Excerpt of Hollywood Hit by Maggie Marr

Chapter 3

Lost In La-La Land

Where r u?

An existential question or one grounded in the firm murkiness of Nikki’s new Hollywood reality? She shook her head at the question and waited for the next red light on Sunset before she tapped out a response on her iphone to her roommate Christina Darmides.

Just left the Rockstar going to Jebs.

She made a fast left turn onto Alta Drive and her Toyota squealed in protest.

TWOT.

Total. Waste. Of. Time.

Let Christina think that Nikki’s excursion into Beverly Hills to meet with Jeb on a script he’d written and so far failed to set up was a total waste of time. Every ounce of Nikki’s trailer-trash-Tennessee blood was determined to make Boundless Bound, and to make the film without a wit of help from her famous aunt.

Unlike Christina, cannabalizing nepotistic relationships to gain success wasn’t the road Nikki wanted to travel. Upon graduation from Oxford three years before, Christina fell into a job as executive VP of development at Albright Productions, run by Christina’s billion-dollar-in- ticket-sales-producer step-mom Lydia Albright. Lydia just happened to be married to Zymar the world-famous director who was Christina’s dad.

Nikki glanced from her iPhone to the street. She squished her lips together and twitched them from side to side. The hand-out from family seemed to work for Christina, but a hand-out from Celeste ‘Cici’ Solange, wouldn’t work for Nikki. More than a flicker of resentment burned an ever-increasing hole in Nikki’s heart. The original tear was a mere rip in the family fabric of Nikki’s childhood. For Nikki and Nikki’s mother, Lacey Solange there’d been food stamps, days with no electricity, aggrieved landlords, and herds of bad-boyfriends milling around Lacey Solange while Nikki grew to womanhood. At the same moments in time, Aunt Cici reigned supreme at the box office, pulled down eight figures a film, and luxuriated in Beverly Hills. Whether the years of Cici’s disregard for Lacey and Nikki were willful or neglectful Nikki wasn’t yet sure. Aunt and Niece had stitched an ill-fitted patch over the familial rip at the burial of Nikki’s mother, but threads continued to tatter and fray.

Even with their tenuous family-ties, with one phone call and a ‘please’ Nikki could have a job similar to Christina’s. Hell, Aunt Cici would give her the job without the please. Nikki could immediately be ensconced as VP of Development in Cici’s production company. She would read scripts all day. Fabulous scripts, by well-established fabulous writers, sent by fabulous agents to what would be Nikki’s fabulous office. She would use her swank expense account and ride in her swank convertible to and from the Worldwide Studio lot. Nikki had the actress aunt, the movie-mogul step-uncle, the connections that people in the Industry worked a lifetime to develop, so why....why...her Aunt Cici often asked, was Nikki slumming with an unsigned carousing guitar player, driving a 12-year old Toyota, to meet with a has-been star, to discuss a completely unfinanced film?

Righteousness pulsed in Nikki’s chest. Because, Nikki’d gotten all the way to twenty-two, all the way from Tennessee, and all the way through college without help from Aunt Cici. Nikki wouldn’t ask for help now.

Nikki’s Mama had never asked for a hand-out from Celeste. Even when there’d been nothing but a piece of moldy Tillamook cheese and a near empty bottle of Heinz in the fridge. Lacey had never begged from Celeste, and Nikki wouldn’t begin to beg now.

She was determined to make Boundless Bound without Aunt Cici’s help, without Aunt Cici’s connections. She’d push the boulder of an Indy film uphill like a tortured Sisyphus with size double-D breasts.

Nikki peered out the open window of her car, and searched for 729 Alta.

“722, 726,” Nikki murmured under her breath as she crept down the street, “727, wow, 727 is awesome,” Nikki said as she slid by a remodeled manse with lighting straight out of Architectual Digest. “731, 733...what the hell?”

Nikki slammed the brake. Where was 729? she’d gone too far. She jammed the stick into reverse with a loud grind (her clutch was nearly dead) and pressed hard on the accelerator. The backward momentum of the car sounded like she was winding up a toy train.

There it was. Jeb Schmaltzer’s castle. A brown Palozzo knock-off with a turret and red roof tiles. The black-iron gate adorned with curlie-cues on the circle driveway was already open and Nikki pulled her Toyota onto the flagstone pavers. She parked, turned off her car, and checked herself in the mirror. She was here meeting with Jeb Schmaltzer (whom her Aunt Cici affectionately called fuckface) because Nikki wanted her own success. A success unburdened by favors from her Aunt Cici or from her Aunt Cici’s famous, well-connected friends.

Nikki glanced through her dusty windshield. Jeb’s garage door hung at an angle on its hinges. His house was little too old, a little too unkempt, and a little too...has been. Pride burst a shatterbox of fragments in her chest like slivers of glass. She recognized an unkept lawn and a home in need of repair. Nikki pursed her lips together. She would get through the hell of breaking into Hollywood on her own.