you don’t?”
“No.”
“How terrible.” He gave her a look that made her kneecaps go soft.
“Yes,” she murmured, “downright horrible.”
He grinned, glanced at his watch. “After auditions, I’ll have the rest of the day off. Meet me backstage, same spot, at two o’clock and I’ll be your partner.”
It took a moment for the adrenaline rush to subside before she remembered how to nod yes. Partner. That had to be on par with “date,” right?
She was having a date with Bill Romero.
Bill take-my-heart-and-do-me-all-night-long Romero.
As long as she got home before her carriage turned into a pumpkin, and her bikini into her glam goth T-shirt, this could be a fairy-tale date to die for.
“Two it is,” she whispered.
3
ELLIE WAS TOO PUNCTUAL for her own good. Not that being on time was a bad thing, but it was when you were overly anxious to see the guy of your childhood dreams, who happened to not be punctual. Backstage again at the food table, she nibbled on grapes and hoped she looked okay in her red bikini, fishnet cover-up, retro polka-dot wedgies and over-theshoulder mini brocade purse. When she’d left the beach house, she’d felt fine, but after passing dozens of girls in Easter-egg color bikinis and nondescript sandals, she was starting to wonder if she looked too over-the-top.
That she, a glam goth diva, was actually fretting about looking over-the-top suddenly made her laugh. Back at her apartment, her entire wardrobe was a swirl of purple, black and red satins and laces. This beach babe makeover was frying her brain. Next she’d be buying frosted pink lipstick, eating granola and saying “dude.”
“Hey, how’s my Ellie?” said a familiar, deep voice. Bill.
Her heart thumped a wanton, pagan beat.
My Ellie. She lost the ability to speak for a moment. “Great.” My Bill.
He looked effing incredible. That mocha skin, those brown eyes, that windblown black ’fro—colors so rich and dark, they made her insides quiver.
Maybe it was because of the canvas tent, but the light seemed pale and ephemeral. Summer heat shimmered in the air, hot and intangible. And in the midst of it all stood Bill, like a chocolatey, rough-edged hip-hop prince. Wild on the outside, in control on the inside.
The moment was broken when a girl, who looked to be around nineteen, bounded up and tapped Bill on the arm. She wore short-shorts, a halter top, her shiny blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Daisy Mae’s long-lost twin, no doubt.
The girl looked up at Bill with round liquid-blue eyes and smiled.
“Curtiss is having some problems with the boom mike for tomorrow morning’s shoot,” she said in a baby-doll voice. “He wanted me to tell you he’s picking up a new one today as backup.”
“Thanks.” Bill nodded, turned his attention back to Ellie.
But Daisy Baby-Doll didn’t leave. “I’m the new PA. Name’s Phoebe.”
Bill looked at her. “Hi, Phoebe.”
“Actually, my name’s Diane, but that’s so boring, so a few years ago I started calling myself Phoebe, and now everybody remembers me!”
Ellie had a feeling she knew why.
“Well, Phoebe,” said Bill, “nice meeting you—”
“If you ever need anything…” she said, her voice trailing off.
Like it was so hard to guess what that anything might be. To stop herself from saying something she might regret, Ellie stuffed a grape into her mouth.
Of course, women had always loved Bill, and he’d loved his share back. She had many memories watching him from her living room window while he laughed and flirted with the girls on the block. Even back then, he had that certain something that attracted the opposite sex in droves. Call it confidence, charm or being blessed with more than his share of pheromones, but the guy had it.
Bill glanced at Ellie, back to Phoebe. “Look, I’m taking a meeting here….”
Taking a meeting? This wasn’t a date? Ellie shoved another grape in her mouth.
Phoebe rolled back her shoulders, which made her breasts stick out even more, and plastered on a smile. “Well, Bill, see you around the set.”
She’d barely bounced away before a tall, preppie-looking guy sidled up to Bill. “Man, you should be bottled.”
“Behave.” Bill turned to Ellie. “This is my main man, Jimmie,” he said. “We met on our first day at NYU. I was the tough guy from East L.A. Jimmie was the class act from Connecticut. I decided to like him anyway.”
She smiled while swallowing the grape, which felt like a chunk of lead going down her throat. “Nice to meet you, Jimmie.”
“This is Ellie Belle,” said Bill. He slung his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “He taught me how to order wine, and I taught him how to siphon gas.”
But she was still back at Ellie Belle. Nobody had called her that in years. It had been her dad’s nickname for her, one her mom had occasionally used after her dad left, but nobody had used it since. Not even Matt. Had Bill overheard one of her parents and, all these years later, remembered?
Jimmie extended his hand, which she took. “And after that eloquent introduction, let me say it’s very nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” They shook hands.
“Heard you two were next-door neighbors years ago.”
“That’s right.”
“No offense, but you sure don’t look like someone from the hood.”
“Well, we don’t normally wear bikinis with fishnet cover-ups there.”
Jimmie looked surprised, then laughed. “I, uh, didn’t mean that.”
“Sorry, I knew what you meant.” She’d heard comments like that plenty of times, mostly from people who’d rarely, if ever, been to the hood. She used to take offense, then realized what mattered more than a person’s question was the intention behind it. Jimmie, despite his Brooks Brothers appearance and precise diction, had a sincere streak.
“Actually, when my mom and her mother moved there in the late fifties, there were families in that neighborhood straight out of Father Knows Best. The melting pot started getting stirred more during the seventies.” She’d skip over what everyone knew—that the area grew economically depressed, gangs arrived, street crime mushroomed and that’s when things could get dicey if you didn’t already have your friends and community in place, which the Rockwells did. “The hood’s changing for the better these days, though.”
Bill
