Chapter 10 #2
In a perfect world, I’d tell Nate I needed to stop, but I knew what a huge deal it would be—not to mention how costly—to suspend filming for the night only to have to reassemble everyone again later for a reshoot.
I’d have to be bleeding out to disrupt a set like that, and even then I wasn’t so sure.
I was a team player, and I would push through the pain if it killed me.
I continued to muddle through as best I could, but when Nate called for a reset after yet another botched take, I told him I needed five and escaped outside for some fresh air (or perhaps so I could break down in private, one of the two).
Of course, a set was about as private as Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras, but I managed to find an empty bench behind the building and sank onto it, leaning over to put my head between my knees.
Please God, help me get through this, I prayed, exhaling a ragged breath.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I jerked slightly at the sound, but didn’t bother looking up. I knew that voice.
“Nothing. Just having an off day,” I said to the ground, my head still between my knees. Nothing suspicious about that.
“You don’t have off days.”
I exhaled a pained whimper. “I assure you, I do.”
I sat up gingerly, my head throbbing at the movement, and tried to act normal. “I just needed some air. I’m fine.”
“Scarlett, cut the crap. You’re obviously not fine.”
I yawned, something I did compulsively when I had a migraine, and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing my forehead with a wince. All this back and forth wasn’t helping. Sparring with Ryder took energy I did not have right now.
I felt him sit down beside me. “You’re freaking me out. Tell me what’s going on.”
I groaned miserably, giving in. “I have a migraine.”
“Like a headache?”
“Like a really bad headache.” A fresh wave of sharp pain stabbed at my temple as if to prove my point. “I’ve gotten them since I was little. This one’s a doozy.”
“Can you take anything for it?” His voice was steeped with concern.
“I have a prescription, but I think I waited too long to take it. Sometimes the meds make me nauseous, and I was trying to avoid getting sick on top of everything else. I didn’t count on this being the never-ending night from hell.
” I gave up trying to hold myself upright and let my body sag against him.
He grunted in acknowledgment. “My mom has the occasional migraine. Do you get them a lot?”
“I don’t know about ‘a lot,’ but regularly, yes. They can be triggered by a lot of things: stress, lack of sleep, heat, hunger, my period.” I swallowed. “Bright lights.”
Ryder inhaled a breath, and his ensuing silence said it all—it didn’t get any brighter than the lights we baked under all day.
He placed a hand between my shoulder blades, soft and reassuring. “Where does it hurt?”
“Here,” I said, pointing to my forehead, and when he started massaging my temple, I let out a bone-shuddering moan and tipped over like a felled tree, ending up with my head nestled in his lap.
We sat in silence for a bit as his thumbs kneaded my brow, the stillness broken only by the summer song of the cicadas. “Why haven’t you told Nate? He wouldn’t want you to work when you’re in pain like this.”
“Tell Nate what, that I have a chronic condition triggered by fluorescent lights? Photosensitivity isn’t exactly considered an asset for an aspiring actress.
This is my first big job, you know how important it is that I’m seen as easy to work with.
” I let out another huge yawn. “I’m not telling Nate.
And neither are you,” I added pointedly.
“First of all, I think we can drop the ‘aspiring’ label since last I checked, you’re starring in a major studio film.” Ryder rotated my head slightly in his lap so he had better access to my other temple, and I had to stop myself from keening.
“Yeah, well, not for long if I’m so high-maintenance that I let a stupid headache hold up production.”
“Are you kidding me? Scarlett, Nate’s not going to fire you for being sick.”
“Well, we don’t need to test your theory,” I mumbled, then gurgled in pleasure when he started scratching my scalp.
Whatever he was doing with his fingers was magic—I could actually feel the pain receding.
And the vibration of his voice through his pant leg was so relaxing, it was lulling me to sleep.
What kind of sorcery was this? Was he a headache whisperer?
“People get sick all the time. We can come back and reshoot this scene later. It’s not like it’s going well in there. Frankly, I think everyone would welcome the reprieve.” He sounded as weary as I was.
“Not me,” I said stubbornly. “I won’t be the one who causes a problem. A migraine is an invisible illness. I’ll push through it.”
He made a noise of disapproval. “To hell with that. What do you need?”
“Hmm?” I said feebly. I was so lost to the blissful relief of his touch, the gentle pressure of his fingers, that I could barely follow the thread of our conversation anymore.
His thumbs dug into the base of my skull with such expert dexterity that I almost slithered off his lap.
I belatedly realized that he was scratching my head in such a way as to protect the painstaking efforts of my hair team, and his attention to that particular detail was so endearing, it turned my insides to mush.
“What do you need to feel better?” he repeated.
“Oh. Sleep. Silence. A cold, dark room.” All things I decidedly did not have access to at the moment.
Also, I desperately needed him to continue this heavenly scratching until my headache dissipated or I died, preferably the latter.
I couldn’t believe I’d been relying on prescription drugs all these years when all I really needed was a man with magic hands and a knack for reflexology.
I felt betrayed by the entire medical establishment.
He stood abruptly, and I nearly sobbed from the loss of his touch. “I’m going to take care of this.”
“You can’t tell Nate,” I said urgently, trying to snag his sleeve but catching nothing but air.
“Uh-huh,” he answered and strode off briskly, already several steps away from me.
“Ryder! Stop,” I called weakly, but he’d already disappeared around the side of the building. I reluctantly peeled myself off the bench and staggered after him, longing for death.
When I arrived back on set, I spotted him in the corner, conferring privately with Nate. If he is ratting me out, with God as my witness, I will murder him in his sleep.
“Hey everyone, could I get your attention real quick,” Ryder said a minute later, addressing the crew, and my stomach filled with cement.
“I just let Nate know that I’m not feeling well.
The runs,” he added with an exaggerated grimace, and I gasped as stifled laughter rippled through the crowd.
“I was trying to stick it out, but it’s becoming a problem and I need to call it a night before things get any messier.
” I covered my mouth to muffle the stunned laugh that spilled out, and Ryder caught my gaze from across the room, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes.
“I’ve got the bandwidth for one last take, so let’s make it a good one.
Everyone on your A games, no slip-ups, and we’ll all get out of here and call it a night. ”
Everyone reset and took their places, the room buzzing with activity—and, I noted, sighs of relief that we’d finally be getting out of here. Ironically, by taking the fall for me, Ryder had made himself a hero.
All I could do was shake my head as he made his way toward me from across the room. I didn’t know if it was his thoughtfulness, this headache, or the exhaustion from this endless day, but my eyes began to well with tears.
He stopped in front of me and started to say something, but I threw my arms around his neck before he could, not caring who saw. He held me tight, rubbing my back as I whispered a wobbly “Thank you” into his ear.
He shushed me. “You’re welcome. And you can’t lose it yet, you’ve got to save some emotion for the scene,” he teased affectionately, then found my hand at my side and squeezed it. “Can you make it through one more take?”
I nodded, unable to trust my voice. I was so tired of pretending to be strong, pretending I wasn’t in agony, and he was giving me permission to surrender.
The urge to crawl into the protection of his arms was overwhelming.
I just wanted to let him fix it, make it all better, and somehow, I knew he could.
His eyes were warm and soothing, like tea with honey. A safe place. “Let’s do this. You ready?”
I squared my shoulders and blinked back the tears, and despite the pounding in my skull, I felt flushed with fresh resolve. One last take. I can do this.
Later, after we’d nailed the scene and I’d practically collapsed into the car waiting to take me back to Riverview, my assistant Lainey pressed a brown bag into my hands. “Ryder asked me to give you this.”
She shut the door, and in a pained haze, I opened the bag. Inside was a bottle of Excedrin Migraine, a six-pack of ginger ale, a cold gel sleep mask, and a scrawled note.
Get some rest—and if you need a masseuse, you know where to find me.