Processing the information seemed to take a second for Hassan, the words working through his jarhead. He was a hard man to read by his face, but interestingly enough, his body betrayed him. The same tension as before locked his shoulders tight.
“You invited me here—”
“To get your opinion.”
“No.” Hassan’s voice was harsh. I couldn’t remember the last time someone spoke to me in that tone, and wasn’t joking. “Because you needed help.”
I could feel the warmth creeping into my face. “I’m still not sure if this is serious enough to warrant a security contract.”
He huffed, and for the first time, he did smile; it was a smile colored by his blatant annoyance. “Ever heard the expression, ‘Better safe than sorry?’”
The room went mute, as if all of the furniture and the carpet and the sentimental things that decorated the walls and Hassan were waiting for my answer. Before I could speak, though, the vibration of his phone broke the anticipation.
“Meierz.” It was the same clipped tone as our first phone call. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m there now. I’ll be back soon; we need to set up a meeting with Jackson and Doc. ...Hold on.”
When Hassan lowered his phone, I realized then that I’d been watching his mouth the whole time, reading the words that were coming out. I looked back at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“Do you want this resolved or not?” he asked me.
“I do—”
“Then stop stalling.”
I wanted to be mad, but I couldn’t be. I had to pull the trigger. I offered a short, solemn nod.
Hassan returned it. “Email me your schedule. I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”
And, with that, Hassan was gone, letting himself out as he spoke hushedly on his phone, and I was left wondering if the deal I’d just struck was with my savior or a devil.
4
Fred
“Your lunch has arrived, Mr. Reyes.”
I looked up from the script in my hands, clicking my pen for the thousandth time. “Oh, thank you.” I regarded the assistant with a smile, trying to look as not-strained as possible. I must have succeeded, because she met it with a genuine one of her own. “Have them bring it to my trailer, please, I’m not quite done here yet.”
“Of course.”
I heard her footsteps fading as I turned back to the script, making another mark here and a drawing a line through the notes I’d made ten minutes ago and—sighing, I shut the book, closing my eyes.
The week so far had been nothing short of hell. Production was behind schedule, which meant Hank was in a terrible mood, and if Hank was in a terrible mood, well… he made sure everyone else was miserable, too. And, it wasn’t like I could go home and unwind after a long day of dealing with everyone else’s stress. Oh no, going home meant going to security meetings and dealing with security camera installations and fielding questions from my staff and gathering information for Hassan’s team, and so on and so on.
Crushing my empty coffee cup number eight in my hands, I still felt absolutely frazzled. At this point, having lunch in my trailer alone sounded like a little thirty-minute slice of heaven.
Still, though, if there was one thing I was surprisingly glad for, it was Hassan. Despite his blunt way of speaking and sharp temper, he was good at his job. He’d assured me security would be done setting up everything after seven days; they’d done it in five.
I’d been introduced to his team throughout the week as well. There were three other men he worked with: Jackson, who was a short, talkative man who had a security resume about as long as the Great Wall of China; Doc, the ex-doctor who had been in conflicts all around the world, seemed kind and capable enough; and Mikhail, an Eastern European man who looked like he could snap even Hassan in half with one punch, but was surprisingly quiet. They had all assured me that I didn’t need to worry about the details, and, while I couldn’t help worrying, they really did take care of it all themselves.
I practically sprinted to my trailer, greeting people as I crossed set, thankfully avoiding Hank. When the door of the trailer shut behind me, I breathed a deep sigh of relief, removing my shirt and collapsing onto the sofa.
I’d spent several overnights here. At the rate production was going, I was contemplating whether or not tonight would have to be another one of those nights. I smiled against the leather of the couch, trying to imagine how annoyed Hassan would be having to change everyone’s schedules around.
Sleep called to me… but food called louder. I could smell the takeout on my desk, and the grumbling of my stomach couldn’t be ignored any longer.
Reaching for it without having to get all the way up, I pulled the styrofoam box onto my lap, flipping back the lid, awaiting the sight of a delicious lunch—
“Shit.”
I closed it immediately. Shut my eyes. Maybe this was… just a product of being overtired. Yes, maybe it was making me paranoid. Maybe I was seeing things thanks to sweet, sweet sleep deprivation. Opening the box again slowly, I peeked inside and—
Sighed. Nope. Not seeing things.
There on the inside of the box, right above my lunch, was a note scratched in blue ink.
“‘My Frederic. I can’t lie. I’m disappointed in you. Didn’t you like my letters? Or my gift? It was special for you. I’m disappointed because of your new bodyguard. I have noticed many of them there, at your house, but their leader is dangerous. I have seen his face. He is dangerous for you Frederic and you should fire him now. He WILL hurt you. He doesn’t deserve to be near you and your talent and your attention. I am disappointed. We should discuss things like this.’”
Hassan lowered the lid, sighing. “Son of a bitch.”
“It’s strange, right?” I asked.
Outside, I could hear people moving about, production picking back up. It would have to go on without me.
“Yeah.” Hassan tossed the takeout onto the desk again, leaning his elbows against his knees as he thought, his mind always chugging. He looked huge in my tiny trailer, especially with how unnecessarily (and unfairly) tight his shirt was. I wondered if he was trying to make his muscles look bigger to intimidate people.
“Every note before… it hasn’t sounded so….”
“Possessive?”
I met Hassan’s eye and nodded slowly.
He sat up straight suddenly; his mind finishing its processing, and moving on to the next step: action. “Is lunch catered here?”
“We have a caterer, yeah,” I told him, unfolding my legs from under me, following him as he stood up from his chair.
“Was this part of it?” He pointed to the takeout.
“It should be.”
Hassan wordlesly turned, pushing out of my trailer. I followed in his wake, nodding apologetically to an intern he must have scared the daylights out of. “Hassan,” I hissed, trying to keep up appearances, voice low. “Tell me where the fire is next time?”
Moving with the even and cold professionalism I had begun to associate him with, Hassan glanced at me in the corner of his eye. We’re finding whoever brought this to you.”
I could feel myself paling. All around me were people I trusted and worked with; it had never occurred to me that maybe someone here could be behind all this. For all I knew, it could’ve been the assistant who brought me my coffees every morning.
“Oh! Mr. Reyes!” a loud and feminine voice boomed. “Nice of you to visit us little folks; what brings ya to this side of the lot?”
I stood before the caterer’s table with Hassan trying my best to be pleasant, attempting to compensate for the bad energy radiating off of my bodyguard. “Hi, Essie.”
Essie peeled her gloves off her hands, wiping the sweat off on her apron. All around her, cooks worked around hissing grills and moved trays of warmed foods to buffet stations, prepping for the rest of the crew’s lunch later on. She was a big woman with an even bigger smile. I adored her and her cooking. Tasted
I nodded to Hassan, who was
busy and very obviously scrutinizing every chef on the property. “This is Hassan Meierz, my associate.”
“You mean your bodyguard,” she hummed. Hassan’s attention finally snapped to her as she extended a hand. “Word travels fast here, hon.”
He met her handshake stiffly. “Nice to meet you.”
“Now.” She cracked her knuckles. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Trying to keep it as casual as possible: “I was just wondering who delivered my lunch today?”
Essie pouted. “Hm, don’t tell me it didn’t get delivered again—”
“No! No, no, no, it did, Essie, it did.” I’d seen Essie mad before. She was extremely lovable and extremely good at terrorizing someone, if she put her mind to it. “I was just curious.”
“I just want to talk to him,” Hassan added, which was easily the most cliched and suspicious thing he could have said.
Essie gave Hassan a warning once-over. “You’re looking for Junior. He’s back around the meat section. Should be getting ice from the cooler.”
“Thanks.” I waved goodbye to Essie, leading Hassan through the chaos of the catering tents, trying to ignore how hungry I still was. Sure enough, just outside the tents near the generators and coolers, was poor, poor Junior.
“That him?”
“Mm, I think so.”
“Junior!” Hassan’s voice cut easily as we drew closer.
Junior peered through the steam still stuck to his classes. Hassan was unfamiliar, but upon noticing me, he gave a wave. “Hey, Mr. Reyes.”
“Hi, Junior.” I had a bad feeling in my stomach, hair-raising, like before a lightning storm, all of it radiating off of Hassan.
“What can I do ya for?” Junior slugged down a bag, the ice inside breaking. “Want another round of Essie’s famous fried rice?”
“Not exactly, Junior. Uh… see this gentleman is my… bodyguard and he just wants to have a quick word with you.”
“You’re the one who brought lunch to Mr. Reyes’s trailer?” Hassan’s voice was harsher now. The thunder that came before lightning.
“Uh, no, why—?”
“You know who made it?”
Junior looked at me curiously. I offered a weak smile. “Yeah, yeah, I mean….” Junior shrugged. “Probably. There’s a lot of people here, man—” His words were unceremoniously cut off when Hassan grabbed the front of his shirt and backed him into the side of the cooler.
“Hassan.” I’m sure he heard me, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Bullshit.”
“Let go of me, dude—”
Hassan let go of his shirt, but kept him trapped. “Did anyone at any point get to it between the time whoever made it and the time you brought it to the trailer?”
“Shit, I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I mean, I guess it’s possible, b-but, um—”
Hassan was pointing now, accusingly. “You’re supposed to be responsible for Mr. Reyes’s food, correct?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Jesus, Hassan, he doesn’t know anything. Leave the kid alone.”
Hassan glared at me and then back at Junior, before decisively stepping back, though he was sure to give Junior one, last threatening look before brushing past me.
“Junior!” I put on a happy face, reaching forward to shake his hand; he was startled, to say the least. “Junior, I’m….” I blew out a puff of air. “I’m really sorry about him, um, here.” I floundered around in my pockets before pulling out whatever was in them— “Movie passes!”
“Movie….” Junior looked at the passes I pressed into his hands.
“Passes. Movie passes, ah, they’ll get you into any movies for free for the next month.” It must have been a good enough deal; he looked at me with wide eyes. “Again, I’m really sorry about…. He can be kind of intense.”
Junior closed his hands around the passes. “Yeah. Kind of.”
With a reassuring pat on the arm, I turned to catch up to Hassan.
“You know, you can’t just go around bullying every person who works for me.” I dug my plastic spoon into Essie’s rice, glancing up from the container.
The other half of the lid—the half with the chicken-scratch note—had been ripped off ‘for evidence.’ Hassan’s frown only grew larger. “I will if I have to. ...I can’t believe you’re eating that.”
“It’s not poisoned. And, I can assure you, you don’t have to.”
Silence fell back over the trailer. I was trying to enjoy the solitude for a few minutes longer—it was only a matter of time before Hank ripped my front door down looking for me—but, enjoying anything was hard when I knew my stalker had been on-set.
I ate as Hassan read the note for the thousandth time, until he finally sighed, dropping it into his lap. “We need to determine our next move. Upgrading security on set seems like the best option. I’ll have my team contact the set security tonight, and have them bring in more guards before the next shoot—.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want this getting out into the public.”
“It won’t—”
“It could.” I stuck my fork into the food. “People gossip. Making security tighter might raise questions.”
Hassan crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair. “I’d rather have people talking, instead of worrying about whether this stalker’s wandering around without anyone noticing.”
“What if….” I pursed my lips.
Hassan was watching me carefully. “What if?”
I shrugged, setting my food down. “We could relax security.”
“Absolutely not—”
“Just listen a second.” I bit my lip in thought. “We could relax security. Whoever this is… they’re getting bolder already. Maybe letting them think there’s a viable way to me would lure them in. They could do the heavy lifting for us—we would know who it is, and—”
“No.”
“Hassan—”
“Fred, no.” Hassan looked away, gathering his thoughts, clamping down on his temper. When he spoke again, his voice was even. “It’s not happening. It leaves too much room for error.”
I think he could tell I was disappointed, something in my face giving it away.
“It’s not my first priority to find out who it is.” Hassan stood, slinging his small bag over his shoulder and taking the note with him. “My first priority is keeping you safe.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I guess Hassan didn’t know either, or didn’t expect me to say anything at all, because after that he left, resting a hand on my shoulder for a moment before disappearing.
The phantom feeling of Hassan’s hand on my shoulder stuck with me the rest of the night. I was distracted, I suppose, by a number of things. Production wasn’t going as smoothly as anyone wanted. I had a stalker. Junior had apparently left to go home early after our little… encounter, and Essie didn’t seem to happy about that. All the while, I was trying to decipher what that simple touch had meant.
Hassan didn’t seem to be the touchy or consoling type. Then again, maybe I underestimated his capacity for compassion.
Whatever was on my mind, Hank didn’t notice. He was too caught up in his own whirlwind of stress, which I had to calm him down about, fixing one task at a time. By the end of the night, we were on better footing.
And, then, of course, something went wrong.
I wasn’t there when it happened, but halfway into shooting the final scene of the night, I was feeling alright, and so was Hank. The shots we were getting were good, the light of Golden Hour precious and sweeping across the set with its warm orange rays of light.
“Mr. Reyes—”
“Not now,” I dismissed whoever it was that was whispering in my ear quietly. They sounded nervous, but so many interns and assistants were often nervous that I didn’t think much of it.
“Mr. Reyes.”
“We’re filming.” I wasn’t my usual self. The day’s events had mad
e me cranky. I turned to the assistant, putting on my best Annoyed Producer face. “So stop talking.”
“It’s an emergency.”
The assistant’s eyes conveyed true concern. I looked from them to the set, slipping out of my chair as quietly as possible.
Hank gave me a dirty look; I waved my hand as if to quell him. I’ll handle it, I mouthed, before following the assistant off set. We slipped down one hallway, then another, and I noticed the lack of people, the building unusually quiet. It was close to quitting time, sure, but no one’s day was done just yet.
“Where is everyone?”
She looked over her shoulder at me. “Most of ‘em are with the assistant.”
“What assistant?”
Her face twisted slightly. “The emergency.”
Our journey ended on another set, one being set up for use tomorrow, a circle of crew members hiding whatever the emergency was from me.
“Look out, come on.” The assistant who had brought me here shouldered through the crowd with a practiced ease. I tried to make sure I was close behind her. “Mr. Reyes is here.”
When the crew parted, I stopped in my tracks. There was blood all over, the fresh red of it having dripped onto the center of the set. Lying among it was some nameless assistant, their eyes fluttering as they fought to stay awake, the on set paramedic pressing a rag to their head.
“Crew manager said it was sabatoge.”
I could feel Hassan looking at me, but I kept my eyes trained on the dark rolling hills just outside my window. After texting him to let him know what had happened, and that I would be late leaving the studio, he’d turned around and insisted on picking me up.
“I should’ve stayed.”
“There was no reason for you to.” With a tired sigh, I turned back to the car. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. “You think it was my stalker.”
“I do.”
The speed of his answer made me grin. “I thought you might.”
“Fred, this is serious.” Hassan’s focus was hard and intent on the road in front of him. In the rearview, I could see the twinkling lights of the city growing smaller. “They were on set after I left and before I got there. They could have been there afterwards, too.”
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