Chapter XXIII
XXIII
Levi
Gray.
The countertops, the carpet, the accent chair. My mood.
Everything in this damn apartment lacks color.
Even the knife block is charcoal, and glancing at it now—the memory of Ana in my kitchen as I reached behind her for it—makes me want to stab something.
It’s a small mercy that shooting days are long because every aspect of this place makes me think of her.
On my couch, in my clothes, under my covers.
Under my body. Being on set together is torture enough, only to come home and feel the ghost of her here.
Thank God we only have a few more weeks in Nashville.
I climb into bed, eager to escape to wherever my mind might bring me tonight.
Dreams seem to be the one place Ana’s not.
Looking for sweet relief, I burrow in, feeling a little like the pigs I grew up with, trying to get comfortable in the mud.
I’m just as gross. But the sheets settle uncomfortably on my feet.
My toes graze the cotton the wrong way. It’s too hot, so I strip off my shirt, and then it’s too quiet.
The white noise app on my phone hums to life, and I try to get comfortable after plugging it back in to charge.
The effort is futile. I lie there, eyes locked on the spackled ceiling.
Five days have passed since I ruined things with Ana, and seeing her today, watching her effectively ignore me on set—damn did it feel like shit. Or maybe I felt like shit. I can hear my dad’s voice in my head: Well, if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions. Don’t I know it.
Worst of all for me—maybe best of all, for her—she seemed .
. . fine. It’s not that I want her to suffer.
But feeling like this hasn’t gutted her, when I’m practically disemboweled, makes it that much more harrowing.
I need the chance to tell her I’m sorry, that I recognize how I made her feel by not considering her, and to see if there’s any way we can try this again.
To do that, though, I’d need her to be willing to talk to me.
Colt and I are both being filmed on horseback today, with his scenes shot up close at a slower speed, and mine shot wide at full gallop. Ana and her double are here, shooting the same way, and since we’re on location outside of the city, there’s no escaping her.
“Ready to get back in the saddle?” Colt asks as I stretch a forearm behind my head and press on my elbow with my opposite hand.
“If we were riding in saddles, sure. Any chance you can petition Francesca to rework the setting of the film to use modern tack?” I give him a raised eyebrow. We’re running another battle scene, which means we have hours ahead bareback. He answers the question with a slap on my shoulder.
Wearing a wool cloak—what our costume designer calls a chlamys—the sun feels especially punishing. It’s pushing ninety-five degrees, and there’s only so much shade to be found under the production tent. I go looking for a bottle of water before my scene starts.
“Levi,” a voice calls from behind me. My heart flips at the familiar tone, my body not yet conditioned to respond differently than it used to at the sound of Ana’s voice.
She catches up to me and places a hand on my arm.
Heat sparks under her palm and shoots to my chest. I turn to face her, and the way the sun hits her cheekbones—shit.
“Hey, I know you’re about to film, but I wanted to apologize for the other day.”
Which day? I wonder, but I don’t ask because she’s talking to me, and isn’t that the only thing I’ve wanted?
“When I made the bet with Colt. You tried to get my attention, and I ignored you. That wasn’t professional of me, and I know we discussed keeping things professional on set. I’m sorry about that. And I won the bet, if you were wondering.”
I nod, letting her words seep in.
“I guess I wasn’t in a place to have a conversation with you then,” she continues, “but if you want to talk, we can.”
“I’d like that,” I reply, conjuring up a smile that I pray feels approachable, apologetic, but not overeager. “If you’re up for it, there’s a great Greek place I heard about.” She eyes me with a raised brow. “Yes, I see the irony,” I add.
“Oh, well, I don’t know if . . .” Her eyes shoot down, tracing the straps of the sandals on my feet.
Too much, too soon. Before I can backtrack, clarify that I didn’t mean a date, just a place to talk, our lead animal trainer’s voice interrupts.
“Stephens! You ready?” He’s waiting with Nesbitt, Ares’s horse for the film. I give him a thumbs-up before turning to Ana. “Duty calls. We’ll find a time to talk?”
“OK,” she agrees, while I search her face for a smile she doesn’t give me.
“Alala!” The war cry burns on its way out of my throat, using up every ounce of oxygen in my lungs.
Nesbitt thunders underneath me, his legs exploding with power in every stride.
My quads hug his body, clenched, as we gallop forward.
Spear in hand, head thrown back, I’m leading an army of Greek soldiers in their attempt to recapture Athens.
“Alala!” we repeat, and wild fury twists inside me.
My adrenaline compensates for the ache in my hips, the spasm trying to grip my bicep as I pull back to throw the javelin.
It lands exactly where it should, and I dig my heel into Nesbitt’s side to urge him forward.
The thunderous sound of hooves grows louder, all in unison save for one horse, slightly off rhythm.
Still, we race toward the opposing mass of warriors: Athena’s army.
The taste of dripping sweat stings my tongue as we charge ahead, tracking according to plan, and then—
The horse behind us clips Nesbitt’s ankle.
He shudders and rears up, lifting his front legs from the ground.
I grasp on to his mane and try to tighten the grip of my legs around the barrel of his ribs, but in slow motion, I fly off the horse, legs cartwheeling overhead.
Dust obscures my sense of where I am in space.
Crash, crunch.
Black.