California sunshine is bright, seductive, and a little fake, just like the Hollywood sign that makes the whole world jealous.
Out in the Mojave Desert, Tom Cruise has this insane private mansion that, from a helicopter, looks like a stranded alien insect baked into the rocks. While most celebrities cram themselves into Beverly Hills to flex their money and fame, Tom picks blistering, endless desert. Something about being a speck under a giant sky feels right to him; it's the total opposite of his god-level status in town.
Even at the top of the world, he hasn't forgotten the broke-kid days. He's never been into parties, shopping sprees, or bottle service. When he needs to unwind, he comes here, stares at the sun until his brain goes quiet, and feels normal again.
Right now he's on the phone with Jack, pacing the glass-walled top floor that overlooks miles of nothing. The afternoon light cuts his face in half: one side golden, the other in shadow.
Jack's voice is practically vibrating. "Tom, you probably don't know her; I literally just Googled her myself. But don't sleep on this girl just because her rep's trashed. Her script? It's legit good. The storyboards show she actually has a brain and a vision."
Tom leans against the window, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. "What's her name?"
"Google her; she's tabloid poison," Jack says with a sigh. "Joey Grant."
Tom's gray-blue-green eyes (those eyes that are supposed to look icy but somehow always look warm) crinkle at the corners. He's got that all-American golden-retriever smile the country fell in love with decades ago. Guys can scream and jump around on screen all they want; one Cruise smirk still out-earns all of it.
He does remember the name; it just takes a second to click. "No need to Google. I know exactly who she is. Her fiancé; well, ex-fiancé now; is a buddy of mine."
"If we're talking about Hughes Redstone, yeah, definitely ex," Jack corrects.
Tom raises an eyebrow. Seven years with Hughes? He figured she must've been the real deal. Then again, "real deal" is rare in this town.
He shrugs it off. "Doesn't matter who she used to date. Bottom line: you think her movie's worth our money?"
"That's for you to decide, boss. I'm just telling you I'm impressed; and you know I'm not impressed by anybody these days."
Tom flips open his laptop. "Forward me the email. Been a while since I heard you hype up a kid like this. Thought you'd written off everyone except the usual ten directors."
"I'm just keeping it real," Jack grumbles. "Every fresh voice in Hollywood's either dead or making three-hour foot-wrapping garbage."
Tom laughs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright, I'll read it and get back to you."
He hangs up, rests his chin on his hand, and stares at the screen.
First things first: he pulls up her résumé before he even touches the script.
Joey Grant…
23 years old. Eight movies. One profitable, seven bombs.
Rotten Tomatoes and IMDb scores in the toilet.
Oh. And she's -American.
He closes the tab almost immediately. Worst résumé he's seen in years. He's not inspired. Even if the script's a masterpiece, the track record screams "spoiled prodigy who gave up the second it got hard."
Tom's the ultimate underdog story: poor kid from a broken home, no formal training, shows up in Hollywood at 19, nails his first big audition, gets a Golden Globe nom right out the gate. Then Top Gun in '86: $15 million budget, $360 million worldwide. Legend made overnight.
Back in the day, he slept in his car, ate hot dogs for a month straight, and got told his skin was "too dark" for a role. He still remembers that hunger. That's why he roots for dreamers who grind; not talented brats who flame out.
So yeah, he's not exactly rushing to read Little Miss Trainwreck's comeback script.
He shuts the laptop. He's got a date at six, and tomorrow he flies to Australia for a four-month shoot. No time.
As he's knotting his tie, he fires off a quick text to Jack:
"Will look at the Joey Grant stuff when I'm back from Australia."
Then he grabs his bag and heads out into the desert sunset.
––––––––
A full week goes by with zero word. Joey's climbing the walls. They promised an answer within seven days.
She starts blowing up the investment fund's phone line. Every time it's the same polite brush-off: "Still under review."
Finally she says screw it, throws on decent clothes, and marches straight to their office downtown.
And of course, the second she walks in, she literally bumps into Jack Hansen in the lobby.
Jack recognizes her instantly (he did Google her, after all). He stops. "Ms. Grant? I read your movie."
Her eyes light up like Christmas. Every extra day she waits, the bank gets closer to padlocking her door. "Yes! Hi! Any update on the review process?"
Jack adjusts his glasses, looking sympathetic. "I loved the script; genuinely. Problem is, it needs Tom's personal green light, and he just left for Australia. He won't be back for three, maybe four months."
The first half of that sentence gives her a burst of hope (Tom Cruise is actually reading her script?!). The second half knocks the air out of her. Three or four months? She only has six months total before she's out on the street.
She's practically vibrating with panic. Jack notices and softens. "You okay? You look like you're in real trouble. Talk to me; maybe I can help."
She's embarrassed, but desperation wins. She spills it: massive debt, house about to be foreclosed, she's completely out of time, please, is there any way to speed this up?
Jack winces. "I wish I could. I've already nagged him twice. He's slammed on set down under, and even if I get him on the phone, I doubt he'll carve out time right now. I'm sorry."
Joey deflates, shoulders sagging. "Okay. Thanks anyway. Sorry for bothering you."
She turns to leave.
"Hey; wait," Jack calls after her. "I really do want to help. But you're gonna have to convince the boss yourself."