Chapter 8
EIGHT
T he set for Wretched is nothing but a nightmare of disorganization and pandemonium.
I can’t blame it all on Parker Heath, either. Sure, he’d been a real son of a bitch before he kissed the end of my gun, but his talents with the Hollywood machine were only matched by few. He knew exactly how to work a set and drag the most out of any production.
He’s dead.
And now there’s only me. I did it to myself, but two months to get this shit show wrapped and out in the world?
We’re going to have to work overtime.
Which means all the things I fought for in Empire’s contract to keep her from being ground beneath the wheels are done. There’s no way to finish this without everyone working around the clock. It equates to a lot of coffee and even more drugs.
The fourteen-hour days I promised her are out the window for good.
Somehow, I’ll have to pull the best out of Empire, and after her little circus act last night—
I glance over my shoulder at her trailer. The sun’s already beaming down, and it’ll be hotter than the devil’s ball sack in a few hours. Empire’s inside getting ready, fighting off her hangover.
What I had to do in order to get us here makes me hate myself more than I already do.
The director, Belinda Montross, pinches my elbow to get my attention. “If we’re going to work together, Mr. Ortega, then I definitely expect you to listen when I’m talking to you.”
She tops the charts at five foot one, but her attitude adds another twelve inches to her height. She’s a relatively new up-and-comer but already has a slew of projects under her belt. She knows what she’s doing, although I haven’t determined whether she’s wrapped up with Stanic or not.
I prefer to think not because I actually kind of respect her, but at this point, thinking the best of people is suicide.
“I’m listening,” I grind out.
“No, you’re staring off like a tormented romantic hero, and that’s not the kind of attitude we need if you want your deadline met.” Belinda presses her lips together, fatigue already weighing her down.
“Just get inside, and let’s roll, okay?”
She’s right; my thoughts are on Empire, not the film.
Never in my life have I wished for a cigarette, and I don’t smoke. But something to take the tension out of my limbs when nothing else works…maybe I’ll pick up the habit. It won’t be the worst thing I’ve ever done, not by a long mile.
Blowing out a breath, I stalk into the shade of the studio building and away from the pulsing waves of heat above the asphalt, Belinda striding beside me. The others are already inside, gathered around a small setup with an espresso machine and laden with pastries.
I met with the production department already to establish the new pecking order and get my facts straight. The key creative team is in place, and the director and her assistants all shoot me the same sharp nod before going back to their conversation.
Belinda and I have been in deep talks since yesterday afternoon, and I liked to think we’d come to an accord.
They’re going to be the ones calling the creative shots here. I’m only around to supervise and make sure we stick to the new brutal timeline I proposed. It’s not unheard of for insane deadlines to make the rounds between films.
I’d just hoped it wouldn’t be the case for this one.
Belinda tugs on the end of her ponytail and blows out a breath. “All right. I guess we better get this shit wagon on the road, then. See you on the other side.” She taps the end of her baseball cap once, a kind of mocking salute to my new status, and joins her team.
The camera, light, and grip department are readying the set to resume filming.
My gaze lands on Empire’s costar. Greg Bates has been in several high-profile roles before he agreed to take on the role of Mr. Patterson. Word on the street painted him as a consummate professional, except I saw the way he looked at Empire.
The way his hands lingered a little too long in places and his eyes even longer in others.
Professional my ass.
One of the things that will have to change. I’m here now. Parker’s lax attitude and playboy tendencies are in the rearview mirror for good.
With the rest of the cast and crew distracted, I stride soundlessly toward Greg. He looks up at my approach, a small smile pulling at his lips, and automatically holds out a hand for me to shake.
“Marcus Ortega, I’m not sure we’ve ever officially met, but your name travels in my circles,” Greg begins. “I’ve heard great things about your style and better things about the clients you’ve managed in the past.”
I ignore the hand and reach for his shirt, dragging him off to the side where a large Benjamin ficus tree obscures us from the low murmur of voices. I feel his gulp when I twist the fabric in my fist.
“Just so we’re clear.”
He goes pale at my preface.
We’re the same height, which makes this less than ideal. Always better to look down on the other man, I’ve learned, than have to look up, although intimidation is in the attitude. Not in the physical brute strength.
If you can’t be strong, carry a big gun.
I’ve got both those things, and Greg… Well, Greg is an actor.
He’s used to a polished life, with things going his way. Money and women and awards. The sooner he learns what to expect now, the better off things will be.
When his eyes are wide and he’s suitably rattled and biting his tongue, I release him, smoothing out the wrinkles in his collar.
“No, we’ve never officially met.” My grin is anything but friendly. “And I’ve heard good things about you, Mr. Bates. I have. Unfortunately for you, I am very overprotective of the young starlet who plays opposite you. She may no longer be my ward, as you’ve no doubt already heard, but she is my client. As such, I expect things done in a certain professional manner.”
I wait for him to say something about the headlines he no doubt heard, the stories printed about me and Empire that are anything but fucking true.
Greg is a smart bastard. He knows when to talk and when to listen. It should work well for him on this production.
I keep my hands on him and smooth out the rest of the wrinkles on his shirt, although there are none. His red polo shirt and chinos are immaculate except for the spots where I’d held him.
“Now, I’ve drawn you aside to make sure you understand a few key points. Empire is new at this. She has no acting credits under her belt, and frankly, after her last experience on this set, she is not in a good mind space. I need you to be patient and respectful with her,” I say, maintaining a razor-sharp edge to my tone.
If Greg doesn’t believe my seriousness, he will soon. He’ll either learn the easy way or the hard way.
“This new schedule is going to be hard for everyone but especially for her, as this is her first major motion picture and she doesn’t know what to expect. I’ll be here every step of the way, and I hope I can count on you to show her the ropes. Yeah?” I don’t wait for him to respond before I launch ahead with, “Now, you’re a decent actor. And you’ve managed to stay out of the tabloids, which is more than we can say for me. You’ve got a good manager and a good team around you, and when we’ve traveled in the same circles, you’ve been professional.”
Except for that day on set, the after-hours scene, filmed without the intimacy coordinator, and Greg hadn’t said a peep.
Greg supposedly told Empire, “ Things are done a certain way for certain reasons ” I’ll remember that.
“I have to head into makeup,” Greg says at last. “This has been an enlightening interaction, Mr. Ortega.”
His time in the makeup trailer will emphasize the lines around his eyes and the threads of gray in his goatee. We’re the same age, but he’s got to gain a few years to play this part.
“Off you go then, Bates. Good chat.” I pat him on the shoulder and stand straight, waiting for him to walk away first. I narrow my gaze on his back.
Filming starts within an hour.
My phone bleats with an incoming message from Celeste that I promptly leave on read. The bitch can blow up my phone for all I care. I’m not going to do a fucking thing about her except let her spy and report back to Stanic that there’s nothing amiss.
Fuck them both.
Wretched is going to get done, and I’ll make it the best goddamn release they’ve ever had, if only out of spite.
Standing back with my arms crossed over my torso, I watch Belinda and her minions maintain control of the set. Empire is a vision as Alicia. It’s the perfect part for her.
They’ve darkened her skin tone a little with a spray tan and lined her eyes. She looks a little strung out for this scene, which plays in perfectly with Alicia’s declining confidence and increased vulnerability. Her hangover could work in her favor.
Maybe it’s because I’m a huge prick. Maybe it’s because, in order of filming, this scene was next on the docket. But we have to begin with the chase scene between Alicia and Mr. Patterson.
“Before we start, I want everyone to know I’ve got your back, and we are going to kick ass. I’m not accepting anything less.” Belinda keeps a keen eye on the scene. “Action!”
She knows what she’s doing.
This is a trial by fire for Empire, however.
The last time she’d been on this set, she had a bad experience. I came swooping in to save her, but I was no angel, no hero. For her to have to dive right in with this scene, knowing where it led and what she’d have to do…
Even having the intimacy coordinator standing by makes no difference in my mind.
Empire, however pale faced and wide eyed, runs through her dialogue smoothly. There’s too much of her mother in her to do anything else. My wicked heart gives a beat of pride. Drunk, throwing her script around like confetti, and she still manages to pull this out of her ass.
The scene is damn awful. Not because of the quality of the writing or the acting and not because of the dialogue.
Watching Greg chase Empire through the set is pure torture.
Just like rebuking her efforts last night had been torture. I grind my teeth, surely loosening one of my crowns on the back molars, but I can’t give a shit. I can’t take my eyes off them. I remember every minute of chasing Empire through her parents’ house and what happened when I caught her.
Her tears last night—
She’d needed me. And what had I done? Treated her like a fucking kid who needed to sit in time-out after a tantrum. Not because of her but because I hadn’t trusted myself to stop, and I refuse to be the kind of man who takes advantage of her vulnerability.
Maybe a spanking over my knee would have been better than a shower.
Her squeal is ear piercing, and I focus back on the actors, scrutinizing their every move. Mr. Patterson has caught Alicia. I fucking hate every second of seeing another man touch her. Every second of watching them work through the scene with the coordinator standing by, making sure every step they take is precise and respectful.
Until Empire forgets her line and fudges things.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurts out, straightening off Greg’s lap and pushing her hair behind her ear—distinctly uncomfortable and avoiding looking at me.
I barely move when Belinda calls cut and runs the scene from the beginning. She’s trapped, I know, in a personal nightmare.
“There’s nowhere you can go to escape me, Alicia. You’re mine now. You’re mine in every possible way. I own you.” Greg’s voice as Patterson is a strong vibrating bass with all the ego of an older wealthy man who knows he always gets what he wants.
“I belong to myself,” Empire insists as Alicia. Tremulous, tender, a little turned on, and a little scared.
“You belong to me,” Greg repeats. “You can run if you like. It will only make it so much sweeter when I catch you.”
Goddamn him. Things were better when I ran the lines with her. Things were smoother, happier, hotter—
I swallow my groan and scrub my hand over my goatee.
“What will you do to me?” Empire continues.
“You’ve stirred my passion, and you think you’ve paid the price. You’re nowhere near close to paying it, sweetheart. One way or another, I’m going to catch you.” Greg glides his hand along Empire’s thigh, pausing on her ass and squeezing. “You might not like what happens when I do.”
“You’ll… rape me?”
“It’s not rape if you beg me for it,” Greg whispers. “Trust me when I tell you, I know exactly what to do to your body to have you begging for it. You love it when I touch you. You love what my money does for you. Isn’t that what you were really after?”
He pauses, waiting for her to answer, and his fingers slip between her legs.
Red blankets my vision.
He’s not supposed to fucking touch her there. This is the scene where he goes hunting, their cat-and-mouse game almost at an end, their roles reversed. They haven’t reached the pinnacle yet. So what the fuck is he doing?
“Mr. Patterson, this is crazy.”
Empire glances at me.
Greg is too handsy, too rough, using his knuckles to nudge against her mound over her clothing. When Empire gulps, the sound entirely real, I erupt into action.
Losing my shit is a bad idea. Walking on set is a bad idea.
Pummeling Greg within an inch of his life is a bad goddamn idea.
He should have thought about it before he touched her this way.
“It’s not in the script, you asshole.” The voice doesn’t belong to me, and every punch is mechanical, one right after the other as I pummel him. My knuckles gouge into his cheeks, his jaw, his eyes.
The world around us blurs. There’s only Greg and this terrifying fury, the need to destroy everything he is and reduce him to nothing. He touched her . After I spoke to him. After I warned him to be professional, this fucking guy took advantage of the situation.
Someone calls my name.
Another voice lifts in a scream.
There’s nothing, though, that gets past the roaring of my pulse in my ears. The bloodlust is so terrifying I start to salivate without slowing down. This is the only way to get him to stop. To get him to pay for what he’s done to her and make sure he never does it again.
Suddenly hands are on me, dragging me off Greg. Two guys from the lighting crew move to either side of me, gripping my shoulders and hauling me back. And there’s Empire herself, breathing heavily, her eyes wide and staring at me.
She’s got her robe on like a security blanket and draws it around her chest.
When I glance back, Greg is being helped off the ground by several men and his personal assistant. He swipes a shaky hand across his face and smears the blood there.
“Maybe I got your message.” It takes me way too long to realize the calm tone he uses is for me. Until Greg straightens and waves off the help. He’s a little unsteady on his feet. “But I’m not going to be able to film again until my face heals up. Which makes this your problem, Mr. Ortega.”
He doesn’t stop on his way out the door, and the last I see of him, he’s leaving a trail of blood across the set, and the quiet is absolutely unnerving.