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“Holy shit,” Colin murmurs after a moment, his chest cleaved to my back. “Jesus Christ, Amy. Oh my God.”
It’s not the declaration of undying love I’d kick a puppy to hear from him. And I know dirty sex didn’t come close to resolving the issues we argued about before lust turned him into Hurricane Colin and swept me into its path. But I’m so high on euphoria and sexual satisfaction in this moment, I don’t even remember what pissed me off.
Like Colin said, it’s been less than a week since we started having sex, and Colin isn’t the one who’s had an eternal crush on me. Whatever Colin might be feeling for me beyond brotherly affection at this point, it’s a brand-new thing for him. Whereas for me, this is the fulfillment of a lifelong fantasy. And so, while still feeling high on the outrageously dirty pleasure Colin just delivered to me, I decide to accept things as they are, for now, rather than thinking about how I wish they’d be.
Twenty-Five
Colin
“They’re ready for you, Colin,” Amy says, peeking her cute little red head into my trailer.
“Thanks, babe.” Fuck. I didn’t mean to call her that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I inhale deeply, place my script on a table, and follow Amy toward the set. If she noticed my endearment, she’s pretending she didn’t. Which works for me, considering I’m about to shoot the toughest of my three speaking scenes—my dramatic death—and I can’t let myself lose focus right now.
We’re shooting on the “firing range” set this time, where poor Private Sherman will die after his former best friend, Private Hawkings, makes a tragic mistake. As it turns out, my best friend did, indeed, swipe my lucky penny. Not out of malice, but to help me get past my stupid superstitions. Oops.
I won’t find out what Private Hawkings did before dying in his arms. But the audience will, when Private Hawkings tearfully admits what he did later on, in a dramatic scene with Seth’s character—and then, for the rest of the movie, tries desperately to atone for his sin.
“This scene is part of your gray matter, at this point,” Amy whispers as we walk toward the firing range set. “There’s nothing more you could have done to prepare. You’re ready.”
As usual, she’s read me like a book and knows exactly what to say to reassure me. “Thanks,” I choke out, my voice tight. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”
Amy brushes her arm against mine as we continue walking. And I’m grateful. Surely, she knows I’d love to hold her hand and squeeze it right now. But what professional actor would do that with his PA as he heads to set to shoot his biggest scene? I’m not a kid being dropped off at nursery school, and Amy’s not my mommy. Under the circumstances, she’s chosen the perfect way to touch me.
Shit.
I’m nervous.
Thankfully, Gary told me not to stress about the stage directions in this scene. Particularly, the part of the script that says “Private Sherman sheds a tear” as he delivers his last line to Private Hawking. Gary said tears aren’t necessary to convey intense emotion. And that’s a mighty good thing, because I don’t think I’ve shed a single tear since my parents’ divorce when I was a kid.
“You ready?” Gary, our director, says, as Amy and I reach the set.
“Ready.”
“We’ll film your close-ups first, Colin.”
“Sounds great.”
Rob, the actor playing Private Hawkings, appears and we exchange brief words before Gary begins explaining what he wants from us. He explains the explosives and special effects that will be used later, when our stunt doubles perform this scene after we’re done. And, finally, Gary asks if we have any questions.
“Not me,” Rob says.
I look to the spot where Amy said she’d stand and find her face. Instantly, calmness washes over me. “No questions from me,” I say, returning to Gary’s face. “I’m good to go.”
We practice the blocking a few times, choreographing how and where I’ll fall when I’m hit in the chest by friendly fire. Gary explains we’ll redo portions of the scene again, from a wider angle later this afternoon, at which point the frame will clearly show my bloodied, ragged torso. But for now, Gary says, we’ll do the scene in close-up to capture my face.
“Got it,” I say, my stomach flip-flopping.
Rob and I get our guns from the prop master, take our marks, and wait. And then wait some more. And when Gary eventually calls “action,” off we go, performing our choreographed moves, as rehearsed.
Thankfully, I don’t mess anything up. At the exact right spot, Gary calls out “explosion!” for now—his voice to be replaced by an actual explosion, later—and I react accordingly, jerking back and clutching my chest, before falling to the ground, exactly as rehearsed.
Gary says everything was great, but let’s do it again. So, we do. Four more times, until Gary confirms he got everything needed from that particular angle. Moving on. It’s time for me to say my lines, in close-up, while dying on the ground.
