Chapter Four
I WATCH ZACH climb out of the tub and use his T-shirt to dry himself off. I’m transfixed as the cotton moves over the planes of his chest, the tight symmetry of his abs. Pearls of water are erased, leaving a canvas of smooth skin.
Jesus Christ. His personal trainer deserves a medal.
It’s easier to ogle Zach’s perfect body (that I’d been heroically ignoring while he was less than a foot from me in the hot tub) than to acknowledge the disappointment that he’s leaving. He raises a hand, smiles ruefully—as if he’s reluctant too—and starts down the path. In moments, he’s swallowed by darkness.
“So that happened.”
My wine glass is empty. Our wine glass. So is the bottle. And the hot tub, which is somehow emptier because Zach was in it and now he’s not. I wanted to be alone; that was the whole point. And suddenly I don’t.
“Shit.”
It had been stupid of me to invite him into the water. Stupid to share my wine and allow myself to laugh with him. Loving Josh got him killed and wrecked my heart. Now I carry the broken thing tucked away, where it can't hurt anyone else.And then here comes Zach Butler. The way he looked at me a few times tonight…as if there were something about me he wouldn’t mind trying to figure out. Worse, I had it too. A curiosity I hadn’t felt in a long time. But the cracked organ in my chest can’t afford even curiosity.
“Not to mention, it’s Zachary effing Butler,” I tell myself over the burbling water. “He’s not an actual human.”
But that’s bullshit. The aura of fame over him isn’t nearly as interesting as what lies beneath. He has movie star confidence without the movie star ego, and a smile that a gal could get used to.
Just not you.
I get out of the tub, the cool February air making me shiver all over. I dry off, dress, and pick up my phone. It’s a little after ten. Still plenty of time.
I shoot a text. Done with work.
The reply comes instantly. That’s my girl.
I roll my eyes. We’re not exactly going steady—one hookup and counting—but Clay Robbin’s never bothered to ask “his girl” what she does for a living. That’s okay with me; I don’t keep him around for small talk.
I sneak back to my car that’s parked on a side road at the edge of the production village. In my hotel room, I shower and put on a black T-shirt dress, tall boots and denim jacket, then drive out to Gerry’s , a dingy joint off the 210.
Clay is already at the bar and three whiskies in, judging by the glasses arrayed in front of him. He’s two years younger than my almost twenty-six, tall, skinny, with a shock of Panic at the Disco-emo hair falling over his eyes. I’m still not entirely sure of his employment status. On our first “date” four nights ago, (also at Gerry’s ) he told me he was the manager for some local band, but I had my doubts.
“Baby girl!”
He waves me over, and I’m engulfed in his pot-and-Jack Daniels embrace. His hand goes straight to my ass.
“Don’t get grabby.” I take the seat next to him at the near-empty place. Something loud and incomprehensible is playing over the sound system.
“My bad, my bad.” Clay’s smile is wide—the smile of a dude who’s going to get laid tonight and knows it. “Geronimo, get my lovely friend here whatever she wants.”
What a gentleman , I think, considering I’m going to end up paying.
The bartender—whose name is not Geronimo—tilts his chin at me.
“Just a beer, thanks.”
My second date with Clay is much like the first. He talks nonstop about himself and gets progressively drunker while I nurse my lone beer and chase it with a glass of water. Two hours later, Clay’s practically falling off the stool.
“I’ll call a cab,” Gerry says, already reaching for the phone. Clay is a regular at his fine establishment.
“I got it,” I say. “Help me get him in my car?”
The bartender and I get Clay into the front seat of my black Toyota Camry where he passes out instantly. I remember the way to his little apartment complex in Sunland. It takes a few shakes, but I get him out and walk with him draped over me. Lucky him, his studio apartment is on the first floor, or I’d have to leave him on the sidewalk.
By the time I get him to his bedroom, my shoulders are screaming while Clay’s slurring through a story about Burning Man. I unsling his arm from around my neck and he face-plants onto the bed. Within seconds, he’s snoring wetly.
I sit on the edge of his bed. Posters of bands I’ve never heard of like Final Boss and Chat Pile , are taped here and there to the mostly blank wall. Clothes are spilling out of a dresser with a broken drawer. The whole place reeks of pot and the bathroom is not remotely hospitable for having lady friends over.
A wave of grief wells up in me. It does that; just comes seemingly out of nowhere and carries with it random varieties of things to be sad over with no rhyme or reason. Sometimes it’s a memory of Josh and me playing as kids. Other times, it’s his last moments, with blood leaking out of his ear. Not pouring or gushing but leaking because he was already dead.
Sometimes grief isn’t about the past, but the future. What might’ve been. Not Josh’s life that was lost but the life he never got to live. It’s like that tonight, but this time it’s about me. My life that’s not being lived and the barest whisper that says it’s not too late.
I jump off the bed and leave Clay to sleep it off. Back at the hotel, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s like a blank palette. A sketchpad. When I was a kid, I’d stare at the smooth white ceiling in my room and sketch imaginary costumes on it. Civil War uniforms, flapper dresses, or the pencil skirts and smart hats women in the forties might’ve worn.
That night, I see Hugo’s scarf but Zachary Butler’s wearing it. He’s not in character, he’s himself. He asks me why I don’t do something more challenging, while smiling that sweet smile of his. I think of how much smiling I did in the short time we were talking tonight in the hot tub. Pretty sure I hit an all-time high.
And then the grief comes again, hard and heavy with guilt, so when my phone buzzes a text from Clay at four a.m. asking me to come back over to his place, I go.
My phone is making noise. A call, not a text. The audacity.
I’d driven back to the hotel last night-slash-this morning after my tawdry rendezvous with Clay. I may have debased myself in his bed, but I’d had enough dignity scraped up to not stay the night. My head touched my hotel pillow around five and it seems like my phone is going off a minute later.
I fumble at the nightstand, frown at the number and hit answer.
“It’s eight a.m. Why are you calling me this early?”
“What did you do last night that you’re so tired?” Jess Jordan—J.J.—my best friend, counters.
“Stuff,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Grown-up stuff.”
“Do tell,” J.J. says, and I hear the rustle of papers. She’s studying for her Master’s in Communications at UCLA, and it doesn’t surprise me that my no-nonsense friend is already hitting the books. “Who’re you doing grown up stuff with? Someone from the crew? Or the cast ? Please tell me it’s Zachary Butler.”
I nearly drop the phone. “Please. It’s just a guy. From the app.”
“Some rando, then.” J.J. sighs. “Girl…”
“It’s a little early for a lecture,” I say, sitting up against my pillows.
“I worry, Ro. I worry you might end up in a bad situation—”
“I don’t. I never do.”
“You haven’t yet , you mean.”
I say nothing, letting my silence do the work. J.J. sighs again.
“Fine. I’m never going to be done worrying about you, but the reason I’m calling is to ensure your birthday party is still on schedule for next week. The Covet shoot’s not going to run long, is it?”
“I don’t think so. We have a few days left,” I say, already missing the hot tub sanctuary I’ll have to give up when the shoot wraps. “They’re mostly on track.”
“Good,” J.J. says, and I can practically hear her ticking off items on a to-do list. “You only turn twenty-six once.”
Some people never get to turn twenty-six. Or twenty-one. Or eighteen...
This happens a lot. Grief hijacks an innocent comment and turns it into something painful. J.J. knows about Josh, of course, but I’ve learned over the years that even the most caring, conscientious people don’t have death and all its endless ramifications on their mind at all times like I do. They don’t hear it lurking in innocuous phrases or see the naked bones of it in stupid medical dramas or cop shows where it’s wearing the costume of entertainment. When your boyfriend dies in your lap, you’re cursed with more perspective than you could ever possibly want.
“Just don’t go overboard,” I remind J.J. for the millionth time. “Nothing fancy.”
“Your cabin is the epitome of ‘nothing fancy,’” she says with a tiny whiff of distaste in her brisk, no-nonsense tone. “But don’t worry. I’m going to make it beautiful. And habitable.”
Camping, forests, and remote cabins are not J.J.’s jam. My BFF is more of a tasteful dinner party-type of gal. But I love my cabin because it was my dad’s. A small but tidy little place in Wildwood he bought a million years ago. My inheritance and another sanctuary. Instead of going back to my West Hollywood studio when the Covet shoot is over, I plan to hang out at the cabin for a few days until my next gig, whatever that may be.
J.J. must be a mind-reader because she says, “Do you have your next job lined up?”
“Not yet, but I’m not concerned.”
“Me neither,” J.J. says. “Just curious about how long you might be in town for so we can hang out properly before my dissertation swallows me whole.”
“I’m going to stay a few days at the cabin after the party, but after that, I’m all yours.”
“Good,” she says. “We’ll have Cosmos at the Formosa Café, and you can tell me what it’s like working with Zachary Butler and Javier Paez, you lucky bitch.”
“I’m not working with them,” I say. “I’m working near them. They don’t know I exist.”
The words easily fall out of my mouth because on most movie sets, they’re true. Not this time.
Zach knows me…
The thought takes me off guard. And since when is he Zach instead of Zachary? I’m no one to him. More importantly, he’s no one to me.
“And that’s how it’ll stay,” I murmur.
“Hm?”
“Nothing.”
“Mmkay, well one last party detail,” J.J. says. “Since we’ll be out in the godforsaken wilderness without a minimart for miles, I need to make sure the booze-and-food-per-guest ratio is correct. I’ve got fifteen of your nearest and dearest confirmed.”
“Fifteen?” I say. “I thought we were at lucky number thirteen.”
“Jaime wants to bring his new boyfriend. He’s so darn cute about it, I couldn’t say no. And…”
“And…?”
“I ran into Dana Hodges at Yardbird the other night.”
“J.J.!” I groan.
“I didn’t invite her,” she says quickly. “I wouldn’t do that to you without checking first, but you two used to be close. So, here’s me checking.”
“Would she even want to come?” I ask. “She acts like she can barely stand me lately.”
“She acts like she can barely stand anyone. But I felt bad because she told me no one hangs out with her anymore.”
“Gee, I wonder why? But it’s fine. Invite her.”
“You sure? It’s your shindig.”
“I’m sure. For old time’s sake.”
“Great.” I hear J.J. make a note. “That’s fifteen. Unless there’s anyone else you want to add to the guest list?”
Completely unsolicited, Zach Butler’s perfect face swims across my vision.
“ No ,” I reply to it, then soften my tone for J.J. “Nope. I’m good.”
“Okay. Can’t wait to see you. I’m looking forward to it.” Her voice softens too. “And Ro…”
“Yes?” I ask, though I already know what she’s going to say.
“Be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” I say.
And that makes two lies I’ve told my best friend, and it’s not even nine a.m.
The day is spent shooting exteriors. I don’t see Zach much—they have me working with the key grip, preparing the cameras. Which is good. The less contact, the fewer chances to feed that annoying curiosity about him.
At lunch, I overhear a few crewmembers saying Sam, the director, is aiming to wrap the entire thing tomorrow morning.
“Shit,” I mutter, stabbing a bite of macaroni salad with my fork. That means only one more night at my hot tub.
With Zach…
“Stop it,” I say, and one of the other PA’s gives me a weird look.
The afternoon gives way to early evening. They shoot some pickups, then reshoot Hugo’s entrance into his house, this time keeping the scarf. The second AD pulls me aside and says he wants me on set tonight for the bloody bits. I’m to assist the makeup crew in cleaning Zachary up between takes and taking photos for continuity.
Double shit . Not only am I going to have a front row seat to Zach murdering Javier—which is sure to be a harrowing performance—I have to actually touch him.
On the face.
So much for no contact, I think and then curse my cheeks that have no business growing warm.
The actors arrive after the dinner break, talking and laughing. Which is bizarre since Javier’s face has been made up to resemble pulverized ground chuck. His handsomeness is masked by prosthetic swelling, bruises, and oozing gashes. He’s practically unrecognizable.
As the scene is set up, I watch Zach move away from Javier—away from everyone—to get into character. His breath begins to come hard and flares his nose. His fists clench, and he paces the corner of the office like an animal straining to be let off its leash.
Imagine that same energy prowling up the bed, naked and hard. A feral gleam in his eyes when he takes what he wants…
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper and take a shaky breath. That flash of imagination is a hundred times more potent and erotic than what actually happened last night with Clay and all of his artless rutting.
Sam calls the actors to their places. Javier lies on the floor at the foot of his chair and Zachary straddles him, the rubber crowbar in his hand. They go over the choreography and lines—it’s not much, mostly Hugo begging for his life and Boyd taking it anyway.
They run it a few times with the camera over Zach’s shoulder for his POV and then Javier’s done with Covet.
“And that’s a wrap on Javier Paez,” Sam says, leading the crew into a round of applause.
Javier and Zachary hug it out, but the crew is already moving quickly for the next scene, which is supposed to be from Hugo’s POV: on the floor, straddled by a madman and his crowbar.
The grips set up the camera on the floor in a rig with a plywood plank. Zachary kneels over the rig and grips the bar with his left hand for support, so it looks as if he has one hand planted on the floor next to Hugo’s head. Small bags of plastic blood—the squibs—are placed strategically around the camera.
Sam calls places, and Zachary starts breathing hard. Madness overtakes his beautiful face, contorting it into something unrecognizable just as Javier’s makeup did for him. It’s like watching Zach morph into a different person right before my eyes.
Action is called and Zach attacks the squibs with the rubber crowbar. Blood splatters his face. When the take is over, Sam studies it on the monitor and decides it’s not natural enough. The makeup team with me in tow, hurries onto the scene.
Armed with a cloth and a bottle of fake-blood remover, I stand in front of Zach. His breathing is slowing, but his eyes are clouded and somewhere else. I touch the cloth to his forehead to wipe away the red splatters and he looks at me for the first time. As if I brought him back from someplace dark. His entire face softens, and he smiles.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” I say, trying to concentrate, but he has a droplet of blood on his lower lip and it’s my job to wipe it off. To touch his mouth. I feel his gaze on me as I do it.
“It’s our last night,” he says.
I risk some eye-contact and become awash in him . His presence. His nearness. I know he’s proposing a second take at the hot tub. And because he’s so damn good at expressing his every feeling on his face, I can see his conflict too. Hesitation mixed with curiosity. I have a short, fleeting thought—like a spark illuminating a dark place—that maybe he’s having a hard time not thinking about me like I’m having a hard time not thinking about him.
No fucking way.
Last night’s dirty business with Clay was supposed to wash Zachary Butler out of my mind, but now my hand is trembling slightly as it moves over his cheeks and chin. Alarm bells of guilt and grief will start clanging if I even consider possibilities…
Zach’s smile is gentle. “So, I was thinking—”
“Done,” I say and quickly step back.
I turn away from his reaction—good or bad—as the make-up artist swoops in and retouches his pre-rampage look.
They go again. The second time around, Sam approves the blood splatter, and I’m called in to take photos of Zach’s face for continuity. He’s out of breath, but still, his eyes soften to see me. The madness drains out and he’s himself again.
Do your job, do your job, do your job…
I move close, taking pics with the makeup department’s cell phone.
“I was about to ask,” he says, “before we were so rudely interrupted…”
“By you murdering poor Hugo.”
Zach’s smile widens, and hope lights up his hazel eyes. “Talking with you last night was…good. I don’t want to intrude on your place, but if you’re going to be there tonight—?”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. “Or I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Okay. Maybe we could—?”
The second AD shouts for places, and I’m saved by the clack of the slate board. They go again, and I watch as Zach pours his everything into the scene. It’s more visceral somehow, even though the only thing he’s whacking are little baggies of fake blood.
When it’s over, Sam calls cut. “We got it,” he says, and everyone applauds.
Zach’s done for the night. He looks utterly drained. Exhausted. He looks as if he could use a relaxing night in the hot tub .
Pretty selfish to keep it from him, considering it’s not even mine to begin with.
I’m called over to take a few more pics on the off chance they need to go again. I approach Zach and move in front of him.
“How’d it look?” he asks.
I pause. “You’re asking me?”
He nods seriously. “They’ll all tell me it was perfect.”
“It wasn’t,” I say, meeting his eyes. For all my alarm bells and self-loathing, something in me wants to give him my honesty. “It was messy and violent and raw.”
His gaze locks on mine. “Thank you.”
“Yep,” I say, and we stay there for a moment—in a space where there’s no one else around and even my own pain feels far away.
But I come to my senses and stand on my tiptoes to take a few photos. “You’re so damn tall.”
Zach hunches lower, so we’re face to face. I’m level with his stunning hazel eyes that look about as deep as a canyon. I quickly put the phone up between him and me.
“Well?” he asks after a pause.
“Well, what?”
He stands at his full height and lowers my phone. He says nothing but arches a brow, his smile a question. I expect my defenses to scream in high alert but I’m strangely calm. I arch a brow right back.
“We drank all the wine last night.”
Zach’s smile could warm a small planet. “I’m on the job.”