Reckless: A Salvation Society Novel

by Nicole Blanchard

  When I don’t say anything, she starts to babble. “I won’t take up much of your time. Since we’ll be working together for the foreseeable future, I wanted to introduce myself and say hello.”

  She may be pretty as a peach, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m officially allergic to peaches. Women like her are about as dangerous as jumping from a plane in a war zone. Fun while it’s happening, but you’re still landing in the middle of hell. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Hart, but I was just leaving.”

  Seth glares at me as I excuse myself, but glaring is his default state these days anyway. He’ll get over it. He always does.

  My mind wanders back to the sweet-as-pie Ms. Hart. It would have been a fun distraction to take her for a roll in the sheets. Would work off the frustrated energy that’s been pinging along my skin like zaps of electricity. But there’s no way in hell I’d tangle with my publicist, even if I didn’t already have the producers up my ass. I’ve learned my lesson about sleeping with coworkers. It never ends well.

  Despite myself, my gaze is drawn to her as she walks around the room, introducing herself to various people. Her body is tight and lithe beneath the starched cotton. Would she be as buttoned-up as she seems if I were to strip her out of her respectable little skirt?

  Too fucking bad I won’t ever find out.

  Chapter Three

  Phoebe

  “These are gorgeous. They’re exactly what I’m looking for,” I say, holding up a crisp, black and white print and squinting through my exhaustion. It’s nearly midnight, but I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. Fresh nerves and pure, potent ambition have me jazzed about my first day on set. That’s why I didn’t object to extending the spur of the moment consult back to my apartment. “Sorry again that I don’t have more to offer you for dinner than takeout pizza. I just moved in.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Fast food is my drug of choice. I was hoping to get more of Oswald, but for someone in film, he sure likes to hide away from the camera.” Emily Benson, the still photographer, tugs on the beanie covering her mop of dark and shaggy but stylish hair, and then rips a pepperoni off another slice and pops it into her mouth. “I figured you’d like the behind-the-scenes look rather than the professional headshots for the social media campaign you mentioned.”

  I study a candid of Arthur Oswald’s welcoming speech to the cast and crew. He’s magnetic—there isn’t a more appropriate word for it. The crowd is rapt listening to him, and I can’t lie, I’d been mesmerized, too. The passion he has for his work is evident in his steely gaze, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s attractive and speaks with the confidence of his years of experience. I have no doubt the public will be just as captivated looking at this picture, getting a glimpse at the man behind the screen. Which is exactly what we’re going for.

  “This is perfect,” I murmur again, thinking of how we can push these on social media. “Let’s get more film like this throughout the first week. Especially of Mr. Oswald and Mr. McNalley. Better if you can catch them together. When we do our first push, I want it to coincide with shots like these everywhere.”

  Emily pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her pert nose, then nods. “Cool, cool. I can definitely do that for you. Thank you for letting me come by so late.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say, biting into my own slice of pizza and realizing it’s the first thing I’ve had to eat all day. I’d been too nervous to partake in the staff breakfast and then too busy the rest of the day with brainstorming and observing and meeting all the crew and cast. “I appreciate your dedication. Besides, it won’t be the first, I’m sure.”

  “You got that right. Word is Oswald is going to have us filming at all hours.”

  Which means I’ll have to be on set at all hours. At first, it’ll be supervising the background shots for my campaign and stills of the actual filming, then coordinating on-set press events and interviews around the myriad of the actors’ busy schedules. I’m exhausted merely thinking about it. Exhausted and excited. Revived. This change was exactly what I needed to pull me out of my melancholy—the perfect distraction.

  “Is this your first film?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. She’s the first of my new colleagues I’ve been able to have more than ten minutes with. Maybe I even want to consider Emily, a friend. God knows I could use one here. All my colleagues in the industry have moved up and on, and my friends from back home feel worlds away.

  Emily lifts a shoulder, then sucks back a grande mocha like it’s water. I hide a smile. Maybe I’ve found a like-minded soul. “Nah, I’ve done a couple in the past few years. This is my first time working with someone like Oswald, though. No pressure, right?”

  “Right,” I parrot back with a half-laugh. No pressure.

  She cocks her head. “So, you said you just moved here. Where are you from? You don’t look like the typical Hollywood exec type.”

  “Definitely not. I lived here for a while a few years ago, but I’m originally from Florida.”

  Nodding, Emily says, “That must be hard being so far from home. I wouldn’t know. I’m one of those rare native-born Californians. I’m hard-pressed to admit there’s anywhere better on Earth.”

  “What I’m hearing is you’re volunteering to show me around. It’s been a while since I’ve been in L.A.”

  “Girl, stick with me, and I’ll hook you up. If we get some time in the next couple of weeks, we should hang out sans the work.”

  My tense muscles relax, and I give her a genuine smile. “I’d love that. Where do people hang out these days?”

  There.

  My first steps at reentering the world of the living. My therapist would be so very proud. There’s a hollow ache somewhere in the center of my chest. Like a part of me is missing, but my efforts to fill it with the new job and new life are just prodding at the still tender edges.

  A couple hours later, once the food is nearly gone and the coffee is long drunk, I walk Emily to the door. I’ve reached the point where I’m too exhausted to be tired. My brain and nerves are alight with the effects of caffeine. Opening the door for her, I say, “Thank you again for coming out so late. I can’t say enough how impressed I am with your work so far. It’s incredible.”

  “I knew I was going to like you,” she answers and shoulders her boho-style bag. “Don’t forget to call me next time you’re free, and we’ll go out for drinks or something. I have a feeling we’ll need some before too long.”

  Thinking of Oswald and McNalley, I say, “I have no doubt about that.”

  The caffeine keeps me up until nearly three in the morning, and I use the time to clean up the leftovers and unpack a little more. I give a passing thought to arming my security system, but the first time I tried, it took me thirty minutes and three calls to the company before I could get it to go back off, so I’m wary of the damn thing. I hear my parents in the back of my head, scolding me, but one night won’t hurt. All the doors and windows are locked, and no one even knows where I live. I make a mental note to read the handbook and figure it out this week, though.

  By the time I fall into bed, the weariness from a long day settles over me like a heavy blanket. I set an early alarm to take a shower before work and fall into an immediate, fitful sleep.

  Five thirty comes way, way too soon, but this is exactly what I signed up for. Even so, I struggle to roll out of bed and hit the snooze button at least twice before I throw the covers back and sit up. The sun is barely through the curtains, but I can already hear the sounds of traffic filtering through. The sound makes me smile, surprisingly. It would make my father furious. I’m already looking forward to their first visit.

  I manage a quick shower, a breakfast bar, and a cold coffee drink relatively on schedule. While I wait for an Uber, I check the social media accounts created for the film. A healthy amount of growth already, not that I expected much as we haven’t done an official launch or push yet. Just looking at it energizes me and wipes away the last remaining dregs of fatigue the coffee didn’t eradic
ate.

  I get a text that my Uber is close and idly switch over to my own Instagram account. In the past few months, I haven’t been very active. I haven’t really done anything of importance to share with my small amount of followers until now. The photo I shared of me on the plane to California was the first thing I’ve shared all year. Scrolling through the comments, I find myself smiling. When I finish reading them, I see I have a message, which is rare because I never use Instagram for chatting. Or DMing or whatever it is. I rarely even like to text.

  I don’t recognize the name on the account, and it barely even registers as I tap the message on the screen. It opens as the Uber pulls up to the curb in front of my new apartment. After exchanging polite conversation with the driver and settling into the back seat, I go back to the message. I don’t understand what I’m reading at first. It’s as though my brain has done a hard shutdown and reboots.

  No one wants you here. You should go back to where you came from if you know what’s good for you.

  A hard fist seems to grip my throat. Breathing fast, the phone falls from my nerveless hands to my lap, and I look up and glance around the inside of the dark interior of the SUV as though it’ll have answers or provide comfort. But there’s nothing there to provide guidance except for a folder of cheerful notes from the driver and complimentary Kleenex. I take a desperate handful and blot at my wet eyes before I look back at the message still staring accusingly at me.

  It’s someone playing a trick on me. A stupid internet troll, that’s all. I’ve dealt with them often enough in my career that it shouldn’t bother me. It’s nerves, that’s all. My emotions are simmering so close to the surface it doesn’t take much to have them bubbling over.

  Before I can resist the urge, I tap on the profile name. Smith Johnson. It doesn’t ring a bell. I’ve been in L.A. for such a short time, so how could I have already pissed someone off enough to turn them into a troll?

  Naturally, the profile is empty—no profile picture, no posts. They’re only following one account.

  Mine.

  Chapter Four

  Griffin

  “Again,” Oswald instructs, his tone devoid of inflection.

  I’m reminded of Shelley Duvall in The Shining and how Stanley Kubrick nearly drove her crazy during filming. Rumor has it he made her shoot the staircase scene a hundred times before he deemed it acceptable. If Oswald thinks he’s going to drive me crazy as some sort of motivational tactic, he’ll have to think again. It’ll take a lot more than the eternal scowl of disapproval to make me crazy.

  The scene resets around me, props and extras returning to their original positions. Makeup retouches my castmates, who are unnaturally quiet under the careful observation of our dictator—I mean director. I drink deeply from an ever-present water bottle as I wait for the signal to begin again.

  And again.

  And then again.

  “You’re doing great,” comes a voice I feel deep in my solar plexus. I look up from the script, which I’ve been pretending to study. “You only look like you want to punch him half the time.”

  I school my face into an unreadable expression as I turn to face Phoebe Hart. “If it’s only half the time, then I’m a better actor than I thought.”

  At her smile, I automatically regret cracking a joke. Her smile . . . it’s a little crooked with a dimple on one side, which only seems to magnify how beautiful her eyes are. She’s no starlet, but that goddamn smile is as much of a siren call as my GT.

  “Clearly, you don’t give yourself enough credit. Don’t tell anyone,” she says and leans close enough I can smell the scent of flowers clinging to her peaches and cream skin, “but I think he’s so hard on you because he admires you.”

  I snort and try not to breathe her in. “That’s what admiration looks like to you?”

  Phoebe studies me for a second, searching my eyes with hers like she can read something inside me. Maybe she can. Maybe she can read deep down inside where my darkest secrets reside. I glance down and away from her under the guise of checking something in my script.

  When I look back up again, her expression is patient and understanding, making my gut tighten for reasons I don’t understand. Reasons I don’t want to understand.

  “It doesn’t to you? Think about it. I doubt a man like Oswald would waste two seconds on anything he didn’t think was worthy.”

  “Are you trying to butter me up?” I ask, suspicious. Then realization dawns, and I sigh. “What interview do you want?”

  Her brows knit, and she takes a half step back. I hadn’t even realized we’d drawn so close together. “We don’t have any interviews scheduled for today. Right now, we’re working on background photography and scheduling.” Her sunny grin returns. “Unless you’re offering. I’m sure I could whip something up for the infamous Griffin McNalley. You’ve been a bit of a mysterious darling for the press. I’m sure any of them would trip over themselves to talk to you about what you’re working on.”

  I find myself fighting back a grin. The natural urge to flirt back with her is so strong, I bite my tongue until it passes. Seth should be proud of my restraint. “I bet you could,” I murmur.

  Before she can answer and schedule that interview, no doubt, there’s an audible click of a camera shutter in the slight moment of silence. We both turn in unison to a bubbly brunette with a wicked smirk.

  “That’s a good one,” she says as she glances back at the display on her camera. “You two look very intense and professional. Should be a great shot for your social media campaign.”

  Phoebe crosses to the photographer, and I get the impression maybe she needs the distance as much as I do. “Emily, this is Griffin. Griffin, this is Emily, our on-set still photographer.”

  I give her a nod and a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Emily. I hope my ugly mug doesn’t break your camera.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m an editing whiz. I’ll make sure we don’t scare any of the kidlets.”

  “I’ll have to trust you on that one.”

  “McNalley,” comes Oswald’s bark.

  I nod to Phoebe and Emily. “Ladies.”

  All I have to do is focus for the remainder of the shoot. No more allowing blondes in skirts to distract me.

  Luckily for me, she isn’t wearing a skirt today.

  No, she’s wearing perfectly respectable pants. Slim, black slacks that accentuate her curves in all the right places. They’re paired with a green top that emphasizes her eyes and makes me do a double-take until I remember she has one green and one brown. So much for not letting her distract me.

  “McNalley, are you as dumb as you are pretty? Get your head together and focus.”

  I bite my tongue and nod. I’ve worked with some real assholes since I’ve been in the business, and even worse when I was on active duty, but Arthur Oswald takes the cake. He’s worse than some of my most demanding instructors during boot camp, and that’s saying something.

  We go through the scene at least a dozen more times until he’s satisfied. Then we go through it another dozen times until he considers it effective. It’s a physical scene, demanding of both body and mind, and by the time he nods his approval, I’m covered in sweat and am all but screaming for a giant cold beer. I settle for a bottle of water.

  Phoebe is flitting around the set between scenes with Emily glued to her side as she interviews members of the cast and crew or directs various shots. She stays out of the way when the camera is rolling and keeps quiet. Even manages to get the oldest, most crotchety crew members to smile and laugh with her when asking questions. She works as tirelessly as a grunt on his third shift of back-to-back duty.

  It’d be easier if I could take my eyes off her.

  It’d be easier if she weren’t the reason I couldn’t focus.

  I push her from my mind for the rest of the day, which isn’t easy because I can see her every-fucking-where I turn. By midnight, I’m exhausted down to my core. As tired as I’ve ever been on a mission, but
without the luxury of shooting at shit for my troubles. One thing I do like about this job is that, even though the days are long, the work keeps my brain busy from the moment I wake up until the moment my head hits the pillow at night.

  It’s the hours I’m not at work that haunt me.

  When Oswald calls a wrap for the day, I make my way back to my trailer to pack my things.

  I dread going back to my empty apartment where I have nothing but my nightmares to keep me company, so I linger longer than I need to. As I shoulder my bag and turn the lights off, I wonder if Seth managed to confiscate all the liquor in my apartment or if he missed one bottle or two. I grudgingly admit that if it weren’t for him, I would have drowned myself in the bottle a long time ago. He’s the one who convinced me to take my first real acting gig even though I only wanted to stick to stunts.

  The parking lot is quiet as I make my way to my GT, daydreaming about that cold beer when I see Phoebe in the studio lot with her phone held out in front of her face.

  “This is so cool.” I hear a woman’s voice say. “Ben! Ben, come look! Isn’t this so cool?”

  From a distance, I see a miniature Phoebe with red hair on her phone’s screen. Her mother? I stop in the shadows like a creep and watch them.

  “You don’t have to holler,” comes a man’s voice. “I ain’t completely deaf yet.”

  “Look at our baby, Ben. She’s all grown up.”

  “I see that, but she’s been grown up for a while now.”

  “Says the man who bought her a gun just because she was moving away.”