Moth to a Flame
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MOTH TO A FLAME Copyright © 2019 CAMBRIA HEBERT
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by: Cambria Hebert
http://www.cambriahebert.com
Interior design and typesetting by Sharon Kay of Amber Leaf Publishing
Cover design by Pink Ink Designs
Edited by Cassie McCown
Copyright 2019 by Cambria Hebert
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-946836-28-1
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Author Bio
The faint smell of chlorine lingered, underscoring the other scents of mold, grime... and death. Chlorine and death didn’t go together. The combination made me think I was sitting in a hospital that specialized in killing their patients, not saving them.
I guess, really, it wasn’t far off.
I wasn’t in a hospital, but this place definitely wasn’t going to save me. I was going to have to do that myself.
Hopelessness so thick and putrid lodged in my throat, and tears burned the backs of my dry, tired eyes. I had no idea how I had any tears left to cry, how there was anything left of me at all. I felt like a mere hollow shell of who I used to be. A casing of skin and bone containing nothing but a woman sentenced to death.
I had no idea how I got here.
The memory of the hours I spent before opening my eyes to this hellfest were so hidden by my mind I actually believed they would never be retrieved.
It’s for the best was what I told myself about those missing links because anything that ended with me being here wasn’t anything I wanted to know. Right?
No.
Not knowing was just more torture in the already grim situation in which I found myself trapped. Maybe if I could remember, I could think of a way to escape. Or, at the very least, understand what I did that would result in my murder.
Scratch, scratch. The faint sound might as well have been a gunshot because it scared me just as much. Huddling closer to the grimy tile I would never have touched before, my shaking, weak arms wrapped around my knees as dirty, matted hair fell across my face.
Rattling chain made me freeze, regretting instantly the movements I made to protect myself.
Now he would know I was awake.
With bated breath, I waited, trying desperately to calm the way my body quaked as I listened for him to come closer.
Scratch, scratch.
With my eyes squeezed closed, the sound continued to taunt me.
Scratch, scratch.
I didn’t know how long I waited, but finally, I realized he wasn’t here. The sound was something else. It was coming from someone else.
Biting down on my lip until the metallic taste of blood spilled over my tongue, painstakingly, I lifted my eyes to peer around the protection of my hair. It was so dark in here... would be pitch black if it weren’t for the random spotlights erected around the space.
Pitch black would probably have been less ominous because there wouldn’t be any shadows in complete darkness.
The sound was coming from there.
A place I intensely didn’t want to look.
Scratch, scratch.
A thought occurred to me and, with it, the first inkling of hope I’d had in what felt like centuries. If he wasn’t here making that sound, then maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
Whimpering and lowering my arms from around my legs, I sat up straight and gazed into the place I swore I’d never look again.
“Hello?” The sound scraped out of my raw throat.
“A-are y-you...?” The words wobbled, but I managed to get them out anyway. “A-a-alive?”
Scratch, scratch.
My heart jumped, causing me to sit forward to peer into the shadowy corner. That was an answer, right? Maybe the only one she could give, maybe all she had the energy for.
A sob built in my throat, the pressure of it hurting so much it felt like I might choke. “I’m here!” I said, scooting forward. The back of my thigh caught on a jagged piece of broken tile, and my skin tore.
I ignored it.
“You aren’t alone,” I whimpered, relieved because it meant I wasn’t alone anymore either.
I’d thought she was dead. All that blood...
Pushing away the gruesome thought, I focused on her telling me she was alive.
“We’re going to get out of here.” I promised, tears streaking down my dirty, cold cheeks.
I waited for another scratching sound. Anything to show she heard me, anything to know I had an ally.
No more sound came. Instead, she turned her head.
Forgetting all about being quiet, I started to scream.
He was coming.
Something no one ever needed to announce. The second he drew near, the very air within a twenty-yard radius around him changed. Almost like it was sucked out of everything and everyone. As if everything, even the most inanimate of objects, waited with bated breath for his striking good looks and charming smile to christen the room with a gulp of fresh air.
The crew in the trailer began scrambling around, suddenly wide awake even though it was still hours until the sun would rise. Hair was fluffed, boobs were pushed up, and Carson (our resident diva) actually adjusted the junk beneath his jeans.
Hiding a smile, I picked up the travel mug of hot tea I’d brought from home and sipped at the honey-laced brew, enjoying the show. It was never a dull day in show business.
Being around celebrities wasn’t new for any of us. Normally, we didn’t bat an eye at their presence. But there were a few that still seemed to create a buzz in the air.
Currently, he was the number one actor in the country, recently coined the “Sexiest Man Alive,” and had the top two movies in the box office.
Nick’s newest movie, Tom Ford, was number one for the second week in a row and was the first movie in what I knew was going to be a successful chain of films based on a US Marshall who turned bad but still always came out the hero. Code Blue was number two for the second week in a row (only bumped out of the number one spot by Tom Ford) and was about the heroic acts of an emergency responder who was one of the first on a scene in a natural disaster.
Both films were action packed, filled with kickass graphics and suspense, and left the audience breathless. They had some romance elements to them as well, but truthfully, it wouldn’t matter if they did. Women would still flock to see his films because he just had that kind of on-screen presence. And the men went because the guy could seriously kick ass in a fight.
The sound of booted footfalls outside the trailer made my stomach flutter a little. What? I wasn’t immune to his charm either. I was just better at hiding it.
After all, I had a lot of experience with hiding.
Nick’s wide shoulders and narrow waist filled the trailer door, and beside me, Carson squealed beneath his breath. I elbowed him in the side, and he gave me a look like he knew I wanted to fangirl too. It was hard, but I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue at him, something I might not have bothered fighting if there wasn’t a chance I’d get stuck making some awful face when Mr. Handsome himself showed up.
Speaking of... Nick ducked into the space, moving farther into our temporary quarters. The second he did, the entire room took a collective breath around him. His hair was longer now than it was in his previous movie. The sides were trimmed close, but the top could be styled into that messy, sticking-up look everyone loved so much these days. Currently, the strands were chaotic, not in the styled way, but in a way that said he hadn’t bothered to touch it before coming here. He probably preferred it short. Most guys did because then they didn’t have to comb it.
His jaw was shadowed with stubble, the same in-between color as the hair on his head. Nick’s hair wasn’t blond, but it wasn’t brown either. It was sort of a golden shade, or maybe it was just brown that had been expertly highlighted to appear multidimensional.
“Morning,” he said in his signature deep baritone. “I’d have brought donuts, but not even the donut makers are up this early.” White teeth flashed as he spoke. “Besides, I can’t eat them anyway. Watching you eat them would only make me question my career choice.”
Even though I knew Nick was joking, Carson, who was still beside me, made a low sound of distress. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced over and almost spit out the tea I was sipping. In his hand was a round pink-iced donut with sprinkles. He’d already taken a bite out of it.
I watched, totally amused, as he stealthily took another huge bite, then nonchalantly dropped it in the trash behind him. Chewing super slow, he caught my eye. “Not a word, girl.” He warned.
I winked.
“Have a seat, Mr. Preston,” Laura said, bursting into action and motioning toward a swivel makeup chair in front of a lit-up mirror. It was the closest to the door.
If she wanted to work on Nick this morning, it was okay by me. Based on the daggers flinging out of Carson’s eyes, I would wager he wasn’t as okay with it, but he didn’t say anything.
“Nick,” he corrected, glancing at Laura.
“Can I get you a coffee, Nick?” Carson said, hustling toward him, flinging out a hand like he was a waiter and not an uber-talented stylist. “Anything at all from Craft Services?” He was dressed in a pair of khaki shorts that hugged his self-proclaimed “bubble butt” and a black polo shirt with a pink animal logo on the left breast. The polo was tucked in, and for a belt, he had on a fanny pack. Yes... a fanny pack. It was 80s hot pink and looked like he’d dug it out of his mom’s basement. Carson wore pink a lot. He said it looked good with his chocolate-colored skin. I couldn’t really disagree with him.
Craft Services was the huge setup of food and drinks for the entire crew and actors. It was filled with almost anything you could imagine. Somedays, it made me feel guilty when I looked at it because sometimes it felt as if those tables had more available than most third world countries.
I remembered what it was like to be so hungry it felt as though your insides were shriveling up in contractions of pain.
“Nah, thanks,” Nick said, smiling at Carson. “My assistant will be in with my trainer-approved meal.” His eyes slipped to me, then went right back to Carson. A smile lit his features. “In other words, my plate of sadness.”
Carson tipped his head back and laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Maybe it was funny to him, the taste of icing and sprinkles still in his teeth.
Laura made a sound and motioned to her chair. Nick’s mossy gaze swung around. “Actually, Laura, I’m working with Zoey today.”
Laura’s face fell, but he didn’t see because he was already swiveling in my direction. Jolting up from the table I was leaning against, I could have sworn I was hearing things.
He knew my name.
The deer-in-headlights look I must have plastered all over my face made Nick frown. “Unless you planned to work with some of the other cast today? Landen?”
“Landen...” I wondered out loud.
Nick’s lips pulled up into a ghost of a smile. “The bad guy.”
“Oh!” I gasped, and Carson threw his hands up into the air behind Nick, shaking his head. Nick was talking about his adversary in the movie they were filming. Duh.
“Um, no, I’m free. Laura can work on Landen. Right, Laura?”
I glanced around Nick to the other artist who was watching us. She was dressed in a pair of navy-blue leggings and a large white T-shirt with the words “No Comment” written across the chest. Because the shirt was oversized, she had it tied up at her waist. Her long blond hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, and her flawless face was makeup free.
This morning’s call time was three a.m. I didn’t even consider the hour morning, but the middle of the night. I’d bet half my paycheck ninety percent of the crew was probably still in bed, snoozing away until the very last second, then would roll out of bed, pull on some clothes, and climb into their cars.
They’d show up wrinkled, yawning, and sleepy-eyed. Most of them would have on hats and be guzzling coffee. It didn’t matter. In fact, it was pretty much perfectly acceptable, even for Hollywood.
You see, behind the glitz and glam of movies and TV, behind the luxury and perfectly put-together “reality” everyone saw, stood entire teams who were anything but. We were the people who made Hollywood what it was, because without us, the celebrities and stars everyone envied for their beauty and status would look exactly the way the rest of us did... average.
Now before you go getting your panties in a bunch, average is not an insult. In fact, average, for me, was something to aspire to. But let’s face it. Not everyone—hell, most of us—looked like Halle Berry, Jennifer Lawrence, or Chris Evans.
A lot of the people who worked with me said we were like the moms who rolled up in the car line at school in our minivans filled with Cheerios, dressed in mismatched pajamas with coffee and jam stains, hair in ratty buns, and slippers on instead of shoes. We were all ten-point hot messes, but when the doors opened and our kids stepped out, they looked like an ad for GAP.
We put all our energy into everyone else instead of us. It’s just what we did, and we were paid very well for it.
“Umm, sure.” Laura nodded. I knew she wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t as if I were trying to poach her client. We were all working on the same set.
Nick’s long legs carried him closer to me at the end of the row. “This your chair?” he asked, gesturing to the black one on the end.
I nodded, and he slid right by me into the seat. The soft fabric of his swea
ts brushed against my wide-leg jersey pants as he moved. He was a good height. A strange thought, I know. But when a girl is nearly six feet tall herself, a man with impressive height is something that doesn’t go unnoticed.
After plopping down in the seat, he swiveled around to face me, his back to the rest of the room. The weight of a million stares hit me in that moment. Well, a million might be an exaggeration. It was more like three, but the sharpness of each gaze made it feel like way more.
Clearing my throat, I decided to ignore the stares and get down to what I did best: faking it. “Let’s just start with the base.” I began studying his face, then reached for his uncombed strands to run my fingers through it. It was soft and silky. “And get the hair fixed up.”
Side note: I had a cool job, yes? I could run my fingers through the sexiest man alive’s hair and claim it was for work.
“You know, it doesn’t matter if I’m on my death bed in a scene, good hair is a must,” he quipped.
I snort-laughed. “Well, this is Hollywood.”
He smiled but didn’t say anything. I tugged my fingers out of his hair, which actually didn’t look highlighted, feeling slightly on the spot because his mossy eyes remained on me.
Turning away to set down my tea and grasp my rolling cart of supplies, I asked, “Do you have any notes from the director on the scene or how you need to look for today’s shoot?”
Movies weren’t often filmed in sequential order, so every day was different. Any given shoot could range from normal hair and makeup to something extreme. It also depended on the movie. This one required less in terms of makeup and special effects because it was an action flick, not something like zombies or historical. It was a welcome job, though. I was tired. The last two movies I worked on had me on the other side of the country and on two different continents. For months, I worked very long hours, and my eyes basically crossed at the amount of detail and work that went into the makeup and costumes.
It had been worth it, though. Some even said those two films put me on top of the list of go-to makeup artists.
Maybe they were right. Maybe those successes were what got me this cushy job where I could stay in L.A. for the majority of the shoot, working with A-listers like Nick Preston and Josh Landen.
I didn’t like to balance where I stood now on the success of only two jobs. The floor under my feet—the entire life I had today—wasn’t just because of two jobs. It was a culmination of the last seven years.