Operation 3 Stage Eight
Xander Vale
It still looked like a movie set—lights blazing down from the rafters, cables taped in countless lines across the floor, and crews moving in all directions—but something underneath it all had changed. Whatever had protected it before had disappeared and nothing and no one could bring it back.
“Action!”
Xander didn’t move.
His lines and cues sat somewhere just out of grasp. He opened his mouth anyway and forced something out, but it landed wrong. Flat and hollow. The passion and excitement that should’ve been there felt fake even to him.
He couldn’t act because the real thing that’d happened three days before had taken root and was clawing its way around, consuming every part of him.
Geez, is that all it’s been?
Only three days since someone had made it past every layer of security on the lot with the determination to kill him.
If he hadn’t turned around to use the bathroom, it would’ve been him who’d been beaten almost to death, not his good friend, Devyn.
The thought hit him in his stomach like a physical blow.
The attacker hadn’t hesitated or slowed long enough to realize he had the wrong man.
If Devyn’s bodyguard—his boyfriend—hadn’t also been there, the attacker might’ve succeeded.
Both of them were strong and martial arts-trained, but it didn’t matter; they were still in the hospital.
And Xander—
He gritted his teeth, his stomach recoiling every time he thought about it.
He’d cowered on the damn floor, curled up beneath a counter like some gutless man-child.
He hadn’t shouted for help, ran, or even reached for his phone.
He’d just…froze.
Well, at least now he knew which reaction he’d succumb to when faced with a fight or flight situation.
He hadn’t been able to move until…
Xander squeezed his eyes shut, right there under the lights with cameras zoomed in on his face.
…until he heard him.
That voice. Low. Steady and sure.
Only then had he been able to crawl out of hiding.
His heart hadn’t slowed since he walked back onto Stage 8 three days later.
Every unfamiliar face made his stomach churn, and the lingering glances felt suspicious.
“Focus!”
The director roared across the set, angry and impatient.
Xander flinched. His throat tightened, his breathing now shallow and painful.
“Focus, Xander! Come on!”
He blinked hard, trying to drag himself back into the moment, into the version of himself who could do this job without thinking twice—
An explosion went off a split second later, exactly two hundred feet from where he was supposed to be running from.
The violent boom sent heat flaring outward in a controlled burst of fire that would’ve looked incredible on camera if he’d been in the right place.
Xander jumped so hard the beer bottle he’d been holding slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor, causing glass and a fake sudsy liquid to make a mess on the wood paneling.
“Where’s your damn head at?” the director snapped, ripping his headset off. “Come on, Xander! We’re burning through time like it’s free!”
Xander’s heart hammered as he squeezed his temples with his middle fingers.
Wes and Law were already at the rig, arguing—like they always did—voices low and grated. Wes waved his hands as he hissed about timing marks and ignition cues.
The effect had been perfect, but now it was wasted because of him.
The director paced, cursing under his breath about budget surplus and how much time they’d already lost. The words blurred together, drowned out by the pounding in his ears and the lingering heat from the blast dampening his skin.
Xander shook his head hard, trying to clear it, before he crouched beside Amy from set maintenance, who was kneeling at his side and cleaning up the scattered glass.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, piling some of the bigger shards in his palm.
Amy glanced up. “You don’t have to—”
Elliot Seymore—his assistant—grabbed his wrist and pulled him up.
“That’s not your job.”
Elliott’s appearance was always impeccable no matter the day or time—dark hair gelled back without a strand out of place, crisp shirt, and tailored designer slacks. A look he considered his uniform.
“Come on. Sit.”
Xander let himself be steered into a chair in front of a row of lighted mirrors.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, glancing toward Wes and Law.
They were still fixing, salvaging…fussing.
Guilt pressed heavily against his ribs.
“Forget them. All that cursing and arguing is just foreplay that’ll lead to sex far more explosive than that pyro,” Elliot droned, handing him an energy drink. “Here drink—”
The can was snatched away before he could take a sip.
“That’s your third one,” Jesse bit out. “And it’s after seven. You’ll be up all night.”
Jessica Ross—who everyone called Jesse— towered over him, commanding at an impressive five-foot-eleven in her lavender silk blouse beneath a pristine pinstriped blazer and matching pencil skirt. Her sleek blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and braided down her back.
She was a woman who didn’t need to raise her voice to make others do what she said.
“Get him a water,” she ordered Elliot. “Or Gatorade.”
Xander stared at his reflection.
He was a mess. His skin was splotchy, damp with sweat, and his eyes were too wide—over-alert—and bloodshot. Like someone who hadn’t slept in three days.
“Are you okay?” Jesse asked in a softer tone.
He nodded.
Her expression was obvious. She didn’t believe him.
“I told you it was okay to take more time off,” she said quietly. “I can make that happen.”
He shook his head.
“Did you call the therapist?”
Another shake.
Jesse exhaled slowly. “Xander, you have to prioritize yourself. Your mental health matters more than this.” She waved her hand at the massive western bar set.
He understood, but he couldn’t just sit around his house, his mind going in too many directions and raising even more questions.
Why is this happening to me?
Who did I piss off to make them want to kill me?
Is it because I’m gay?
What if the person who tried the first time is right here, watching, and waiting to catch me alone and try again?
“I’m fine,” he said, though it didn’t sound convincing. “I can keep going.”
He glanced around at the crew, who were all staring at him.
Jesse leaned closer. “Your hands are shaking.”
He pressed his palms flat on his jean-covered thighs and forced a breath. “That’s because a pyro effect just went off next to me—”
“No. You’re done for the day,” she said, voice cutting through the set.
The director spun, scowling in their direction. “What the hell you mean, done?”
Jesse didn’t budge, her glare radiating more fire than the botched special effect. “You heard me.”
“Fine,” he snapped after another minute. “He’s too distracted anyway.”
Law stormed up to the director, getting right in his face. “The guy just had an attempt on his life, and his friend is still in the hospital. Have a fuckin’ soul, dipshit.”
The set fell silent.
No one challenged Wes or Law. They were Hollywood royalty and considered heroes after risking their lives in Atlanta to help a narcotics task force take down a tyrannical drug lord.
“All right, all right, of course I’m concerned, we all are,” the director muttered before turning to address everyone. “That’s a wrap for today people. We’re gonna let Xander go home and get some much-needed rest. We’ll work on edits for the next couple days.”
Xander nodded. He’d go home, but he wouldn’t rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it…worse, he heard it. The bat meeting flesh…Devyn’s screams.
Elliot hooked his elbow and guided him towards the exit. But, the closer they got to the huge bay doors, the more panic he felt.
Outside meant exposure, open space, lurkers, stalkers, unseen threats. They could be disguised as caterers, crew, assistants, anyone.
Studio 8 was by far the largest on the Lorner Partners lot. The facility sprawled across four hundred and sixty acres of backlots, towering sound stages, and two dozen permanent standing sets—tons of places for a killer to hide.
Before he got outside, he could already hear the fans gathered at the gates. Cheering, clapping, and calling out names, eager to get a glimpse of an actor or actress.
It was nearly dark now, so he couldn’t see all the way to the entrance.
What if someone was out there with a rifle or hiding on the side of his trailer?
Xander shook harder, his steps becoming more difficult, as if his feet were inside cinderblocks instead of cowboy boots.
Moisture pricked at the corner of his eyes.
All this torment because he won, because he dared to be vocal, visible, and proud of being a gay man.
Before his last movie skyrocketed and swept the academy, he hadn’t even needed a full-time, personal bodyguard.
“Xander, let’s go.” Carla Kline—his publicist—urged from beside him, her eyes ever-glued to her phone. He wasn’t sure she’d ever looked at him. He didn’t know if her irises were blue, brown, green…or red.
He’d been so zoned out he hadn’t noticed her.
“After you get changed, I need you to make a quick stop at the gate and sign a few autographs. Awards season isn’t over yet, babe. We still have a lot of appearances to make.”
Engaging with the public was the last thing he wanted to do.
“I have plans to go to the hospital to visit Devyn before I go ho—”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes tops,” she stressed. “Photos, signatures, done.”
He glanced around, calculating the distance to his trailer—it was too far. He’d be an easy target.
No, no, no. I can’t—
“I’ll walk with you to your trailer.”
The voice came from behind him.
Warm and deep.
Xander closed his eyes.
For the first time all day, his chest loosened a small fraction, and he exhaled.
HOS. Short for ‘Head of security’ for Studio 8.
That wasn’t what he called him. In Xander’s mind, he called him Cassidy, because he loved his name.
He stood there, strong and tall in black jeans, a fitted dark shirt stretched across his chest, and a black denim jacket despite the heat to hide the bulge of his holster.
No badge. No markings announcing security. Just imposing presence.