Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

I scramble to answer the phone, doing my best not to sound too breathless as I greet Sol.

“Hello!” I chime, a little too excited sounding for my taste.

“Hey! Sunny D! You got a minute?” he chuckles.

“For you, of course–I’ve barely stopped thinking about you and the boys since—” I realize what I’m saying before I can stop the words from just tumbling out of my mouth, my own bashfulness keeping me from finishing the thought completely.

“Us too, it’s kinda why I’m calling, actually.” Sol clears his throat nervously before continuing.

My stomach is in my throat. I probably look like a madwoman, sitting with my car roof half cranked shut—clutching my cell phone with both hands as if it might grow wings and fly away from me before I hear whatever Sol has to say.

“We wanted to get together for dinner and talk some stuff over,” Sol begins, casually.

My heart thunders in my ears and I can feel my pulse throbbing under my tongue.

“What kind of stuff?” I ask, innocently.

“Well, a few different things—but I think mostly we, er—” I hear him clear his throat, a muffled voice, possibly belonging to Julian or Cosmo in the background. The words are unintelligible, but I get the gist of it when Sol returns. His voice firm, but friendly once more. “Likely the topic of our pack officially courting you is to be the centerpiece of the evening,” he clarifies, allowing what he’s said a moment to breathe, for me to let it sink in.

I pull the phone away from my face and let out a silent scream of joy, thrashing wildly about in the front seat of my car until I not-so-silently elbow the car horn with one of my flailing arms.

“Yes! Ahem I mean—yeah, absolutely—sure.” I rush the receiver back to my ear and blurt-babble incoherently in an attempt to cover the sound of my unexpected car honk.

“G-great!” Sol confirms on a breathy laugh.

“So uh, do you think you’d be free?—”

“Tonight?” I chomp down on my closed fist to keep myself from interjecting again. I’ve both interrupted him and possibly come off as embarrassingly over-eager.

I hold my breath, a chorus of unintelligible whispers audible in the background this time.

“Tonight would be fantastic,” Sol responds, just as my excitement threatens to turn to panic.

“Fantastic!” I parrot dumbly, not trusting myself to say anything else that doesn’t sound ditzy or desperate.

“I’ll be by to pick you up later, like quarter to seven? Julian was planning on making something at Cypress House–unless you would rather go out?” Sol offers.

“Quarter to seven is perfect. I can’t wait to indulge in more of Julian’s fabulous cooking. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to go out to dinner again,” I giggle.

As soon as I got home from the audition for the music video, I jump into the shower to scrub myself clean from all the excess hairspray, runny black eye makeup, and the all-over grimey feeling I get whenever Johnny Angel and his cronies eyeball me like I’m a side of beef.

Luckily, this was an audition for the video director along with the choreographer. I didn’t have to actually dance, canoodle, or otherwise interact with the Lost Daze pack aside from some very cordial hand shaking and exchanging of introductions between our agents, and the production team.

Though it was patently obvious that Vinny had designs on keeping me around to grab some post-audition refreshments with the Lost Daze pack, I was able to nimbly escape the command performance in my getaway car.

Though Vinny had offered to give me a ride or to send a car to bring me to the audition, a two hour round trip from my apartment to Lunarscape records, I had declined–expecting him to pull exactly this kind of stunt. Instead of being forced to go with the flow, I was able to duck out of the sleek studio building and hightail it directly to my sad little mustang. Needless to say, I made great time getting home. Plenty of time to get ready for my dinner date tonight.

I’m agonizing over what to wear to dinner this evening when my phone rings. It’s Vinny, and he’s already doing his characteristic mile-a-minute talking at me routine, “Daph! Sweetheart, great news honey–you booked the video for ‘Girls Like Wild Horses’!” he exclaims happily.

“Oh,” I stop in my tracks, face covered in a French green clay mask, and a pair of lacy underthings dangling from my hand—frozen above my open drawer.

I scramble for a better, more complete response. My agent has just told me that I’ve booked the music video for a song that’s been dominating the top 40 hits chart, and even I know that ‘oh’ is a pretty disproportionately lackluster reaction compared to what old Vincenzo is expecting.

“W-when does shooting start? I know the band seemed really keen on getting it done ASAP,” I fumble, laying out several different pairs of lace and mesh panties on the unmade bed.

There’s an uncharacteristic beat of silence on Vinny’s end. It’s so long, I’m about to ask if he’s dropped the call, when he speaks again.

“Daph, it almost sounds like you’re ambivalent about booking this gig.” Vinny’s voice is friendly, but there’s still the edge of accusation in his words.