Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
MYLO
As I step out of my hotel room, a wave of nausea hits me. I double back into my room’s bathroom just in time for my stomach to empty itself, sending my suppressant pill and a glass of water down the drain.
Fuck. Fuck.
I grab a spare pill, wrap it in a tissue, and tuck it into my wallet. Then I swallow another with as little water as possible, followed by a Dramamine.
My stomach roils, but I’m prepared this time, and I force the pill to stay down.
There’s a sharp knock at my door. “Mylo! Ship’s about to set sail!”
“Coming.”
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and join the crew.
One of the team leads, Johno, lightly elbows me, sporting a teasing grin. “Thanks for joining us mere mortals. Just ‘cause you’re making out with the star doesn’t mean you don’t have to be on time.”
“Yeah yeah. I just forgot my wallet.”
I clamber into the van, bracing to spend the whole ride keeping my pills down.
What a great start to the day.
I’m sure the rest will only be even better.
When I get my schedule for the day, I see that whether because of the re-writes or Bella looking out for me, I basically have the day off. I could go back to the hotel if I wanted.
I’d go stir-crazy. Christine is shooting all day, so she’ll be easy enough to avoid, and the stunt crew is happy to put me to work again.
On my usual gigs, I’m in the ensemble cast, helping move stuff around and killing time between takes, so it’s a nice return to normalcy.
Unfortunately, not going to Wardrobe means I don’t see Haley. I haven’t caught up with her since yesterday. I’m sure the crew told her I’m fine, but after Alanna, I want to assure her in person.
My shoulder is sore, but strength-wise, it’s back to normal. As long as Bella’s not looking, I carry stuff with both arms, same as usual.
There’s scattered gossip about the rewrites, but I mostly ignore it. I just… can’t right now. Andy or Bella will tell me what to do and when. Lana will correct me if she doesn’t like what she’s seeing. I don’t have lines, so it doesn’t really matter if I know the script or not.
By late morning, my hunger finally outweighs my nausea. I leave the stunt crew and venture to the craft services table set up in a temporary pavilion by the trailers, browsing for something light. I get down three apple slices and a couple grapes before my stomach churns.
Well, better than nothing.
As I head back toward where the stunt crew is working, I spot a PA struggling with a full pack of water bottles, a stack of binders teetering on top.
I jog over and swipe up the binders right as they start to fall.
Now that I can see the PA’s wincing face, I recognize him as the same guy who offered me water when Christine and I were training on the rig.
When he doesn’t hear the expected crash of the binders falling, he opens an eye—then smiles with relief as he sees the binders safe in my arms.
“Oh, thank you!”
“How about we trade?” I gesture with the binders.
“Oh, that would be amazing.”
I scoop up the pack of water bottles with my good arm and hand the binders back to the PA, who introduces himself as Tyler. He leads the way down the grade and through the trees to today’s filming location.
“Just a little further…”
The wind shifts, bringing Christine’s scent to my nose. My heart kicks faster, skin going hot.
Yeah, I’m still pretty fucking mad.
This might’ve been a bad idea. But I’m not going to leave Tyler hanging. I’ll be in and out, and Christine probably won’t even notice me.
I follow Tyler around to a folding table, ignoring the circle of cameras and lighting nearby.
Once the bottles are on the table, I tear open the plastic and pull out a few.
“That should get you started,” I say.
“Thank you so much! Do you need any—”
“Quiet on the set!” Alejandro’s voice cuts through the air.
Shit. I could slink away, confident in my ability to be quiet. On a sound stage, I would. But with the forested path, all it takes is one crunchy stick and I’ll earn the whole crew’s ire. Safer to stay put.
Nothing to do but watch the scene, I guess. I finally turn my attention that way, noting Christine and Haley standing at the center.
The set designers have really outdone themselves this time, creating an incredible replica of Electra’s space plane landed in the clearing. Plants have been flattened and crushed to simulate the airflow of landing, and scattered debris hints at a recent fight.
The call-and-response begins, ending with Lana calling action.
Christine and Haley speak quietly, as befitting a tense scene, so I can’t hear them. That’s probably for the best.
I cross my arms and tap my fingers along my elbow, waiting for the scene to be over.
Christine grabs Haley’s arm, and my muscles go taut.
How could she, I think, shocked that my ire is at Haley. I try to take a deep breath—Haley’s on my side here, after all—but it feels like there’s a sandbag on my chest.
Christine pushes Haley back, pinning her to the plane.
My spine goes tighter.
It’s Electra and Melinoe, I remind myself. This has nothing to do with you.
Then Christine leans down and kisses Haley.
Pain lances through my chest.
I’m going to scream.
I’m going to vomit, I’m going to cry, I’m going to scream.
My hand clamps over my mouth, then I turn and run.
Into the woods, to the deeper part of the forest, away from people, away from everything, away from Haley, away from Christine.
I make it a hundred feet before the first sob breaks past my hand. I drop it and run faster, sprinting all out, weaving through trees, vaulting over fallen logs, sliding under low branches.
That pain radiates from my chest and my muscles tighten until it feels like I’m running through sand. I finally slow and step around behind a thick tree, leaning back against the trunk, breath ragged.
Tears streak my cheeks, and I stifle another sob.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don’t fucking care.
But every time I remind myself, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, more tears well in my eyes, no matter how I scrub them with the back of my hand or my shirt.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Mylo?”
Her voice behind me slices to my core.
I push off the tree and sprint again, clumsy now, panicked. I crash through a tangle of branches and stumble over a dense bush. Pain slices my skin, and my over-sharp nose pricks with the scent of my blood, but I keep running.
“Mylo!” Her call pierces the forest, close and getting closer. “Mylo, for the love of… Stop running!”
I won’t.
I can’t.
“Mylo!”
Her footfalls approach behind me, easily gaining ground.
Fuck her for being taller, faster.
Fuck her for not being clumsy like she should be at that size, for being more agile than she has any right to be.
The closer she gets, the more I panic. Like an injured rabbit making one last desperate bid to outrun the fox.
The leaves crunch right behind me, and I scream.
Her arms close around me like jaws.
I kick, I fight, I bite, I yell.
I might as well be fighting with a steel statue.
Christine’s breath stays even, calm, as she grapples to keep hold of me. I twist and lurch in her grip, blood making my skin slick.
No use.
Panic rising, I cycle through every strike and technique I know—not for performance, but for self-defense—aiming elbows at her ribs, shoving my knee into her gut.
What blows she doesn’t evade earn little more than a low grunt.
I struggle and writhe until my back is locked against her chest, one arm tight across my shoulders, too close under my chin for me to bite, while the other pins my arms at my sides. Her legs trap mine from above and outside, holding them flat to the ground, where I have no leverage.
I try to whip my head back into her chin, but she has too much height on me, and it just thumps against her chest. My second attempt ends with the arm across my shoulders shifting lightning-quick to grasp my jaw, pressing my head against her sternum.
I can’t move. I’m totally and completely locked in place.
Shallow, fear-laced breaths quiver in my lungs.
And then she does the worst thing she could possibly do.
She starts purring.
The sound travels directly into my chest, into the core of my nervous system. From the inside out, from spine to fingers and toes, my body relaxes against my will.
Calm and safety settle around me, but tears slide down my cheeks. A choked sob escapes, then another.
I don’t understand what’s happening, why I feel this way, why my body is betraying me now of all times.
I don’t know why I’m being such a fucking omega.
As I sob, Christine just holds me. She knows better than to loosen her grip, and even as I relax into her, her hold only tightens.
My sobs gradually slow.
“I hate you,” I choke out. “I fucking hate you.”
Christine’s quiet, wounded words linger on the wind:
“I know.”