Chapter Two
THE ENTIRE HOUSE—the entirety of southern California—is holding its breath. I don’t get dazzled by the glitz of show business often, but both these guys are the real deal. There is no more Javier or Zachary. Just Hugo and Boyd. I feel like I should call 911 and save the professor from the madman that Zachary has become. He circles Javier in his chair like a shark coming in for the kill, his hazel eyes black and empty of everything but a hunger. A feeding frenzy is about to begin. I’ve read the script and yet I have no fucking idea what’s about to happen.
“What do y-you want?” Hugo asks, pleading. He’s afraid to take his eyes off Boyd; we all are.
“What do I want?” Boyd muses almost casually, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. He drags his rubber crowbar along the wooden floor. The foley artist will scrape a real metal crowbar against beams of wood in post-production. Fake or not, it’s scary as hell.
Boyd leans over Hugo, and places his hands on the armrests, forcing the older man to lean back.
“What I want…” The intensity in his voice rises, his breath like a bull about to charge. The veins in his neck bulge and the crowbar comes up. “ IS EVERYTHING! ”
It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s over. Eight takes, one after another, with short reset times, and we’re done for the day. I take a step back and nearly trip on one of the runners on the carpet that protects it from miles of cable.
“Can we get some water, please?”
The first AD motions me over. I’ve already grabbed two bottles from a cooler in my corner of the living room. I jog over to where Javier is in the chair, looking as handsome as ever, considering Boyd supposedly just beat him into a pulp. (They’ll do the bloody bits tomorrow). He’s leaning over Zachary who’s sitting on the floor in front of him, his hand on his shoulder.
Zachary is shaking his head. “No, I don’t have it. It’s not there yet. It’s not fucking there. ”
“Not there?” Javier blows air out his cheeks and takes one of the bottles I’ve soundlessly offered. “Are you shitting me? That last take…Zach, you got it.”
I’m still offering water to Zach, but he’s scrubbing his hands over his head.
“Tell him, Sam,” Javier says to the director who’s made his way over. “Tell him, we got it.”
I’m too close to the action, so I set the bottle on the floor beside Zachary and melt into the background. Throughout the six-week shoot, I’ve watched Sam Jenkins and Zachary Butler form a tight director/actor union. Sam knows what he has in Zachary and isn’t about to stand in the way. I thought Zachary was going to blow the roof off, but if he says it’s not there, they’re going to go again.
Not that I know anything about it. I’m just a lowly PA. I’m like a prop—still and silent until called upon.
“Rowan!”
Like now.
The second AD, Ted Grimms, is in the hallway and motioning me over with a hard look on his face.
Shit. I loitered too close to the talent.
I hurry to Ted who’s with two other production assistants. They cower like a pair of kids about to be sent to the principal’s office.
“Suddenly, no one knows where generator batteries are,” Ted gripes. “Even though I specifically said—”
“Mark has them,” I say. “He mentioned yesterday we might need them.”
Ted sighs with relief. “Thank God someone is paying attention. Would you go track Mark down and get them over here?”
“No problem.”
Okay, so I may be a lowly PA, but I’m good at my job. Not that it’s hard. Pay attention, anticipate needs, be willing to work crazy hours. All three are super easy to do if you don’t have a real life to speak of.
I find Mark, who’s busy rolling cable outside. I get the battery pack and bring it back to Ted. He takes it wordlessly, engrossed in a conversation with the key grip, but shoots me an appreciative nod.
In the living room, Sam and Zachary are still talking. The water bottle is still on the floor. Not a good look for the PA who leaves shit on set. A rogue water bottle isn’t the same level of “yikes” as the infamous Starbucks cup/ Game of Thrones Fiasco of 2019, but I take pride in my work. That never would’ve happened on my watch, and I’m not about to let it happen now.
I move closer, waiting for an inconspicuous moment to grab the bottle, but my gaze snags on Zachary. I’m drawn to him against my will, which is weird since he’s not my type—not that a mega star like him would ever look my way if he was. He’s a movie god and I’m a mere mortal and never the twain shall meet.
But Zachary reminds me of Josh. They look nothing alike—Zach has thick, dark hair whereas Josh was blond. Zach is more than six feet of lean muscle while Josh was beanpole tall and skinny…
Because Josh never got to grow into his body. He didn’t make it that far—
I cut the thought off. Both guys are good people; that’s the resemblance. I don’t know Zachary but from watching him work, and I see how he smiles at everyone when he’s not drowning in angst for a scene. He chats with the crew and listens with genuine interest. He’s sincere and kind and…no thanks.
I had my shot with a good guy, and I blew it.
“I don’t want to delay the shoot, but I don’t want to quit tonight,” Zach is telling Sam. “It’s not there yet.”
The director frowns. “If you think so. I’m happy with what we have but if you need another go, we can do that.”
Of course, they can. They have Zachary Butler in their production which guarantees eyeballs on the screen. They could reshoot the entire series in Pig Latin, and it’d still be a hit.
But Christ, they’re going to run this heinous scene again? I can’t imagine it. Watching Zachary let loose like that… He’s got to be tapping into something deep. My chest feels heavy. And jealous. Like it wants relief from the shit I’m carrying around too.
Hell no.
What I’m carrying is a black abyss. A hole in my heart. There’s no fucking way I’m diving into that; I’ll go crazy.
Sam gives Zachary a final thump on the shoulder and shouts, “Okay, get ready, people. We’re going again.”
The crew moves into action.
I hurry over and grab the water bottle. Zachary leans his hip against the couch, staring absently at the floor, brows furrowed, broad mouth turned down. The guy is ridiculously good-looking, I’ll give him that. Even as scuzzy Boyd Shelton, with a dorky haircut, khaki pants and maroon sweater, his innate beauty— can you call a guy beautiful?—shines all the way through. It emanates from him like an aura. Or charisma. The “It” factor that makes him such a compelling movie star. You can’t take your eyes off of him.
Like me, just now, in that living room.
I offer the water one last time. “Before we go again?”
Zachary jolts from his thoughts. “Sorry?”
“It’s important to stay hydrated.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.” He manages a smile and takes the bottle. “Rowan, right?”
“Yes…” I frown. “How’d you know?”
“Seems like I should know who my co-workers are.”
Co-workers? I search him for signs that he’s fucking with me—my own sarcasm game is strong. But the guy seems genuine.
“Co-workers,” I say. “Is that what we are?”
“Yep.” He offers his hand. “Zach Butler.”
I smirk. “You don’t say.”
He laughs. “I do say. Don’t leave me hanging.”
Soft, hazel eyes—like crushed crystals in copper and green—hold mine and I put my hand in his.
“It’s nice to meet you, Rowan.”
His grip is strong, and he gives a warm, firm squeeze that completely messes with my head because I instantly imagine that if I fell down, this is the hand I’d want pulling me back up.
I withdraw quickly. Talking to the talent is verboten, and Zachary Butler is Talent with a capital T. But the haunted look in his eyes is familiar. I see it in the mirror every damn day of my life.
“How have we not met before?” he asks.
“They had me working in the second unit until last week.” And before I can stop myself, I add, “That was pretty rough, what you did tonight.
“Yeah, but something’s off,” Zachary says. “My brain is wound up tight with my own shit and Boyd’s shit, and I’m starting to lose track of the scene. I need to do something that includes Javier in the moment so it’s not just me flipping out like a maniac.” He smiles ruefully. “They’re going to think I’m a diva.”
Zachary’s too authentic for that and I would know; I’ve seen my fair share of divas on various sets over the last five years.
He shakes his head. “You don’t need me dumping all that in your lap.”
I hardly hear him; my eyes are on the coat rack in the corner of the office. “What about…?” I catch myself and shake my head. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
“No, tell me,” Zach says. “If you have an idea, I’ll take it. I’m drowning here.”
“Hugo wears the same scarf in almost every exterior shot,” I say. “It’s an identifying item. Personal to him.”
Talking about costumes—even just a stupid scarf—makes my stomach queasy, but Zach is nodding.
“Right,” he says. “Hugo takes off the coat and scarf before Boyd corrals him into the chair.”
“So what if he never gets a chance to take off the scarf?” I speak. “The whole point of the scene is that Hugo realizes Boyd has done something Very Bad to his family and is about to die, right? It’s all over. So maybe you could show the audience, and Hugo, that the transformation has reached its terrible conclusion when Boyd takes a piece of Hugo’s clothing and…I don’t know, does something with it. Nothing obvious or cliched but more of a Zach Butler-method-acting kind of thing.”
For a second, I think I’ve overstepped, or he’ll think I’m making fun of him. I’m going to get fired for sure, but Zach is nodding, his eyes full of thoughts.
“A conduit between Hugo and Boyd.” His head swivels to me, his eyes tired but lit up now. “Thank you, Rowan. I think you’ve just saved my ass. I’ll talk it over with Javier and—”
“No problem,” I say, and I’m already backpedaling away, blending and disappearing into the moving parts of the set.
Zachary has a powwow with Sam and Javier. At one point, he seems to be looking for me. I keep behind the video village where I can see Zach on the monitors, but he can’t see me. The men all nod, looking thrilled. My idea means reshooting the entrance, but I guess they all agree it’s worth it since, when Javier takes his place in the chair, he’s wearing the scarf.
The set grows quiet. The first AD does her checks and then Sam calls action.
My heart is pounding, watching, waiting to see what Zach is going to do. The scene progresses as usual, with rising intensity, before Zach lets it rip with the EVERYTHING line.
It’s supposed to end there, but instead, Zachary-as-Boyd cocks his head, studying his prey. Javier-as-Hugo is given the time to sit with exactly what’s happened—this madman has likely killed his wife and child. He begins to cry.
Boyd slowly pulls the scarf from around Hugo’s neck, an inch at a time. “Don’t be like that,” he says—an improvisation—and dabs Hugo’s tears with it. Gently. With sinister care. “It’s almost over.”
Hope flares in Hugo’s eyes. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there’s a chance. But Boyd keeps pulling the scarf and slowly winds it around his own neck. A transfer. A symbolic becoming.
“Just a little more,” Boyd says gently, and the crowbar comes up. “Just a little more and then it’s over.”
The room is silent for a beat and then erupts into applause. Javier shakes off his pain like a mask, and he pulls Zachary into a hug, thumping his back. Sam Jenkins joins them in a huddle. The rest of the crew is all smiles. I allow myself a private one before that old familiar ache steals any pleasure I might’ve had. The one that says I could do more than fetch battery packs and water bottles.
That was a different life, I remind myself.
I take a breath and concentrate on what awaits me. My actual life, such as it is. The rest of the crew will go back into town, to the production’s hotel, but I have other plans. Another PA stops me on the way out.
“Hey, Rowan, you want a ride?” Jonathan’s smile is bright and obviously hopeful. But he’s too nice, ergo: not my type.
“Shit, you know what,” I say, “I forgot to sign out.”
“We can wait.”
“Nah, go ahead. I’m good.”
I don’t wait for an answer, but head back inside and loiter in the foyer, pretending to be engrossed in my phone. I have a new message from my dating app.
Clay Davis: Round two?
I roll my eyes. Greetings and salutations to you too, Clay.
Not tonight, I type .
A reply comes quick. When?
My thumbs fly. Desperation isn’t attractive.
Can’t help it. I’m bored. And horny LOL
“What a poet,” I mutter.
Not tonight, I type. Busy. I’ll let you know.
I tuck my phone away and look to the living room. Zachary Butler is still talking with Sam and Javier. His face lights up when he sees me, and he raises a hand to call me over. The ache comes back with a vengeance, this time creeping up to my heart.
I pretend not to see him and slip around the front of the house toward the back, to the gate at the rear of the property. The contract stipulates this area is off limits to cast and crew, but I’d noticed on day one of this location shoot that the gate’s padlock was left ajar. I slip through and quietly close it behind me. The path in front of me is dark—this house is so big it has its own forest—but I know my way.
It’s risky—I could get fired if anyone sees me, and my rep as a dependable PA would be down the toilet. As I walk over the stone path, now covered with leaves, I examine my feelings. Do I care? Not really. I have to take my relief anywhere I can.
Just a little more, Boyd told Hugo. Lucky him.
For me, there’s a lot more. An infinite amount of grief and guilt, and it won't end, not until I take my last breath in what—forty? Fifty years? God help me. It’s been ten years, and each one has felt like its own lifetime. But I’m not brave enough to do anything rash or final . Probably because I know Josh would hate that. He’d be so pissed, wherever he is. He’s probably already pissed that I’m not making anything real out of this life. Just biding my time.
Well, whatever. He’s the one who left me.
I arrive at my little sanctuary. The guest house looms in the dark but it’s the hot tub tucked in the side where I’ve made my nest. Someone—the same dude who left the padlock open, probably—also neglected to turn off the power to the hot tub. I hit the button to get the hot water burbling, then change into my bathing suit from the bag I’ve stashed in the bushes. I exchange my black skinny jeans and T-shirt for a black bikini.
Low lamps light the periphery of the property—just enough to see by. I grab my book and fill my glass from the half bottle of cabernet leftover from last night and slide into the water.
The heat and bubbles soothe the ache. The wine lets me take a step back from reality, and my book will put me somewhere else entirely. It’s stupid to be out here when I could just as easily take a bath in the hotel. But risking being fired from my menial job and hooking up with losers are just things I do now. Playing chicken with life, I guess.
I’ve just settled into my book and the wine is warm in my stomach when I hear footsteps crunching over the leaves. I sigh. The jig is up. Too bad; I had a nice thing going here.
But instead of a security guard coming to kick me out, Zachary Butler steps into a shaft of silvery moonlight. The low lamps throw amber light up at him. A spotlight and stage lights, both.
The star has made his entrance.