12. Aspen
Chapter 12
Aspen
T uesday, the next day, is the first day of Golden Hour filming that’s being shot in an actual sound stage. I haven’t been in one since Fairview Ridge wrapped, and it’s jarring to look so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time.
The space is still large and dark, the tall ceilings covered in scaffolding. There are cameras everywhere, along with lights, mics, booms, and crew members. But instead of seeing a labyrinth of multiple sets, there’s only one set here today, which looks exactly like a typical LA club. I walk toward it and explore, admiring the details large and small, from the tall beams bearing fake neon lights and speakers to the high tops littered with a wide variety of seemingly half-drank glasses.
I’ve almost completed a full rotation around the set when I spot the craft services table piled high with food. Seeing the food must trigger my hunger cues, because suddenly my stomach starts growling. I make my way over and grab a danish, accidentally brushing arms with a man.
“I’m sorry,” I say, glancing upward at his face.
It’s Grey—because, of course, it is. He’s drinking a steaming cup of coffee. Like me, his hair, makeup, and costume have already been donned for the day. He’s wearing a black button- down, halfway undone to show off his tan, muscular chest. It’s paired with white shorts, silver rings, and a silver chain. His hair is slicked back, but mussed enough to look like he’s been dancing for a few hours.
He smirks. “If you wanted to talk to me, you could’ve just asked, Jordan.”
I roll my eyes and then notice the tea bags and carafe of hot water. I pound down the danish in two bites to free my hands to pour myself a cup of tea.
“Easy there, tiger.”
It takes me a good few seconds to finish chewing and swallowing the entire danish. “Can’t a girl be hungry anymore?”
“I’ll allow it,” he responds. Then he seems to notice what I’m wearing, his eyes trailing down my body. My makeup is dark and heavy—clubbing makeup. It’s paired with a skintight, black leather mini dress that has a two-way zipper with the bottom one unzipped an inch or two. Any more and my underwear would be on display. The top is unzipped far enough to show off my cleavage—my A-cups transformed into C-cups with an ungodly amount of boob tape—and I’m wearing four-inch heels. The completed look is reminiscent of a hot female motorcycle-club member. It’s a look that I would feel very uncomfortable wearing as myself, but wearing it as Rosie is somehow empowering.
He gapes. “Whoa, who are you and what did you do to stuffy Aspen Jordan?”
“In case your little roided-up brain doesn’t remember, I’ll catch you up to speed. We’re filming a movie. You know, where we play other people called characters. ” I explain in a tone a preschool teacher would use with her students.
“Roided-up? I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“That’s all you got from that?” I hiss.
“I may be the ‘roided-up’ one, but you have a roid-user’s temper. Are you sure you’re not on anything yourself? And, in case you forgot, we’re supposed to get along now.”
“We are getting along.”
“We’re not. See you on set,” he says, walking away.
Less than a minute after he leaves, Jack calls for us all to gather to begin the day’s rehearsal. Today we’re filming the first interaction of Rosie and Declan while Rosie is plastered at the club. It’s a few quick scenes, beginning with Rosie drunkenly dancing before Declan spots her. He doesn’t recognize her, but he realizes she could quickly get taken advantage of by one of the many men ogling her, so he escorts her out of the club.
We spend about an hour blocking everything out and then jump into full-scene rehearsals.
“Aspen, close your eyes while you’re dancing,” Jack instructs on our third run-through. “Let’s try that again.” I do as he says, writhing my hips a hair's breadth from the male extra behind me. “Hands above your head, really feel the music,” he adds. I follow directions again, careful not to knock the extra with my arms or press into him.
We run through all of the day’s scenes about ten times before Jack calls for a thirty-minute lunch break before we begin filming. I immediately head to my chair, glad for a chance to sit down. Standing for hours in stilettos is not for the weak. Before long, a makeup artist comes over and dabs powder on my face before touching up my eyeshadow and lipstick. Just as she’s finishing, a hairdresser arrives and teases my hair, adding back the bit of volume that fell out during the rehearsal.
“Hey, Aspen.” Jack approaches me, holding two large sandwiches. He offers one to me. “Don’t worry, it’s vegetarian.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking a greedy bite. “I was just about to go grab something. I worked up an appetite with all that dancing.”
“I can imagine.” Jack smiles. “I worked up an appetite just watching you guys.”
I smile.
“So, listen,” Jack says, “I have an idea. And feel free to shoot it down—it’s completely up to you.”
I nod, intrigued by where he’s going with this.
“How would you feel about taking a shot or two before we start filming?”
“Like…of alcohol?”
“Yeah. Some of the liquor bottles behind the bar are real, so you’d have your pick. And I thought since Rosie is supposed to be really drunk in this scene, it might help your characterization if you’re a little tipsy yourself.”
“I drove here,” I sputter. I’m not a big drinker because I don’t like feeling out of control. The most I allow myself to have is one drink per night, and even that I just sip on. I don’t think I’ve taken a shot in years.
“Don’t worry about that,” Jack answers. “We’ll arrange a secure ride home for you. As for your car, we could either have someone else drive it back to your place, or we could arrange a ride for you in the morning too, so that you could just leave your car here overnight. The lots are locked and watched overnight.”
“I don’t know…” I start. “Was I not acting drunk enough?” For the thousandth time, I wonder if I took on more than I can chew with this role.
Jack hesitates. “You were doing well, but there’s just a tiny hint of stiffness that I know you’re capable of ironing out. We could try it again without alcohol if you want. I don’t want to pressure you into anything, I’m just trying to find a way to tap into the genius I know is right below the surface.”
My mind whirrs. I begin to hear a roaring in my ears, a warning sign of an impending anxiety attack. I don’t want to drink because I’m afraid of making a fool of myself in front of all of these people. But I also want to make Jack happy. And he does have a point. Maybe getting tipsy would allow me to better lean into Rosie’s drunkenness.
Before I can become too consumed by my thoughts, Grey interrupts, holding up a bottle of Tito’s.
“I heard we were taking shots.”
Jack glances at him, then back at me. “Only if you guys want to.”
“I’m down. Aspen?”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on, who doesn’t want to get smashed at work? We’re living the dream right now.”
I cast my eyes back to Jack, who’s giving me an apprehensive it’s okay if you don’t want to look.
“Aspen,” Grey starts, his jovial tone melting away to something more serious, “if you want to drink, I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. If you fall or something, I’ll fall right beside you, harder even.”
“You’re just saying that.”
He locks eyes with me, his brown gaze intense on mine. “Bible.”
I raise my eyebrows a fraction of an inch, and Grey nods earnestly in reply. He means it.
“Fine. Do you have shot glasses or are we just taking swigs?”
Grey and Jack both break into smiles.
Grey untwists the cap with a satisfying crack before taking a swig. “Stuffy Aspen,” he chides. “Your turn.”
I swipe the bottle from Grey’s outstretched hand. Before I can think about it too hard, I take a large swig. If I’m going to do this, I might as well actually get tipsy.