Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

It’s hard to believe that the Cosmo Lamont is going to be on the opposite side of the same lot I’ll be working on, a mere four sound stages away. So close, and yet worlds away from yours truly, Daphne Dale—beta character actor who has only recently escaped the clutches of one-off commercial shoots, demoralizing days spent waiting in line at central casting, or most terrible of them all, community theater productions in some podunk town in the dreaded midwest.

Though we might as well be worlds apart, I swoon anyway, blowing Cosmo’s poster-paper likeness a loud, smacking air kiss before I gather my coffee and hustle to get dressed.

The two morning auditions go well enough. I make first callbacks for both.

My first audition was for the biggest medical procedural currently on air, where I would play a smart-mouthed, quick-witted tomboy who just so happened to be dying of a rare blood disease.

The second was for a new and wildly popular courtroom drama, where I read for the part of a smart-mouthed, quick-witted quirky girl who just so happened to be a drug mule for the episode’s guest-starring drug-lord antagonist.

Certainly Martha seems to have found a steady flow of type casts for me, at least until I age out of these roles and move on to stereotypical sitcom mom territory.

Some beta actors get their panties in a knot about this kinda stuff. Not me. I’m just happy to be saved from a deathly boring life as a midwest-midnight-checkout-queen or a heat helper in some backwater hospital with a slightly larger apartment for a much cheaper price located far too close to the trailer park where my mom and step-dad live.

Just the thought of it makes me shudder.

Though, if I had to choose only one job to get? I would go with the medical drama part.

The choice doesn’t really come down to the artistic merit of either show, or even how much I like them. It comes down to Liam O’Connor, the male beta I had to scene read with, who used to be my OotP co-star, Dylan’s roommate.

Liam is good at working with his scene partners, and his citrus-sea salt scent is mild and pleasant—unlike the older alpha character actor who read for the drug lord on the crime procedural—who reeked of eye-watering-wintergreen and an undercurrent of burnt popcorn kernels. I had to struggle not to wipe my eyes or wrinkle my nose through most of our screen test.

I burst from the double doors and scuttle down the stairs of Sound Stage C to make a beeline for the bustling craft services tent, in the hopes that I can grab a sandwich or a pastry along with a coffee before I hoof it over to Sound Stage E for afternoon shooting.

Lucky for me, as soon as I get to the line of fold out banquet tables there’s a whole platter of croissants stuffed full of sliced ham, nutty gruyere cheese, glossy red tomatoes, and fluffy leaves of lettuce.

I use a brown paper napkin to snatch one of the delicious looking sandwiches from the platter and gratefully accept a tall white cardboard cup of steaming hot coffee from the attendant pumping the smoky smelling dark liquid from the vacuum containers at the end of the buffet line.

“Thanks!” I bob a quick nod to the server.

“No problem, say hi to Willy for me!” he calls back over the chatter of other extras, actors, and crew bustling to grab lunch.

“Can do! Best of luck with the rest of the lunch rush!” I agree to send his regards to the production assistant to our show’s director, already halfway outside the craft services tent.

Suddenly, I get a whiff of something sweet and rich. A delectable smell fills my nose, it’s somewhere between the bittersweet burnt sugar of dark caramel and the warm sweetness of expensive cigars and cognac. The scent is complex and intrinsically masculine. I feel my stomach do a little flip, a surprising rush of warmth that makes my abdominal muscles tighten and my thighs press together involuntarily.

My eyes instinctively search the horizon, then my head darts side to side—giddy with the thought that I might catch sight of Cosmo on his way to the sound stage, that this could be his scent.

With heart-skipping anticipation, I try to get a lock on his face in the crowd or on one of the many studio lot golf carts. Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of him.

Oh well, better tuck into lunch on the go before I’m having my hair teased and styled and my endless freckles wiped from my cheekbones with cakey foundation for camera.

I’m about to take a perfect first bite of my sandwich—the ribbon edge of the lettuce shining with a glossy daub of lemon zest aioli, the hazelnutty notes of the coffee making my mouth water as I bring the sandwich to my waiting lips.

When, of course, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

It’s gotta be Martha. She’s probably heard something about one if not both of the call-backs, she probably has notes for me.

The hamster on the wheel powering my brain simply cannot deal with this added stimulus.

Between the anticipation of my sandwich, my much needed afternoon caffeine, and the prospect of two possible paydays that might allow me to move from the cramped one bedroom I’m currently living in to a better unit in my building with a small terrace and a view of something other than our building parking lot riddled with holes—my poor little brain hamster simply surrenders to the spin of the wheel–flung from its revolving confines to rattle dumbly around my skull as I froze dead in my tracks; unsure of how to reach my phone with both hands currently full of goodies.

“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, floundering another fraction of a second before deciding to double back toward craft services, and the cluster of empty bistro tables where I might be able to rest my treats while I answer Martha’s call.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, a gentleman in an incredibly expensive suit with half of his face obscured by huge, monolithic sunglasses had been following a little too closely on my heels.

With horror, I watch in slow motion as I crash into my proximal pursuer; my large cup of dark roast coffee sloshes all over the front of his silver silk Moire jacket and snowy white collared shirt.

As if that isn’t enough, I somehow manage to trip over my own feet in my panic, falling against him with both palms open, instinctively catching myself against his chest.