a cherry picker, getting the scene from the air. A medic rushes up to Neanderthal.
“I’m sorry!” I yell up to my director.
Jack shakes his head and says something to Darlene. She nods.
Please don’t fire me.
“Let’s take a break,” Jack says, waving his hand to be lowered to the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, but no one is listening.
My manager, Mary Genovese, hurries over, heels clicking on the concrete floor, Birkin bag swinging from a well-muscled arm as she pushes past the medics. “Come on, sweetie,” she says, taking my elbow. “Let’s get you to your trailer.”
Her heavy floral perfume stings my eyes as I follow her. We move off the set, weaving through the equipment and stepping over cords. Mary pushes open the door of the studio, and bright LA sunshine blinds me for a moment. Mary keeps moving forward, talking the entire time. “Don’t worry about it. They’re not going to fire you forthat.”
“Fire me?”
“They arenotgoing to do that.” She pulls open my trailer door and pushes me up the few steps into the air-conditioned, plastic-scented space. “Have some water.” She points to a row of bottles lined up on the green granite counter.
I obey, opening a bottle and taking a long sip while Mary sits on the couch and starts to type on her phone. My eyes are drawn to my Kindle, which is plugged into the wall.Can I just curl up in a ball and read now?
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mary says in a sing-songy voice, pulling my attention back to her. My chest tightens.What now?“A little present for completing your first week on set.”
“It’s not over yet,” I point out, sitting next to her on the white faux-leather cushions. She smiles at me. Mary’s dark lashes are painted with thick layers of mascara, and her brown eyes are sparkling. She is full of energy and enthusiasm.
