Chapter 11
GRACE
Iwiped the sweat from my forehead and tried to keep pace with Becky, who was apparently part gazelle. The hiking trail wound upward through Runyon Canyon. My legs were already screaming and the amount of sweat dripping down my back was alarming.
“So Micah just… doesn’t react at all?” Becky asked, not even breathing hard as we jogged past a woman walking three tiny dogs.
“Nothing.” I dodged a rock and nearly twisted my ankle. “I smiled at him. Multiple times. I laughed at his jokes. I even touched his arm when we were blocking a scene yesterday.”
“And?”
“And he said, ‘excuse me’ and moved to talk to Toby about camera angles.”
Becky snorted. “Maybe he’s gay.”
“He’s not gay. I kissed him, remember? There was definitely a reaction.” I could still feel it when I let myself think about it, which was way too often. The heat in his eyes before he’d pulled away and gone all professional again.
“Girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Hasn’t mentioned one. And I might have checked his Insta. No women.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know!” The frustration bubbled up, making me push harder up the incline. “I thought maybe I’d imagined it. But then Micah barely looks twice at me. I felt like a piece of furniture.”
“Maybe he’s just focused on the movie.” Becky picked up the pace, forcing me to match her stride. “Channel that frustration into the run. Push harder.”
I did, my feet pounding against the packed dirt. My lungs burned.
“Besides,” Becky continued, “you shouldn’t be sleeping with anyone in the production anyway. You’re asking for drama and problems. This is your big break, Grace. You need to keep your eye on the prize like Micah is doing.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because it sounds like you’re spending more time thinking about your hot director than memorizing your lines.”
“I already memorized all my lines.”
“Then think about your character arc. Your motivation. Your—I don’t know—whatever actors think about.” She glanced over at me. “The point is, don’t screw this up by trying to screw him. Not yet anyway.”
“Not yet?”
“Try fucking him after the shoot is over. Once the movie’s wrapped and there’s no uneven power dynamics. Then you can jump his bones without risking your career.”
I laughed, nearly stumbling on a loose rock. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
“I know I am. Now come on, we’ve got another mile.”
“Another mile? Beck, I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. You’re in the best shape you’ve been in years. Push through it.”
“I need oxygen.”
“Slow your heartrate.”
“I’m jogging! Uphill.”
“You’re getting all hot and bothered about a sexy dude,” she replied. “Focus. Think about him looking at your ass. Do you want it flabby?”
I grunted.
We crested the hill and I could see the trail stretching ahead of us. The view from up here was incredible, with all of Los Angeles spread out below, the ocean glittering in the distance. I took a deep breath and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
Becky was right. I needed to stop obsessing over Micah and focus on the work. The movie was what mattered. Everything else could wait.
We finished the run forty-five minutes later, both of us drenched in sweat and gasping for air. I bent over with my hands on my knees, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human.
“Water,” I managed.
Becky tossed me a bottle from her backpack. I drank half of it in one go.
“Feel better?” she asked.
“My legs hate you, but yeah. I feel better.”
“Good.”
I finished the water and wiped my mouth. “From now on, I’m all business. Eyes on the prize.”
“That’s my girl.”
We walked back to our cars, and I felt clarity settling over me. Becky was right. I had a job to do, and I was going to knock it out of the park. Micah Blackwell could keep a professional distance. I could do the same.
Ten days later, I stood in front of a trailer with my name on it.
GRACE STONE, printed on a laminated sign taped to the door of a trailer that was a little older but still very nice. It was a full-sized trailer with a kitchenette, a leather couch, and a vanity with those big bulbs around the mirror. Someone left a bowl of fruit on the tiny counter.
It was happening. I had my own trailer. I wasn’t sharing with the other uncredited actors. I didn’t have to fight for fridge space.
I closed my eyes for just a second and grounded myself. No time for nerves and freaking out.
“Ms. Stone?”
I turned. A woman stood at the bottom of the trailer steps, clutching a clipboard to her chest like it was a shield. She was maybe fifty, with a cloud of curly, gray-streaked hair and a kind smile.
“Hi, I’m Patty. I’m your PA for the shoot.
” She climbed the steps and held out her hand.
“I’ve got your call sheet, your sides for today, and I took the liberty of stocking the fridge.
I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a little of everything.
If there’s anything you want, anything at all, you just tell me and I’ll make it happen. ”
“Hi, Patty.” I shook her hand, a little dazed. “You can just call me Grace.”
“Oh, honey, that’s sweet.” She patted my hand. “But on set, I like to keep it professional in front of the crew. Sets the tone. Now, let’s get you settled. Hair and makeup at six thirty, wardrobe at seven fifteen, and we’re due on set at eight.”
There was a robe hanging on the bathroom door with my initials embroidered on it. My initials. I almost cried.
“You okay, sweetie?” Patty asked, watching me.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve just never…” I gestured at the trailer. “This.”
Patty’s face softened. “First big one?”
“That obvious?”
“Not at all. I’ve been doing this for twenty-two years. I can always tell the ones who appreciate it.” She set the sides on the vanity. “The ones who don’t appreciate it are usually the ones throwing phones by week two.”
I laughed. “I’ll try to keep my phone-throwing to a minimum.”
“You do that.” She patted my shoulder. “Now. Coffee?”
“God, yes.”
By six thirty I was in the hair and makeup trailer, which was its own production. Three people worked on me at once. One on my hair, one on my face, one on my hands. The character was a CEO who’d been dragged into a conspiracy, so today I was being made to look like I’d been through hell.
I loved every second of it.
I also used the time to run lines in my head. Today’s scenes were all ship interiors. I knew the scenes. I felt them in my bones. I’d rehearsed the catwalk scene so many times in my living room that my neighbor had banged on my door and told me to stop stomping around at two in the morning.
Wardrobe was a fitted cargo jacket and boots they’d distressed to look like I’d been fighting for my life for three days. The wardrobe supervisor, a tiny woman named Fran with pins in her mouth, circled me twice, tugged the jacket sleeve a quarter inch down, and nodded.
“Don’t sit down,” she said around the pins. “You’ll crease the jacket.”
“For how long?”
“Until we’re done with you.” She took the pins out of her mouth. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Patty walked me back to my trailer. I sat very carefully on the edge of the couch, thinking about how this was the most spoiled I’d ever been in my working life and how I could absolutely get used to it.
My phone buzzed. Becky.
Day one!!! Don’t throw up on Jack Montana.
I typed back. No promises.
Where’s the hot director?
I stared at the text. The hot director. I’d done such a good job not thinking about him for ten whole days. Okay, nine days. Maybe two.
Eyes on the prize, I sent back.
Good girl. Get a pic of the ship set for me.
“Can I take photos on set?” I asked Patty.
“Absolutely not,” she said cheerfully. “Signed an NDA, remember? No phones on set. I’ll hold yours in my bag and alert you to emergencies.”
She held out her hand, and I surrendered my phone like a kid caught with contraband.
For the next hour, I went over my lines one more time. Then I closed them and just sat, breathing, letting Elena settle into my skin. That was the trick I’d figured out over the past ten days. I embraced her fear and stubbornness.
At seven fifty-five, there was a knock on the trailer door. Patty answered it, then turned back to me with a big smile.
“They’re ready for you, Ms. Stone. First team’s on set.”
My stomach flipped. And there was a wave nausea that made me regret that last coffee.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Patty hustled me out of the trailer and across the lot toward the soundstage. The sound of golf carts buzzing and conversations filled the air. I could smell bacon. Some craft services on another shoot. Or maybe in mine. She steered me through a side door.
We stepped onto the stage, and the ship was right there. It was massive and finished now. Ten days ago it had been a skeleton with half-built walls. Now it was a world. Someone had added hanging chains, dripping pipes, steam.
I was in Elena’s world. Her nightmare. The set was cool, thankfully. With the jacket on, I was a little warm. Once the action started, I would be sweating. There were massive fans that would be used for one of the scenes.
I couldn’t wait to dig into the character.
People were everywhere. And the source of the bacon was on the back wall. A table draped with a white cloth, a woman standing on the other side dishing up plates for a few crew members. I imagined they’d been working since the crack of dawn.
Camera operators, grips, and a ton of other people all milled about. Toby stood near the monitors with a headset on. And there, by the monitors, was Micah.
He had a headset around his neck and a coffee in his hand. He was pointing at something on a screen, deep in conversation with another man. His sleeves were rolled up. He looked tired and electric at the same time.
Eyes on the prize, Grace.
He glanced up as Patty led me across the floor. He stopped talking mid-sentence. Then he smiled, friendly and professional.
“There she is,” he said. “You ready?”
“Ready.” And I meant it. No script in my hand. No knot of panic in my chest. Just Elena, waiting to be let out.
“Great. Jack’s in his trailer getting his abs done.” He said it completely deadpan, and Toby choked on his own tongue. “We’ll start with the catwalk scene, your coverage first, so it’s just you up there to open. Camera’s going to be on a Technocrane behind you as you come around the corner.”
I was still wondering about getting the abs done thing.
He held my gaze for a beat, then gave a slight nod. “Okay,” he said softly. Then, louder, to the room, “Alright, everybody! Let’s make a movie!”
The set came alive around me. I climbed the stairs to the catwalk and took my mark. I was in a movie. Me. Grace Stone was officially a leading lady.
Down below, the crew settled. Someone called out “last looks” and a makeup artist darted in to powder my nose and vanish.
Toby’s voice rang out. “Places!”