by Zoe Chant
It was dangerous to have Shelley on the set, even for two days. The fact that he knew her name was dangerous. Ever since Oona had dumped him, he’d made a point of thinking about Hollywood’s endless stream of beautiful women by their character names. He’d buried himself in work, scarcely giving them a thought . . .
Until this one. Since the first time she’d walked onto his studio set for a bit part in an episode of his TV show, wearing a hideous straw hat, cheap-ass sunglasses, and a clock-stopping polyester dress over plastic shoes that looked like shower clogs, he’d noticed her. How her beautiful body with its extravagantly luscious curves had moved under that god-awful getup. How she managed to make a squawking tumble off the back of a pickup truck look sexy and cool.
He’d been burned too badly by Oona to even speak to Shelley. But somehow he’d managed to see the dailies when she appeared. And somehow he’d seen to it that she was on the list for similar extra work whenever a script called for it. After all, she was quiet, professional, skilled— everything they wanted.
Unfortunately, she was also everything he wanted. And not in a professional way.
Now that his divorce had finally gone through—‘official’ as in reported to Variety, thanks to Oona’s busybody agent—it was dangerous for other reasons. But he could keep his shit together. He’d been keeping his secrets all his life. And he was overdue a little innocent gratification.
Right?
Right.
So he’d worked the schedule so this B-roll scene would be shot by his A camera crew. Mick had slung a line of bull about how important it was to get those long shadows just right when the bad guys rolled into town looking to kick ass and take names.
All around him his production people did what they did best. Mick bent his ear toward the assistant director talking to him, but all he heard was yadda-yadda-yadda. His eyes and brain had riveted to the tall curvaceous woman dressed in damn-your-eyes black leather astride that Harley like it was a rampant stallion.
He let the shooting script fall into his lap to hide his sudden 500 horsepower boner.
God, this was such a bad idea.
And he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
The evil bikers cruised a few yards up the empty street and stopped right on their marks in front of the bar.
“Yadda yadda yadda . . .yadda?”
Mick broke his gaze away—it was like having his eyeballs ripped out of his head, like some cartoon character—to find his first AD looking expectantly at him. He’d probably asked a question.
Mick had no idea what the question was.
There was only one thing to do. “Again,” he said.
The order relayed down the chain of command, and the Harleys and Hondas obediently did an about-face in a roar of engines. By the time they’d come back a second time, he already had a mad plan in mind.
***
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