About The Book:
Title: Shooting Star
Series: Beautiful Chaos #1
Author: Arianne Richmonde
Genre: New Adult (Novella)
Release Date: July 10, 2014
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
Meet two dysfunctional products of Hollywood.
Star Davis and Jake Wild: they’ve met their match.
19-year-old, Oscar winning Star Davis is an A-list movie star. Hell-raisingly beautiful, she tosses men aside like used Kleenex. She commands 20 million per movie—or at least did until drugs, alcohol, wild partying, and a police arrest sent her kicking and screaming into rehab.Now she’s out, squeaky clean, and determined to win the role she was born to play: the lead in Skye’s The Limit—ready to re-conquer Hollywood.
26-year-old British director Jake Wild lives up to his name: he’s the wildest player in town. He’s also Hollywood royalty. From a family dynasty of powerful directors and producers, Jake’s home is a movie set. With reams of hot starlets at his beck and call, Jake can get any woman he wants. But with his new movie, Skye’s The Limit in pre-production, he’s decided it’s time to get serious and change his philandering ways.
Star is “liability on legs” and Jake doesn’t want her near his precious movie. But Star has wily ways of getting what she wants. And apart from the role of Skye, what she wants is Jake right where he belongs:
Under her thumb.
Lights, camera, action . . .
But the action is not what Jake expected.
New Adult Contemporary romance 17+
Excerpts:
1.
STAR:
THE FIRST THING EVERYBODY wanted to know about me (apart from who I was dating) was how the hell did a nineteen-year-old get (a) so rich and (b) so screwed-up? I asked myself the same thing, daily. When I glanced at myself in a passing mirror I’d say, Hey Star, what happened? And when? When exactly was it that things got so . . . so chaotic? And what, girl, are you going to do about it? I often wondered how I’d been so lucky, but I also took it all for granted. The way movie stars generally do when they feel fame is their birthright.
Still, I was no fool, every day I counted my lucky stars and knew that at any given click of God’s big fat thumb and index finger, all this could be taken away from me.
Not that I was some religious God freak. I had never even gone to church. But when the chips were down I found myself making deals with God. And after I’d hit an all-time low at rehab, I promised God—the last night I was there, in fact—that I’d be a good girl if he could just procure that part for me. The role I’d had my eye on.
The role I was born to play: Skye in Skye’s The Limit.
Most people think that actors are super-confident. But no. We’re all terrified. Terrified that we’ll be out of a job. That the last big success was a fluke—that we’ll be discovered as phonies. And that someone more beautiful, more talented or more something-or-other will topple us from our pedestals. The truth is, we are fakes. All of us. That’s the nature of our job. We lie. We trick people into believing we are someone else. When we cry, sometimes it’s real and other times an act. And nobody can tell the difference. We’re so good at what we do that we even fool ourselves.
Especially ourselves.
We glimmer on the red carpet. We are glorious. Victorious—but we’re also walking time bombs. Waiting to detonate. Waiting for our secret to be revealed. The big secret being that we’re no better than anybody else.
We get zits. We look like shit before Hair and Make-up gets their hands on us. People dump us. Hey, even Marilyn Monroe was treated like crap by various men.
Even goddam, luminescent, Marilyn freakin’ Monroe.
And although I wasn’t aware of it then, I was as vulnerable as Marilyn when I walked out of that clinic and stepped—in my Choos—into a velvet-carpeted limo, purring like a welcoming pussycat, waiting to take me away from the ugly world of imperfection, back to my cocoon of beautiful chaos, that shone so brilliantly on the outside—like a floating bubble that mirrored a cerulean-blue sky and the sun which glittered its golden rays—blinding all my fans.
That wonderful, hopeful afternoon I knew I was back.
Back to conquer Hollywood.
Still, I was no fool, every day I counted my lucky stars and knew that at any given click of God’s big fat thumb and index finger, all this could be taken away from me.
Not that I was some religious God freak. I had never even gone to church. But when the chips were down I found myself making deals with God. And after I’d hit an all-time low at rehab, I promised God—the last night I was there, in fact—that I’d be a good girl if he could just procure that part for me. The role I’d had my eye on.
The role I was born to play: Skye in Skye’s The Limit.
Most people think that actors are super-confident. But no. We’re all terrified. Terrified that we’ll be out of a job. That the last big success was a fluke—that we’ll be discovered as phonies. And that someone more beautiful, more talented or more something-or-other will topple us from our pedestals. The truth is, we are fakes. All of us. That’s the nature of our job. We lie. We trick people into believing we are someone else. When we cry, sometimes it’s real and other times an act. And nobody can tell the difference. We’re so good at what we do that we even fool ourselves.
Especially ourselves.
We glimmer on the red carpet. We are glorious. Victorious—but we’re also walking time bombs. Waiting to detonate. Waiting for our secret to be revealed. The big secret being that we’re no better than anybody else.
We get zits. We look like shit before Hair and Make-up gets their hands on us. People dump us. Hey, even Marilyn Monroe was treated like crap by various men.
Even goddam, luminescent, Marilyn freakin’ Monroe.
And although I wasn’t aware of it then, I was as vulnerable as Marilyn when I walked out of that clinic and stepped—in my Choos—into a velvet-carpeted limo, purring like a welcoming pussycat, waiting to take me away from the ugly world of imperfection, back to my cocoon of beautiful chaos, that shone so brilliantly on the outside—like a floating bubble that mirrored a cerulean-blue sky and the sun which glittered its golden rays—blinding all my fans.
That wonderful, hopeful afternoon I knew I was back.
Back to conquer Hollywood.
2.
JAKE:
“YOUR”E NOT SERIOUS?” I asked, my jaw on the floor. “You’re joking?”
Brian carried on calmly chewing gum, the cloying aroma of Juicy Fruit wafting about his Porsche like air freshener. He sank deeper into his seat, his large body oozing with self-satisfied confidence, or what I suspected to be a little fart—although it could have been the new leather of the seat squeaking. “Jake,” he said, “you’ll thank me for this later.”
“They won’t be a ‘later,’ ” I shot back, my voice rising. “Because there’s no fucking way I’m having that . . . that . . . liability on legs in my movie!”
“She’s fresh out of rehab. She’s turned the page.”
“Yeah, for how long? Twenty-four hours? My leading lady needs to give the performance of a lifetime in Skye’s The Limit, not be snorting charlie in her dressing room. This is not some brainless blockbuster, Brian, this is art!”
“There’s nothing more artistic than the creation of money, Jake. She’s box office. Now, more than ever. You know how much airtime she gets? How many times a day she graces the news, or her photo’s in some magazine?”
“Yeah, but for all the wrong reasons. My answer is no. Enne. Oh. No.”
Brian picked the gum out from his rubbery lips his and stuck it in a Kleenex. He smirked and said nothing. Then crunched the tissue in his fist like a boxer preparing for a punch. His jaw tightened. Little veins popped in his forehead like blue tributaries of a river. “You’ll work with her,” he said solemnly, the smirk now edging into a Robert de Niro sneer; the sneer Bob’s bad characters don when they’re about to do something crazy.
“Why? Why are you so obsessed with putting her in my film? There are other A-list actresses who would kill for the role of Skye. Why Star fucking Davis?”
“She’s hot. She’s beautiful.”
“She’ll come to the set drunk, high on pills, her entourage trailing behind her like slimy snails leaving behind a residue of—”
“It’s done,” Brian said, cutting me off. “She’s signed. We’ve signed."
Brian carried on calmly chewing gum, the cloying aroma of Juicy Fruit wafting about his Porsche like air freshener. He sank deeper into his seat, his large body oozing with self-satisfied confidence, or what I suspected to be a little fart—although it could have been the new leather of the seat squeaking. “Jake,” he said, “you’ll thank me for this later.”
“They won’t be a ‘later,’ ” I shot back, my voice rising. “Because there’s no fucking way I’m having that . . . that . . . liability on legs in my movie!”
“She’s fresh out of rehab. She’s turned the page.”
“Yeah, for how long? Twenty-four hours? My leading lady needs to give the performance of a lifetime in Skye’s The Limit, not be snorting charlie in her dressing room. This is not some brainless blockbuster, Brian, this is art!”
“There’s nothing more artistic than the creation of money, Jake. She’s box office. Now, more than ever. You know how much airtime she gets? How many times a day she graces the news, or her photo’s in some magazine?”
“Yeah, but for all the wrong reasons. My answer is no. Enne. Oh. No.”
Brian picked the gum out from his rubbery lips his and stuck it in a Kleenex. He smirked and said nothing. Then crunched the tissue in his fist like a boxer preparing for a punch. His jaw tightened. Little veins popped in his forehead like blue tributaries of a river. “You’ll work with her,” he said solemnly, the smirk now edging into a Robert de Niro sneer; the sneer Bob’s bad characters don when they’re about to do something crazy.
“Why? Why are you so obsessed with putting her in my film? There are other A-list actresses who would kill for the role of Skye. Why Star fucking Davis?”
“She’s hot. She’s beautiful.”
“She’ll come to the set drunk, high on pills, her entourage trailing behind her like slimy snails leaving behind a residue of—”
“It’s done,” Brian said, cutting me off. “She’s signed. We’ve signed."
3.
JAKE:
WHEN SHE WALKED into the read-through and I set eyes on her for the first time ever in the flesh, a bolt of electricity shot through me like I had been struck by lightening. I wasn’t expecting that. Not. One. Bit. I’ve seen enough stunning women in my life that usually I’m non-plussed. Of all the people in the world I was—and still am—the last person to be affected by movie star delirium. I’ve met hundreds of them over the years. Angelina and Brad, Al, Bob Redford. I sat on Cary Grant’s knee when I was a baby, played chess with Dustin, hung out at the Grand Prix in Monaco with Tom, lunch with Leonardo in Cannes—you name it, I’ve done it. Fame doesn’t faze me in the slightest because I grew up on movie sets and these people have been part of my everyday life.
But when Star Davis slipped quietly into the room, wearing skinny jeans and a baggy sweater—not even any make-up—my heart literally missed a beat. She looked at me and smiled and in that smile I saw such vulnerability and such wickedness rolled into one that I knew we were soul mates. The look in her gaze said I’ve got your number, buddy, don’t fuck with me and, We’re the same, you and I, and fate has brought us together. Her long wavy hair hung around her shoulders and her Robin’s Egg Blue eyes penetrated right through me. Stunning. None of the photos I’d seen of her, nor even any of her films portrayed her sheer magnetism. I was charged with anticipation and excitement. It was like some visceral force was pulling us together. Blood rushed through my veins, awakening every cell in my body, my heart hammered in my chest. She was born to play Skye and I knew right then that Star was my responsibility. It was up to me to get an Oscar-worthy performance out of her and if I didn’t it would be my failing, not hers.
But all I could come up with was, “You’re late, Skye.” I had a habit of calling actors by their character’s name. It sometimes helped them identify more with the part. Or maybe I didn’t call her Skye but just Star. “Sit down with the others at the table—they’re waiting for you. Have you been over your script?”
“You’ll see,” she answered enigmatically, and then strutted in her high heels with great confidence to where all the other actors were, and instead of going around to introduce herself to everyone individually, she blew them a Marilyn kiss and then said, “I’m Star, by the way, and none of you need to tell me your names because you’ve all been hanging out with me my whole life. In my living room.”
Everybody laughed and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell they already liked her and my only problem now? Was keeping temptation of every kind well away from her.
Myself included.
But when Star Davis slipped quietly into the room, wearing skinny jeans and a baggy sweater—not even any make-up—my heart literally missed a beat. She looked at me and smiled and in that smile I saw such vulnerability and such wickedness rolled into one that I knew we were soul mates. The look in her gaze said I’ve got your number, buddy, don’t fuck with me and, We’re the same, you and I, and fate has brought us together. Her long wavy hair hung around her shoulders and her Robin’s Egg Blue eyes penetrated right through me. Stunning. None of the photos I’d seen of her, nor even any of her films portrayed her sheer magnetism. I was charged with anticipation and excitement. It was like some visceral force was pulling us together. Blood rushed through my veins, awakening every cell in my body, my heart hammered in my chest. She was born to play Skye and I knew right then that Star was my responsibility. It was up to me to get an Oscar-worthy performance out of her and if I didn’t it would be my failing, not hers.
But all I could come up with was, “You’re late, Skye.” I had a habit of calling actors by their character’s name. It sometimes helped them identify more with the part. Or maybe I didn’t call her Skye but just Star. “Sit down with the others at the table—they’re waiting for you. Have you been over your script?”
“You’ll see,” she answered enigmatically, and then strutted in her high heels with great confidence to where all the other actors were, and instead of going around to introduce herself to everyone individually, she blew them a Marilyn kiss and then said, “I’m Star, by the way, and none of you need to tell me your names because you’ve all been hanging out with me my whole life. In my living room.”
Everybody laughed and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell they already liked her and my only problem now? Was keeping temptation of every kind well away from her.
Myself included.
4.
STAR:
“You know all your lines or just the first few scenes?” he asked out of the blue.
“I always like to learn the whole script so I know it backwards.”
“Good girl.”
“I’m not a girl, I’m a woman, if you hadn’t noticed.” But when he said “good girl” my heart skipped a beat. He had just come out of the pool, trailing water as he walked into the living room, and his dirty blond hair was slicked back wet—a white towel carelessly slung about his hips, accentuating that manly V, his body bronzed—and for the first time I got to see how beautiful the contours of his muscles were: his arms taught and strong, his chest wide, narrowing beautifully down to a segmented stomach—not bulky or thick—but lean like a tennis or soccer player—somebody muscular because of sport, not because of weights. It was the first time he’d had a swim since I’d been here—usually he was in the main living room, his head buried in a huge great art book, gleaning inspiration for a scene or watching old movies with the blinds drawn, freeze-framing and snapping a shot with his iPhone or sketching new idea for his storyboards. Then he’d be on the phone forever, talking to producers or location managers, or with Leo about the shooting schedule, changing things up at the last minute. Pre-production details. Cool, calm, on top of things.
In this instant I had him to myself, as I drank in his body, admiring him the way you might a Greek marble statue at the Met or some Italian fountain in Rome.
“I like to be flexible,” he told me, his eyes flickering for just a millisecond to my breasts before he settled back on my eyes. Water was dripping from his body like raindrop crystals. Everything seemed in slow motion—freeze-framed for me as I blinked like a camera lens to take in the shot—to save the image for later. I swear I could feel the electricity charging between us but then he looked away (upward to the right, funnily enough) squinting his gray eyes in thought, and I understood it was my imagination that had had him wanting me, desiring me. Because never had a guy ignored my come-ons so much as Jake. Never. My nipples were poking through a see-though top—I too had been swimming earlier, my hair still damp—and the air conditioning in the room had chilled them into little peaks. All for nothing! I could have been a chair or a table as far as he was concerned—so little did I matter to him, except as a tool for his movie.
“I thought we could do a few acting exercises,” he said. “Not the scenes themselves but a bit of improvisation.”
I loved improv. Some indie directors did whole films by way of improvisation; practically ignoring the script or making it up it as they went along—letting their actors come up with ideas to shape the scenes.
Jake wasn’t looking at me when he asked, “You’re into the Method, I hear?”
I nodded. “It’s the only way I know how to work—to get into character. Except I can’t exactly go round killing people so I guess for Skye’s The Limit I’ll have to actually act and forget the Method.” I thought he’d laugh but he didn’t.
“There’s the sex scene,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “and I don’t know how we should go about shooting it. I’ve been worrying about it for days. Have you got any ideas, Star? Of Skye’s motivation in this scene?”
“It’s all about control,” I answered. Skye and I were so similar in many ways—I really identified with this part. “She wants to get her way so she’s using sex as a weapon.”
“You see, I don’t see it as black and white as that. I think she’s yearning for attention—to be loved. A need for love is driving this scene, not control. She’s using sex as a way to get close to men, as it’s the only way she knows. I think this scene is pivotal; its when the audience needs to realize how alone she is. It’s imperative that the audience fall in love with her at this point.” He looked up and his penetrating eyes locked with mine. I felt myself tingle all over. But I also wondered if there was some message—a personal one for me—buried in his words.
“I always like to learn the whole script so I know it backwards.”
“Good girl.”
“I’m not a girl, I’m a woman, if you hadn’t noticed.” But when he said “good girl” my heart skipped a beat. He had just come out of the pool, trailing water as he walked into the living room, and his dirty blond hair was slicked back wet—a white towel carelessly slung about his hips, accentuating that manly V, his body bronzed—and for the first time I got to see how beautiful the contours of his muscles were: his arms taught and strong, his chest wide, narrowing beautifully down to a segmented stomach—not bulky or thick—but lean like a tennis or soccer player—somebody muscular because of sport, not because of weights. It was the first time he’d had a swim since I’d been here—usually he was in the main living room, his head buried in a huge great art book, gleaning inspiration for a scene or watching old movies with the blinds drawn, freeze-framing and snapping a shot with his iPhone or sketching new idea for his storyboards. Then he’d be on the phone forever, talking to producers or location managers, or with Leo about the shooting schedule, changing things up at the last minute. Pre-production details. Cool, calm, on top of things.
In this instant I had him to myself, as I drank in his body, admiring him the way you might a Greek marble statue at the Met or some Italian fountain in Rome.
“I like to be flexible,” he told me, his eyes flickering for just a millisecond to my breasts before he settled back on my eyes. Water was dripping from his body like raindrop crystals. Everything seemed in slow motion—freeze-framed for me as I blinked like a camera lens to take in the shot—to save the image for later. I swear I could feel the electricity charging between us but then he looked away (upward to the right, funnily enough) squinting his gray eyes in thought, and I understood it was my imagination that had had him wanting me, desiring me. Because never had a guy ignored my come-ons so much as Jake. Never. My nipples were poking through a see-though top—I too had been swimming earlier, my hair still damp—and the air conditioning in the room had chilled them into little peaks. All for nothing! I could have been a chair or a table as far as he was concerned—so little did I matter to him, except as a tool for his movie.
“I thought we could do a few acting exercises,” he said. “Not the scenes themselves but a bit of improvisation.”
I loved improv. Some indie directors did whole films by way of improvisation; practically ignoring the script or making it up it as they went along—letting their actors come up with ideas to shape the scenes.
Jake wasn’t looking at me when he asked, “You’re into the Method, I hear?”
I nodded. “It’s the only way I know how to work—to get into character. Except I can’t exactly go round killing people so I guess for Skye’s The Limit I’ll have to actually act and forget the Method.” I thought he’d laugh but he didn’t.
“There’s the sex scene,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “and I don’t know how we should go about shooting it. I’ve been worrying about it for days. Have you got any ideas, Star? Of Skye’s motivation in this scene?”
“It’s all about control,” I answered. Skye and I were so similar in many ways—I really identified with this part. “She wants to get her way so she’s using sex as a weapon.”
“You see, I don’t see it as black and white as that. I think she’s yearning for attention—to be loved. A need for love is driving this scene, not control. She’s using sex as a way to get close to men, as it’s the only way she knows. I think this scene is pivotal; its when the audience needs to realize how alone she is. It’s imperative that the audience fall in love with her at this point.” He looked up and his penetrating eyes locked with mine. I felt myself tingle all over. But I also wondered if there was some message—a personal one for me—buried in his words.
About The Author:
Arianne Richmonde is the USA TODAY bestselling author of The Pearl Series: Shades of Pearl, Shadows of Pearl, Shimmers of Pearl, Pearl, and Belle Pearl. Also the USA TODAY Bestseller, Stolen Grace, a suspense novel. When she isn't writing you can find her hanging out with her husband and family of furry animals in the French countryside. Arianne loves hearing from readers and is thrilled to bring you her latest three-part novella series, Shooting Star, Falling Star, and Shining Star which will be released at 20 day intervals throughout the summer - perfect for the beach!
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