Chapter 34
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
CHRISTINE
I need to pick a fight. Run a marathon. Throw a bus.
Something. Anything.
I settle on a brisk jog, vaguely in the direction of the sound studio. I’ll call Ollie if I get bored.
It’s good Mylo pissed me off, because it was a lot easier to close him in the car than it would’ve been to share it with Ollie the whole way. And the poor old Kiwi doesn’t deserve any more fallout from my mood.
I don’t like other people talking to Mylo, looking at him, touching him.
And I don’t like myself when I feel that way.
It’s easy enough to avoid him until that sweet candied orange scent hits my nose, telling me he needs me. It might be all in my head, but I swear he tastes like creamsicle.
Mylo’s damn lucky there aren’t any other alphas on set, because there’s no way I could hide it from them. Even just jogging past a bound alpha pushing his kid in a stroller across the street, my hackles rise.
He glances at me, scenting territorial alpha on the wind, and I want to whirl toward him and snarl.
Instead, I push myself to run faster, putting distance between us.
I close my eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the movement in my body.
And then I hear my name.
“Christine? Christine Evansworth? Oh my god, it is you!”
Oh, for the love of… Please, not now…
I muster a smile and turn toward the sound. A young woman rises from her chair out front of a little cafe and hurries over to me. Her American accent pegs her as a tourist.
“Oh my god, I’m such a big fan!”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate the support.”
“Are you okay? You don’t seem… y’know. Christine.” She makes a gesture like jazz hands.
I don’t seem exactly like my stage persona? Weird. Super weird.
But this fan isn’t the reason for my mood, so I choke it down.
“Sorry, you caught me working out. And I haven’t had my morning coffee yet.”
“Oh my god, that’s so relatable. Wait, can I get you some coffee? Mom, Mom! Go order Christine Evansworth coffee! Double shot and double sugar, soy milk, extra hot!”
Oh god, what movie is that from… I’m allergic to soy milk.
“You really don’t need to do that—”
“Are you kidding? Please, it would make my absolute month! I got coffee for Christine Evansworth!”
Truth be told, that’s when I leave my body.
I let ‘Christine’ take over. She’s all easy smiles and fast friends, ever gracious, ever humble.
‘Christine’ makes every fan feel special, and when the entire coffee shop gets up thanks to that girl yelling my name, ‘Christine’ blushes and smoothly asks the barista for a marker, then signs everyone’s coffee cups.
‘Christine’ warmly apologizes for not being able to stay longer, checks the clock and winces that she’s already super late, thanks everyone for a fourth time on the way out of the cafe, poses for three more selfies, and waves all the way up the block.
There’s a reason I ask the people I actually know to call me ‘Tee.’
When I turn the corner, I come hurtling back into my skin. I toss the full to-go cup in the nearest trash can, then spit what’s left in my mouth after it. My tongue and throat already itch. If I’m lucky, that’ll be the worst of it. If I’m not, I have some hives to look forward to.
Hives that could interfere with shooting.
Fuck.
I duck into a corner store, quickly grabbing an antihistamine and an obnoxiously green baseball cap with a silhouette of a kiwi bird.
Combined with the sunglasses from my bag, I might be able to finish my run unassailed.
But plenty of people know I’m filming here right now, and there are only so many tall, silver-blonde female alphas…
The cashier does a double-take, then clutches the receipt a little too tightly when I say I don’t need it.
The walls seem to close in around me, and I tug the brim of my cap down as I push outside. Fuck, I feel like an idiot. Still, nothing to do but keep moving.
I should really call a car, but I truly cannot with the claustrophobia right now.
Fine. Guess I’m gonna get quite the run in today.
Down goes the antihistamine with a gulp of water as I prepare a lie for Lana as to why I’m late.
Today and tomorrow are the last two days of filming, and we’re going to need every minute.
I pause at a crosswalk, glancing up from under the brim of my hat.
And then I see my salvation: a sleek, low garage-like building with a red-on-black sign reading Motormania.
When life gives you lemons, you make fucking lemonade.
I stride across the street, absently raising a hand at a car that slams on its brakes and honks. As I push into the store, I take my hat off, ready to throw it away within five minutes of buying it.
Leather and oil hit my nose in an intoxicating combination that promises burnt rubber and adrenaline.
“Kia ora,” calls a Māori local, looking up from where he sits behind the counter. He’s probably about my age, deep tan skin, dark curly hair, high cheekbones. Full sleeves of bold black Moko tattoos flow out from under a white muscle tee.
“Kia ora,” I reply, scanning the store. There’s an entire aisle of motorcycle helmets, another wall of leather jackets and pants, rack after rack of boots and gloves…
and right at the center, up on a pedestal, is a gorgeous little bike in matte black metal and shiny red accents.
I don’t need to see the sign to know it’s a Triumph—their newest model, actually—and it’s going to have exactly the speed and power I’m looking for.
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” I say, “but I’m going to need that bike.”
MYLO
I thank Ollie for dropping me off and find June. Haley’s working on lines for the day and I don’t need to go back for hair for the next hour, so June suggests I get breakfast.
I grab a water and head outside instead, sitting on a wooden storage crate full of set dressings while I nurse my vape. I dig my suppressants out of my bag—it’s worth the risk of having the bottle with me, at this point—and roll it along my palm.
The pills rattle within, taunting me. There are four left: two for today, two for tomorrow.
I still haven’t choked down this morning’s dose.
There’s a chance some quiet and nicotine will do the trick, so it’s worth a shot.
I’m about to tip out a pill and power through when the growl of a motorcycle approaches.
I glance up and freeze, captivated by the sight of exactly what I need: someone to distract me from Christine.
Clad in black leather and a matching helmet, they’re hitting that wavelength of androgyny that always makes my mouth water.
They strike an intimidating silhouette on a bike that could’ve ramped right out of a James Bond movie.
They handle the bike like a pro, rocketing down the street and taking the turn into the studio lot far faster than is advised.
A stunt person? I didn’t know we were doing any vehicle stunts for this one, but who knows what Lana tacked on last minute.
Whoever they are, they move with that grounded confidence of someone whose skills are part of their life, not merely something they put on for the camera. It’s that vibe that I appreciate so much with my fellow stunt performers.
And I would absolutely know if this person had been on set before.
I make no attempt to hide my open staring as they swing the bike into a stop, sending gravel scattering as the back wheel comes around.
I hold my breath as they reach up and grip their helmet—
And a cascade of platinum blonde hair pours out.
Christine turns toward me, already smirking.
Fuck. Fuck.
Of course it’s Christine. I blame my low blood sugar for my complete inability to put two and two together.
God dammit, she looks… ludicrously, offensively, obscenely hot in leather.
The breeze sends her hair flagging over her shoulder as she strolls over, helmet casually tucked under her arm, hips swaying.
I forget how to breathe.
“You ride?” she asks.
“Not really…”
“Hm. I thought you must be drooling over the bike, because otherwise…” She bends down over me, lifting my chin with a knuckle. “You’d be drooling over me.”
I jerk my head away and stare at the asphalt. “As if.”
Christine chuckles. “You’re a pretty good actor. You’ve gotta work on that blush, though.”
I quickly raise a palm to my cheek, and sure enough, it’s blazing hot. For once, I don’t think I can blame my hormones for that.
“I didn’t know you ride,” I mutter.
“Yeah, that’s kinda by design. I—” She stops short, crouching lower.
As her face approaches mine, my heart thunders. When she has her makeup done, she’s unquestionably pretty. But with a bare face, she’s hot. It brings out the square edge of her jaw, the firm set of her brow, the electric glow of those eyes. How had I not noticed before?
Her lips are so close…
She plucks the prescription bottle from my hand and stands.
I scramble up to my feet. “Hey, give me that!” I grip her wrist, trying to pull it down—but she lifts my whole weight as she raises the bottle further out of reach.
Christine’s brow furrows as she reads the label, and her glare falls to me.
I shrink back instinctively, dropping to the ground.
She shakes the bottle. “Not only are you still taking these, you’re taking extra doses, aren’t you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You have, in fact, made it directly my business.”
“Give it back.” I make a futile jump for the pill bottle.
“I don’t know if I should. The longer you keep taking these, the worse it’s going to be.”
I whirl my glare from the pill bottle to her face. “Oh, so first you know all about heats, and now you know about suppressants? Wait…” I give a bitter, incredulous laugh as I fold my arms. “Have you been talking to your doctor friend about me? You know that’s illegal, right? You have no shame…”
Christine’s look of hurt and confusion is so convincing, I hesitate.