Read Online Honey Moon by Susan Elizabeth Phillips - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Elizabeth Phillips
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best, Dash. You always have been, and nothing's going to change that."
"Yeah. That's right. Nobody plays Dash Coogan like I do. Now how about you stop grin-fuckin' this ol' boy and let those high-priced writers of yours see that videotape? Judging by their track records, they aren't half as stupid as they seem. Give them forty-eight hours to come up with a new concept."
"We can't change the concept of the show at this late date!"
"Why not? We don't start filming for six more weeks. The sets and locations don't have to change. Just give it a try. And tell them to forget the laugh track while they're at it."
"The show's a comedy, for chrissake!"
"Then let's make it funny."
"It is funny," Ross said defensively. "A lot of people think it's pretty goddamn funny."
Dash spoke with a core of sadness in his voice. "It's not funny, and it's not honest. How about asking the writers to try to make it at least a little bit honest this time?"
Ross gazed after Dash as he walked out of his office. The actor had a reputation for doing his job but ignoring the details. He had never heard of Dash Coogan worrying about a script.
Ross picked up his drink and took a long, thoughtful sip.
Maybe it wasn't so strange that Dash was taking more of an interest in this project than in others. The ravages of a hard life had stamped themselves on the actor's face, camouflaging the fact that he was barely forty years old. He was also the last of a proud breed of movie cowboys that had been given life in the early 1900s with William S. Hart and Tom Mix. A breed that had blazed into glory with Coop and the Duke in the fifties and then grown cynical with the times in the Eastwood spaghetti westerns of the seventies. Now Dash Coogan was an anachronism. The last of America's movie cowboy heroes was trapped in the eighties trying to fit on a screen much too small to contain a legend. No wonder he was running scared.
4
Eric Dillon was the stuff of female fantasy. Dark, sullen, and gorgeous, he was Heathcliff gone supersonic and blasted through time into the nuclear age.
People stared at him as he followed the two stuntmen through the crowd that jammed the Auto Plant, L.A.'s hot new night spot. The stuntmen were blond, with flashing smiles and party-animal demeanors, while Eric was grim and aloof. He wore a sports coat over a torn black T-shirt and faded jeans. His hair was brushed back from his forehead, and his turquoise eyes narrowly observed the world with a cynicism much too genuine for someone so young.
A hostess wearing a hard hat and short bib overalls that showed both breast and leg led them toward a table. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she recognized him, but she didn't say anything until he was seated.
" Destiny 's my favorite soap, and I think you're the greatest, Eric."
"Thanks." He wondered why he'd let Scotty and Tom talk him into coming with them tonight. He hated meat markets like this, and he wasn't overly fond of either one of the stuntmen.
"I'm going to UCLA during the day," the hostess said, "and I schedule all my classes so I don't miss it."
"No kidding." His eyes flicked to the dancers on the floor. He'd heard it a dozen times before. Sometimes he wondered why UCLA even bothered to hold classes between one and two in the afternoon.
"I can't believe you're leaving Destiny, " she pouted, her face girlish and surprisingly innocent beneath its veneer of professionally applied makeup. "It's going to ruin everything."
"The show's got a great cast. You won't even miss me." The cast was mediocre at best, made up of a bunch of has-beens and wanna-bes most of whom didn't even have enough respect for their profession to learn their lines.
The hostess was looking for an excuse to linger. He turned away from her and made a meaningless remark to Tom. Despite the girl's revealing outfit, there was a dewy freshness about her that attracted him, but as he lit a cigarette, he knew he wouldn't do anything about it. He never
"Yeah. That's right. Nobody plays Dash Coogan like I do. Now how about you stop grin-fuckin' this ol' boy and let those high-priced writers of yours see that videotape? Judging by their track records, they aren't half as stupid as they seem. Give them forty-eight hours to come up with a new concept."
"We can't change the concept of the show at this late date!"
"Why not? We don't start filming for six more weeks. The sets and locations don't have to change. Just give it a try. And tell them to forget the laugh track while they're at it."
"The show's a comedy, for chrissake!"
"Then let's make it funny."
"It is funny," Ross said defensively. "A lot of people think it's pretty goddamn funny."
Dash spoke with a core of sadness in his voice. "It's not funny, and it's not honest. How about asking the writers to try to make it at least a little bit honest this time?"
Ross gazed after Dash as he walked out of his office. The actor had a reputation for doing his job but ignoring the details. He had never heard of Dash Coogan worrying about a script.
Ross picked up his drink and took a long, thoughtful sip.
Maybe it wasn't so strange that Dash was taking more of an interest in this project than in others. The ravages of a hard life had stamped themselves on the actor's face, camouflaging the fact that he was barely forty years old. He was also the last of a proud breed of movie cowboys that had been given life in the early 1900s with William S. Hart and Tom Mix. A breed that had blazed into glory with Coop and the Duke in the fifties and then grown cynical with the times in the Eastwood spaghetti westerns of the seventies. Now Dash Coogan was an anachronism. The last of America's movie cowboy heroes was trapped in the eighties trying to fit on a screen much too small to contain a legend. No wonder he was running scared.
4
Eric Dillon was the stuff of female fantasy. Dark, sullen, and gorgeous, he was Heathcliff gone supersonic and blasted through time into the nuclear age.
People stared at him as he followed the two stuntmen through the crowd that jammed the Auto Plant, L.A.'s hot new night spot. The stuntmen were blond, with flashing smiles and party-animal demeanors, while Eric was grim and aloof. He wore a sports coat over a torn black T-shirt and faded jeans. His hair was brushed back from his forehead, and his turquoise eyes narrowly observed the world with a cynicism much too genuine for someone so young.
A hostess wearing a hard hat and short bib overalls that showed both breast and leg led them toward a table. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she recognized him, but she didn't say anything until he was seated.
" Destiny 's my favorite soap, and I think you're the greatest, Eric."
"Thanks." He wondered why he'd let Scotty and Tom talk him into coming with them tonight. He hated meat markets like this, and he wasn't overly fond of either one of the stuntmen.
"I'm going to UCLA during the day," the hostess said, "and I schedule all my classes so I don't miss it."
"No kidding." His eyes flicked to the dancers on the floor. He'd heard it a dozen times before. Sometimes he wondered why UCLA even bothered to hold classes between one and two in the afternoon.
"I can't believe you're leaving Destiny, " she pouted, her face girlish and surprisingly innocent beneath its veneer of professionally applied makeup. "It's going to ruin everything."
"The show's got a great cast. You won't even miss me." The cast was mediocre at best, made up of a bunch of has-beens and wanna-bes most of whom didn't even have enough respect for their profession to learn their lines.
The hostess was looking for an excuse to linger. He turned away from her and made a meaningless remark to Tom. Despite the girl's revealing outfit, there was a dewy freshness about her that attracted him, but as he lit a cigarette, he knew he wouldn't do anything about it. He never
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