Honey Moon (6 page)

Following the guard's instructions, Honey drove down a narrow street, then turned left toward another building with concrete walls and a few small windows near the entrance. As she climbed out of the truck, she was sweating so bad she looked like she'd just gotten out of the shower. She had hoped to get rid of Gordon back at the Shell station, but he wouldn't leave Chantal. He wasn't exactly an appetizing sight with his stubbly jaw and dirty clothes, and she told him he had to wait in the truck. Like her cousin, he was starting to get into the habit of following her orders, and he agreed.

The woman stationed inside the entrance told them that auditions were still going on, but that the last girl had already been called. For several terrifying moments, Honey was afraid the woman would tell them they were too late, but instead she directed them to a shabby waiting room with gray walls, mismatched furniture, and a litter of discarded magazines and diet-soda cans left behind by its former occupants.

As they walked into the empty room, Chantal began to make a whimpery noise at Honey's side. "I'm scared, Honey. Let's go. I don't want to do this."

In desperation Honey turned Chantal toward a smudged mirror hanging on the wall. "Look at yourself, Chantal Booker. Half the movie stars in Hollywood don't look as good as you. Now put your shoulders back and your chin up. Who knows? Burt Reynolds might walk through that door at any minute."

"But I can't do this, Honey. I'm too scared. Besides, since I met Gordon Delaweese, I don't think about Burt Reynolds so much anymore."

"You haven't even known Gordon for twenty-four hours, and you've been in love with Burt for two years. I don't think you should give up on him so fast.

Now I don't want to hear another word, Chantal. Our whole damn future is resting on what happens here today."

The door opened behind her and a man's voice intruded on their privacy. "Tell her that I need to see Ross, will you?"

Honey automatically girded herself to do battle with whatever new enemy might have appeared to contest their right to be here. Setting her teeth, she spun around.

And her heart dropped through a gaping hole in the bottom of her stomach.

As he walked into the room, she felt as if she'd been hit by an eighteen-wheeler that had lost its brakes on a downhill curve. He was the handsomest young man she had ever seen: in his early twenties, tall and slender, dark brown hair falling in disarray over his forehead. His nose and jaw were strong and sunbrowned, just as a man's should be. Beneath thickly slashed eyebrows, his eyes were the same bright turquoise as the painted saddles on the park's carousel horses, and they speared right into her deepest female parts. In that moment, as she gazed into the depths of those turquoise eyes that seemed to bum right through her skin, womanhood paid her an unwelcome visit.

Her physical shortcomings gaped in her mind like festering wounds—her freckled little-boy's face, her mutilated hair and sucker-fish mouth. Her shorts were smeared with carburetor grease, she had spilled Orange Crush on her Tshirt, and her old blue rubber flip-flops had a piece missing from the heel. She agonized over her lack of height, her lack of breasts, her lack of any single redeeming feminine attribute.

He regarded Honey and Chantal steadily, not seeming to find it at all strange to be confronted with two speechless females. She tried and failed to manage the simple syllables of "hello." She waited for Chantal to step in—Chantal who was always so forward with boys—but her cousin had slipped behind her.

When Chantal finally did speak, she addressed her remark to Honey and not to the gorgeous stranger.

"It's Jared Fairhaven," she whispered, sliding even farther behind Honey.

How did Chantal know who he was? "H—Hi, Mr. Fairhaven," Honey finally managed, her voice not much more than a little girl's quiver, certainly nothing at all like the profane bray she used to keep the employees at the park in line.

His eyes took in all the parts of Chantal that weren't hidden behind Honey's smaller body. He didn't smile— somehow his thin, hard mouth didn't seem to be made for that—but Honey's insides still twisted like a piece of hand laundry.

"My name is Eric Dillon. Jared Fairhaven is the part I used to play on
Destiny
."

Honey vaguely recalled that Destiny was one of Sophie's soap operas. She felt a pang as she saw the way he was gazing at her cousin. But then what did she expect? Did she really think he would notice her when Chantal was around?

Men were about the only thing that Chantal was good at, and Honey couldn't understand why she kept hovering behind her instead of stepping forward and taking over the conversation like she usually did. Unable to endure the indignity of appearing not only ugly but stupid, she swallowed hard.

"I'm Honey Jane Moon. This here's my cousin, Chantal Booker. We're from Paxawatchie County, South Carolina, and we're here to get Chantal a part on The Dash Coogan Show."

"Is that so?" His voice was deep-pitched and rich. He walked forward, ignoring Honey as he took in every inch of Chantal. "Hi there, Chantal Booker." He spoke in a soft, silky way that sent a shiver up Honey's spine.

To Honey's absolute and utter amazement, Chantal began pulling her toward the doorway. "Come on, Honey. We're gettin' out of here right now."

Honey tried to resist, but Chantal was determined. Sweet, lazy Chantal who didn't have the gumption of

a gnat was dragging her across the carpet!

Honey grabbed on to the soft-drink machine. "What's wrong with you? We're not going anywhere."

"Yes, we are. I'm not doing this. We're leavin' right now."

The waiting room door opened, and a frazzled-looking young woman with a clipboard appeared. When she saw Eric Dillon, she looked momentarily disconcerted, and then she turned to Chantal. "We're ready to see you now, Miss Booker."

This new arrival was one obstacle too many for Chantal to cope with and her momentary rebellion collapsed. She released Honey's arm and her bottom lip began to quiver. "Please, don't make me do this."

Honey was pricked with guilt, but she steeled herself against Chantal's distress.

"You have to. We don't have anything else left."

"But..."

Eric Dillon stepped forward and took Chantal's arm. "Come on, I'll go in with you."

Honey thought she saw Chantal recoil from his touch, but she decided it was her imagination because Chantal had never recoiled from a man in her life.

Chantal's shoulders slumped in resignation as she permitted Eric Dillon to lead her from the waiting room.

The door closed. She pressed the fiat of her hand over her heart to keep it from jumping right out of her chest. Their entire future was riding on what happened now, but she was completely disoriented from her meeting with Eric Dillon. If only she were beautiful he might have noticed her. But who could blame him for ignoring an ugly little redneck girl who looked like a boy anyway.

She walked restlessly over to the room's single window to look out on the parking lot. She heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. Her palms were damp. She counted her breaths for a few minutes to calm herself, then looked out. There wasn't much to see; some shrubbery, a few delivery trucks passing by.

The door opened and Chantal reappeared, this time alone. "They said I wasn't the right type."

Honey blinked.

Not even five minutes had passed.

They had driven all the way across the United States of America and these people hadn't even spent five minutes with Chantal.

All of her dreams crumbled like old yellow paper. She thought of the carefully hoarded money she had spent to get here. She thought of her hopes, her plans.

The world spun around her, dangerous and out of her control. She was losing her home; she had no way to keep their family together. And they hadn't even given Chantal five minutes.

"No!"

She raced out through the door Chantal had just entered and ran into the hallway. Nobody was going to push her around like this! Not after all she'd been through. Somebody was going to pay!

Chantal called out her name, but Honey had spotted a set of metal doors with a glowing red light bulb above them at the end of the hallway, and her cousin's voice sounded a thousand miles away. Her heart pumping, Honey raced toward the doors. She shoved against them with all her strength and burst through into the studio.

"You sons of bitches!"

A half dozen heads turned in her direction. They were gathered in the rear of the studio behind pieces of equipment, a blur of male and female faces. A few of them were standing, others sat on folding chairs around a table littered with coffee cups and fast-food containers. Eric Dillon leaned against the wall and smoked a cigarette, but not even his magnetism was a powerful enough force to make her forget the horrible injustice that had been done her.

A women, tall and stern, shot up from her chair. "Now just a minute, young lady," she said, advancing on Honey. "You have no business in here."

"My cousin and me traveled all the way from South Carolina, you rotten sons of bitches," Honey shouted, pushing a folding chair out of the way to get to them. "We blew out three tires, used up most of our money, and you didn't even spend five minutes with her!"

"Call security." The woman tossed the command over her shoulder.

Honey turned her rage on the woman. "Chantal's pretty and she's sweet, and you treated her like she was a stinking pile of dog shit..."

The woman snapped her fingers. "Richard, get her out of here!"

"You think just because you're some big Hollywood hotshot, you can treat her like dirt. Well you're the one who's dirt, you hear me? You and all those peckerheads sitting over there."

Several more people had risen to their feet. She turned on them, her eyes hot and burning, her throat clogged.

"You're all going to burn in hell. You're going to burn in the fires of everlasting hell, and—"

"Richard!" The woman's voice barked with command.

An overweight red-haired man with glasses had come forward, and now he grabbed Honey's arm. "You're leaving."

"Like hell." Drawing back her foot, she kicked him hard in the shin, then sucked in her breath as pain

shot from her unprotected toes through her foot.

The man took advantage of her distraction to push her toward the door. "This is a private meeting. You can't come barging in here like this."

She struggled against him, trying futiley to escape from the bite of his fingers.

"Let me go, you ignorant peckerhead! I killed a man! I killed three of them!"

"Did you call security?" This was a new voice, and it belonged to a man in a shirt and tie with silver hair and an air of authority.

"I called them, Ross," someone else replied. "They're on their way."

She was dragged past Eric Dillon. He looked at her with blank eyes. The man named Richard almost had her to the door. He was soft and flabby and wouldn't have presented much of a challenge to anyone with reasonable strength. But she was so little. If only she were bigger, stronger, more of a
man!
Then she'd show him. She'd show them all!

She punched him with her fists, blasting all of them with every curse she knew.

They were so smug and self-righteous, these rich people with families waiting for them at home, beds to sleep in at night.

"Let her go."

The voice came from behind her. It was rough and tired, with a drawl that stretched from here to forever.

The stern-faced woman sucked in her breath indignantly. "Not until she's out of here."

Again the tired voice spoke. "I said to let her go."

The silver-haired man named Ross intervened. "I don't think that's wise."

"I don't care whether it's wise or not. Richard, get your hands off her."

Miraculously, Honey found herself free.

"Come here, honey," that rough, tired voice said.

How did he know her name? She turned toward her rescuer.

Creases like gullies bracketed his mouth, and a tan line from a hatband divided his forehead—pale skin above the line, sun-weathered skin below. He was lean and spare, and she didn't have to see him walk to know that he'd be bowlegged.

Her first thought was that he should be on a billboard somewhere with a Stetson on his head and a Marlboro stuck in his mouth, except his face was a little too beat-up for billboards. His short, wiry hair was a combination of dusty blond, brown, and auburn. He looked like he was in his early forties, but his hazei eyes were a million years old.

"How'd you know my name?" she asked.

"I don't."

"You called me Honey."

"Is that your name?"

His eyes were kind, and so she nodded. "Honey Jane Moon."

"How about that."

She waited for him to make a crack about her name, he stood quietly, not asking anything of her, just letting her take him in. She liked his clothes: an old denim work shirt, nondescript pants, boots, everything comfortable and well-worn.

"Do you feel like coming over here and talking to me a little bit?" he said after a while. "It'll give you a chance to catch your breath."

She was starting to feel dizzy from yelling so much. Her stomach was upset, and her toes were hurting.

"I guess that'd be okay."

As he led her toward a couple of chairs set up in front of some sort of light blue paper, she ignored the low conversation in the background.

"How about you sit right here, Honey," he said. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna ask these fellas to turn the cameras on while you and me talk."

The man named Ross stepped forward. "I don't see any need for this."

Honey's rescuer just looked at him with a cold, dead stare. "We've been doing it your way for weeks, Ross," he said in a hard voice. "I just ran out of patience."

Honey looked at the cameras suspiciously. "Why do you want to turn those cameras on? Are you trying to get me in trouble with the police?"

He chuckled. "The police would be more likely to come after me than you, little girl."

"Is that so? Why?"

"How about I ask the questions for a while?" He inclined his head toward the chair, not making her sit, but giving her a choice about it. She looked deeply into his eyes, but she couldn't see anything there that made her afraid, and so she sat.