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Four
Jesse
Another day, another rescue. Another sprint into the sea. I sit on top of the creaking steps that lead to my trailer, the metal already warm from the sun, and frown out at the frothing ocean.
I’m in the redRiptideswim shorts already, with one of my younger brother’s college hoodies thrown on top. Thick powder clings to my cheeks, and a stylist has tousled gel through my hair.
I barely noticed it happening. My head’s thick and fuzzy from a long night of staring at the ceiling, playing back my agent’s wheezy, dismissive laugh on a loop in my head.
You’d be a fool, giving up this sure thing.
Would anyone else even cast me?
What does Darla think of me, still working this same role after so many years? Does she think I’m a loser?
“Hey, Jesse.” Haley, the girl who plays my little sister in the show, props her hip against my trailer, twirling a lock of her red hair. “You look so grumpy. Need cheering up?”
I lift my chin in greeting, but I don’t call her over. Haley is pretty enough, but I’m not interested in what she’s putting out there. I know that our roles are fictional and all, but I still call herSismost of the day. It’s weird.
Besides, there’s only one woman who catches my attention these days, and she’snotred-haired and skinny. She’s all thick curves and a wide smile; a loud laugh and twinkling hazel eyes.
A goddess.
“One of the crew’s filling in for your scene.”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. That’s fine—makes no odds to me who I pull out of the surf. Until Haley snickers, and mutters something about me needing a crane to lift the extra out of the water.
I stiffen on the warm metal steps.
My heart’s thumping so hard.
“What’d you say?”
Haley grins and skips over to stand right in front of me. Mistakes my question as an invitation. “Yeah, it’s crazy. Darla’s in makeup right now.”
“No, what’d you say about a crane?”
She has the grace to blush, at least. Haley knows she’s been a dick, and even if she didn’t, my clipped tone would clue her in. I won’t stand foranyof that talk. Not about anyone, and definitely not about Darla.
“I just…” Haley’s wearing high-waisted shorts and an oversize pink t-shirt, but she’s knotted it above her belly button. She’s comfortable in her own skin. She waves a hand at where my ridged abs are hidden by my hoodie, as though that means something. “…You know?”
Nope. I do not know. I don’twantto know. And the metal stairs screech as I push to my feet, jumping down onto the beach parking lot in my flip flops. A fine layer of sand coats the concrete and makes it gritty.
“Don’t talk about her like that again,” I warn, brushing past Haley on my way to the set.
Her sullen voice floats after me. “No kidding.”
* * *
“Action!”
It’s a solo sprint today, without the other actors nipping at my heels. And it’s just as well, because as my feet pound along the hard, damp sand beside the surf, I’m having some kind of heart attack.
It’s not the cardio. It’s Darla.
I only caught glimpses of her getting into position, wrapped in a big blue towel until the last possible second, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Then Imogen, the makeup artist, whipped the fabric away like a waiter pulling a trick with a tablecloth.
Jesus Christ.
