Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
MYLO
That night
The thermostat in my hotel room must be broken. The temperature reads sixty, but it has to be at least eighty degrees, if not hotter. Opening the window doesn’t help. Sweat coats my skin, cloying and sticky, and the coldest I can get the shower is lukewarm.
Just my luck.
The sheets stick to my limbs, and I finally kick them off the bed, rolling out of the damp spot left by my sweat. For the briefest moment, the fresh cotton is cool relief. Then my sweat soaks it again.
I thrash, I sigh, I pace.
But mostly I lie there, staring at the ceiling, begging to fall asleep.
When my alarm goes off, I’m still wide awake.
It takes three tries for me to keep my suppressant pill down, but I do it.
The show must go on.
I step out toward the van in a tank top and shorts, feeling vaguely overheated, to see the rest of the crew in jackets.
One of them raises a brow at me. “Ready to show off the guns to Evansworth? You know she’s not gonna see us until we’re on set.”
“Ha ha.” I roll my eyes. “It’s not that cold.”
“Eh, whatever you say.”
On the way in, the heat is so unbearable that I roll down the window and perch on the door, holding the roof rack. It’s slow enough going that nobody complains, and one of the other stunt performers does the same on the other side of the van.
My mini-vacation is over, so it’s back to the makeup trailer with Haley to get ready for the day. There’s a twinge of that stupid omega jealousy as I see her, but it fades as soon as she wraps me in a hug and I catch her mild beta scent—more her hair conditioner than anything else.
“You’re alright, then? Really?”
I pull back and nod. “Yeah. All good.”
“Oh, that’s an incredible relief. I wanted to come check on you, but Lana grabbed me to work on the rewrites.”
“How do you feel about them? The rewrites?”
Haley blushes. “Listen, Mylo, you did not have to read my mind and give me an excuse to kiss the Christine Evansworth! But also, I am eternally in your debt. Seriously, I’m dreaming.”
My chest goes tight again, rumbling with a low growl.
Jesus, Mylo, keep it together.
I roll the growl into a light cough.
But it seems that Haley’s insight trumps my acting skills.
“Wait,” she breathes, “you two aren’t… a thing, are you? I’d feel awful—”
“No,” I shake my head violently as an incredulous laugh rattles out of me. “No, don’t worry about that.”
She hesitates. “Okay, it just seemed… and that kiss was really intense…”
“Chalk it up to method acting or something. It worked for the story, but yeah. It’s nothing.”
“Okay. Phew. You know… you can tell me things. Friend things. We’re friends, right? Oh god, don’t answer that, I’m so awkward…”
I chuckle. “We’re definitely friends.”
Haley finally relaxes. “Okay, good. Well… back to work, eh?” She plops down into the makeup chair.
I laugh and land in the chair next to her. “Back to work.”
I’m dying in this long sleeve bodysuit under the midday sun. God bless the wardrobe team for making it sweat-wicking and not latex or something awful, but the armor panels still trap heat. I’m lucky the dark green material doesn’t show the sweat, or I’d be in serious trouble.
Though, as I carefully sink down to a tree root in the shade, it might be the dizziness I should be more worried about.
I haven’t really eaten since the fruit yesterday. I managed to keep down a bottle of coconut water this morning, but that’s about it.
Today should all be easy stuff, at least.
I’m ready for it when I scent Christine again. My chest tightens, pain radiating. But I’m done letting her fuck with my job.
Once I get moving, I’ll feel better.
Fortunately, we’re headed in opposite directions. Christine retreats to her trailer while the PAs gather Haley and me for the next scene. We head back down to the clearing with the model ship.
It’s the simplest stunt: a front flip off the wing of Electra’s plane and onto a crash mat. The kind of thing I can do a hundred takes, no problem.
Muscle memory takes over as I clamber onto the wing. The wind shifts, bringing more of Christine’s scent, and I struggle to take a full breath past the tightness in my chest.
I close my eyes and wait for the wind to turn again. When it brings the woody smell of the forest, I force a deep breath.
She’ll be right.
I can do this.
Gabriel stands by Lana, and he calls out, “Mylo, you ready?”
I give a thumbs-up. “Ready.”
Quiet on the set, cameras and sound roll, Lana calls action.
The movements are deep in my muscle memory, and I take a confident step forward, push off the wing, and tuck into a front flip.
For that moment in the air, finding my arc, feeling my body in space, everything is perfect.
Then I hit the crash mat.
Pain explodes outwards from my chest, burning hot and radiating to my fingers, lighting every nerve on fire. My lungs spasm and freeze, and I curl on my side, frozen with pain.
The voices around me slow and morph, as if they’re underwater.
“Mylo? Mylo!”
The last conscious thought before my vision blacks out is:
Is this what it feels like to die?