Love, Camera, Action

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Sex was a tricky thing. A powerful amount of discipline went into making sex effortless yet magical.

No, not magical. “Magical” was too clich é , and Calliope Daniels knew that clich é was the death knell of good sex. Saying it was good didn’t make it so. It had to be good.

Making good sex was Cali’s job. Well, not exactly making sex , but making the most fake, awkward, and public sex choreography look intimate and real. That was why the hotly anticipated network TV series The Demon had hired her to direct THE hookup. The mid-season, two-part episode where the titular demon and her human prey, after burning for each other over the entire season like supernova suns, finally got it on . And who did they want to direct that pivotal moment in the story?

Calliope Daniels.

Because she was good at sex.

Well, that and the tiny fact that the original—male—director had stated on social media that the industry had overcompensated for the #metoo movement, and “thankfully the pendulum had swung back to where it should be.” That pendulum fired his ass, and The Demon production team needed a female replacement for him, fast. With no women directors on their slate to help clean up the PR mess, the producers on The Demon reached out to the bush leagues. There, they found Cali—an up-and-comer, a pro, and, well … a woman who was available.

Cali flung open the door to the Atlanta studio and raced through its sets, her mind scouring through the script she’d all but memorized for clues on how to make the sex scene sing. She knew whatever she came up with would have to be more than good. It was an unspoken reality that a male director had the first day of a shoot to win the trust of the cast and crew, while a female director had the first scene. As a relative unknown in the American television market, Cali knew this was a make-or-break moment in her career.

She couldn’t just direct this sex scene—she had to direct it flawlessly . This was her chance to prove she was a director to be reckoned with, a director who should be ranked among the best.

This will work. I will make this work. Can I make this work? Oh God, it’s not going to work. It’s really not going to work.

Cali told her inner voice to fuck off, and strode onto the bedroom set that would be the location of her first scene, just as someone boomed out, “Watch your back!”

Cali turned to see a bundle of two-by-fours headed for her face. She froze, unable to move, part of her hoping that her nose bone would get rammed into her brain by a piece of wood, and all her fears and doubts would blissfully vanish.

Two hands closed around her shoulders and yanked her back as a burly carpenter shouldering the planks barreled through. “Eyes up, sweetheart!”

A deep voice rumbled behind her in weary irritation, “What did I say about calling people ‘sweetheart,’ man? It’s not 2018.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” The carpenter blew a kiss to whoever owned the voice that vibrated through her like grandma’s neck massager. Cali followed the trajectory of that floating kiss and came face-to-face with a vision that made her chest seize.

He was a bit taller than Cali—a rarity since she was usually the tall one (her mother’s cackle filled her mind: “They’re all the same height lying down, honey” )—and built in that manly-man kind of way crafted by the brutal pace of a busy TV set rather than a vanity project. The intensity of his crystalline blue eyes and sandy-blond hair hearkened noble warriors primed to take a tumble into hell just for kicks. The sheer magnetism was discombobulating. You know—if you were into dangerous men who could lead a Roman legion.

Cali backed up a step to remind herself how to breathe.

He had no problems breathing, practically huffing out beleaguered irritation. “You here from PR? Today is a closed set, so you’ll have to go over to the offices.”

Cali blinked in confusion. “Oh no, I’m Cali Daniels.”

“And I’m Jory Blair. But you’re still going to have to leave. Just go back the way you came …”

Cali stopped listening as excitement, mortification, and dread burbled up at once.

This was Jory Blair, director of photography.

The DP’s purview was the look of the show—the style, the lighting, the composition—and Jory Blair was considered the next great visionary, changing how everyone saw the world. He brought an unflinching gaze to every moment he shot, whether it was the delicate love between parent and child or the chaotic terror of the battlefield. His precision; his choice of angle, frame, and light; his dedication to detail made everything unerringly real . He was alternately referred to as a true genius and a control freak.

Cali was firmly out of her league. She’d lucked into this gig because the few low-rent, racy TV shows up in Canada she’d directed had suckered the executives into believing she was the woman for this exceptional job. A job working with Jory Fucking Blair. A Real Artist. A Real Innovator. The Real Deal.

On top of all that, he was inconveniently, illogically, and devastatingly hot. She could barely look at him for Pete’s sake. And when she cast her gaze to the sensually lit environment, where trendy art hung on ecru walls above a very male, oak bedroom suite dressed with a chiffon blue duvet and ten-thousand-thread-count cotton sheets as though it had floated out of Elle’ s tribute to “virile bed sets,” a girl was bound to get some ideas.

She ground her imagination to a halt. She didn’t consider guys on set as potential flings. Not only was it bad for her reputation as a director, but she’d witnessed others on set getting into relationships, and they always went south, making the long, intense workdays unbearable. For both the people involved and the crew around them. Still, as she took in Jory’s strong, tanned forearm gesturing to the door, she remembered there was nothing wrong with a little appreciation.

“… and then another left past the mermaid fountain,” he finished, sighing as though it was all too much. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Go that way, and I’m sure someone will direct you.”

Pushing aside her panic and fascination while swearing an oath to the gods of “fake it till you make it,” she tried again. “I’m Cali Daniels.”

His face flattened but for the tiniest smile that lifted his lips. His beautiful, sensuous, Chris Pine lips. “You said that.”

“Hi there! Hey! Hi! Can I help you? This is a closed set.”

Past Jory, a stunning woman in her mid-thirties, with black hair, violet eyes, and a don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I-will-destroy-you vibe stepped blithely toward them over multitudinous cables, in five-inch Fluevog pumps.

Melanie Reiter was the co-executive producer on The Demon . Second only to the showrunner, she did everything from finalizing scripts and approving wardrobe looks, to championing directors no one had heard of to take over lynchpin episodes. Melanie was the reason Cali was here.

“Hi, Melanie, I’m—”

“Oh my God, Cali.” Melanie’s hands flew to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you. What took you so long? Did your driver come via Savannah?”

“Yes, sorry, the traffic—”

“Isn’t it unreal? I thought LA was bad. Ryan!” Melanie’s gaze snapped to a wiry man precariously hanging off a ladder. “Did you get your electrician’s license in the last five minutes? You are not authorized to rewire that light, and I do not have time for an insurance claim if you get electrocuted.” Ryan reluctantly descended the ladder as Melanie returned her focus to Cali with a clap of her hands. “So! Big scene today, right off the top.”

Cali felt Jory’s attention shift in curiosity, but she kept her eyes on Melanie. Barely. “Absolutely. In my mind this scene is as important as the ultimate love scene since it’s got to build their tension to the breaking point.”

“So true,” Melanie agreed. “I’m glad you think that. That’s great. Really great. Well, I can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned. You have something planned, right? I know it’s been a whirlwind.”

“I have some ideas that will really make this scene pop.” Cali hoped the lie would eventually become true.

“Great. Great. Remember I’m here to encourage, to support, to cheer. I’m just here to observe.”

Melanie fidgeted in her stance and flicked her eyes at Jory, probably to gauge his reaction. As much as Melanie had fought for her, Cali knew she must be nervous about sticking her neck out for someone most people saw as a rookie.

Jory turned to Melanie. “So this is …?”

“Oh my God!” Melanie gasped. “You haven’t met. I’m so sorry! It’s been such a hectic time with the switchover in directors and getting you here and … well … never mind. Cali is Robert’s replacement and is beyond fabulous. You’re going to love her.”

Cali turned to Jory with a confident, mildly accusatory smile, squeezing herself into the upper hand with all her might. He was still implacable, but Cali swore she saw the tiniest hint of a blush.

“I’m Jory Blair.” He put his hand out.

She mimicked his tiny smile. “You said that.”

Yep. That was a blush. She took his hand and felt his warmth soak into her, the pressure of his grip strong but not forceful, as though he had nothing to prove.

Melanie’s attention snagged on a set dresser prepping the bed, already on the move. “No, no, no. That’s too many pillows. No man has that many pillows.”

“That’s sexist, Mel,” Jory called after her. “Men can have pillows.”

“You’re absolutely right, Jory, and I feel terrible for being so judgmental.” Then Melanie lit into the set dresser, who quickly gathered the excess pillows in her arms.

Left alone, Cali forced her attention back to Jory with Herculean effort. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve always admired your work.”

“Thanks.” The blush disappeared, his features snapping into full neutral.

She’d said the wrong thing. Maybe he wasn’t the type who liked compliments. “I mean, it’s hard to avoid your work since it seems to be everywhere.”

The tension eased in his jaw. “That’s my secret plan, to flood the market with only me.”

“Smart. That way even your mistakes look like art.”

“Oh, I don’t make mistakes. Don’t you read the trades?” He leaned in. “I’m a genius.” His brows were all austere seriousness, but that slight smile returned.

Hot and humble? Mon Dieu.

Cali couldn’t help but smile back. Which made his smile falter. And then hers faltered. Was smiling wrong too?

“Good flight?” He straightened away from her.

Cali grasped at the change in subject. “The flight was fine, but when I got off the plane, I felt like I’d been hit with a boiled washcloth. Is it always so humid here?”

“It’s called Hotlanta for a reason. Wait until you see the afternoon storms—they’re like a four PM alarm of thunder, lightning, and wind.”

“Do they break the humidity?” she asked hopefully.

“Not even a little.”

“Gross.”

“Very.”

A slightly easier silence descended. Maybe Cali could do this. If Jory was half as good as his reputation, he could be the ally she needed. “Well, we’ve had the compulsory weather chat—I guess we should move on to work. Did you get my shot list?”

“I did.” His tone took on the vocal quality of Switzerland. “Looks good.”

Did he hate it? He must hate it. She shifted to self-deprecation mode. “It’s a bit boring—smooth, sexy shots to show off the actors’ bodies. Meh.”

Jory’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t think I’ve experienced a director who dissed their own ideas before. The shot list is fine.”

“I think that might be the trouble.” Cali shook her head. “I didn’t have a ton of time to come up with something better since I only got the call three days ago.”

“One director’s stupid, sexist move is another’s lucky break.” A cloud crossed Jory’s face. “There is zero tolerance for that kind of behavior on my set.” Cali noted the—probably subconscious—claim that the set was his. He continued: “But three days prep isn’t a lot. I would’ve preferred to discuss the look of the show with you, the protocols, but here we are and your ideas are fine.”

Cali grimaced. “Fine” wouldn’t get her where the scene needed to be. Where she needed to be. “There’s that word again. I’m sure you’ve never settled for ‘fine.’ ”

“Sometimes ‘fine’ is all I can hope for.” The cloud darkened, and he quickly glanced away, as if he’d startled himself with the admission.

Cali experienced a curious wave of protectiveness, which was ridiculous. Men could take care of themselves. “Okay. Well, I was hoping for something a bit better than that. And to that end, there are a few moments that I think we should explore.”

“What do you mean by ‘explore?’” Cali felt rather than saw Jory square his shoulders.

“Well, there’s a deeper meaning to this scene. Something we can tease out if we risk being a bit more avant-garde .”

Jory glanced off to the side with a thoughtful look on his face. His body had gone still, as though he needed all his considerable energy to weigh the idea.

Cali brightened. This was what she had hoped for, a collaboration between two like minds working toward an unforgettable moment in The Demon universe. Excitement roiled up, snuffing out her doubt.

Jory turned his excessive blue eyes back to hers. “Can I give you some advice?”

Cali nodded eagerly, breath bated.

“I get it’s your first day and you’re keen to do a good job, to put your creative stamp on things. It’s a tough gig, and I get that. But if you just get the shots we need and do it in a reasonable time, that will make everyone, including me, really happy.”

Cali frowned. She must be misunderstanding him—it sounded like he wanted to keep everything rote, simple, boring. This wasn’t the Jory Blair she had read about, had studied. “I think the scene has more potential, but it hasn’t revealed itself yet. I’m sure we can find it together once we see it on its feet.” She pressed on. “And when we do find it, we’d be making the story happy rather than people.”

“Making people happy is ninety percent of my job.”

“And the other ten?”

“Making sure directors don’t overstep their bounds. Stick with ‘fine,’ ” he said.

Then he winked at her.

A twenty-something blond woman holding two camera lenses cleared her throat. Jory took them from her and stepped away, dismissing the conversation and leaving Cali alone in a pool of shock.

He winked at me. He winked at me! Who does that?

Cali had never been made to feel like she was twelve—even when she was twelve. A girl who had singlehandedly brought up her little sister and herself, while keeping their mom under control so they weren’t put into the system, didn’t often get looked down on for lack of seriousness. She’d been condescended to before, sure—what woman hadn’t? Mostly she’d always been, rightfully, assessed as a mature adult with confidence and brains.

With one eyelid, Jory had brought the curtain down on her idea, relegating Cali to a peon barely worth his regard.

A honeyed male voice interrupted her furious thoughts. “So, who’s on top?”

Cali shifted her gaze to take in a ridiculously beautiful man.

Melanie swooped in beside him, her tone tolerant. “Cali, this is Paolo Ramirez, our male lead. Paolo, Cali directed Suddenly, Hot Summer. ”

Suddenly, Hot Summer was a low-budget, ill-advised cross between Tennessee Williams’s Suddenly, Last Summer and Cannonball Run. While the producers had thought they were making a masterpiece, mixing a cross-country race with a commentary on mental illness, Cali saw the train wreck for what it was, and shot the film, and the multiple sex scenes in various vehicles, like a comedy. As a result it had become a cult hit.

Paolo seemed impressed for a nanosecond, then returned to what was probably his base face—chill with a serving of pout. “That Segway scene was fire.”

“Thank you,” she offered humbly.

Paolo played Rafe—the object of the Demon’s annihilations and affections—in his first acting gig after being plucked from a model photo shoot. He was perfectly cast with his dark angelic features: wavy chestnut hair, green eyes, and full dusky lips. He vibrated with charisma.

He was also naked.

Well, almost. Naked but for the open robe carelessly hung off his shoulders and the flesh-tone banana hammock thong that may have been made of rice paper. Cali couldn’t tell if Paolo was ü ber-comfortable with his body because of the various states of undress required of a model, or flaunting the hours spent at the gym instead of, say, in front of a book. He wasn’t known for his smarts.

Squashing her feelings of disappointment and general unworthiness, and looking forward to the moment the intimacy coordinator arrived on set, Cali gestured to Paolo’s hammock. “Can you move around in that?”

Without warning, Paolo dipped into a deep squat followed by a full burpee that ended with a roundhouse kick. The move would have been impressive if his foot hadn’t connected with a passing production assistant’s ear, knocking her headset off.

Boyish embarrassment slid over him as he rushed to help the horrified PA. “Sorry, sorry.”

Fumbling for her headset, she wound up eye level with Paolo’s protruding manhood. With a gasp, she squeezed her lids shut. “I’m okay. I’m okay,” she squeaked while Melanie hurried her off set.

“Smooth move, Ramirez.”

Cali turned to see Thalia Bautista, the female lead. While Paolo was pure ethereal beauty, Thalia was nothing but earth. Her tan skin, black hair, and amber eyes only enhanced her fiery sensuality that seemed to have its own atmosphere. Thalia had a reputation for being a solid, thoughtful actress who was deeply committed to her craft, if a bit uptight.

Paolo’s features covered the full spectrum from mortification to arrogance. Interesting, Cali thought . On screen, Paolo showed an alarming lack of emotional range, but in person, he demonstrated a rainbow of expression. If she could pull that out in front of the camera, the show had the making of a star on its hands.

Cali turned her attention to Thalia and the leather bustier–jumpsuit concoction she wore. “How are you feeling in this?”

Thalia gave Cali a practiced smile. “It’s comfortable enough, but I feel like I’m wearing a parka next to Paolo. I mean, I’m good with losing it …”

Suddenly Melanie was back. “I was wondering about that choice myself. The network loves Thalia and, if anything, would like to see more of her.”

“Yeah. Whatever you need.” The slightest tension crept into Thalia’s shoulders, even though her voice was all silky acquiescence. A disquiet thrumming under all that leather and confidence.

Cali loved actors. They were gushy balls of feeling who were full of surprises and charm and energy. Lots of directors didn’t understand how actors worked their magic, so they fearfully hid behind the technical aspects of the camera. Cali was all about figuring out the language of a shot or how to create a mood with light, but knew that was only part of the puzzle. Recognizing and drawing out hidden emotional nuance from these complicated beings was her jam.

And Thalia was nervous. Cali didn’t know if it was the sex scene or her costar or whatever she’d had for breakfast, but if Cali didn’t give Thalia a safe and secure environment in which to perform, the scene would fall flat. This was Cali’s true super power—to make others feel safe. Maybe because she’d had so little opportunity to feel safe herself.

“I get the network wants to see more of Thalia—she’s gorgeous and talented.” Cali kept her tone breezy. “But we don’t want to cheapen her status as a badass demon. This isn’t a booty call, it’s the slow assassination of someone she’s come to care for. Besides, Thalia can convey more sexual energy covered in burlap than another actress in pasties.”

“Oh yeah, I totally agree.” Melanie nodded a bit too vigorously. “I’m just passing along a compliment.” Melanie’s head snapped to the left. “Cesare! That budget? Do we honestly need all those 4K lights?” And she was gone again.

Thalia let out a long breath. She glanced over at Paolo, who was doing quad stretches, seemingly oblivious to the conversation taking place. Thalia didn’t hide her disgust as she took in the man she was about to get down and dirty with. “How long is this going to take? I don’t mean to be pushy, but the less time I have to be in this particular scenario the better.”

Paolo’s eyebrows drew down in annoyance, but he quickly smoothed them, pout back in place. “Yeah, I’ve got a press call later.”

Cali took note of the obvious animosity between her leads and tucked it away for later—she never knew when she’d need to use an actor’s real feelings in a scene.

Thalia unclenched her hands to hitch up her bustier as if to cover more skin.

“I’ll try to get you out as fast as I can.” On a hunch, Cali motioned to the bustier. “Do you mind if I test your wardrobe?”

Thalia swung her gaze back to Cali in surprise. “Sure.”

Using the touch of a scientist, Cali pulled and twisted the leather that hugged Thalia’s body, while Paolo pretended to ignore them. “This is well made. Good seams, strong leather. It’s like a suit of armor.” Thalia’s eyes searched her face, perhaps for sincerity, and Cali returned the regard with one of open support. “There’s no getting through this thing.”

Thalia nodded and blew out a small breath, relaxing her shoulders.

Cali turned to Paolo with an easy smile. “Get in there. You’re on the bottom.”

Paolo brushed by Thalia with a sex shimmy, eliciting an eye roll from the petite actress. He smirked, then took his place on the bed, turning toward the on-set makeup artist like a flower finding the sun.

Attention still on Paolo, Thalia’s volume dropped. “Nice to have a female director. It’s a different vibe.”

“Blocking!” A gruff man with an afterthought of a haircut and fraying jeans two washes away from the garbage barked orders across the studio. “This is a closed set due to the sensitive nature of the scene, so if you don’t need to be here, get out.”

Thalia murmured, “Don’t let them bully you.”

Cali leaned back to gauge the warning sent her way, but Thalia was already walking to the bed with a military air. She matter-of-factly crawled over a prone Paolo, placed two hands on either side of his head as she straddled him, and stilled to await further instructions.

Melanie’s curvy frame moved back into Cali’s path, forcing her to hold back a yelp of surprise. “We’re not going to see that much of Paolo, are we?”

“Uh, no. It’s just to make sure he has the freedom to move without being bound by clothes.”

“Because there are firm network rules about nudity—what can and can’t be seen.”

Cali crinkled her brow. “The network wants to see more of Thalia but less of Paolo?”

“Of course. This show isn’t streaming,” Melanie snorted.

“Right.” Cali recalibrated her approach to the puritanical rules of broadcast TV rather than the free-for-all of streamers. “What do I need to avoid?”

Melanie counted off on her fingers. “Tops of butts are fine, but no balls, penises, or vulvas, obviously, and no Thalia nipples but Paolo’s are fine.”

“I got you covered, Mel.” Jory’s toe-curling voice rumbled across the set.

Cali cursed herself. Her toes were not curling. They were perfectly straight.

“For sure keep Paolo covered,” Thalia chimed in.

“True. You might be blinded by my manliness,” Paolo drawled.

Thalia brought back an encore performance of the eye roll and accompanied it with an “Ugh.”

To the untrained ear, Jory was helping Melanie out. To Cali, who had become attuned to the subtle art of men stealing authority, his casual remark was meant to control. And it needed to be nipped in the bud.

Cali responded a titch louder than necessary, “I think it’s best to shoot the actors as intimately as possible so the tone stays solid. If they’re worried about covering up, they won’t give you the performances you need.”

“As long as his package isn’t in the middle of my frame. I can’t adjust for that,” Jory growled from behind the camera.

“We’ll get lots of different angles so that won’t be a problem.” Cali smiled at Melanie, ignoring him.

Melanie threw up placating hands. “Oh absolutely, I get it. I’m just here to observe.” And she was gone.

“Rehearsal’s up!” Crappy-hair guy bellowed.

The crew and cast quietened. This was it. Cali surveyed the sea of carefully blank faces waiting for her first move that would set the tone for the next six weeks. She risked a glance at Jory, who stood by the camera with the air of a general protecting his troops, arms tightly crossed, legs akimbo, gaze heavy with judgment.

She felt as though she were balancing on the edge of a moment … the moment that marked either the next stage or the end of her career.

No pressure. No pressure at all.

“Hi, everyone. I’m Cali Daniels. And I will be your director.”