Best Friends for Never

Chapter One Noel

Chapter One

Noel

“I love you. Don’t you see that, Josette? I love you, but I can’t wait forever. So tell me you love me, too, or this is over.”

“I ...” She rolls her tongue over her bottom lip, her baby-blue eyes boring into me. Her honey-blond hair doesn’t move an inch as she shakes her head. “It’s not that simple, Riley.”

“It is.” I slide my palm over her cheek, cupping her face as she nuzzles into my touch. “It is that simple, Josette. Love me back. Please. ”

Her lips part, those words I want her to say sitting on the tip of her tongue.

But they never come.

No, it’s something far more jarring.

“Cut!”

Like a rubber band being snapped against a wrist, the world is brought back into focus, and the set buzzes to life around me.

You’d think I’d be used to it after spending the last ten years on various movie and TV show sets, but getting lost in the world of make-believe is easier than some people think.

“Bridget, that was amazing!” The director shoves his headphones off, letting them fall around his neck, then rises from his chair and crosses over to me and my costar. His eyes are big, bright, and excited as he stares down at the woman next to me. “You were flawless. The emotion ... It was breathtaking. Heartfelt. Gut-wrenchingly perfect. Everything I was looking for. I have no notes. Just give me that same thing for the next take.”

He pauses, then sucks in a deep breath before turning to me. That sheen of excitement? It’s gone, and I know I won’t like what I hear next.

Just like I haven’t liked it the last eleven times he’s come over here. We’ve run this scene repeatedly, and he’s still unhappy. But then again, so am I.

“Noel,” he starts, disappointment lacing each letter of my short name. Seriously, how is it possible he sounds that displeased in just one syllable? “Listen, that was good. Really good. It’s just ...”

Another heavy inhale. Another dramatic pause as he steeples his fingers together, resting them under his chin, his lips falling into a flat line.

I grind my teeth. If my agent could see me right now, he’d smack me upside the head for messing with my moneymaking smile. Then again, he’s not the one having to stand here and get criticized in front of an entire set when you’ve just given the performance your everything.

“I need more ,” he continues, pointing his steepled hands at me. “It’s still coming off a bit stiff. I’m not feeling that ... emotion, that depth . We need those to make the audience believe this is real. You need to be on the same level as Bridget here, or else the audience won’t root for you two, and we need them to root for you. Got it?”

He’s talking to me like I’m a child. Like he’s the one in charge. And I guess, technically, he is in charge here. This is his movie. His shit show. I’m just starring in it.

My first instinct is to tell him he’s a fool if he thinks anyone will believe this trash writing is real. That he must be higher than giraffe titties if he thinks this is going to make viewers do anything except laugh or hide behind their hands with secondhand embarrassment.

That wasn’t a heartbreaking scene. It wasn’t a tear-jerking moment. It was a demanding one—a love-me-or-else sort of scene. At this point, I don’t even want to root for my character.

But I’ve been in the industry long enough to know that my first instinct when it comes to a director is usually not the direction I should be going if I want to keep the peace and remain employed.

Play it safe, Noel. Always play it safe, especially when millions of dollars are on the line.

So that’s what I do.

I nod, then shoot him my best smile—the one I always save for the cameras—and tell him, “You got it, David.”

He seems relieved, squeezing my shoulder. “Thanks, Noel. You’re the best. We’re going again in five.” He marches back to his assistants and the crew, already barking orders.

Our makeup artists rush onto the scene, their brushes poised and ready, as I turn back to my costar and they begin caking on our powder to help cover up the sweat forming at our hairlines.

“You good?” Bridget asks, not even flinching at the brush near her right eye.

“I’m good,” I lie to Bridget, ignoring it as they pat here and there so I’m not shiny from all the sweating I’m doing. Why the hell did we have to film in Georgia again? In the middle of June? It’s humid and hot even with us shooting indoors on the soundstage, all thanks to the unbearable heat outside, and I’m getting increasingly agitated as the day progresses. I’m from the Pacific Northwest. I’m not used to the mugginess the South provides.

She arches a brow. “Are you, though? That was ...” She slides her eyes over to the director, who is now yelling at Darius, a PA who probably hasn’t done a damn thing wrong.

“Embarrassing as hell?” I scoff. “Yeah, I know. But he was right. I sucked.”

“ You didn’t suck. This dialogue does. It’s crap.”

She gets it.

I thought maybe it was just me, but no. Which is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. If the actors aren’t even connecting with the scene, it’s not going to hit with audiences either. Reshoots after this inevitably fails testing are not an option, thanks to my agent booking me out the ass for the next six months, all starting with a trip I really, really don’t want to take.

I shove that thought aside. It’s not something I need to be thinking of right now. I need to focus entirely on this next take so I can nail it and we can get out of here faster. We are just four scenes away from wrapping this film, and the whole crew has agreed to work over the weekend in hopes of finishing early. The last thing I need is to mess this up and let everyone down.

Bridget peeks over at the crew again before stepping in closer and lowering her voice. “Go off script,” she says.

“Oh, so you want me to get fired.”

She laughs, lifting her eyes skyward. “Please. As if David would ever fire you. He’d lose the movie like that .” She snaps her fingers for emphasis. “You’re the whole reason the budget got bumped up so we could film the first part of the movie on location in Paris. You’re not going anywhere.”

I don’t even bother refuting her words. She’s right. I am the reason the budget was expanded. The studio’s last movie didn’t do as well as they hoped, so they cut the financing for this one. Then I came onto the scene, and millions of dollars were suddenly available.

I guess that’s the kind of pull you have when riding a hot streak and landing roles left and right after your big-budget movie sweeps the awards season.

But the trophies on my shelf aside, going off script is not an option with David Richards, the multi-award-winning director famous for his epic, sweeping romances, running the show. As much as he’s known for his two-plus-hour-long sagas, he’s even more notorious for hating it when his actors improvise. He says a script was written for a reason, and we’re expected to follow it to a T. He’s already kept us to 4:00 a.m. three times this week because he wasn’t happy with a speech my character’s brother was giving—he kept leaving out too many filler words.

One Night is expected to be this generation’s The Notebook , taking the audience by storm and being quoted for years. I can’t blow this just because I can’t move past some crappy dialogue and deliver the scene like it needs to be delivered.

“Trust me, Noel, it’s not you,” Bridget tells me as if she can read my mind. And maybe she can at this point. We’ve been working side by side nearly nonstop for the last eight weeks. The only real breaks from one another have come in the form of three-hour naps between takes or when David rushes off to his trailer to correct the script. “It’s this speech. It’s too ... choppy. It needs work. David is just afraid to admit it.”

I glance at Kris, one of the makeup artists, and their eyes connect with mine. They point their brush at Bridget. “I’m with her on this. That speech didn’t evoke a single reaction from me except annoyance. If a partner said those words to me, I’d be gone in a flash. But I don’t play games.” They shrug, then continue working on my face like they never said a word.

“Thanks, Kris,” I mutter. Bridget smiles victoriously. “Oh, shut up. Stop looking so proud. I’ll ... I’ll think about it.”

“Thinking about it and doing it are two different things. Come on, Noel. You can do it. Pull from experience. I know you have some heartbreak in your past.” Bridget rakes her eyes over me. “There’s no way you look like you and don’t.”

This wouldn’t be the first time Bridget flirted with me during this shoot. If we weren’t costars, I’d consider it. But I have a rule against dating anyone I work with, and I’m not planning to bend that anytime soon.

“I bet you have girls crying and mooning over you left and right. Hell, the boys too,” she continues, her eyes still drinking me in. “Probably you were the king of your high school, turning down prom dates hourly.”

I laugh at that. I was most certainly not the king of my high school. I wasn’t what you’d call popular, but I wasn’t entirely on the outskirts either. I was the sought-after lead for every school play, and in the tiny town I hail from, that held some weight.

“I was a theater geek.”

“So? I’ve met theater geeks. They’re usually the freakiest of them all. Ask me how I know.” She bounces her brows up and down.

I shake my head with a smile. “You’re too much, Bridge.”

She shrugs, not bothered by my words. And why would she be? She’s been in this industry since she was nine years old, getting her start on the Family Channel, and she then went on to do what nearly every childhood star does—have a public nervous breakdown and go wild. She’s been in the headlines more times than I could ever dream of, though it’s been mostly bad over the years. This movie is supposed to be her big comeback, showing the world she’s not just another former childhood star turned rowdy partyer.

Which means I have to do it. I have to go off script, not just to save myself from delivering those horrible lines but also to save this movie for Bridget.

My brain kicks into overdrive, and all the possible ways I could play this scene flow through me at once. I know where I can tweak it, where I can make it better.

I heard rumors that the last actor to pull a stunt like this with David was banned from ever starring in another of his movies. That led to him being barred from other sets and branded as “undirectable.” Not saying he’s been completely blacklisted, but I don’t believe it’s a coincidence he hasn’t been a lead in a serious film since.

It’s a risk. A huge one. If I’m going to do this, I’ll have to be sure I can pull it off or risk facing David’s wrath.

“Just think about it,” Bridget says as the makeup crew finishes.

They scurry off the set, a fake front lawn that’ll be transformed into a dramatic nighttime scene during edits. David demands a quiet room, then counts us in.

“Action!” he calls, and the set is frozen. The cast, the crew—everyone—is quiet and unmoving, all eyes on us as Bridget and I get back into the scene.

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, shaking my hands out to ease the tension rolling through me.

I sneak a peek over at David. He’s watching me intently, commanding me with shrewd eyes not to screw this up.

Come on, Noel. You’ve got this. Do what Bridget said. Pull from experience. Make this better. You deserve it. She deserves it. The crew deserves it. Hell, audiences deserve it. You can do this.

The director clears his throat, indicating he wants me to get a move on.

Another inhale. Another exhale.

Then I step toward my costar, who has fully transformed into Josette—the woman I’ve been wrongfully lusting over for years—and I slip back into my character’s shoes.

“You left me, Josette. I was ready. I was there. I was waiting. I have waited. For ten years now, yet you never showed. And even now that you’re here, you’re not really here with me . You’re miles away.”

“He’s my husband, Riley,” Bridget says, perfectly playing off my improv.

“You think I don’t know that?” I toss my hands into the air. “You think I’m not painfully aware of that every day? I’m so damn aware of that it’s sickening. He’s your husband, and he’s my brother. You don’t think that eats at me constantly?”

“Then how can you ask me to choose? How can you stand here and ask me to be with you over the man I took a vow with?”

“Because I loved you first, Josette! I loved you first .” I grab at my chest to emphasize my heartache, stepping into her so close she has to tip her head back to meet my eyes. “I loved you first,” I repeat, quieter this time. “And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he gets you when you were never his to have. From the first moment I saw you, I knew you were mine and I was yours.” I run my knuckles over her cheek, and she presses into my touch as if we’ve rehearsed this before.

“Just because life threw us a few curveballs, it doesn’t mean that can’t still be true. We can still be together. You can still choose me.”

“I ...” She shakes her head. “It’s not that simple, Riley.”

“It is that simple. And you want to know why?”

“Why?” she whispers, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Because you’re mine. You’ve always been mine. You always will be mine. You know it as well as I do. Even if you walk away today, even if you go back to him, you’ll still belong to me, and I’ll still belong to you. So why not spare us more heartache, huh?” I smile softly, ensuring it doesn’t reach my eyes to play up the sadness in the scene. “Why not give in and do what you want, not what they want you to do? Why not choose me, Josette?”

She swallows thickly, a single tear slipping down her cheek, something that isn’t in the script either. “I ... Riley ...”

I rest my forehead against hers. “Please. Please. ”

“I need time.”

“Time?” I laugh wryly. “You’ve had ten years, Josette. It’s now or never.”

“Please ...” She splays her hands against my chest, then fists my shirt like she’s desperate to hold on to me. “Just one night, Riley. Just one. That’s all I need. Besides, you waited ten years. What’s another twelve hours?”

She laughs softly, and I shake my head.

“Twelve hours? That’s going to feel like days.” I press my lips to her forehead, then step away. “One night. If you don’t come find me, I’ll know, and I promise I’ll disappear from your life for good.”

She lets out a choked sob. “Don’t say that.”

“I have to say that, baby. I can’t keep having half of you.”

“Riley, please. I—”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “No. I’ve made my choice. Now you make yours.”

She sniffles, nodding as she wipes at her cheeks. “Okay.”

I take a few steps, then stop and turn back to her. “One night, Josette,” I remind her.

She lets out another soft cry as she wraps her arms around her waist. “One night,” she echoes, and I leave, walking past the camera and out of the shot.

I brace myself, ready for David to come unglued, but it doesn’t happen. The set remains quiet, and I swear all eyes are on me as I stop in front of the director.

He stares at me, his dark eyes blank, not giving away his feelings.

Then, as soft as I’ve ever heard him say, he tells the crew, “Cut.”

And the set bursts back to life.

I blow out a wobbly breath, shaking off the character and bracing myself for the hell that’s about to rain down as the rest of the crew moves around. From their furtive glances, it’s obvious that they are pretending to do their jobs but secretly eavesdropping, waiting for the same thing I am.

David rises from his chair, his headphones now around his neck as he steps toward me. He works his jaw back and forth, and I just know it’s going to be bad. So, so bad. There’s no mistaking this tension rolling between us. He’s pissed.

Fuck. Why couldn’t you play nicely, Noel?

“David, listen. This was me. I was the one who—”

He lifts his hand, shutting down Bridget’s attempt to take the blame. “Save it, Bridge. Noel here can make his own decisions.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Can’t you, Noel?”

One thing I refuse to do is be intimidated by him.

So I answer, “Yup, and I stand by them.”

His nostrils flare.

Then just like that, all the tension dissipates, and David gives me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.

“You should. Because holy shit , Noel, that was incredible. Magnificent!” He grabs me by the shoulders, giving me an excited shake. “I don’t know where all that came from, but that was ... Wow. ” Another jostle, then he lets me go. “The angst ... The emotion. It was perfect. Just what I was looking for. Audiences are going to be blown away by that. Hell, even I was sucked into their relationship. Truly some great work.”

I’m stunned. Speechless.

David claps my shoulder. “Seriously, great work, Noel. We might need to bring you in to look over our next script if that’s the kind of stuff you can pull out of nowhere.” He laughs, then squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s take a break for dinner, then we’ll reconvene at seven.”

He leaves me standing there staring after him, my mind still reeling.

It’s not until Bridget throws her arms around my neck that I realize she’s still beside me.

“Noel! That was amazing! I can’t believe you pulled that off and didn’t lose your job. I mean, I doubt he could have fired you now with just a few days left in the shoot, but still. That was incredible!”

She hugs me, and it’s only when her hands wander a little too close to my ass that I pull myself from my stupor, removing myself from her embrace as politely and quickly as I can.

“Thanks, Bridge,” I tell her, putting at least a foot between us. “I don’t know where it came from.”

“I do! You’re a rock star! You totally pulled from real life, didn’t you?” She pokes my stomach. “I knew you had it in you. I knew there was heartache in there somewhere that you could use.”

I chuckle softly, subtly taking a step back. If only she knew. “Yeah, maybe.”

“So, I’m going to head back to my trailer. You’re more than—”

“Agent!” I interrupt, not wanting her to say those next words. I really don’t need her inviting me back to her trailer. I’ve managed to keep us in public spaces over these two months and intend to continue doing so until we wrap. “I have a call with my agent. I’m sorry. Maybe next time?”

It’s a lie. I don’t have a call with my agent. In fact, I don’t have any plans other than to go back to my trailer and sleep until our next scene. If I’m lucky, I’ll grab a quick snack from craft services, but I’m not holding my breath on that one.

Bridget gives me a saccharine smile. “Sure. Next time.”

She shoots me a wink, then flounces off, calling out to her on-screen husband, who I’m pretty sure I saw leaving her trailer last week when they thought no one was looking.

I blow out a relieved breath, scrubbing my hand through my hair, not caring if I messed it up. The team will have to fix it before the next scene anyway.

“Great job, Noel,” Darius tells me as he passes, that clipboard I’m almost certain he sleeps with under his pillow in his hands.

“Thanks,” I mutter, exhaustion setting in as I head toward my trailer.

Holy shit. What a day so far.

I’ve been up since 3:00 a.m., it’s nearing 6:00 p.m., and we still have two more scenes to get through today, so we won’t be done until at least eleven. And that’s if we manage not to screw anything up and get through them quickly.

As I walk through the set and out toward the lot, a few people call out, telling me how amazing that was or that I made the scene better.

It’s a relief. I thought for sure David was going to blow a fuse and come unhinged on me—hell, I still can’t believe he didn’t—so it feels good knowing it worked for everyone, our own built-in test audience included.

I climb the steps to my trailer, letting the door slam behind me, then flop down onto the couch, where I plan to spend my entire dinner break in a deep, deep sleep.

My body sags against the sofa, which is easily the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the world, but right now, it feels like heaven, and my eyes grow heavier by the second.

Fuck, this feels nice. So nice. Too nice.

I’m nearly asleep when a shrill sound pierces the air.

I peel my eyes open, glaring at my phone on the counter. Most people are attached to them, even on set, but not me. I always leave it in my trailer, tucked away so that I can focus solely on shooting.

I sit forward, able to grab my phone off the counter with my movement because the trailer is so tiny compared with how tall I am, then settle back into my original spot.

Unsurprisingly, my screen is filled with notifications. Emails, texts, missed calls, and social media shit I really could not care less about.

I swipe everything away, ignoring it all, not just because I don’t want to deal with it but because I’m too fucking tired to deal with it, then set an alarm so they don’t have to pound on my door repeatedly to get me up.

I’m nearly asleep when the damn thing goes off again, and I snatch it back up, glaring down at whoever interrupted the short amount of time I get to myself.

My assistant.

I click on his name, and our text thread fills my screen.

Vince: As requested, the first-class flight to Seattle is booked for Thursday at 12:20 p.m. Car pickup is scheduled.

Vince: Okay, turning off my professionalism for a moment ...

Vince: Fucking wild you have to fly, then drive three hours to that little town you call home. Small town life is weird.

I’m suddenly very awake.

Not because of Vince’s lack of professionalism, which I admire about the guy, but because this is all becoming too real.

Bridget was wrong about pulling from experience.

I didn’t break a single heart in my day.

Everything I just said? All that shit about wanting to be chosen? About waiting? About wanting?

It’s what I wish I would have said to my former best friend before I did just what my character promised—disappeared from her life for good.

Until now.