Bad Reputation

Chapter 14 INT. BARN HAYLOFT

Chapter 14

INT. BARN HAYLOFT

“I’d like to do this in a bed at some point,” Cole deadpanned to Zoya.

They were standing in the actual hayloft of an actual ancient barn somewhere in the Scottish Highlands about to film the first Geordie-Effie love scene. Outside the weather was gray and misty, but thanks to the magic of Hollywood, it was a lovely spring afternoon inside. The crew had arranged for diffused light to pour in, making everything golden and romantic.

The crew had been small the night they’d filmed the Geordie-Madge love scene, but today, it was even more sparse. Maggie had ensured that.

“I mean, I’ve heard about the birds and the bees,” Cole was saying, “but I don’t want to see them while getting it on.”

Maggie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Zoya was clearly having the same reaction. After the director had smothered her grin, she gestured to the romantic spread Geordie was supposed to have arranged for the seduction. “It’s going to be iconic.” The quilt over the straw, the flowers, and the basket with food. Alas, someone had had to convince the set decorator that lanterns were a bad idea, what with all the straw.

Cole wasn’t convinced. “It’s giving me nineties-country-music-video vibes.”

“Cottagecore is why the show is a hit. You’re going to get tagged in a million barn-inspired-boudoir photo shoots on Instagram.”

“I’m certain my assistant will thank you.”

Cole caught Maggie’s gaze and rolled his eyes, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was: That Geordie, what a charmer .

Knowing she was blushing, Maggie made herself check her clipboard.

“Now pout.” A tech was doing a final touch of Tasha’s makeup, which was pointless because Cole was about to kiss all that lipstick off.

“Do you have any last-minute questions?” Maggie asked Tasha quietly. “Any concerns?”

“Nope.”

Tasha didn’t seem nervous. With the crew around, the actress went quiet, deadly focused. Maggie had had trouble imagining how she’d filmed all those action movies, because with Cole, she was chatty, profane, and even silly. But Maggie could see it now. Honestly, she’d believe Tasha was an actual CIA assassin and that acting was her cover.

The tech stepped back from Tasha with a firm nod. “You’re all set.”

Tasha fluffed the skirt of her soon-to-be-cosplayed-to-death blue gown. Despite the careful details that were meant to make it looked lived in—the faux mended hem and mismatched buttons on the bodice—it was too nice a dress for a Scottish farm girl in the early eighteenth century. The sprigged-muslin petticoat and the full draped skirt over false hips would not be practical while milking goats or mucking the barn.

But that wasn’t the point. The show was a fantasy, and everything about the scene they were about to film was drool worthy: from the beautiful actors in it to the rich colors of their costumes to the shine on the heirloom apples and the crust on the artisanal sourdough in the basket.

And especially the multiorgasmic sex they were about to fake.

“How do I look?” Tasha asked Maggie.

There was no response but to say “Perfect.”

Maggie crossed over to Cole. “Everything good?”

For a second, his eyes were on her, and Maggie felt an urge to fiddle with her hair, to straighten her top. She had no idea what he wanted from her, but it felt—ridiculously—as if he were looking for something.

But then the moment was over.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” he said.

“I’ll be here the whole time.”

“Yeah.”

It felt as if he was mad at her, but she couldn’t have guessed why, and anyhow, that was asinine. He wasn’t mad; he was focused.

Which he ought to be.

“Let’s get started!” Zoya called.

They shot several takes of the first bit: Geordie and Effie climbing the ladder; the characters stumbling into the hay, kissing; Geordie fumbling with the buttons on Effie’s dress. But when they reached the portion of the sequence when things got more intense, filming imploded.

“It’s looking good, Zoya.” The voice came from the ladder up to the hayloft. Vincent Minna emerged from the aperture, followed immediately by an apologetic-looking Esme.

Vincent Minna. Here. On set.

For an instant, it was hard to believe that this was happening. That it wasn’t the wax figure of him from Madame Tussauds, sentient and walking.

But when the shock had made a circuit around her body, Maggie realized this was real. Real and terrible.

Zoya was obviously processing the same shock. She left David, the camera, and the monitor and stumbled toward him. “Vincent, what the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s my money, isn’t it?” He looked around as if he expected to get a rousing laugh or cheer of approval.

The crew only gawked at him. Even they appeared to be starstruck—star-paralyzed, more like—and they didn’t even know what Maggie knew. This man was a monster.

“It’s Silverlight’s money,” Zoya said.

Maggie had recovered her ability to move, and she turned toward the actors. Cole appeared to be bored, even slightly annoyed, by the interruption. But Tasha resembled a corpse. Her skin was ashen. Her eyes dull.

A grenade might as well have detonated in Maggie’s chest.

No. This couldn’t happen. It was actually, literally her job to prevent this from happening.

“This is a closed set.” Maggie positioned her body between Vincent and Tasha, and she began marching toward him.

“Excuse me?” Vincent shot a glance at Zoya.

“She’s right,” the director said, though her tone was soft, accommodating. “And—”

“You need to leave,” Maggie said. “Immediately.”

“Who’s this?” Vincent still wasn’t talking to Maggie at all.

He probably had a list of who it was worth interacting with, and Maggie was certain that she wasn’t on it. But that couldn’t have mattered less.

“I’m Maggie Niven. I’m the intimacy coordinator.”

“Oh, of course .” It was obvious he thought that was a ridiculous notion.

The disgusting condescension of this man. Tasha was right: it was incredible that no one had knocked out his teeth. But they’d have to debate that ridiculous situation later. For now, Maggie had to get him out of here. She’d promised Tasha that she would keep her safe, and she was going to keep that promise.

Maggie put her hands in front of her; they were hovering a few inches from Vincent’s chest. “You should leave now.”

For a bare second, Vincent’s gaze flicked to Maggie. His predator eyes made her want to crawl out of her skin. In a second, he’d sized Maggie up and decided she wasn’t even worth contradicting. She was worthless.

Talking, quite literally, over her head, he said, “I have every right to be here, Zoya. It’s in the contract. Someone from Silverlight can supervise—”

“You cannot supervise this.” Maggie had absolutely no idea if, legally speaking, her words were true. But she also knew that she was not going to allow filming to happen if this man was in the room.

“Zoya.” Vincent clearly assumed he’d get his way. He was one of those people who quite simply could not imagine a world in which they didn’t get their way. And what evidence would Vincent, with his money and his Oscars and his power, have to suggest that was a bad assumption? When he’d hurt Tasha, and countless other people, he’d likely done it because he could. Because who on earth was going to stop him?

So the effect when someone did was almost palpable.

“Maggie’s right,” Zoya said, and it was like a shock wave.

Vincent Minna’s brows shot up. He blinked. He licked his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest, and it was a relief he didn’t throttle whoever was nearest to him, given that that was Maggie.

At last, with something approaching cool composure, he managed to say “I can call my lawyers, and—”

“Call them.” Maggie answered for Zoya, because she was done, absolutely done, with this. “But you will not do it here.” She began walking forward, willing, if necessary, to shove him.

But he ... fell back a step. And then another one.

That was when Maggie knew she’d won.

She had no illusions. At the height of his power, one insignificant person saying no to Vincent Minna would’ve had no effect. But today, with him being older, with Zoya’s evident discomfort with his presence, it had been enough. Just enough.

Vincent’s glare was lethal as he and Maggie did the two-step all the way back to the ladder. But she stood there, arms folded, until he’d descended.

When he disappeared, Maggie pointed to one of the sparks. “You. Can you stand at the bottom of this ladder and yell if that man tries to come back?” She was fairly confident that no filming was going to occur for a while. This guy could leave the light he was supervising for a few minutes.

“I’m getting security,” Zoya called out. Even now, Esme was muttering into her phone. It didn’t sound as if she was using nearly enough profanity for Maggie’s taste.

“Get them faster.” Maggie began marching back to the actors.

“Maggie Niven, bouncer extraordinaire,” Cole was saying, but when he turned to Tasha to presumably share a laugh, he caught his best friend’s expression.

He was there before Maggie could be, wrapping Tasha in his arms.

Maggie was certain everyone in the room was shocked when Tasha pitched forward against Cole’s chest and began sobbing. Not crying. Not something quiet and demure. But absolute-bottom-of-the-pit, great racking sobs.

Goddamn, it hurt seeing Tasha’s pain. Hearing it.

Cole twisted, putting the bulk of his back and shoulders between her and the rest of the room. And in that moment, in that elegant gesture of protectiveness and empathy, Maggie fell a little bit in love with him.

The knowledge dropped through her like a hot knife through butter. She loved Cole. But like so many other things, that was a problem she’d have to solve later.

Maggie whirled on her heel and signaled to everyone else. The crew retreated as far across the barn as they could in order to give Tasha privacy.

“What was that about?” David muttered.

Maggie gave him a look that she hoped would mute if not maim.

“Sorry!” he said, putting his hands up in a mea culpa. “Obviously there’s some story there, and that—is absolutely none of our business.”

“No, it’s not,” Maggie gritted out.

Zoya and Esme joined the circle. “Security’s here. Vincent ran them off earlier.”

Maggie didn’t have any problem imagining how it had gone, but she was also sure that Tasha wasn’t going to feel safe on set anymore. How could she, when the security people quailed at the first sign of a dude in an expensive suit?

“And they won’t do that again?” Maggie asked.

“I’ll put the fear of God in them.”

“What did they fear before? Waffles?”

Zoya glared at her.

“Should we save the lights?” David asked. “Are we going to film?”

“Yeah, kill the lights. We’re going to take a break and then reevaluate.” Zoya sounded confident about that, and Maggie would guess that making immediate, firm decisions was a life skill for her.

“Maggie,” Cole called. “We’re going to Tasha’s trailer. She wants you.”

“Of course.”

When Tasha emerged from Cole’s chest, her eyes were red and puffy, but she still had more self-possession than most queens Maggie had seen. She led the way, with Cole and Maggie behind.

A security guard joined their procession at the bottom of the ladder, and when they arrived at the trailer, he stayed outside. Inside, Tasha took a seat on the daybed. With her dress, she didn’t fit anywhere else. She took a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed at her eyes.

Cole leaned up against the kitchenette. Maggie stayed by the door.

“It’s okay if you want to postpone filming,” Maggie said when no one else spoke. “Zoya will understand.” The set’s safety had been breached. Maggie wouldn’t blame Tasha if she wanted to leave the show altogether.

The contract—that might be another matter. But Tasha’s agent could get into all that.

“No. I just need ten minutes,” Tasha said. “Well, and a cold pack for my eyes.”

“I’ll bet the hair and makeup team has some.” Maggie leaned outside and relayed the message to the security guy.

When she came back, Cole looked at Maggie and raised his brows, as if he expected her to provide an explanation.

Maggie shook her head. Whatever was going to be said here, Tasha was going to say it.

Tasha rolled her shoulders back and cracked her neck. Then she faced Cole. “So you know how I told you Vincent was a shit?”

“Yes.”

“That might not have been ... the whole story.”

“Clearly.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I’m sure I’m not.”

And then, Tasha told him.

Cole didn’t interrupt her. He didn’t hurry her or ask questions. But by the end of Tasha’s narrative, he was basically a towering inferno. The rage was leaking out of him, poisoning the atmosphere in the trailer, like radiation after a nuclear meltdown.

“He. Did. What?” Cole finally ground out.

“I’m not repeating it. It was bad enough to get through once. Twice, I guess. I told Maggie the other day.”

“And one of the only things Tasha requested was for Vincent Minna not to be on the set,” Maggie explained. “I am just so sorry that he showed up.”

“God, Maggie, this isn’t your fault. I didn’t even realize he’d try it when I said it. I was making a joke.”

“Sick joke.”

Tasha managed a harsh laugh.

But in between them, Cole was still seething. “We do not have to film this scene. And we sure as hell don’t have to do it today.”

“Yes, we do.” Tasha stood and adjusted her skirts. “It’s done. I have given that ghoul in man’s skin too many years. I cannot fucking believe I cried. I fucking cried!” Tasha set her hand on Cole’s arm. “You cannot kill him.”

“Like hell I can’t—”

“No. You—or Geordie, I guess—have to make love to me. That’s what matters. The past, it’s done. Let’s go earn some Emmys.”

There was a pause, and Maggie wasn’t certain if Cole was going to accept this or if he was going to find Vincent and pound him into powder.

Cole still looked so, so angry, which made sense. Maggie had had several weeks to adjust to the story, and she still wanted to introduce the producer to Sweeney Todd and his meat grinder. But this was Tasha’s story, Tasha’s pain, and right now, Cole and Maggie needed to take their cues from her.

After a few seconds, Cole scrubbed his hands over his face. The deep outraged breaths that had had his rib cage working like a bellows slowed. When he dropped his hands, his eyes were no longer brutal, and his cheeks weren’t so red. He threw an arm around Tasha, pulled his friend close, and kissed her temple. “Jeez, no pressure.”

And with that joke, everything was better. Things weren’t okay—there was no way for things to be okay—but it was like the wind on the top of that mountain he’d made Maggie climb: the foul stench that Vincent had brought whipped away, leaving only sweet potential behind.

Shooting this scene was what Tasha wanted, so they were going to do it.

Back in the hayloft, Cole changed into a clean shirt, and a H/MU tech held an ice pack to Tasha’s face until the swelling went down. When they’d touched up her makeup, no one could’ve guessed she’d been crying.

Movies, they were magic.

“You ready?” Zoya asked them.

“Yes.”

Cole and Tasha settled on the hay, her in his lap. Zoya yelled, “Camera set,” and the scene started again.

Maggie wanted to stay outside of it. To see it as a performance. To know it was choreography. They’d planned every touch, every kiss, every gasp together, but her insides didn’t seem to comprehend that ... probably because Tasha was faking one impressive orgasm. Startled and luminous and worth wrecking your life for, just like they’d practiced.

“Cut! That was great,” Zoya said. “Let’s get one more just for fun.”

“Sure thing,” Cole said. “You okay?”

He pitched that question to Tasha, who nodded.

The actors didn’t take their eyes off each other during the break. Not when the makeup techs swooped in to fix them up. Not when a spark had to climb up on a ladder to replace a bulb.

And they didn’t once look up at Maggie.

Which was fine. They didn’t have to. It was a sign that they’d all done the right amount of prep, so even when Vincent exploded the plan, they were still able to move on.

This was good. It was good.

Their insularity continued when Zoya declared the second take to be perfect and said the camera should move for the next sequence.

Cole and Tasha stayed wrapped up in each other while shooting the bit where Geordie knelt and “worshipped” Effie. It went on once they’d moved onto the straw for the long, intense frontal sequence. For all that Maggie was there handing them props, neither made eye contact with her.

“You both doing okay?” she asked quietly while she placed the exercise ball that helped the actors simulate thrusting.

“Yup.” But Tasha’s nod was for Cole, not Maggie.

That was fine —Cole was her scene partner. Their palpable intimacy felt like an iron curtain, keeping out anything that might detract from the performance. Maggie’s slapped-face feeling only came from the fact that she’d thought she got to be inside the process with them but realized now she wasn’t.

When she dropped back behind the camera, the script supervisor sidled up to her. “They’re really focused today.”

“Yeah.” They had to be, she reminded herself.

When at last every shot was done and Zoya said “That’s a lid. Great work, everyone,” Maggie knew that the compliment included her.

What they’d filmed would later be described as the hottest scene of the year, and sometimes one of the hottest in television history. In giving this performance, Tasha was saying Vincent didn’t matter—that she wouldn’t let him matter—and Cole was saying that he would be there for his friend, no matter what.

It was the bravest thing Maggie had ever seen anyone do ... even if watching it had also made her feel like the help.