Chapter 2
two
. . .
Brandon
The explosion rattles my teeth, even through the safety gear, and I'm already moving before the debris settles.
Twenty-foot fall, backwards, into what looks like a pile of rubble but is meticulously placed padding designed to look like concrete chunks.
I've done this exact stunt probably fifty times in my career, but today, something feels different.
I hit the landing and roll, just like I'm supposed to.
The crowd of crew members erupts in applause, and I flash them the trademark grin that's gotten me through fourteen years in this business.
But when I push myself up from the mats, there's a half-second hesitation that wasn't there a few years ago.
My left shoulder protests just enough to remind me it's been dislocated twice in the past three years.
“Beautiful work, Grimaldi!” Tony Ricci, the stunt coordinator, jogs over with a relieved smile. “That's a wrap.”
I dust off the fake concrete powder and accept the towel someone hands me. “Thanks, man. The timing felt good.”
It did feel good. That's not the problem.
The problem is the tiny voice in the back of my head that's started asking questions I don't want to answer.
Questions like how many more falls I've got left in me and what the hell I'm going to do when the answer is zero.
At thirty-two years old, I'm painfully aware that I don't have a whole lot of time left in the stunt-double game.
Many retire by forty due to an accumulation of injuries.
“Brandon!” Jade Martinez, the film's lead actress, bounces over in her post-explosion makeup. Though covered in soot streaks and fake blood, she's grinning like a kid at Christmas. “That was insane. I can't believe you just threw yourself off a building for me.”
“All in a day's work,” I tell her as we head over to the craft services area. “Besides, I love getting to make you look like the badass you are.”
This is one of my favorite parts of the job, honestly.
More and more films are featuring women in action roles, and I'm here for all of it.
Growing up with six sisters taught me that women are plenty tough on their own, and if all they need is someone to help sell it on screen, I'm happy to do it.
Jade is playing a former Army medic turned vigilante, and watching her own her character's physicality has been the highlight of this shoot.
“Seriously, though,” she says, “I don't know how you do it.
Aren't you scared?” The honest answer is it's trust I worry about.
Everything in this job comes down to it—trusting the riggers, the spotters, the crew.
Fear only creeps in when the trust isn't there.
Same goes for real life. Trust is everything.
But Jade doesn't need to hear that. “Nah.
I've got the best safety team in the business looking out for me.”
It's true. Tony runs the tightest operation in Hollywood, and I trust him with my life on a daily basis. The fact that my body is starting to feel every single one of those calculated risks is my problem, not his.
“You've got thirty minutes,” Tony calls out. “Then we're moving to the car sequence.”
I continue to the craft services table, nodding at familiar faces along the way. This is a good crew, people I've worked with on at least a dozen other films. There's something comforting about the routine of it all. Show up, do something that should probably kill you, go home in one piece. Repeat.
I'm reaching for a bottle of water when I spot her.
Stella threads her way across the sound stage like she owns it, her heels steady against the concrete as she sidesteps cables and crew with practiced ease.
She's all business in that tailored blazer, her blonde hair pulled back sharply, her phone already out like she's mentally three steps ahead of whatever meeting she just left.
A grip does a double-take as she passes, nearly dropping the light stand he's carrying. His buddy elbows him and says something I can't hear, and they both watch her walk by. She doesn't even notice, too focused on whatever email she's typing.
Typical.
Two PAs by the stunt setup stop mid-conversation when she asks where to find me, and they stumble over themselves to point toward the craft services table. She thanks them with that warm smile of hers and keeps moving, completely missing the way they track her across the room.
I grit my teeth, biting back a laugh.
She's Blair Bennett's right hand, a rising star at Tangerine Talent, the kind of agent who can negotiate a deal that leaves everyone feeling like they won.
In a professional setting, she's unstoppable.
Confident, sharp, always three moves ahead.
But the second it shifts to anything personal, anything that even hints at someone being interested in her? She's completely oblivious.
“Hey, sunshine,” I call when she's close enough. “Any notes?”
She spots me, and that smile hits me square in the chest—bright, easy, like I'm her favorite part of the day.
The truth is, Stella's gorgeous. Always has been. If she hadn't been immediately classified as friend territory when we met, I probably would've tried to hit on her. Turned out better this way, and I wouldn't want to mess up what we have for anything.
She's petite enough that I could scoop her up without breaking a sweat, but she carries herself like she's six feet tall when she's negotiating a contract.
She's got that natural pretty combined with Southern charm she doesn't even know she's wielding.
What kills me is she has no idea of the effect she has on people, especially men.
She's so focused on the work, on taking care of everyone else, that she completely misses when someone's interested.
Case in point: that grip is still staring, and she hasn't noticed once.
“That was incredible,” she says, her voice threaded with awe. “I don't know how you do it.”
I grin and take a swig from the bottle to keep my answer in check. “Just another day at the office.”
I give her the quick tour of my latest set, pointing out the safety rigs and explaining how we make it look like I'm actually falling to my death instead of landing on a pile of very expensive padding.
Stella asks smart questions, the kind that prove she's picked up more about the technical side of production for films in her few years in the business than most people learn in a decade.
She's got good instincts, and it shows in how quickly she's risen at Tangerine Talent.
“It's amazing,” she says when I finish. “I mean, I knew it was complicated, but seeing it up close…” She shakes her head. “No wonder actors love working with you.”
“Just part of the job.” I grab another water and offer her one. “You want to stick around and watch me crash a car?”
“I wish I could, but I've got another meeting back at the office in half an hour.” She checks her phone and winces. “I should probably go.”
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the cart she left parked nearby. “I'll drive you over, and then I'll bring this back so you don't have to worry about it.”
Her shoulders drop with relief. “You're a lifesaver. These shoes weren't built for cross-lot treks.”
When I pull up to the garage, she hops out and leans on the edge of the cart for a beat.
“Thanks again. I had a blast watching you today.”
“Thanks for sticking around. And sunshine? Congrats again. You've worked your ass off, and you've earned every bit of this opportunity. I'm proud of you.”
Her grin softens, and for a second I swear she's about to say something else. Instead, she just nods.
“We're still on for tonight?” I ask. “I’ll grab food.”
“Yep, sounds good. See you tonight!”
She waves once more before heading inside, and I sit there a moment longer than I should, watching her disappear, before turning the cart back toward the lot. Stella's one of the good ones, the kind of friend who makes everything better just by showing up.
When I return to the soundstage, Tony appears with my helmet and the kind of grin that means I'm about to do something spectacular. “Time to make this car fly.”
Right now, I've got a job to do, and despite the growing voice of doubt in my head, I'm still pretty damn good at it.
The car sequence goes perfectly. I crash through two fake walls and flip the vehicle exactly where it's supposed to land, rolling out with the kind of precision that only comes from years of practice.
The crew cheers, Tony looks relieved, and I feel that familiar rush of satisfaction that comes from nailing a difficult stunt.
But when I'm changing out of my safety gear twenty minutes later, my shoulder protests just enough to remind me that perfect execution might not be enough to keep me in the game forever.