Trashy Romance by Committee

<div class='quotetop'>QUOTE(jared2 @ Apr 27 2007, 12:26 PM) [snapback]431317[/snapback]</div>

... some subtle charisma whenever he would wink at her on his way to a board meeting at Amalgamated International Monolithic Industries, a company he'd started in his basement with only a set of used Legos and his raw ambition to manufacture "Natur-Pert" bodices and was now its CEO and Chairman, a self-made billionaire who hadn't been out of the Forbes top five wealthiest men in the world for the last eight consecutive years. Prunella couldn't put her finger on what gave Chad that indefinable charisma, but she couldn't deny its powerful attraction. Against her better instincts, but with a shudder of delicious anticipation, she answered the phone.
"Prunella," Chad's voice rasped, frightened. "Brad's been picked up by Homeland Security. They found nine AK-47s in the tastefully decorated closet of his new condo. 4,000 rounds of ammo in the color coordinated mauve linen drawers. And," Chad gasped, "they got those letters. Oh, God, they got those letters! You have to run, Prune, you have to run, pretend you never heard of Brad-GGAAAAHHHH!" The stylish thin Driftwood Pearl phone went dead in Prunella's impeccably manicured fingers ... [to be continued]

 

Chapter 2

Prunella pulled into her parking space, still wondering at the desperation in Chad's voice. She wondered even further about why she had listened to him as he told her to run. Run? She had done nothing wrong. And Brad--Homeland security? Her Brad? There must have been a terrible mistake; Brad didn't have a criminal bone in his entire body. Hell--he couldn't even kill bugs that got in his condo. And what letters were Chad talking about? She'd never seen any letters.

Prunella got out of her car and began walking through the underground parking garage toward the elevator. All she wanted to do was grab a Bombay Sapphire and tonic, and then try to call Brad or Chad to find out just what the hell was going on.

Still pondering the situation, she punched the elevator button and began tapping her red stiletto heel as she waited. She felt rather than heard a presence behind her, and as she whirled around, she felt a hand clasp over her mouth, and a stubbly cheek pressed against her face.

"Don't move," said a voice she didn't recognize. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Eyes now wide with fear, darting from side to side to see if anyone was in the garage, Prunella went limp.

(to be continued)

 

The assailant dragged Prunella behind a white Ford Econoline. He spun her around and pushed her up against the side of the van. "Tell me everything you know. Tell me!" he demanded in a low, gruff voice.

"About what?" she squeaked.

"I want to know how the Feds found out about the weapons! Did you tell them? Did you?!" he asked harshly.

Prunella finally worked up the courage to look at the man who had her pinned. He was pale, almost as if he had never spent a day in the sun. He wore cheap, black-framed sunglasses - the kind you'd find on the rack in a Wal-Mart. His face was elongated and thin, almost cartoonishly so, but somehow he he had a hard, chiseled look. His demeanor also told her she didn't want to test his patience.

Prunella took a deep breath and said in a quiet, wavering tone of voice, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Nonsense! We know you and Chad were very close! We also know that you work for-" The attacker was cut off by the sound of a wailing siren.

(to be continued)

 

Around the corner of the parking garage appeared a driftwood pearl Prius with a flashing light temporarily perched on the roof and a siren blaring and echoing throughout the parking structure.

Suddenly the hand disappeared from 'Nella's mouth and as she whirled around she got a fleeting glimpse of a hooded figure disappearing into the shadows.

The car screetched to a halt at 'Nella's feet and who should exit but.....Brad.

"Brad?" she gasped.

Brad strode over to her and grasped her against his manly chest. "My darling. Are you alright?"

'Nella was speechless. Her Brad. What happened? Wasn't he a meek, mild metrosexual with a secret gun collection and ties to urban terrorists? Could Chad be wrong?

"Brad. I thought you had been arrested under the Patriot Act and I'd never, ever see you again."

"Ah, my foolish, foolish girl. Only you can know my secret. Not even my brother Chad knows my secret. I am not really a forensic accountant with the San Diego District Attorney's office. I am really.......

 

.Al Roker, and frankly, I'm glad I can get out of this suit. It's been

 

...a long time since I've been able to get away from talking about the weather all the time!" He stood there wearing a polo shirt and a pair of slacks. His stature was unfamiliar and she sensed something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

She pushed herself away from Al. "You can't be my precious Brad! You just can't be!"

A smile crossed his face. "You're right. And I'm not really Al Roker, Brad or Chad." Prunella was perplexed. "Then who are you?" she asked curtly.

"No, Prunella, the question is who are you?" said a harsh voice that sounded chillingly like the pale man's. Suddenly, the world went black around her. She could still hear voices, but they were muffled by the thick burlap bag covering her head. Then she heard the sound of a door opening. She shouted a smothered, "Hey!" as she was shoved into the white Econoline by the pale man and his Al Roker look-alike partner. They shut the door behind her and got in the van. The pale man was about to start the van up when...

 

... the director yelled "Cut! That's a print! OK everybody, break for lunch, back here in thirty minutes."

Vespa Lee flung the burlap sack off her head and with a disgusted toss of her expensively coiffed rust blonde curls flipped open her cell phone and rang her agent.

"Daryl," she spat the instant the line was picked up, "You gotta get me out of this turkey, I don't care what it costs. I never saw such a hacked up script - there must be eight or nine authors of the wretched thing, none of them talking to any of the others - I swear Daryl this so-called romance is gonna have me on a submarine to Jupiter before Friday, at gunpoint. And you just won't believe my character's name - Prunella. Prunella for godsakes! Who the hell ever won an Oscar playing some halfwit named Prunella? Daryl, please, I'm begging you, get me out of this!"

"Vespa, is that you?" asked a suave, deep voice that sent a cold chill down Vespa's supple back as she recognized whose it was; that she'd speed-dialed by mistake ... [to be continued]

 

Yes, it was Brock Odin. Why oh why had she kept his number programmed into her phone? After the incident in Monaco, she never, ever wanted to lay eyes on him or hear his voice again.

She quickly shut the phone, and turned toward Darryl. She lowered her eyes and sidled up to him. As she traced a finger down Darryl's pudgy jaw, she breathily whispered "C'mon, Darryl, I know you can help me get out of this...this...this atrocity of a plot line. Even your brilliant direction is not going to rescue this project. Damn screenwriters! What can I do for you to make you see?"

Darryl cleared his throat and coughed nervously. This was the glamorous Vespa Romani Lee, part of the Romani dynasty of Hollywood, and she was touching HIS face. He was smart enough to see through the lame attempt at manipulation, but he was a man, after all, and had blood pumping through his veins like anyone else. She was intoxicating--her scent, her hair, her clothes, her aura, and Darryl found himself blushing at the thoughts that crossed his mind of all the things he did indeed want her to do to him...

While this was his first directing spot on a major motion picture, he was no fool. He had directed over fifty music videos, and knew his way around glitz. He had also seen the look on Vespa's face right when she hung up her cell phone. What was that all about, anyway?

((TBC))

 

<div class='quotetop'>QUOTE(jared2 @ Apr 30 2007, 07:38 AM) [snapback]432525[/snapback]</div>

barely able to contain her anger, "That's a malicious lie, Brock Odin. I was the star in half of those, and Darryl wasn't even in the crew, let alone producer or director, and I would know, considering how close and personal I had to get with those sleazebag producers and directors to get those parts - "auditions", they called them - you've got a lot of nerve, Brock, slandering Darryl associating him with filth like "Asian Honey". Vespa's voice shook with outrage.

"Hey, I believe you," Brock squeaked, "Simmer down, it was just something I saw in some blog." Brock's voice suddenly became cool as a drop-forged Franklin Mint commemorative dagger left in an icebox with its rheostat dialed to "Arctic Winter". "Does Darryl know?"

"Does Darryl know what?" Vespa snapped, sweeping a perturbed hand against her well proportioned thigh in a gesture of frustration. "Oh crap," she wailed. "I just broke a nail!"

In the deep shadows next to the Kleig lighting Belinda Hackenswett, third assistant hairdresser, twisted her face in a wicked grin. Accidentally on purpose overhearing Vespa's outburst, she could hardly believe her ears. Vespa Lee, ex-pornstar! Now this was information that could lead ... (to be continued)