Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
MYLO
I try to look alive as Bella comes back over. Haley excuses herself, promising to stay nearby but not wanting to be in the way.
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” Bella says.
“Hit me.”
“Good news is, Lana’s thrilled with that take. One-and-done on a oner.”
I shake my head, impressed with Bella’s negotiating. “That’s a fucking miracle.”
“Now, the bad news is, Lana’s so excited she wants to film the second fight for the Thunder Stone right after. As in, thirty minutes from now.”
I give a wry laugh. “Well, I guess I won’t have to work to sell a sore shoulder.”
“You gonna be okay?”
A digital timer beeps, meaning I’m free from my ice session. I ease the packs off. “Lemme see.”
I bounce on my feet, gently moving my arms to get blood flowing through the numbness the ice left behind. I tuck and roll along the sand, leading with my good shoulder.
“It doesn’t feel great,” I report. “But as long as I don’t have to hang from it, it’ll be fine.”
Bella’s voice quiets again. So only I can hear, she says, “You gonna be okay working with Christine?”
I nod. “I won’t have any problem finding Melinoe’s headspace, let’s leave it at that.”
Bella evaluates me, then nods. “Alright. I’ll let Lana know we can go ahead.”
The shooting location is nearby in the trees, centered on a clearing. Once the movie is stitched together, it’ll look like this is exactly where I fell. We’ll probably be coming back here in a few days to film the crash landing.
I tense as I see Electra’s silhouette—then relax as the figure turns, revealing herself as one of Christine’s body doubles. The woman is as tall as Christine, but her willowy model silhouette is no match for the alpha.
Melinoe’s body double is there too, allowing the lighting team to get everything ready-to-go without me or Haley or Christine needing to stand there.
I spot Christine over by Lana, presumably chatting about the scene. I find a tree to lean against, blocking Christine from view. The shade is nice.
I did my best to tune out Lana earlier. There’s only so much I can take of hearing Christine lauded as a genius for dislocating my shoulder and nearly killing me. That could’ve been a career-ending injury for any other performer.
It might still be a career-ender for me, but for a different reason. If anyone realizes just how bad that injury was from the playback or the sound pickup… If I get sent to a real doctor, one that might pull blood, blood that’ll be positive on a very particular marker…
I have to hope that only Bella noticed and that she trusts me enough to let it slide.
And then Christine’s little humble brag, Oh, it just seemed like something Electra would do.
We finally get a rhythm going, but that can’t stand. No, she has to remind everyone that she’s the star, that she’s the center of attention.
Fuck, I’m an idiot.
I had her number from the start.
But damn, I guess I should have given her more credit for her acting skills. I can’t believe I thought I was getting through to her. Seeing a real person.
Nope. I was putty in her hands. And at the end of the day, it’s the Christine Show and it always will be.
Whatever. Nothing to do now but my job. The better these takes are, the sooner I can go sink into a tub of ice water.
As if on cue, the assistant director, Alejandro, calls us to our places.
Andy quickly talks through the choreography we rehearsed before.
He tells me where to go, and I go. It’s all autopilot now as I dissociate from the pain.
“Three… Two… One… Action!”
Lunge, strike, dodge, strike. I just move, just try to get through this.
“Cut!”
Lana’s voice comes first. “Give me passion, Mylo! Vivre!”
Andy jogs over to translate. “You okay?”
I force myself to roll my injured shoulder. “Yeah. Just gonna take me a sec to get back into it. I’ll get there.” I still haven’t really looked at Christine.
Andy nods and withdraws.
Lana calls out, “Give me Melinoe! Give me raw! Now, let’s try that again…”
The rest of the call and response is a blur until that singular word.
Action.
My body moves. I let myself favor my good shoulder, let myself dirty up the choreography. I force myself to glance up at Christine’s face.
And she has the audacity to look concerned. Poor noble, tortured Electra. Poor Christine, America’s sweetheart.
Melinoe’s headspace gives me a path back into my body, into all this rage and pain. I growl and give a messy, furious lunge.
Christine shows genuine surprise as she stumbles back, caught off-guard by the unscripted movement.
I launch a real kick at her face, forcing her to block it.
The number one rule of filmmaking?
Don’t you dare stop until you hear ‘Cut.’
So I keep going. I throw a punch at her shoulder, forcing her to dodge a low sweeping kick. My emotions unravel, and I’m not sure I could stop even if I wanted to.
I move faster, sharper. Christine’s on the defensive.
I slip a kick under her block and hit her in the stomach—hard. Pain rings through my foot from her breastplate, which is actual metal, but I don’t fucking care.
I don’t fucking care about anything anymore.
I don’t fucking care if I get fired from this movie, because I was an idiot if I ever thought I could work alongside an alpha like Christine.
I almost died today.
An animal scream claws its way from my chest as I go after Christine, attacking hard and fast. Blows connect with her shoulders, her thighs, her ribs.
Now she’s mad. It might be the first real emotion she’s shown, and I only go in harder.
But I’m clumsy with pain and fury, and it’s her turn to land a blow, hitting my raised forearm hard enough to send me stumbling.
I go in again, and her next hit sends me rolling across the dirt.
My breath chokes in my lungs as I roll over my injured shoulder, and adrenaline drives me back to my feet.
Beyond Christine, I’m vaguely aware of Bella stepping forward and Lana’s arm out to stop her, the director’s hand raised, gesturing for the cameras to keep rolling.
I try to get another kick at Christine’s ribs, but she moves faster than I thought she could, dodging out of my path and grabbing me around the waist.
I twist and punch her arm, but I might as well be punching iron for all the good it does.
Gravity lurches beneath me, and my back hits the leaf litter. For a moment, I think the spike of pain is what immobilizes me; then I become aware of Christine’s forearm pressing across my chest. Her shin braces just below my knees, pinning me in place.
I struggle wildly, and my breath comes out in a strangled, desperate noise as all I manage to do is tug on my shoulder more.
“Stop that,” Christine barks.
A real, honest-to-goodness alpha bark.
My whole body goes still. It’s like I suddenly plunged into a warm bath. The pain eases, and my muscles relax.
Sweet coconut and sea salt fill my head, and my mouth waters.
Christine leans close to my ear and growls, “Maybe I was going easy on you.”
My back arches into her forearm, breath catching in my lungs.
Her eyes are endless azure skies, soulfire blue.
I’m drowning in that ocean again.
Her scent opens to bright petrichor laced with static, the forest during a heavy rain, the promise of lightning on the wind.
Then, like a thunderclap, her lips crash against me, hot and soft. Her tongue presses into my mouth and mine rises to meet hers, chased by a low moan in my throat.
Her hand slides around the back of my head, pulling me closer, as the other grips my waist.
I can’t breathe and I don’t want to, I want this, I need this, this addictive feeling that settles my nerves, that says everything’s alright so profoundly it makes nicotine seem like a placebo.
She tastes like salt, and every stroke of her tongue leaves me needing more, more. Still, my arms rest limp above my head, lax muscles refusing to move.
My lungs scream for air, and I draw a ragged gasp past Christine’s teeth catching my lip.
She pulls back a fraction, and her eyes find mine, stricken and wild.
Our hot, heavy breath mingles between us.
Time seems to slow at the eye of the hurricane.
Then the storm comes howling in.