Chapter 4 Quentin
FOUR
QUENTIN
Madre mía. Quentin could only think in Spanish now, which was never a good sign.
It was his brain’s official SOS flare: code red, abandon ship, cognitive functions going dark.
All because Avery, his assigned production assistant, had been chattering non-stop since they left his cabin, narrating their walk like it was a guided safari tour and not a death march to the wardrobe trailer.
She was sweet, no doubt. Bright-eyed and enthusiastic. But holy hell, the girl could talk. If verbal stamina were an Olympic sport, she’d take gold, silver, bronze, and a commemorative statue shaped like a megaphone.
The director had assigned her as his personal PA for the film, and bless her, she was committed. He respected that. Really, he did. But he also respected silence. It was 7 a.m. He hadn’t had coffee. He hadn’t even smelled coffee. Just raw, unfiltered life, and frankly, he wasn’t built for that.
Avery buzzed beside him like a human espresso shot.
“Then straight to makeup, and after that, we block the scene with the horse. You do like horses, right? And oh my God, have you seen the saloon set? It's insane. Like, real whiskey barrels. Not that we’re drinking! Haha. Unless you are. Are you a method actor?”
“Uh-huh,” Quentin mumbled, catching maybe every tenth word and hoping none of them required actual decisions.
“And scene one is with Tessa!” she squealed, her voice reaching a pitch previously known only to dolphins and car alarms. “Your first scene! With Tessa freaking Beaumont! I’m gonna pass out just thinking about it.”
Quentin didn’t bother asking the universe for quiet anymore. Clearly, the universe had other plans. Loud, caffeinated, excessively perky plans.
To be fair, Avery had a point. Tessa Beaumont was a big deal. She was the queen of awards season, practically indie film royalty. The kind of actress who could read the phone book and make it emotionally devastating. Her talent was intimidating enough to make your soul shrink in self-defense.
Meanwhile, he was best known for slow-motion punches and serviceable one-liners delivered while sprinting away from explosions.
He was not ashamed of his Mr. America movies.
He genuinely liked them. The Paragon Cinematic Universe had been his big break.
They were fun. They were loud. They were engineered for Friday night crowds with extra butter on their popcorn. They weren’t Oscar bait.
And if he’d somehow forgotten that, the roundtable read a few weeks back had been a brutal reminder. Tessa had been flawless. Quentin, on the other hand, had sounded like someone who’d just learned to read. Every other line came out awkward or flat, like his tongue was allergic to nuance.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to massage away the memory. This film was a completely different beast, and he wanted to rise to it. No, he needed to.
He did not want to be just the guy with abs and a decent smirk.
He wanted more. He thought of those nights as a kid, curled up with his Abuelo, watching black-and-white films. Performances so raw and unforgettable they lingered long after the credits, haunted you, changed you.
That was the kind of actor he wanted to be.
Someone who made an audience feel something. Someone who left a mark.
They finally reached the wardrobe trailer, and Quentin was swiftly buried under layers of clothes.
First, a stiff button-up shirt. Then a scratchy vest. Topped off with a long duster coat that smelled like dust and old leather.
A wardrobe assistant handed him a weathered cowboy hat that fit perfectly over his shaggy, overgrown hair, which he had grown out for the role, much to his stylist’s horror.
He slipped into the cowboy boots, the spurs jingling like a tumbleweed might roll past at any moment.
When he glanced in the mirror, he barely recognized the man staring back . A full-on frontier cowboy. All he needed was a horse, a revolver, and a traumatic backstory, and he’d be golden. He looked the part. Now he just had to earn it.
Avery led him to an unassuming white trailer, and Quentin stared at it like it was a portal to hell. He knew exactly what lay beyond that door: Sadie Murphy, armed with makeup brushes like weapons and sarcasm calibrated for maximum destruction.
With a heavy sigh, he glanced at Avery, who was staring at him like he was malfunctioning.
Maybe he was. Because the idea of being trapped in a small, fluorescent-lit box with Sadie Murphy at seven in the morning made him seriously reconsider his career.
Who needed acting? Ranch hands didn’t get verbally shanked before breakfast.
With the resignation of a man walking the plank, he trudged up the steps. His cowboy gear rustled mournfully, and his spurs jangled like they, too, were dreading what came next.
He knocked once, then pushed the door open.
The inside looked like a glitter bomb had gone off in a Sephora. Makeup chairs lined the center, and a massive mirror dominated one wall, reflecting enough fluorescent lighting to give a ghost a tan. There were brushes, palettes, and prosthetic noses littered on every surface.
“Quentin!” Devi beamed, waving him in with both hands. Warm brown skin, easy smile, not a trace of evil in sight. He nearly cried. She’d been in the pre-production meetings, always cheerful and never once insulted his eyebrows. A true angel.
“Hey, Devi,” he said, practically skipping to the makeup chair.
“Sit! You look incredible, by the way. John Wayne, eat your heart out.”
Behind him, Avery hovered like an overstimulated hummingbird, flapping between her binder and her overstuffed messenger bag. Her nervous energy was so loud he didn’t notice the sudden chill in the air.
A smooth, low voice slid in from behind him. The verbal equivalent of an eye roll delivered at half speed.
“I’m confused. Yesterday you were a lumberjack. Today you’re a cowboy. What’s next? Clown?”
His eyes cut to the mirror and there she was.
Sadie, appearing out of nowhere like a cursed reflection.
She was like Bloody Mary, if the ghost wore long duster cardigans and looked like a hippie's wet dream.
She looked like she had wandered in from a vintage flea market and a yoga retreat simultaneously.
“Oh, wait,” she added, raising an eyebrow. “Too late.”
Avery let out a squeak and spun around, her bag knocking into a mannequin head that promptly toppled sideways, wig first, onto the floor. It rolled a bit. No one acknowledged it.
Quentin closed his eyes. He counted to five and fantasized about retirement.
“Nice to see you too, Sadie,” he muttered.
She leaned against the doorframe like she owned it, arms crossed, mouth tilted in amusement. “Aw, you missed me.”
“I considered a restraining order.”
“Flattered.” The air in the trailer tightened, like it knew a storm had entered and was holding its breath. Like it understood that he and Sadie could not share oxygen without consequences.
And Sadie just smiled, wicked and unbothered.
“This’ll be fun,” she said sweetly.
Quentin stared at the mirror like it might crack just to spare him. He was going to need stronger coffee or a sedative. Probably both.
“Okay,” Devi said with a chipper laugh, glancing between them. “So… I’m guessing you two have met.”
“Yes,” Sadie replied quickly, her voice sugary enough to cause a cavity. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Quentin before.”
Quentin resisted the urge to dive out the trailer window.
“Perfect,” Devi said cheerily, missing the vibe entirely. “I’ve got to work on Tessa. Sadie, you’re on scar duty. You know, the one that makes him look broody and tormented. Right cheek. Use the reference photo in the binder.”
Of course his character had a scar. Because nothing says “emotionally complex cowboy” like a mysterious facial wound.
Quentin briefly considered begging Devi to stay.
Maybe distract Sadie with a glitter palette and a scented candle.
But pride was a stubborn bastard, and he wasn’t about to let Sadie see him sweat.
He sat up straighter in the chair, cowboy hat dipped low like a man about to deliver justice or get humiliated by a makeup artist.
Devi rolled out of the trailer with her suitcase of makeup like she was heading into battle. The door shut with a final little click, leaving only tension and pressed powder in the air. Quentin looked up. Sadie hadn’t moved. She just stood there, arms crossed, eyes locked on his reflection.
“Do you usually stare this much,” he asked mildly, lifting an eyebrow, “or was yesterday your dedicated hobby. Because watching me through the window had real stalker energy.”
Sadie snorted and began unpacking her kit with aggressive efficiency. “I was trying to reconcile the image of you attempting rugged manual labor with the undeniable truth that you probably have a butler. One who fluffs your pillows and cuts the crusts off your sandwiches.”
His jaw tightened. She had no idea how much he’d worked for everything he had, how little had been handed to him. He wasn't some glossy nepo baby coasting on his parents’ money and connections.
“I eat my crusts like a man,” he said flatly. “And if I did have a butler, I would absolutely make him deal with you while I drank coffee from a safe distance.”
Sadie tilted her head. “Too bad. You’re stuck with me. So sit still before I ‘accidentally’ make this scar on your face shaped like a penis.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She smiled, sweet as poison. “Test me.”
Then she went back to her supplies, sounding almost conversational. “But seriously, why were you even chopping wood yesterday? Do you not outsource that to interns or assistants or less important people.”
His eye twitched. The way she said “less important people” had the subtlety of a flying brick. He took a breath, mostly to avoid throwing something.