"Okay, I didn't expect you to actually have coffee at home," Naomi said, settling back on the sofa.
"You said you wanted to shoot the script you wrote yourself? Mind if I take a look? I've been around a few sets."
Wayne watched her lift the cup, lips brushing the rim before she took a slow sip.
He caught himself staring and quickly turned away, grabbing the script from the table and handing it over.
"Here. Read it as an audience member, and tell me what you think."
She took the document, flipping through them at an unhurried pace, pausing now and then to sip her coffee.
Even in the quiet of the room, Wayne couldn't help noticing how striking she was.
When she finished, she tilted her head thoughtfully. "Well… this feels like it's aimed at younger audiences—students, maybe. Middle-aged or older folks probably wouldn't go for this kind of horror. The story's a little thin, a bit old-fashioned. But—" she shrugged, "—it could work. It's not going to cost much to make."
Wayne tapped the script with his fingers. "Are you interested in the lead role? Blonde, beautiful—you fit the description perfectly."
Her eyes sharpened. "What would it take? You know what I mean. If I want this part… believe me, I can play it."
Halfway through reading, she'd clearly recognized the opportunity—a starring role, right there in her hands.
"This role doesn't demand heavy acting chops," Wayne said plainly. "You've seen that. It's about presence—being memorable on screen. But I'll be upfront: the pay's low. Twenty thousand, max. My budget's tight."
"No problem," she replied without hesitation. "I'll call my agent tomorrow to sign. You understand—I need this. What else? Want me to audition? Show you what I can do? I know how this business works—if you want something, you give something."
Wayne wasn't surprised. In Hollywood, opportunity was currency, and actors—no matter how slim the odds—flocked to it.
"No audition necessary," he said. "This part is about impact. A beautiful woman, caught in a cycle of death and destruction—that's what will hold the audience."
She smirked. "So… was this coffee just about the script? Boy, trust me—my acting is better than you think."
She set the script down, took another slow sip, then leaned forward, fingers hooking into his belt.
Without breaking eye contact, she led him toward the bedroom.
Wayne followed, murmuring with a faint smile, "Maybe your acting will surprise me after all."
The "audition" in the bedroom stretched into the evening.
Later, they headed downstairs, drove to the convenience store, and returned with two packs of cigarettes, a pizza, and a few of the little cocktail umbrellas she'd teased him about earlier.
She clearly had no intention of leaving that night.
On the balcony, Wayne sketched storyboards between bites of pizza. She sat nearby in his oversized white shirt, flipping through the script as she ate.
"Wayne," she said, "I just called my agent. She's coming over tomorrow to sign the contract. You know, if I don't get this role, I'll be on a plane back to Australia in two days—back to commercials and forgettable TV gigs. Maybe polish my acting on stage instead."
Without looking up from his drawing, Wayne replied, "Then don't screw it up. This is important for both of us. If I blow this, I won't get another investor. And if that happens, you might be packing your bags too."
She smirked. "Well… it's getting late. Maybe I should show you some special acting skills. No audition?"
She stood, turned slightly, lifting the hem of the shirt just enough to make her point, then glanced back over her shoulder with a teasing flick of her tongue before disappearing toward the bathroom.
Wayne whistled, set down his pencil, and followed.
By morning, it felt almost like a scene from a film—Wayne waking to the smell of breakfast, his neighbor moving easily around the kitchen.
When a woman's determined, he thought, she can make a man feel very comfortable indeed.
A knock at the door broke the moment. Still half-asleep, Wayne opened it to find a middle-aged woman in a sharp business suit.
"Excuse me, is Miss Watts here? I went to her place, but she wasn't home."
He stepped aside to let her in, then headed for the shower.
"Hey, Jenny," the neighbor called cheerfully, "want some breakfast? Scrambled eggs and bacon."
Jenny set her bag down, but her tone was all business. "Listen, you shouldn't be signing on for a novice director who hasn't even graduated yet. This is a small independent film—you don't know if it'll even get finished. The indie scene can be messy. A lot gets promised. Not much delivered."
The neighbor's smile thinned. "Oh, come on. I've been in Hollywood for almost a year. What have you done for me besides a few no-line walk-ons? If I don't grab this, I'll be back in Australia doing stage plays and commercials. And those bitches will laugh themselves sick. At least he's handsome, isn't he?"
Jenny had no answer. She'd represented plenty of actresses and knew resources for newcomers—no matter how beautiful—were limited.
Wayne lingered in the bathroom until their voices quieted, then emerged as if he'd heard nothing. Sitting at the table, he poured himself coffee.
"Jenny, right? Someone will be bringing the contract by later. You know the drill—agent has to be present when an actor signs."
His tone was casual, matter-of-fact. In Hollywood, this was standard. And while he didn't take her warning personally, he noted one thing: at least she was trying to protect her client. That alone made her a competent agent.