Page 3 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Just a moment!” I holler, my voice thick with sleep. At the same time I scoop up all the icy remnants of my nightmare and dump them at the back of my mind. I’m pretty skilled at that. I’ve had sixteen years of practice.
To the chorus of more knocking, I root through a suitcase that’s more books than clothes and throw on a pair of khaki shorts and a white vest top. After scraping my hair into a loose ponytail and tucking the stray strands of my bangs behind my ears, I open the door and stand blinking in the bright sunlight. The next thing I know, a cute-looking blonde in denim cutoffs and a tight blue T-shirt is thrusting a wad of paper into my hands.
“Hi, you must be Charlie. I’m Rachel, Jake’s assistant,” she chirps, her mega-watt smile pinning me to the doorframe like a hot, white spotlight. “I figured I’d swing by and say hello. Here’s a copy of the latest script. Jake changed itagainlast night.”
“Th-thanks,” I stammer. That’s too much information before my first espresso.She’s not much older than me and she seems nice enough. A little lightweight maybe… A littletooupbeat… Then again, I’m used to Lucy and her bulldozer personality.
Rachel gives me a quick once-over, then frowns. “Are you ready to go? Our car’s waiting downstairs. It leaves for the studios at seven.” She consults her watch with a brisk flick of her wrist, and something tells me her immaculate bob haircut isn’t just a quirk of fate. “It’s ten-to already.”
“Uh, sure,” I say, feeling ambushed. “Can I have a minute to brush my teeth?”
Rachel flicks her wrist at me again. “Better make that thirty seconds…” She trails off as her phone starts chiming. She reads the message and her face drops before she’s backing away from me at top speed. “I’ll, um, meet you downstairs,” she calls out over her shoulder.
When I join her in the back of our jeep, she’s pounding away on her iPad as if her life depends on it.
“Is everything okay?” I venture cautiously, reaching around for my seat belt.
She shakes her head. “Jake arrived this morning without telling anyone. Caught an early flight. Bam! Just like that. Not even his L.A. team knew. He’s already at the studios—”
And already raising hell, if her expression is anything to go by.
She’s left the sentence hanging on purpose and it’s got me drawing some serious conclusions about Jake Dalton. She looks dead nervous, but about what? Jake? Being caught on the hop? She keeps gnawing at her bottom lip with small, very white teeth.
“Is he a relentless asshole all the time, or are we blessed with brief periods of remission?” I blurt out suddenly.
Her head jerks up in shock. “Excuseme?”
“I heard the rumors.” My off-switch is malfunctioning again.
“I really don’t think—”
“Is it true he’s alienated half of Hollywood with his behavior?”
Her mouth drops open. I’m not playing by the rules that a deferential new assistant should abide by. “I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, Charlie, but Jake’s anamazingproducer.”
If you say so.My verdict is still very much out, somewhere in amongst the golden sand dunes that are coating the horizon.
Our driver hits the accelerator and we rumble out of the hotel parking lot at a slow crawl. Rachel can’t stop staring at me, and I know what’s being concluded beneath that flawless makeup of hers. I’m just another outspoken film crew wannabe with an out-of-control set of bangs that dips indolently into her eyelashes.
But it’s all a front. I’m all about the contradictions. No one knows the real truth about me, not even Lucy, and she’s the closest thing I have to family. Yeah, my real one was shattered a long time ago.
“Are you always this direct?” Rachel splutters eventually.
Get the words in first so that no one has a chance to wound me with theirs.
“Bad habit,” I mumble, regretting my outburst. Day one, and I’m already topping her shit list.
“I see.”
I think she does, as well. Something tells me that she’s a lot more astute than her ditzy image implies. A smile starts playing at the corner of her lips—completely sincere, no catty connotations. All of a sudden, I don’t want to be on her shit list anymore—I want to be her friend.
“Max will adore that about you, but I’d rein it in around Jake,” she advises gently. “He’s not such a fan of other people’s opinions.”
That’s never going to happen, but I don’t tell Rachel.
Ten minutes later we’re being waved through a security station. Up ahead, the Moroccan film studio is laid out before us in a sprawling confusion of dusty-brown buildings and warehouses. We park up next to one and exit the jeep, a pack of stray dogs surging forward from the shadows to greet us with energetic barks. In the distance I can see the soaring peaks of the Atlas Mountains conquering the landscape like an army of craggy-faced militia. I swipe my palm across my brow. It’s still early, but already the desert heat is intense.
We pick our way through our flea-bitten welcome committee and enter a large office block. There’s a pervasive smell of rotten wood, and each desk is coated with a light sheen of dust. I count five in total as Rachel heads toward the window shutters. The swollen latch gives way to her frantic tugging and the room is flooded with the rose-tinted hues of early morning.
