“Birdie, it’s Maureen! Do you want me to do your hair and makeup tonight before the wrap party?”
“Yes, please,” she says, glancing toward the door.
“Meet me in my trailer in about ten minutes?”
“You got it!” Birdie responds and meets my eyes again. “I think I’m going to have to take a rain check on this.”
I grin. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure we continue this tonight.”
“Promise?”
“You have my fucking word.”
Birdie
That’s a wrap, baby!
In the name of a private wrap party for Grass Roots, Howie and Serena managed to shut down the Copper Door for one last night.
And let me tell you, besides the establishment’s bartenders and wait staff and live band playing onstage, the place is bursting at the seams with our entire cast and crew.
Excitement and elation vibrate off the walls in the form of lots of booze, lots of dancing, boisterous chatter, and never-ending laughs.
It’s certainly a night to celebrate, and my director is here for it.
Howie hands me my second shot of the night, and I scrunch up my nose. “Ah hell, How, what are you trying to do to me?”
His already red cheeks puff up in a grin. “Congratulate you on doing a fantastic fucking job,” he says and holds his shot glass up in the air. “Cheers to Birdie! My perfect Arizona Lee!”
I groan, but I also smile and give in to his alcohol-pushing demands. With the shot of clear liquid lifted in the air, I clink his glass and let the booze flow down the hatch.
Ugh. Tequila. It burns the entire way down, and I don’t hesitate to slam the shot glass back on the bar and snag a sip of my beer to chase away the horrid aftertaste.
I hate tequila something fierce.
Actually, I’m not a fan of any hard liquor. Give me sweet wine. Even an occasional beer. But unless you want me to become a disaster by the end of the night, keep the hard shit to yourself.
Howie moves along, setting his sights on his next victim, and I breathe out a sigh of relief when he takes Johnny by the shoulders and guides him away from a few of the camera guys he was chatting with and toward the bar.
I spot Serena in the center of the dance floor, shaking her ass and tossing her arms up in the air with her newest PA, Melinda, and Maureen and Cara from hair and makeup.
The vision of them makes me smile.
And I’m just about to join them when my cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans.
Andrew: You’re killing me in those jeans, firecracker.
I smirk and glance around the room to find him standing at one of the high-top tables with a few of our fellow costars who played the roles of Cal’s band. He lifts his beer in the air while his eyes stay focused on my ass.
I flash a secret smile his way, and he sets his beer down to type out another message.
My phone vibrates a moment later.
Andrew: You ready to get out of here and do something fun?
Me: With you?
Andrew: Uh-huh. Just me, you, and your glorious ass.
Me: I guess I can be swayed, but my ass needs convincing…what can you tell it to force a decision in your favor?
Andrew: The same thing I told it last time.
My cheeks hurt, I smile so big. He’s not lying. Traditionally, he and my ass really know how to have a good time.
Me: My hotel room or yours?
Andrew: In about ten minutes, I want you to head toward the bathroom, but sneak out that back exit door of the bar. I’ll be waiting for you.
Me: You sound like you have plans.
I quirk a brow in his direction, and he smirks as he types out another message.
Andrew: Oh, believe me, I do. ;)
Me: What are you up to, Andy?
Andrew: You’ll find out in ten minutes, firecracker.
Once I finish reading his text, I look up from my phone and back toward the high-top table, but he’s no longer there.
Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like he’s not giving me much of a choice.
Yeah, but it’s not like you even want a choice…
I certainly can’t deny that. I mean, over the past several weeks, I’ve found that I’m a big fan of Andrew’s brand of fun.
I check the time on my phone and note it’s 11:05 p.m.
So, I busy myself with finishing off my beer. Watching Serena and the girls cut a rug on the dance floor. I even witness