Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

in Helmand. But she rose to it, remaking herself yet again: not just carving out a life for herself with no legs and barely any arm movement, but teaching herself how to code – and code damn well, thank you very much. Well enough to do it professionally for the US government, the only constant throughout her working life. Uncle Sam would always find a place for those who were willing to remake themselves.

A rueful smile sneaks across Reggie’s face. Moira wants to test her? See what Regina Gillian McCormick is made out of? Fine. Regina Gillian McCormick made it out of Shreveport, Louisiana. She wasn’t defeated by what happened in Nemila, she wasn’t defeated by a Taliban RPG and a busted C6 vertebra, and she is damn sure not going to let a pile of paperwork claim that particular honour.

Her phone rings. Well, there you go. Did she really think Moira wouldn’t find out about the way the job ended? Reggie sighs, putting the cup on the counter and fishing the phone out of its holder, already planning how she’s going to frame this.

Only, it’s not Moira. It’s a number Reggie doesn’t recognise.

She frowns, then her face clears – probably someone wanting some boxes shifted. China Shop still has a cover as a removals company, and after the quake, their services have been in demand.

“Answer call,” she says. There’s a beep as it connects. “China Shop Movers?”

The voice on the other end is confident, female. “May I speak to Regina McCormick?”

“This is she.”

“Oh hi, great, Regina. My name is Darcy Lorenzo. I’m calling from DCA Talent?”

“… I’m sorry, where?”

“DCA Talent. We manage actors in the industry. I wanted to talk to you about—”

“You manage actors.”

“Uh-huh. So listen, I saw you play Titania at the Roadhouse. I wasn’t actually supposed to be there that night – I work with actors all day, so I try to give myself a break.” Darcy Lorenzo laughs, a tinkling sound that puts an absurd image in Reggie’s mind of a champagne flute smashing to bits on a hard floor. Why on earth is this woman calling her? “But a friend of mine dragged me along. I have to say, you blew me away.”

“Um. Thank you?” It was months ago that Reggie played Titania, the fairy queen in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“I’ve kind of kept you in the back of my mind,” Lorenzo says. “Just when we’re going through casting notes, you know. I wasn’t sure I’d find a role that’s right for you, you know, since…” For the first time, the woman sounds unsure.

“Since I’m in a chair,” Reggie says, a note of steel entering her voice.

“Right, yes, exactly.” Lorenzo actually sounds relieved. “As I said, I kept you in mind and… well, I think I’ve come across a role you’d be perfect for. I tracked down the folks who own the theatre you performed at, and got your number. Do you have an agent right now?”

“An agent?”

“It’s totally fine if not. Actually, better than fine, because it gets me in on the Regina McCormick ground floor.” Another tinkly laugh.

Reggie clears her throat. “I’m not—”

Available. She was going to say, I’m not available.

And she isn’t! There’s way too much to do. She has to deal with the aftermath of what Teagan did, for one thing, and… God, so much else.

Lorenzo continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “Now as far as I know, this casting call is agency-only, but of course I’d be happy to submit it on your behalf. No commitment – we’d talk about that if they gave you a callback – but I speak for everyone here when I say we’d be delighted to represent you. Are you able to film an audition? On your phone is fine.”

“I… yes, I…”

“Outstanding. If you give me your email, I’ll send over the scene – I can’t say too much about what the project is right now, NDAs and all that, so don’t worry about putting it in context. Just hit us with your best shot.”

In a daze, Reggie gives the woman her personal email address. After they hang up, she spends a long time staring at her phone.

Reggie might not be from LA, but she’s an actress, and she has some idea of how these things work. And what just happened… shouldn’t happen. Agencies don’t even cold-approach actors with two good feet under them. Actors with disabilities? Reggie’s an optimist, but she’s never shied away from reality. She certainly isn’t going to start now. Hollywood can be brutal, and no casting director is going to go through the hassle of casting a quad or a para when they can just pick someone bankable and have them occupy a wheelchair on set. They did that with Denzel, didn’t they? Had him play a full quad on that old 90s movie, the serial killer thing with Angelina. The Bone Collector.

Except: just because it doesn’t usually happen, doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen.

This is insane. Reggie’s dreamed of going pro, sure, pleasant daydreams spurred on by the almost liquid thrill she got as she rolled out onto the playhouse stage in Anaheim. But actually doing it? Come on.

Before she can process this thought, her phone – still in her hand – rings again. And this time, there’s no debate who it is. Reggie knows, even before she looks at the phone screen.

“Answer call,” she says, trying to ignore the pitter-pat of her heart. “Moira. It’s all under control. I haven’t found any evidence of what Teagan—”

Tanner cuts her off. Her breathy New England voice sounds unusually harassed. “Where is the team now?”

“They’re getting some food. What’s going on?”

“We have a situation.”

SEVENTeagan

When you’re in LA, and you’ve just wrapped up a hard day busting meth labs and beating up biker gangs, where do you go for a good meal?

Howlin’ Ray’s.

Howlin’. Motherfuckin’. Ray’s.

The greatest hot chicken in history. Fine, that may or may not be true, but who cares? As I take a bite of