Chapter 15
Harrison
The guard steps out of the booth the second I pull up, hand already out.
“ID, please.”
Shit.
Between the cameras, the gate, and the second guy watching from ten feet back, there’s no version of this where I just… walk in.
I reach for my wallet anyway, already running through options that don’t involve getting escorted off the property or tased.
I hand him my license.
He checks it against a list.
Then his expression shifts.
“Here you go, Mr. Evans.” He hands it back, along with a laminated pass. “You’re all set.”
I blink. “I am?”
He nods toward the dashboard. “Access pass. Ms. Alvarez is expecting you.”
I glance at the pass. Then at him. “She is?”
“You were added to her guest list a few weeks ago.”
A few weeks.
I feel about an inch tall.
Zac was right. I could’ve been here weeks ago.
I mentally bash my head against the steering wheel when the guard asks, “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Not exactly.”
He gestures down the road. “Follow this straight through, take a left at the soundstage with the blue doors—Stage 7—then keep right. Lot 15 is at the back. You’ll see the trailers lined up.”
I nod. “Got it.”
He leans back toward the booth. “They’re wrapping early today, from what I heard. You should hurry if you’re trying to catch her.”
I put the car back in gear. “Thanks.”
He tips his hat. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I follow the guard’s directions until the lot opens up into a maze of buildings, golf carts, and people in various stages of costume and panic.
I park and head in the general direction I think her trailer is in, then tap the tracker.
Nothing.
Just a spinning circle.
“Come on…”
I move around the area, raising my arm, trying to catch a signal.
“It won’t work this close to the dubbing studio.”
I look up.
A guy leans against the wall like he’s been there the whole time—shirtless, towel around his neck, jeans hanging low, casually drying his hair.
Is there a shower out here or something?
I blink. “What won’t?”
He jerks his chin toward my phone. “Your phone. Too much interference.”
“Oh.” I take a few steps closer. He looks familiar though I can’t exactly place him.
Wait a minute. Yes, I can.
The guy’s face and chest are plastered all over the LA billboards.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“Lot 15.”
He chuckles and points above us. Big metal numbers: 1–5.
Right.
“I’m looking for Ava Alvarez.”
“Yeah, buddy,” he smirks. “Aren’t we all.”
“No, I mean, she’s expecting me.” I hold up the pass.
That gets his attention.
“She didn’t mention anyone coming today,” he says. “And I was just on set with her.”
“You were?” I size him up, bare chest and all.
He laughs, easy and loud, like this is already his favorite part of the day. Then he squints at me. “You wouldn’t happen to be from New York, would you?”
Ah. There it is.
This guy knows exactly who I am.
I straighten my tie. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
He nods. “I could tell. You have that… vibe.”
“Vibe?” I repeat, deadpan.
He grins. “Very… I ruin men before my second espresso.”
Amused, I cross my arms. “Bold of you to assume I wait for the second.”
We stare each other down a beat too long.
Then, wisely, he points down the road. “Her trailer’s in Lot 50. Not 15. Exit the way you came, six blocks east. First lot on your right.”
I frown at him.
That’s… not what I was told. “You sure?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You wanted directions.”
Right.
Fuck a duck. In LA traffic, that’s an hour. Easy.
I loosen my tie and turn back toward my car. “Thanks.”
His mouth twitches. Then he pushes off the wall and brushes past me.
“Actually,” he says, like he’s reconsidering something. “Walk with me.”
I glance at him. “I would, but I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Not before we have a little talk.”
He starts walking. I fall in beside him.
“Ava Alvarez,” he says, like he’s savoring it. “She and I go way back.”
My jaw tightens. “How far back?”
Before he can answer, three women rush him, all giggles and grabby hands, shoving things at him to sign and screaming, “We love you, Chase!”
He doesn’t break stride. Just signs, nods, tolerates the selfies, and keeps moving. Someone with a crew badge presses a water into his hand. He takes it like it’s all part of the routine.
And suddenly… I’m thinking about Ava.
I glance around. “They just let fans wander around like this?”
“Fans come in all shapes,” he says. “Crew. Extras. People who have amnesia when it comes to boundaries.” He takes a drink. “Every hour of the day, someone wants a piece of you.”
“Well, I hate that,” I say.
“Oh, there’s a lot more to hate, New York.”
I glance at him. “Explain.”
“Picture a woman whose husband is MIA. And her office looks like that—”
He points to six buff guys in gladiator armor, shirtless and sweating.
“Or that—”
This time, they’re buff, shirtless pirates… flexing at each other.
What fresh hell is this?
“And, in case you forgot—” he gestures to himself. The chest. The abs. The pecs.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I shake my head. “Obviously the guy’s an idiot.”
“Obviously,” he repeats.
“And tell my future wife I said hi.”
I glare at him.
He smirks. “What? If her husband doesn’t show up for weeks, I figure the position’s opening soon.”
Fuck.
That hits like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Something shifts in his expression then. Like the joke finally stops being funny.
“A little advice, New York. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck her over.” His voice drops, all edge now. “Or you’ll regret it. For the rest of your life.”
A beat later, he smacks my chest. Hard.
“Her trailer’s right over there.”
Oh, this guy…
I head for the trailer.
I’m almost there when the door swings open.
My pulse spikes.
Pix rushes out first.
And right behind her—
Pierce. Fucking. Maddox.