Page 1 of Ride 'Em Hard
Chapter One
Idon’t fucking believethis.
“Noooo!” I yell, as if saying it out loud will change the situation. If there were ever a place on God’s green earth where you do not want to run out of gas, this is it. I haven’t seen a living, breathing soul, not even a chicken or a cow, for the last hundred miles.
Reminding myself that I’m trying to have a more positive outlook on life, I check the rearview mirror hoping to find someone behind me, and my heart drops. Nope.
What the hell is super-stud Chase West doing, living out here in the middle of Nowhere, Montana? How is he supposed to be getting all that action the rags are always writing about—the one-on-ones with strangers in barns, the various ménages and all that wild groupie sex—out here?
Where is everyone? Anyone?
And why, for the love of God, didn’t I stop for gas at the last town?
I pull off the two-lane freeway, which is basically the width of my driveway back home in Los Angeles, and drive down the dirt road in front me with no idea where I’m going. My rental coughs and sputters, like it’s giving me its last breath.
I press the gas.
And nothing happens.
I slam one of my new faux Jimmy Choos on the pedal until it hits the floor.
And get nothing, not even a little burp.
Nada.
Under its own momentum—there’s no way I’m touching the brakes—the car slides over a crop of dirt clods for several yards. Fine orange dust sprays up on the windshield, and the old heap gives up the ghost.
Crap, crap, crap. “No!” I pound on the dashboard.
Well, shit.
I stare into the wild blue yonder, over thousands of acres of weeds, blow out a sigh and try to remain the fuck calm. I force my brain not to even touch on the fact that I only have half a bottle of water left and approximately five green M&Ms at the bottom of my purse.
After waiting for the dirty cloud to settle around the car, I unroll my window because now this pile of junk not only doesn’t have gas, it doesn’t have air-conditioning either.
Of course, Vital Studios didn’t give me any kind of budget to rent a decent car for this job. Because I’m on a fool’s mission. I took my boss up on a last-ditch plea, something she threw out to the whole office as a joke.
Yes, I’m that desperate, one of many lowly screenplay readers with their own script they’re trying to sell. Just like me, they’re all hoping someone at the studio with a little pull will read their screenplay, buy it, and make it into a movie. Well, obviously there’s a lot more that goes into getting a movie made, but that’s the gist.
I’ve spent the last two of my twenty-seven years getting my idea down on paper, and it’s damn good. And I should know: I’ve certainly yawned through enough crappy green-lighted scripts to know my screenplay is better than any of them.
So when Chase West, Vital’s only A-lister and number-one money-maker, stormed off the set ofRide ’Em Hard, the execs were frantic to get him back. And when my boss, Charlene St. James, suggested that I could maybe sweet-talk Chase back to Los Angeles, I took her up on the challenge. Charlene was so surprised when I told her I’d go that her face ignored all the Botox injections. Her eyebrows almost hit her hairline, and I clearly saw wrinkles on her forehead. Last Thursday was the first time I ever saw Charlene’s face move.
The mucky-mucks have already tried everything to coerce Chase into starting filming again, but Chase doesn’t care about money and is already countersuing. Apparently, he has enough to bury the studio in court. He also has a reputation for kicking the shit out of people who bother him, so trying to strong-arm Chase is probably out of the question.
But Vital Studios is losing hundreds of thousands every day they’re not filming, and I don’t want my employer to go under. The way the market is, I might not find another job like the one I have now. Why shouldn’t I at least try to help?
Charlene probably doesn’t think I have a shot in hell of getting Chase back to L.A. But she promised she’d move my script to the top of the slush pile if I do, and a deal’s a deal. Last week, this trip sounded like an interesting proposition and a whole lot more productive than sitting at my cubicle in Studio City keeping my fingers crossed.
But shit, it wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.
I check the GPS on my phone, which is running precariously low on juice, and try to find a bar.
Damn it. Holding the phone out the window, I get one bar and check Google for the fifty-millionth time. According to the map, I’m in the right location, but there’s nothing here except weeds, a lot of jagged-rock-covered hills, and snow-topped mountains in the distance.
I’ve been expecting to come across a gigantic mansion for the last thirty-seven miles. IknowChase has a huge spread out here—just one of his many large assets, if you catch my drift—and I thought surely I’d run into his house. I mean, according to the GPS I’monhis property.
I’ve lost the only bar on the phone, so I get out of the sweat box. Outside in the thick, gummy air, I straighten my new black skirt. My blouse is sticking to me like glue, so I take a deep breath and blow air down the front of it and pull the silky, perspiration-drenched fabric away from my skin.
