“Did we get it or not?” Cole rolled his neck and glanced at his watch. 11:15 p.m. He looked for the closest PA and snapped his fingers. “Find a catering truck and get me a sandwich. Ham and swiss on wheat.”
“Catering trucks closed up at ten,” Don said dismissively, skimming through a reel.
“Then find me one somewhere else,” Cole snapped. “Why the hell are the catering trucks closing up early?”
“Look around. Everyone’s gone.” Don glanced up at the production assistant. “Ignore him, he’ll be fine.”
“Fuck that.” Cole fished in his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “Sandwich. Find one or make one, I don’t give a damn. And a Pepsi.”
“Coke,” Don corrected.
“Right. Whatever. Anyone else need something?” Cole glanced over at the other bodies in the booth, a collection of sound and video mixers. No one spoke, and Cole passed the cash to the PA, then dropped his leg, sitting forward. “So show me. Did we get it?”
“I think so, despite your best efforts.”
“She needed her feathers ruffled a little. She was getting too tense.” Cole grinned at the memory of her face, the widening of her eyes, the way they had burned at him across the room. He probably shouldn’t have done it, but she’d handled it well, not stopping, not reacting. It’d been a test of sorts, but also pure entertainment on his part. Ever since they’d had sex, Summer had more or less ignored him, her attitude increasingly more indifferent as time went on. He had needed that fire, that attention from her, that spark that seemed to grow stronger the more anger that blew between them. So he’d lit a match. And he’d enjoyed every bit of the result.
Don mumbled something in response, pressed a button, and the short clip played seamlessly, the transition between Cole and Summer spliced from over a dozen takes. Less than a moment of footage, everything from Cole’s ad lib deleted.
“It’s good,” Cole said, nodding, his eyes trained on Summer’s face, the defiance in every part of her features. Her beauty changed when she was mad. Just another reason to push her buttons.
“I agree,” Don said, and one of the mixers, two bodies over, spoke up.
“Do you want to show him the other cut?”
Don ran a hand over the back of his head and said nothing.
“What cut?” Cole asked, looking over at the director. “Don?” he pushed.
“Yeah,” Don said, the word clipped. “Roll it.” He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his forehead.
Cole glanced at the screen, a new clip playing. It was from after the prank. When he’d stood up and walked over to Summer. Someone had spliced the scenes together, layering the camera angles to record the moment in one concise, smooth take. He shifted in his seat and watched a close up of his hand running, slower than possible, down her shirt. Saw in high definition the swallow of her throat, the burn of her cheeks, the slight curve of her back as she, in the moment before her slap, arched into his touch. A hundred details he had missed, his mind too focused on one thing, the burning need to have her white button-down ripped off, his hands exploring the skin underneath. There was the slap, the violence of it more pronounced on screen, the darkening of Cole’s eyes, his start forward… Cole looked into his own eyes, on screen, and saw what anyone would be able to see. Lust. Raw animal lust. The clip ended, and the room went dark for a moment before the next screen came on.
“So,” Don said quietly.
“What was the purpose of that mix?” Cole asked tightly.
“It’s hot,” one of the overpaid guys said, swiveling his seat around and facing Cole. “I’ve got a hard-on just from watching it, Mr. Masten. I mean, the other stuff is good, but this has emotion, it has heat. You guys look like you were moments away from banging on the desk.” He stared Cole down through his horn-rimmed glasses as if he had a say in anything.
“He’s right,” Don tilted back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I hate like hell to say it, but he’s right. The other clip looks like chicken shit compared to this.”
“That?” Cole sputtered, pointing to the frozen image of Summer, her cheeks flushed. “You can’t use that. It’s too…”
“Real?” Don asked, turning to him.
“No,” Cole said quickly. “It’s not that. I just don’t see a plot scenario where—”
“Ida and Royce hate each other,” Don said. “That’s already in there. Hell, it was reality. But if we use that hatred… and make it sexual tension…” He glanced at Cole. “It could add another element to the film. And it would bring in the female viewers who, right now, we have no draw on, other than your pretty mug.”
“She won’t go for it,” Cole said flatly.
“Since when does that matter?” Don said with a laugh. “She doesn’t have script approval!”
“She’ll hate it.” He glanced at the screens. “Play it again.”
“I’m not crazy about the idea either, Cole, but the more I think about it…” Don tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair.
“Play it again,” Cole repeated, leaning back in his chair, his arms across his chest, his eyes on her face.
A button was hit, and the clip restarted.
The mixer was right. It was hot. And Don was right; a romantic element, or hell, just a sexual element between Ida and Royce would draw in the female audience.
Summer would hate it. But Don was right on that card, too. But Summer wouldn’t have a choice. She’d have to go with whatever Cole said. And that, despite any moral ramifications that should have existed, made him smile.
The clip finished, and Cole sat forward, turning to Don, the director’s eyes wary.
“Let’s do it,” Cole said. “Call the writers. Get them in here now.”
CHAPTER 65
“How was it?” Mama’s question came from her bedroom, her voice’s edges slurred with sleep.
“It was fine,” I said quietly, sticking my head in. “Long, but fine. I did good.”
“Of course you did,” she mumbled, her form rolling over in the bed. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” I flipped off the hall light, and she disappeared, a blanket of black swallowing the room. I stepped back to the living room and dropped onto the couch, pulling the afghan off its back and over my chest. The day hadn’t been fine. It had been stressful and long and hot and horrible. I thought I could work with him. I thought I could spit out lines and be in character and be fine. I thought, because the set was on Georgian soil, that it’d be my turf. I didn’t realize how foreign that world would be. So many terms I didn’t know, tossed effortlessly between hundreds of strangers, no attempt made to clue in the new girl. The Southerners they brought in from Atlanta were all in the movie business there, so they waltzed around with ease, taking their cues, their places, without a stumble. I was the odd girl out, looking like an idiot. I saw the looks, the side glances and raised eyebrows, saying, What is she doing here? clear as day. By lunch, my confidence was shot. By afternoon, I’d used up every pep talk I had. And by the time Cole Masten introduced me to condoms, my defenses had crumbled to nothing. I’m gonna blame that fatigue on my weakness when he had come around the desk and touched me.
After that touch, on my way to hair and makeup, I had ditched Mary and ducked into a restroom. Called Ben’s cell and left a teary voicemail. He’d flown to Vancouver that morning for his next gig. I’d begged him to stay just one more week, offered him money, dumplings, freedom to use my makeup… but he’d had to go. We’d hugged it out in front of the Raine House at seven AM before he’d all but pushed me in the direction of the Pit. A half-hour after my pathetic voicemail, I got a text from him.