Chapter 8
LUCAS
The SUV hummed along the winding roads toward James Island, the morning sun slanting through the live oaks, casting dappled shadows on the pavement.
Noah drove, his hands steady on the wheel, the kind of calm that came from years of navigating worse than Charleston traffic.
I leaned back in the passenger seat, my eyes tracing the landscape—marshes stretching wide, their surfaces glinting like molten silver, Spanish moss swaying like ghosts in the breeze.
There was a pull to this place, a weight I couldn’t shake.
It wasn’t just the beauty, though the Lowcountry had that in spades.
It was something deeper, like mysteries whispering from the shadows, begging to be unraveled.
I’d been to a lot of places—dust-choked deserts, jungles thick with menace—but Charleston felt alive in a way that got under your skin.
It was starting to get under mine, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it.
Noah glanced over, catching my stare out the window. “You’re taking to the place,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I grunted, noncommittal. “It’s got a vibe.”
“That it does.” He eased around a curve, the harbor peeking through the trees. “Dominion Hall’s got its fingers in a lot of pies, Lucas. Overseas ops, local investigations, you name it. We’re the ones people call when shit needs fixing.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And where’s today’s field trip on that spectrum?”
He smirked, eyes on the road. “Charleston’s got its share of problems—big money, old secrets, new players. Dominion Hall’s becoming the go-to for situations that need a … delicate touch. Today’s one of those. A call came in from a Hollywood type, friend of ours. Could be right up your alley.”
Hollywood. The word hit me like a jab, and Lexi Montgomery’s face flashed in my mind—those eyes, that electric jolt from last night.
I shook it off. She was a one-time encounter, a moment in a bar that had already gone viral. I’d never see her again, except maybe on a screen, and maybe that was for the best. She’d hit me like a siren’s call, pulling me off balance, and I didn’t have time for that kind of distraction.
Still, her presence lingered, a ghost in my blood, and I hated how it made me feel—unmoored, like a rookie who’d forgotten his training.
We crossed a bridge, the water below shimmering in the morning light.
James Island unfolded ahead, quieter than downtown, with houses tucked among palmettos and marsh grass.
Noah pulled into a lot near the water, where a cluster of trailers and roped-off areas screamed film set without a single sign to confirm it.
Local security stood at the perimeter, looking bored, their radios crackling faintly.
Crew members hustled between tents, hauling cables and reflectors, their movements practiced but chaotic.
The air smelled of salt, sunscreen, and the faint chemical tang of paint from a nearby dock under construction.
Noah parked and stepped out, his posture shifting—still relaxed, but with that operator’s edge, like he could snap into action in a heartbeat. I followed, my senses already scanning.
The security setup was light, more for show than substance. A few ropes, a couple of guards who looked like they’d rather be fishing. If this was a high-profile shoot, they were cutting corners.
Noah strode toward the nearest guard, a stocky guy with a clipboard and a sunburn. “Here to speak with the director,” Noah said, his tone all business.
The guard squinted. “And you are?”
“With Dominion Hall.”
That got a raised eyebrow. The guard muttered something into his radio, too low to catch, but the reply must’ve been quick because he waved us through without another word.
We moved past the ropes, weaving through a maze of tents and staging areas.
The set was a hive—grips lugging lights, assistants darting with clipboards, a makeup artist touching up an extra under a pop-up canopy.
A massive wind machine hummed near the water, its blades slicing the air, while a camera rig was being adjusted on a dock where a sleek trawler bobbed gently.
It was controlled chaos, every movement choreographed, but I could feel the undercurrent of stress. They were behind schedule; you didn’t need to hear the shouting to know it.
Noah navigated the bustle like he’d been here before, leading me to a cluster of people huddled around a monitor under a shaded tent.
The man in charge was obvious—mid-forties, wiry, with a beard trimmed to perfection and an expensive watch that gleamed when he gestured.
He wore a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, and carried himself like he was used to being listened to. The director.
Noah extended a hand. “Franklin P. Smith?”
The man turned, his eyes flicking over us like he was sizing up a shot. “That’s me,” he said, shaking Noah’s hand. “You’re the Dominion Hall guys?”
“Yep. Noah. This is Lucas.”
I nodded, keeping my hands at my sides. Franklin’s handshake was firm, but his vibe screamed cover-your-ass.
Not a creep, exactly, but the kind of guy who’d throw you under a bus to protect his vision.
Art trumped everything else with him—you could smell it in the way he stood, like the set was his kingdom and we were just visitors.
“We’re behind,” Franklin started, not wasting a breath.
“Inflation’s killing us, crew shortages, equipment delays, permits getting yanked at the last minute.
Making movies these days is like herding cats in a hurricane.
” He waved a hand, the watch catching the light.
I wondered if it ever complained about his schedule. “But we’re managing. Barely.”
Noah nodded, his face neutral, waiting. I liked that—he didn’t fill the silence, didn’t give Franklin an inch until he got to the point. Smart.
Franklin’s voice dropped, low enough that I had to strain to hear over the hum of the set.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “One of my actors is … a loose cannon. Talented, don’t get me wrong, but unpredictable.
I can’t afford a single cock-up right now.
The studio’s breathing down my neck. They’ll go ballistic if this spirals. ”
Before I could ask who, the world shifted.
Like a breath of fresh air cutting through the chaos, Lexi Montgomery walked by, trailed by a small entourage—makeup, wardrobe, assistants buzzing around her like bees.
Her blonde hair was loose now, catching the sunlight, her face bare except for a hint of gloss.
She wore a sundress, simple but clinging in a way that made my pulse kick.
Our eyes met, and the shock hit me like a bullet—sharp, sudden, numbing my hands.
Her gaze widened, recognition flashing, but she covered it fast, her lips curving into a demure smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
I saw the fire behind it, the same spark I’d caught last night.
She wasn’t just stunning; she was a force, and she was pissed.
Franklin snapped his fingers, waving her over. “Lexi! Come here a sec.”
She hesitated, then glided toward us, her entourage trailing. Noah’s eyebrow twitched, just a fraction, and I knew he hadn’t been fully briefed either. Whatever this was, we were both wading into it blind.
“Lexi, these gentlemen are from Dominion Hall,” Franklin said, his tone too bright, like he was selling something. “After last night’s … mishap, they’ve agreed to help the studio. Provide you with around-the-clock security.”
Her smile held, but I saw the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled at her sides.
She wasn’t some damsel who needed babysitting, and the idea clearly set her teeth on edge.
It pissed me off, too. I wasn’t a goddamn nanny.
Fuck her and her beauty—she didn’t get to make me feel like a hired hand.
But that spark, that storm in her eyes, was pulling me in again, and I hated how it made my blood hum.
“Wonderful,” Lexi said, her voice smooth as silk, but I caught the edge. She glanced at me, her gaze lingering a beat too long, and I felt it—that same electric jolt from the bar. “I appreciate the studio’s … concern.”
Franklin, oblivious to the undercurrent, clapped his hands. “Great! You two have ten minutes to get acquainted before the next take.” He smirked, adding, “Keep it professional, yeah?” before turning back to his monitor, already barking at an assistant about angles.
Noah gave me a look—half apology, half roll with it—before stepping away to talk to a production assistant. Lexi’s entourage hovered, uncertain, until she waved them off with a practiced flick of her hand. They scattered, leaving us alone in the middle of the chaos.
I stood there, my feet planted on the walkway, the marsh air thick with salt and tension. Lexi crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “You,” she said, low enough that only I could hear. “The guy from last night.”
“Lucas,” I said, keeping my voice even. “And you’re welcome.”
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I didn’t ask for a bodyguard.”
“And I didn’t ask to be one,” I shot back. “But here we are.”
She studied me, her gaze sharp, like she was peeling back layers. “Why’d you do it? Step in like that?”
I shrugged, my hands in my pockets to keep them still. “I told you last night.”
She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push. Instead, she glanced at the set, the crew bustling around us, and her shoulders softened a fraction. “This is a mess,” she muttered. “Last night’s already everywhere. Now this?”
“Sounds like you’re used to messes,” I said, my tone lighter than I felt.
Her eyes snapped back to mine, a spark of defiance there. “You have no idea.”
I held her gaze, feeling that pull again, like a tide dragging me under. She wasn’t just a star; she was a puzzle, one I didn’t have time to solve but couldn’t stop studying.
The set noise faded for a moment—the shouts, the hum of the wind machine, the creak of the dock. It was just her, me, and the weight of whatever this was.
“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “What’s your deal, Lucas? You don’t strike me as the babysitting type.”
“I’m not,” I said, my voice low.
Her eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t flinch. “And yet you’re here, playing security for a loose cannon.”
I snorted. “Franklin’s words, not mine.”
She smirked, and damn if it didn’t hit me like a punch. “He’s not wrong,” she said. “I don’t play by their rules either.”
“Good,” I said before I could stop myself. “Rules are overrated.”
Her laugh was soft, almost reluctant, but it warmed the air between us. For a second, I forgot the set, the job, the questions still burning in my skull about Dominion Hall and Noah’s cryptic mission. It was just her, those eyes, and the way she made the world feel sharper.
“Ten minutes is up!” Franklin’s voice cut through, sharp and impatient. “Lexi, we need you in wardrobe. Lucas, stick close.”
She rolled her eyes, a flicker of rebellion that made my pulse kick. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” she said, turning toward the trailers.
I followed, my boots heavy on the wooden planks, my mind racing.
What the hell had I just stepped into? A protection detail for a Hollywood star who didn’t want protecting, in a city I didn’t understand, for an organization that played by rules I didn’t know.
Noah had said this would be a test, a chance to see if I fit.
But as I watched Lexi move ahead, her stride confident despite the chaos, I wondered if the real test was keeping my head clear around her.
The set buzzed around us—grips adjusting lights, assistants shouting about schedules, the marsh glittering like it was laughing at us all.
Lexi’s entourage rejoined her, fussing with her hair, her dress, her everything.
She waved them off again, her patience thin, and I caught a glimpse of that storm inside her, the one that had hit me last night.
Noah was waiting near the trailers, his expression unreadable. “You good?” he asked, low enough that only I could hear.
“Peachy,” I said, my voice dry.
He grinned, like he knew exactly what I was feeling. “Welcome to Charleston,” he said, clapping my shoulder. “It only gets weirder from here.”
I didn’t doubt it. Lexi glanced back at me, her eyes catching mine for a split second before she disappeared into the trailer. My blood hummed, my instincts screaming that this wasn’t just a job. It was a trap, a challenge, a fucking siren’s call, and I was already too deep to walk away.
What the hell did I just get into?