STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

Cait | The Hot Seat

After a weekend of shopping, pampering and enjoying the LA scene, Cait dropped Eshe off at the airport to catch her afternoon flight. Although only a brief visit, it had been exactly what Cait had needed to get her legs back again after Angela Torres unceremoniously cut them out from under her.

Eshe was right. She had to fight back.

And if she was going to go to war, then she needed to be dressed for battle. After returning to the townhouse, she went to work. Hair and makeup, pulling out the most daring ensemble she had from her closet and thanked her past self for having the sense to obscenely over pack and to always travelling with runway couture.

Her oversized Oscar de la Renta white blouse with billowing sleeves, cut long like a sheath dress and open at the back, paired with chic black shorts and gladiator boots gave her edge and sophistication.

Whipping up eggs in a bowl, Cait let her mind flow over the plan of action. Even though it was near dinner time, she had a craving for something light and easy. Omelettes. Egg whites only—had to watch the waist (for the next couple of weeks at least). She heaped in a generous handful of spinach, some cubed peppers, onions and minced cilantro before dumping in into a non-stick pan.

Earl breezed through the townhouse door and plunked down his tote just as Cait finished with plating a second omelette. "Punctual as ever," she said, bringing the food to the table. "Don't worry, yours doesn't have any cheese."

"Darling, you're cooking in couture," he cooed, leaning in to air kiss her cheeks. "I see a girl's weekend was just what the doctor ordered. You've got the look back in your eyes," Earl commented.

"I do indeed. But before I give you all the salacious dirt, first things first." Cait braced the table and wiggled her shoulders. "How was your audition?"

"Terrible." Earl waved a hand before dragging out his chair. "All these directors want are blond studs with chiselled bodies."

Cait choked on her orange juice. "Have you looked in a mirror?" she wiggled a finger at him. "It's like you were honed from granite, and no one could possibly be more blond than you."

Earl pouted. "I want to be seen, Cait. Truly seen. As an artist. Not a side piece." He propped a fist under his Adonis-like chin and sighed. "I'd kill for a heart wrenching indie piece. Something with heart and integrity. Not made of fluff and cardboard."

Cait rolled her eyes. "First get your foot in the door, and then worry about what comes next. No one is going to give you the good stuff if they don't know who you are."

Earl razzed his lips, and frowned. "I tell you, darling, the price of being gorgeous is a burdensome weight to carry. All anyone sees is the shell and never stop to look deeper. Why would they when the exterior package is so pretty?"

Cait rubbed her forefinger and thumb together. "Oh, do you hear that? Tiny violin—just for you."

Smiling, Earl plucked a cube of diced pepper from his omelette and lobbed it at her. "I'm serious. Half way through the reading I was told to take off my shirt and flex. Instead of playing Chad, the footballer with PTSD, I'm to play Bo. Brooding alpha surfer who speaks like a Neanderthal and is so not a feminist."

Always the bleeding heart, Earl had walked from modeling after a scant six months during a shoot in Australia—where they'd met and promptly fallen head over heels in friendship. An artist with a soul hungry to create something lush and meaningful but with the face and body of a wet dream.

But she could appreciate his frustrations. Two years of auditions and so far the only roles to come his way were straight heroes for fluffy rom-coms or the flamboyant best friend to provide comic relief.