"Cut."

Thank God, Delilah James thought as she pushed the godlike actor off and reached for her robe. Pulling the terry cloth over her shoulders, she covered her nudity. It never ceased to amaze her how these guys could turn a love scene into a dry hump fest.

"Good job, Dee," the director said.

"Thanks."

She hurried to her dressing room, unable to make eye contact with the crew that moments ago had seen every part of her anatomy that an R-rated movie would allow. When the camera was on, she could be a moaning, groaning slut, but when the scene was over, she rushed for cover.

Being a body double wasn't something she had wanted to be when she came to L.A. five years ago. She had seen herself becoming a star of the silver screen, setting her hand and foot prints in cement. Her first double job had been to pay the rent until she got her face on camera. Now, the only way the public would know her was if they saw her ass or tits. She may as well never touch lipstick or eye shadow again. No one was interested in her face or her acting abilities. Self-doubt had long ago taken control and although she hadn't accepted the death of her dream, she was beginning to think this was all there was for her.

In her dressing room, she showered before changing into street clothes and combing her blond hair. She applied a little makeup and pondered the ridiculousness of her career choice. Why not porn? she asked herself. Why not centerfolds so men can masturbate over my photograph?

It had become difficult to look in the mirror. Yet she did. Every day she made sure the makeup was perfect. Just the right shade of foundation, blush, eye shadow, and mascara. And never forget to shine up your lips. When the day was done, take the makeup off and slather every inch with moisturizer.

When her cell phone chirped, she recognized her agent's number. "Hello?"

"Hey, Dee. What's up?"

"Not much. Just got laid in front of a set full of people," she said sarcastically. In truth, the last time anyone had fucked her, she was drunk and didn't even remember it all. She frowned and sat on the tatty sofa. "Other than that, I'm just fine."

"Good." Michelle laughed. "At least you can get laid. I've not had any since 1987."

"Anything new to report?" she asked, biting a thumbnail.

"Got another part for you. Are you available next week?"

"You know I'm supposed to go see my folks," she reminded, trying to straighten the now crooked false nail. "It's their thirtieth anniversary. I'm not available. Unless..."

"Yeah?" Michelle asked.

"Unless it's a real acting gig and not another grunt fest."

"Just a shower scene. No one but you and the crew."

Frustration tugged at her throat and she felt the familiar knot and threat of tears. Rubbing her hand over the fabric of her jeans, she said, "Sorry I can't. I'll be gone for two weeks. I'm tired, Michelle."

"I know."

The sympathetic tone in her voice eased Dee's tension. She blew out a frustrated breath. "I can do it before I go if you move the date up. I can't miss this party. I haven't been home in years and Mom's looking forward to seeing me. This is a big deal for the folks. God knows not many people out here make it through thirty years of marriage."

Dee stood beneath the showerhead as cool water trickled over her body, sending chills across her skin and causing her nipples to tighten. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was somewhere else. I'm in Hawaii under a gentle waterfall. I'm starring in my own picture. Damn, this self-talk shit never works for me.

When the cameras stopped rolling, she stood at the center of the set and looked around. People bustled about, but no one noticed that she had no towel and that her robe had gone missing. She started to shiver, the place was cold, the water had been cold, and the people were cold.

"Could I have a towel, please?" she asked and no one looked at her. Thankfully, her skin began to warm under the lights but her ire flared. She had the urge to run shrieking from the set. The entire situation was absurd. Looking around at the cheap shower stall decorated with expensive props to make it appear lush, she shook her head. The reality was that a gentle shove would push the entire thing over. It was all a fake. She gazed about the studio. I don't belong here.

Walking off the set to her trailer, she left wet footprints on the concrete floor. Once outside and in the bright warmth of the California sun, she raised her face upwards, took in a deep breath, and stretched. Too tired to be embarrassed, she waved at the bus filled with people clad in aloha shirts who were clicking her picture. She laughed as the bus driver nearly ran into a wardrobe cart. It was good to know she could still get someone's attention.