A Spy Is Born Read online

  A Spy is Born

  A Starstruck Thriller, Book 1

  Emily Kimelman

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Sneak Peek

  A Note From Emily

  About the Author

  Emily’s Bookshelf

  A Spy Is Born

  Copyright © 2018 by Emily Kimelman

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Girls, we run this motha, yeah

  Girls, we run this motha, yeah

  Girls we run this motha, girls

  Who run the world?

  Girls

  Who run the world?

  Girls

  Who run the world?

  Girls

  * * *

  -Beyonce, Who Run the World (Girls)

  Prologue

  I am naked, bruised, and clutching a blood-stained Oscar statue.

  I didn't mean to kill him. The last thing I want is the director of my film—my first big role—dead.

  Now the cops are here, and even though it's obviously self-defense, I'm done for…my life is over. I'll never work in this town again even if I manage to avoid jail time. I'll be infamous instead of famous.

  Unless...

  Chapter One

  I grip my keys, the point of one protruding between my knuckles. The entrance to my apartment is right beyond the dumpsters. Ten feet away. Water mists the air, swirling in gray tendrils, turning the dark alley foggy and creepy. Brick walls rise on either side of me, closing me in—the street at my back is quiet, deserted.

  Fear tickles over my skin, raising hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. A scuffling comes from near my door, and I freeze, my heart hammering. A shadowy figure steps out from behind the stinking trash dumpster. I stay frozen, breath gone, blood rushing loudly in my ears.

  “Hey, cutie,” a man’s voice says behind me. There are two of them!

  I whirl around, panic closing my throat, my fists tightening—one clutching my purse strap and the other my keys. My weapon. A tall man with greasy hair, wearing a peacoat and a smug expression, blocks my only exit.

  My gaze ping-pongs between the two men. I know what they want. The shadowed figure by my door steps forward, revealing dark eyes and the low brow of a Neanderthal.

  They move in unison, closing in on me. Peacoat’s smug smile morphs into a hungry grin as his gaze falls onto my heaving chest. Even through the trench coat, it’s obvious I’m stacked. That’s half the reason I got this job.

  Crap. Stay in the moment.

  I plant my feet, the stiletto, thigh-high boots I’m wearing both an asset and a liability. Taking a deep breath, I bring my purse up fast and hard, whipping it at Neanderthal’s face. He steps back in mild, almost amused, surprise, and I lash out with my back leg at Peacoat.

  My heel catches him in the stomach, and he stumbles away with a muttered curse. I pivot, twisting around, and step forward into a roundhouse kick that catches Neanderthal in the chin. The heel of my boot gouges him, and blood pours down his neck as he gives a cry of pain.

  “CUT!!!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping forward toward the actor playing Neanderthal. He is holding his chin, blood spilling between his fingers.

  “What the hell, Angela?” Jack Axelrod, my director, asks from his perch above me—he and the camerawoman, Darlene Jackson, are in a cherry picker, getting the scene from the air. A medic rushes up to Neanderthal.

  “I’m sorry!” I yell up to my director.

  Jack shakes his head and says something to Darlene. She nods.

  Please don’t fire me.

  “Let’s take a break,” Jack says, waving his hand to be lowered to the ground.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say again, but no one is listening.

  My manager, Mary Genovese, hurries over, heels clicking on the concrete floor, Birkin bag swinging from a well-muscled arm as she pushes past the medics. “Come on, sweetie,” she says, taking my elbow. “Let’s get you to your trailer.”

  Her heavy floral perfume stings my eyes as I follow her. We move off the set, weaving through the equipment and stepping over cords. Mary pushes open the door of the studio, and bright LA sunshine blinds me for a moment. Mary keeps moving forward, talking the entire time. “Don’t worry about it. They’re not going to fire you for that.”

  “Fire me?”

  “They are not going to do that.” She pulls open my trailer door and pushes me up the few steps into the air-conditioned, plastic-scented space. “Have some water.” She points to a row of bottles lined up on the green granite counter.

  I obey, opening a bottle and taking a long sip while Mary sits on the couch and starts to type on her phone. My eyes are drawn to my Kindle, which is plugged into the wall. Can I just curl up in a ball and read now?

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mary says in a sing-songy voice, pulling my attention back to her. My chest tightens. What now? “A little present for completing your first week on set.”

  “It’s not over yet,” I point out, sitting next to her on the white faux-leather cushions. She smiles at me. Mary’s dark lashes are painted with thick layers of mascara, and her brown eyes are sparkling. She is full of energy and enthusiasm.

  Mary believes in me and is one of the top agents in Hollywood, so I ignore the spray tan and the heavy perfume and the annoying way she orders me around. She got me this job. She’s convinced I can be a star.

  There’s a knock on the trailer door, and Mary pops up. “Here it is!” She opens the door, and a PA stands there, his long hair pulled into a man bun, his T-shirt and jeans just the right amount of distressed. He’s holding a cardboard file box by the punched-out handles. He passes it to Mary. “Thanks, sweetie,” she says before closing the door.

  “Here you go,” she grins, handing me the package. Something inside it moves, and I screech, almost dropping it. “Careful!”

  “You should have warned me it was alive,” I grumble, placing it firmly on my lap and taking off the lid. Inside is a tiny little fluffball—a puppy. It looks up at me with giant brown eyes surrounded by soft white fur, the little black nose sniffing the air.

  The puppy jumps up at me with a squeak. I don’t know what to say. I can barely handle taking care of myself, what am I going to do with a puppy?

  “It’s one of those new designer dogs, part poodle, part Dachshund. Pick it up!” I glance at Mary; she’s smiling, her gold hoops swinging back and forth as she gestures for me to pick up the dog. “It’s going to be great for your image.” Her eyes widen. “People love puppies.”

  I look back to the animal and scoop a hand underneath him…or her. It’s warm and soft. So tiny. I can feel ribs through the fur, and its heart flutters quickly against my palm. It wriggles, and I move the box to the floor, bringing my other hand up to clutch the small thing to my chest.

  “You two look adorable! Hold on.” Mary whips out her phone and aims it at me. My face breaks out into a smile, the one I’ve perfected for social media. I’m so normal and happy and LOVE sharing with you.

  “Perfect,”
Mary says, head bending over the phone as she posts it on my accounts. “What are you naming him?”

  I look down at the little guy. With the long body of a Dachshund, and the curls of a poodle, he’s funny looking. And super cute. The puppy yawns, showing off tiny pointed teeth, then spins once before curling up on my lap. He is falling asleep on me.

  I kinda melt.

  “Should it be something funny?” I ask, scratching under his chin. He makes a little sound, a vibration of pleasure.

  “Sure. Anything you want.”

  “How about Lump?”

  “Loomp?” Mary looks up from the screen, her lip raised in distaste.

  “Yes, but spelled L–U–M–P. It was Picasso’s Dachshund.”

  Mary shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  I scratch the puppy’s head, and he cuddles closer. “Okay, how about Amos or Archie? Andy Warhol’s Dachshunds.”

  “Those are cute. Either one will do. How do you know that, anyway?”

  I shrug. “That’s the kind of stuff I remember.” Useless.

  She nods and turns away. “I’m saying Archie. Amos might offend people who remember that old show Amos and Andy—very racist.”

  “Okay, Archie.” The little dog blinks his eyes open. “Do you like that name?”

  He whines and wiggles closer. I bring him up to lay a kiss on his head. “That’s perfect!” Mary says, holding up her phone again. “So sweet!”

  Another knock at the door, and Mary goes to answer it. “Oh, hi, Jack,” she says, stepping back. I wince at the sound of the director’s voice.

  “Mary, can I get a moment alone with my star?” My star. I like the sound of that.

  “Of course.” She reaches back into the trailer to grab her bag off the couch and raises her brows at me. This is your chance to apologize and show him you deserve to be here.

  Jack steps into the trailer once Mary is gone. He’s tall and strong, with gray hair and round glasses sitting at the tip of his sculpted nose, exposing his bright blue eyes. He gives me a warm smile. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

  My shoulders relax, releasing the tension gathered there. “Sorry I screwed up.”

  He shrugs, sitting down next to me. “This is your first action movie.”

  I nod. “My first major role,” I say with a grateful smile. You’re giving me a chance, and I appreciate it.

  “I think you’ve got a lot of potential. And I know you’ve been training hard.”

  Seven days a week with my trainer and still managed to screw up. Ugh.

  “I have, but I can train harder,” I say, determined to get this right.

  His eyes dip down to my body for a moment. “You look great. But we need you to have…” His eyes make it back up to mine. “More control.”

  “I know.” I nod. “I’ll work on it. I swear. I'm so sorry.”

  His hand lands on my thigh. “I’m sure you will.” He gives my leg a squeeze before standing. “Back on in ten,” he says as he opens the door. “Oh.” Jack turns back to me, his hand on the knob, the door half open. “Come by for dinner tonight. My place in the hills. We can go over all this. I want to make sure you’re having a good experience.”

  “Okay,” I say, my instincts sounding an internal alarm. That’s a bad idea. He smiles and, after one more up-and-down glance at my body, heads out the door.

  Mary comes in, grinning. “He invited you to his house,” she says. “That’s great. Means he’s taking an interest in your career.”

  “Is that what it means?” I ask, placing Archie back in his box. He turns in a circle before nuzzling in among the shredded newspaper.

  “Of course. Now come on. You’re needed back on set.”

  I pick myself up and glance in the mirrored wall before stepping out of the trailer. Taking a deep breath, I put on a smile. I can handle whatever comes my way.

  The steps up to Jack Axelrod’s house are white marble. The whole thing is classic, fashionable, 1920s Hollywood glamour. Lights twinkle in the gardens surrounding the mansion. The brick driveway behind me doesn’t have one weed creeping through the crevices.

  I grew up with a dirt driveway.

  Taking a deep breath, I continue up the fabulous steps. This is the stuff old Hollywood dreams are made of…everything I want. Everything I came to this city to get. Determined to make it all work and make this dinner a success, I knock on the imposing wooden doors, releasing a long, slow breath.

  The sun is setting, bright orange and glimmering in the smog over the ocean. The sky is that dark, luscious blue of almost night. A few of the brightest stars twinkle overhead.

  Are they smiling down at me?

  The door slides open on well-oiled hinges, and a woman wearing a pale blue maid’s uniform—including the crisp white apron—stands before me. Gray curls frame her smiling face. She nods to me, as if I’m important.

  I'm the daughter of a welder and a laundress. She doesn't care. Nothing matters here except what you make of yourself.

  This isn't Kansas, Toto.

  I heft the bag Archie is sleeping in and smile. “Hi, I’m Angela,” I say.

  “Of course, we’ve been expecting you.” She steps aside to usher me in. “Please come in. Mr. Axelrod is on the back patio."

  To describe the entrance hall as anything but grand would be madness. The ceiling soars above me, arching into a domed skylight—like that ancient church in Rome. Not that I've been there in person, but I've seen it in books.

  I smile at my uniformed greeter and follow her, my ridiculously high heels clicking on the tile floor as we move past a staircase that winds up the wall to the second floor. Grand. The brass railing sparkles, and thick carpeting in the same blue as the sky runs down the steps. Photographic stills from black and white films line the walls.

  We pass under an archway into a huge sitting room with multiple couches and chairs…lots of places for people to sit. My feet stop as my eyes catch the gold statues on the mantel. Oscar. Oh, sweet Oscar.

  The housekeeper, whose name I don't know because I'm too nervous to ask, stops with me. She waits patiently. This can’t be the first time she's stood next to some starstruck newbie. Does she know how dry my throat is? Does she know how much I want one of those? There are four of them. Four!

  Best Director awards over a three-decade career, and the man still has it. I take a stuttering breath, pulling my guts back into myself from where they've spilled all over the fancy carpet. It looks so soft!

  I glance over at my guide. "They're beautiful," I say. What a load of crap. They are powerful. They are everything.

  She nods. "Yes."

  She must clean them. Gets to touch them. I wonder if he'd let me if I asked. A giggle bubbles up in my chest, and I repress it. Asking to touch a man's Oscar. What would my grandmother say? Slut, whore, filthy woman. The anger and hate in the old woman's voice seems to grab me around the middle in a vice that squeezes all those guts I just stuffed back into myself, threatening to spill them out again.

  I swallow. "What's your name?” I ask as the woman starts to walk again. I follow, my legs leaden but loosening with each step as I get further away from those statues. It's as if they have some kind of aura around them—some kind of witchcraft spun into the gold.

  “Nancy,” she answers quietly, almost like she doesn't want me to know.

  Somehow, it reminds me of something…but what? A lamb to the slaughter. An image of the sheep we raised on our small farm flashes across my mind—they are standing in the rain, the lambs close to their mothers, my father striding through the storm to do his duty.

  "My real name is Stacy," I admit boldly, strangely, out of the blue.

  Nancy turns to look over her shoulder, her brows conferencing in confusion. Why did I tell her that? She gives me a half smile. "I'm sure lots of actresses change their name. You're Angela now, dear, as long as you want to be."

  I nod, blushing. I'm acting like an idiot. And that is so not new.

  But I got here, didn
't I?

  Nancy reaches the sliding glass doors we've been walking toward and pulls one open, revealing the back patio. The view stops me again. All of LA is spread before me. It's glittering. And there—oh, right there! The Hollywood sign is lit up, seeming so tiny in contrast to the sparkling city.

  Archie stirs from within the purse Mary gave me to carry him around in and pokes his head out, looking around for a second before licking my hand. All he sees is a blurry screen of black and white, from what I’ve read about puppy development.

  Maybe I really should have named him Toto…

  Jack rises from a cushioned chair and steps forward, his movements as elegant as his pressed linen shirt and casual jeans. He's barefoot, and something about that sends a thrill through me. It's strangely intimate. Jack Axelrod, Oscar-winning director, is smiling at me, holding out a hand…not wearing any shoes…all of LA behind him. Almost like he's offering it to me.

  But what is the price?

  Your soul, my grandmother's pinched voice pierces through me. A smile comes to my lips as I boldly walk through the opening. It's just me and Jack, here to talk about my starring role in his movie.

  I throw on my warmest, most intimate smile—the one that says I’m totally fascinated by the person in front of me. And in this case, it's not acting.

  Jack pours me another glass of wine. My second and last, I note to myself, as a warm flush is already moving up my neck.

  So far, it’s going well. My limbs are loose, my laugh genuine, and Archie is doing a good job of being a cutie pie.

  Jack has bright eyes—they look like sapphires and emeralds had the most beautiful babies. They remind me of the deepest waters of the Caribbean… I went there once. On a photo shoot. Was sick as a dog on the boat.