by Amelia Wilde
“First, I don’t believe you, and second, my arm is getting tired from holding the door open. If you want to continue this conversation, you’ll have to step inside and have a beer with me.”
The line of her mouth softens, and Juno takes a tentative step forward. “God. You’re the worst.”
“That’s it,” I coax. “One more step, and my poor, tired arm can finally let this burden go.”
“Seriously, the worst.” She says it with a roll of her eyes and waits a beat longer than necessary, but finally, spitfire director Juno Anderson takes the last step into my room.
I release the door handle with a groan that makes her raise her eyebrows. “Thank you. Means a lot to me.”
“You sure you’re up for the filming schedule? If a door is too much....”
I snap to attention. “Up for it? I’m more than up for it.” I don’t take my eyes off hers, and I swear to God, her eyelashes flutter. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure you get it.” I saunter farther into the room, out of the narrow hallway, because honestly the light flowery scent of her shampoo is almost too much to bear. “So. What is it that you came here to tell me?”
Juno stands up tall and lifts her chin. “I came here to tell you that—”
“Oh, shit. I forgot. I’ve got a beer for you if you want one.”
“No. I was only stopping to say—”
I look her right in the eyes. “You’re telling me that after a long, hot day in the Georgia heat, you’re the type of woman who turns down a cold beer?”
The corner of Juno’s mouth turns up in the hint of a smile. “I’m the kind of woman who’s a professional, Mr. Hunt. I don’t need to drink with actors after hours.”
“Oh, come on. You’re already inside the hotel room. Let’s leave professionalism out of this.” I step to the windowsill, pick up the beer, and dangle it in the air. “I’ll give you another chance. Beer?”
“A beer from your... windowsill?” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “What kind of game are you playing, Cannon?”
“The kind of game where I’m trapped in the middle of nowhere, in a hotel with a woman who hates me, trying to offer her my very last beer, which I’ve been trying to drink all week. And I’ve always failed.” I cast my eyes to the carpet, dramatic as fuck, and wait.
She takes the bait.
“I don’t even…. I don’t care why you…. Fine. Fine, Cannon. Why haven’t you been able to drink your beers?”
I raise my eyes from the carpet. “Commitment.”
It’s one of the lines from the script, actually, and Juno’s eyes go wide when I say it. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
I let myself smolder at her. It’s been a hellish week of Army-style training and getting into character. She can be an ice queen all she wants, but I’m made of fire. “I would never—how did you put it?—fuck with you. That would be so unprofessional.”
Her mouth drops open, but I barrel into the silence between us. “That’s why you can’t stand me, right? Because you think I can’t handle this. You think I’m only good for fluffy shit, and I bet you’re the kind of woman who detests chick flicks like that.”
“I don’t detest them.” Juno purses her lips. “They’re not my favorite, but I wouldn’t claim to be an expert on—”
“You wouldn’t watch them, though, would you?”
She turns her head and mumbles something.
I raise my hand to my ear. “I didn’t catch that.”
“I’ve seen a lot of chick flicks,” she says, louder. “I’ve seen a lot of... your movies.”
A pleasant shock runs down my spine. “Well, Jesus. You don’t have to say it like it was against the Geneva Conventions.”
“Might as well have been,” she half-mumbles this time, but I still make out the words.
I step closer, invading her space, because I can tell now; I’m already under her skin. Whatever this is, it’s not the message she came here intending to relay, and I’m loving it like I used to love a McDonald’s Big Mac with that special sauce. “Come on. You didn’t like Holiday Prince?”
Juno’s shoulders sag, and she brings one hand up to cover her eyes. “That movie was terrible.”
“But I looked so good in it. Everyone online said so.”
“You believe everything you read online?” she shoots back. “Wardrobe on that was a hot mess.”
“Emphasis on hot.”
“Emphasis on...” Her eyes shine. She leans in closer...
...and then the smile fades.
What the fuck?
“Emphasis on right now.” Juno draws back a step, toward the door. “I came to tell you that this is a big deal for me. For all of us. So I’m expecting the best you have to offer.” She takes a deep breath. “I won’t hesitate to replace anyone who’s not pulling their weight.”
“Hmm.” I pass the beer from one hand to the other. “You sure you can do that? I have it on good authority that I wasn’t your first choice.” This isn’t strictly true, but I’m betting she doesn’t know that.
The surprise on her face tells me I’m absolutely right. “Listen, Juno, it’s okay. I’m not everybody’s first choice for every project. That doesn’t mean I’m going to do subpar work.”
“I—”
“You’re going to get nothing but the best from me.” I’m drawing from the script, from the energy of a scene between Dayton and Sunny post-reunion. I can tell Juno recognizes it. “Nothing but the best. Got that?”
“Got it,” she says automatically, blushing a deeper shade of red. “I mean…” Juno doesn’t try to save it. She heads for the door, yanking it open and stepping into the hallway. “I’m glad you’re... committed.”
I follow her to the door. “So committed. You’ll never get rid of me.”
“I will if I have to.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“I’ve got other cast members to talk to, so....”
I incline my head toward the rest of the hall. “I won’t hold you back.”
“Good. Good... night.”
I let her get three steps away. “Hey, Juno.”
She wheels around. “What?”
“Catch.”
I toss her the beer, and she leans forward and plucks it out of the air. “Are you serious?”
“You deserve it,” I tell her, then close the door before she can argue any more.
6
Juno
The day is here.
The day is finally here, when shooting begins on my very own studio-backed feature film. We’re starting at dawn to catch the first golden hour of the day, easing in with a low-stakes scene, something that might end up on the cutting room floor. It’s a scene meant to represent the end of Dayton and Wes’s time in boot camp, a quiet moment in the woods between two friends and the rest of their group.
Everyone is assembled.
Even the actresses who don’t appear in this scene are huddled to the camera by the craft services table. The entire crew is here. Camera operators mingle near the big Red Dragon. And Cannon and Matt, the actor we cast as Wes, talk to each other in a literal sunbeam breaking through the leaves.
It’s all perfect.
All of it, except me.
I’m a fucking train wreck.
I couldn’t sleep last night. The blankets were like horror movie vines, wrapping themselves around my legs and waist again and again. That was nothing compared to my brain, which was filled to the brim with—you guessed it—Cannon Hunt.
He smelled so good. That must have been what overrode all my sensibilities and took me right into the lair of the beast. I went into his hotel room. I can’t go into his hotel room! I’m the director of the film. I’m probably the fifth woman in history to tackle this kind of subject matter. It would be a disaster beyond imagination if anyone were to see me sneaking into Cannon’s room.
I wasn’t sneaking. I absolutely was not. But that’s not what people would say if the news broke. If Milton found
out. If the rest of the studio thought I was sleeping with the lead actor. Credibility? Not a fucking chance.
When I finally fell asleep, it was thirty minutes before my alarm was set to go off. It rang in my dreams, the harsh buzzing turning into a nightmare scenario, for an extra forty minutes. I was late getting to the set. I shoved my hair under my cap, threw on yesterday’s clothes, and ran here.
Maggie, the assistant director, looks flawless. Her chestnut curls are gathered behind her head in a scarf doubling as an elastic, and I’m standing here sweating, too close to the camera operator. She’s the one who finally breaks through the panicked cloud in my brain.
“Hey, Juno.” She cocks her head to the side. “Come over here.”
I’ve got to get my shit together. I fought for this. I’ve got to nail this. I can’t be a freaked-out mess on the first day of shooting. I step to Maggie’s side like I was planning it all along and accept the coffee she presses into my hand. “Is everything good to go?”
I knew all of this would happen. I’ve been involved in this production every step of the way. But now, with the guys already set with makeup and wardrobe, and people crawling over every spare inch of the set, there’s a pinch in my chest that makes it impossible to take a full breath.
“‘Course it is, boss.” Maggie’s smile is wide and perfect. She could be an actress, if she wanted. “All you have to do is say the word and we’ll get started.”
I take a swig of the coffee and pain scrapes my tongue. Shit, it’s hot—so hot that I have to spit it on the ground. Maggie is instantly standing over me. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”
“Hot,” I gasp, and the people nearest us turn to see what’s going on. “Too hot.”
“I’m so sorry.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Totally my fault. Do you need a minute? Let me get you a water.”
“No.” I straighten to my full height. This is not how I’m going to start the day. This is not the first impression I’m going to give to people. “Let’s go. Let’s get the show on the road.”
“You got it.” The words make last night echo in my brain, and I shove those thoughts of Cannon—of being in his hotel room, of being so close to his bed—deep down, away from the light. Maggie steps up next to the camera and claps her hands. “Listen up, everybody.” A ripple of silence moves away from her, and one by one, everybody goes quiet.
It’s so loud. I can hear everything—the spill of coffee from the giant carafes at the craft services table. Birds chattering in the high branches. Leaves rustling. And, I swear, I can hear Cannon Hunt breathing. Which is crazy. He’s too far away to hear it, and anyway, I don’t care if he’s breathing or not. Not in a murderous kind of way. Just in a... normal human kind of way. I shouldn’t care, is what I’m saying.
“We’ve got the director on the set, so we’re going to get started.” Maggie throws a glance over her shoulder at me. “I think we should take a minute to acknowledge our fearless leader. Without her, we wouldn’t be here, making this amazing movie. I’m sure we can all agree we’ll be seeing her onstage at the Rogers.” A cheer goes up from somewhere behind me and my stomach turns. Then Cannon raises his hands and starts clapping, and everybody else follows suit.
For me.
A lump sticks in my throat. It wasn’t heroism that got me this job. It was dogged persistence. And we haven’t really done anything yet. Mortifying. Completely mortifying.
I raise a hand in the air like an embarrassed royal and the applause dies down.
“Take it away,” says Maggie.
I step up into the space she’s left open for me, into the stomach-churning early morning air already laced with humidity. I have prepared for this since high school. I am ready for this. It’s my moment. Everyone here is waiting on me to say the words that will launch us all into action.
And...
My mind goes completely blank.
I have no idea what to do.
I’m fucked.
7
Cannon
Juno Anderson, our fearless leader, stands in the center of everybody, mouth open, no words coming out.
She looks completely stricken.
The buzz on set this morning is that she’s a go-getter. That she’s a ball-crusher. That she, more than anyone else, has the willpower to make this movie into an awards-season bonanza. More than that, she’s going to make it a cornerstone of more than one career. Mine included.
But right now, she looks like nothing so much as one of those tributes from any dystopian teen movie. Her hair is shoved haphazardly underneath that black baseball cap, she’s wearing the same clothes from when I saw her at midnight, and her face is ghostly pale.
Indestructible Juno Anderson needs a jumpstart. A battery replacement. An orgasm, probably, because the longer the silence stretches on, the more awkward it gets.
She swallows hard, the delicate line of her throat contracting with the movement, and glances over at the assistant director. The smile pinned on Maggie’s face is frozen, curious, and she gives Juno an encouraging nod.
Juno nods back and points at her, and I experience a full-body cringe.
She turns back to the crowd, and nods, sticking her hands into her pockets. “Well—”
That’s it. The woman who’s supposed to be steering the ship is crashing into the world’s largest iceberg. Well.
And, yes. She did come to my room last night for the express purpose of telling me that she’s watching me closely—subtext: You suck, Cannon, and I’m going to look for any reason to fire you—but I can’t do it. I can’t let her dangle like this in front of all the cast and crew. Moment by moment, the shield she keeps between herself and the world—that ice-cold thing that hit me like a sharp blast of air conditioning the moment I walked into that first audition—is melting in the Georgia heat.
As much as I want to see what she’s like when it’s nothing but a puddle on the ground... not like this.
Not like this.
So maybe my motives aren’t entirely pure, but time is running out, and after another painful beat of silence during which Matt/Wes leans over to me, and whispers, “Is she having a stroke or something?” I put an end to it.
I take one step forward and rub at my forehead like Matt and I have been discussing something deep and soul rending. “Wait. I need a second.”
Juno’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline, and I hear it, a little gasp that could mean fucking anything. Maggie whips her head around to stare at me.
Matt doesn’t get it. “You okay, bro?”
I keep rubbing at my forehead. “It’s just…” Fucking sell it. “Juno, can I have a word?”
Her face, ghost-white a few seconds ago, goes a flaming pink, but her green eyes are filled with gratitude. At least, I think it’s gratitude. Juno clears her throat. “One minute. Let’s not hold everybody up.”
“Okay,” Maggie calls, brushing by me as I barrel toward Juno. “Any last-minute checks, finish them up right now. Five minutes, everybody, five minutes.”
I take Juno by the elbow and steer her toward the little tent behind the craft services table, where the crew’s going to start preparing dailies as soon as we have footage, stopping only when I’m sure we’re out of earshot.
“What was that? Did your brain melt in the heat? I thought you were a real director.”
“I am a real director,” she hisses, waving her hands in the air. “What are you doing? Do you actually have a question?” She clasps her hands in front of her. “Please tell me you’re not having a diva moment over something in the script. Not now.”
“Oh my God. You can’t see it, can you?”
“See what?” Juno cuts a glance back toward the rest of the set.
“I’m trying to save your ass. Or at least your dignity. Everybody’s back there wondering if you’re an imposter.”
“Are they really?” Her voice is low and confidential. Who is this woman? One minute, she hates me, and the next, she’s taking my word for the mood on set.
“Juno. Look at me.” I put my hand back on her elbow as she tilts her face toward mine. “Are you all right?”
She bites her lip. “Why are you asking?”
I stab a finger toward the set. “Because you just sat there in silence for an awkwardly long time instead of getting the ball rolling on the first day of shooting.”
“But why…” Her bottom lip actually trembles, and for a second I wonder if I’m hallucinating it. “Why do you care? I’ve been kind of a bitch to you.”
“You’ve been a real bitch to me.”
She presses her lips together. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” I lean in and lower my voice. She’s agreeing with me? “What’s happening right now? Did you decide I’m not Satan incarnate?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I never thought you were Satan. I thought you were a bad actor.”
I put a hand to my chest. “Harsh.”
“Well—”
“Well is what got us into trouble here in the first place.”
Juno jumps away, increasing the distance between us. “We’re not in trouble. Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Excitement coils at the base of my hips. “Ms. Anderson, are you flirting with me?”
“No!” she shouts, and I see Maggie turn her head from her place by the camera. “No,” Juno says again, her voice a sharp whisper. “I am not flirting with you. I only came over here, because—”
“Because you were losing your damn mind, and I bailed you out.” I turn to face her, turn us both so nobody can see our faces. “The correct response is thank you.”
It kills her to say it. I can see that on her face, like she’s swallowing a bitter pill. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I run a thumb across her arm, over her elbow. “Now. Are you really all right? I swear, I’m not a complete prick. You can tell me.” I learned this soft voice, this sincerity, a long time ago.
Juno glances up at me to see if it’s real. “You don’t have to be like this. I know I don’t… you know, I don’t deserve it.”