AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
Someone must have spikedthe punch. Or rather, the bottle of water I’m drinking. That’s the only plausible explanation I can come up with right now for the way I’m feeling. Because after years of practice, I should be immune to the charm and charisma.
Lightheaded.
Racing pulse.
Ache in my core.
My throat is unusually dry, the poisoned water doing nothing to quench my thirst. Not to mention my stomach is in knots. My heart is beating wildly in my chest. I swear it’s trying to break out and run.
That, I could understand, if it were trying to run away. To save itself. To keep from shattering into a million pieces like that last time I had this reaction. But no, it wants to run toward the danger.
My palms … don’t even get me started. I didn’t even know you could sweat between your fingers. I’ve wiped them down the front of my jeans at least ten times in the last two minutes and still they feel damp. You’d think I just spent the last twenty minutes in a steam room.
Then there’s the issue of being able to stand. I tried, I really did, but my knees felt like they were going to buckle. My toes started to tingle, and I was afraid I was going to collapse on the floor if I didn’t sit down. Yet, there’s not a chair for me anywhere in sight.
So here I am, leaning on the edge of the very table that once had the toxic bottle of water sitting on it. Wishing I hadn’t taken this job. Not because I can’t do it but because of the way I’m feeling right now. Production is already in full swing. They’ve been shooting for almost a month and judging by the agenda on the clipboard I’m currently hugging to my chest in an attempt to hide my heavy breathing, the schedule is aggressive, even with two months left.
We start at seven o’clock in the morning and don’t wrap for the day until after seven o’clock at night. Monday through Friday.
Not me, though. I’m expected to arrive an hour earlier than everyone else and stay as late as necessary.
Who needs a personal life anyway?
There are three off-site shoots coming up in the next few months. We’ll be traveling to Nassau, Bahamas, Seattle, and Napa Valley. On-location filming tends to be more aggressive than the normal day-to-day operation. We only have so much time to get it right. Which means working every day and making the most of each one.
Napa Valley is going to be the hardest of the three. We only have two full days to use the vineyard that’s been acquired, and we won’t be the only ones there. According to the notes I was left by the girl who previously occupied my position, they’re partially booked and refuse to cancel any of the reservations.
Steve interrupts my train of thought as he screams loudly, “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
His voice has a low rumble to it, almost a growl, as he tosses his headphones in his chair and marches onto the set. He’s tearing Celia a new asshole about her posture. Again. For the third time today.
It’s always something with him, though. Posture. Tone of voice. The way she flips her hair. Nothing is ever right. Nothing she does is good enough. She’s not portraying the part he wants her to play the way he expects her to.
But he handpicked her for this part.
His words are brutal. There’s not an ounce of encouragement hidden beneath his frustrations. And it isn’t only Celia that he treats this way. He screams in your face. Talks down to you in front of others. Makes you feel small, no matter how big of a star you are. And his expectations … they border on unachievable.
I’ve seen and heard enough, and I’ve only been here for a few hours. Lunch hasn’t even been served yet. My day hasn’t reached the halfway mark. But if I can handle this job, this director, that speaks volumes about my abilities. It will add credibility to my resume. Make it shine a little brighter.
The next few months are going to be hell if every day is like today. I have the strangest feeling this is only the tip of the iceberg. We’re still climbing up the mountain. Once we reach the peak is when shit’s really going to hit the fan.
“Ms. Rush!”
Shit! That’s me.
Pushing off the table and standing to my full height, I look around the room and find all eyes on me. When mine meet Steve’s, there’s a hint of amusement mixed with anger in them. My stomach rolls, the water I’ve consumed threatening to come back up.
There’s no doubt in my mind he’s the one who was trying to get my attention.
“Yes, sir?” I ask, taking a step toward the set, keeping my eyes focused on his. I’m afraid to look anywhere else. I’ll either find pity in the eyes of the crew or I’ll accidentally make eye contact with the person who sent me into my internal monologue in the first place.
“Lunch. Ten minutes,” he states firmly, shooing me away with a flick of his wrist.
My brain acknowledges his dismissal, my feet coming to an abrupt halt, but the rest of my body continues pressing onward. Before I know it, I’m propelling toward the concrete floor, still hugging that stupid clipboard to my chest.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I don’t even have time to mentally prepare for the painful landing ahead of me before I’m being pulled up by the back of my shirt. A firm arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back into a hard chest, steadying me on my feet.
