Baby and the Beast

by Taylor Holloway

  He stared at me like I’d just shown up, punched him, and stolen his lunch money. It was damn satisfying, but it only lasted for about a fraction of a second. He laughed.

  “Isabelle!” he exclaimed happily, coming up to put an arm around my shoulders. “I’m so happy you’re back. The director explained that you were back on the production. How great is that?”

  I froze. This was not the reaction I’d been expecting. I shrugged out of his weird embrace. He ran his unwelcome hand through his slicked back blond hair, licked his lips, and looked at me as if challenging me to say anything about his inappropriateness.

  How dare he touch me? I thought to myself furiously. The fucking nerve of this guy.

  “I am, yes,” I bit out between clenched teeth. “I’m the effects supervisor now. Replacing Rocco.”

  My satisfaction in showing him that his sexual harassment and lies couldn’t crush me was gone. He was such a sleaze bag. There was no remorse in him. None whatsoever.

  “Great, that’s so great,” he repeated, grinning at me so forcefully that if I cared about him, I might worry his face might get stuck like that. “I have missed you.” He affected an expression of insincere contrition. “I’m so sorry our misunderstanding went down so badly a few weeks ago. That was such a mess. I tried to get the director to change his mind, but he wouldn’t. Stubborn man. Hopefully, you’ll let me make it up to you?” His voice was honey sweet and he was leering at me in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable. “Want to have lunch today?”

  In your trailer? I asked in my mind. Revolting. He was just fucking with me now. He had to be.

  There was no way on God’s green earth that he thought there was a chance of getting in my pants now, was there? I might be the world’s horniest pregnant woman right now, but all the wet dreams I’d been having lately had been about Connor. The thought of Ashton Radley putting so much as a heavy gaze on me made me want to puke.

  “I’m busy today at lunch,” I told him, putting some distance between us and mentally returning to my very real, very pressing job. I needed to get back to it. I started heading in the direction of today’s soundstage. “But I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

  “Count on it,” he said. His eyes flashed up and down my body again.

  Was that a threat? Or was he coming onto me again? I wasn’t sure.

  I was sure, however, that Ashton Radley was out for himself and no one else. And nothing that he wanted from me would be good, whether that was sex, revenge, or some weird combo of the two. The farther I stayed away from him, the happier and healthier I’d be. Luckily, I’d learned my lesson. There was not a chance in hell that I’d let him ever get me alone again. In fact, I was already plotting all my movements around the building to ensure that I wouldn’t be alone, period. It was totally doable in such a busy environment, but it would take a bit of thought.

  Although not technically threatening in any way I could complain about, there really was something about my interaction with Ashton Radley that just gave me Patrick Bateman vibes. And it wasn’t just the slicked back hair, empty smile, and pale, cold-eyed stare, although, of course, all of that contributed to my feeling of unease. It was something deeper that I couldn’t quite put my finger on… something wrong. Off. I decided then and there that my pepper spray was going to live in my pocket from now on in addition to my new never-alone policy. Just in case. I also knew Connor was looking out for me, but honestly, one could never be too careful.

  “Izzie!” one of the set designers chirped at me, flying in from behind and distracting me. It was Anders, one of the old guard guys my dad liked working with. I’d known him since I was a little kid. “We need you right away. Something is wrong with the blood sprayers in the big giant werewolf jaw.”

  “What?” Furious dislike of Ashton Radley took a reluctant back seat to furious disbelief. “No way. My blood sprayers are perfect.”

  There’s an art to creating blood spurts that are realistic on film. It had to come out in perfectly timed, regular little spurts or it wouldn’t look like a beating heart was behind it. I took great pride in my sprayers and pumps. The amount of work that went into them was obscene, but when they worked right, it was, well, also obscene but in a good way. Obscenely cool.

  Anders nodded at my assessment. “I’m sure they were,” he told me. “But Rocco got it in his head that they could use the oil-based blood sub—”

  I sucked in my breath and it made a furious, reedy hiss. “No. No! The sprayers weren’t designed for that!” My blood sprayers were designed for an amazingly named product, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Blood. It was water-based solution and didn’t coagulate, go rancid, or most importantly, clog up my damn blood sprayers with a too viscous oily stink-goop that would destroy the pump and spray mechanism. I’d put so many hours into the perfect blood sprayer… “Why would he do that?” I asked Anders. I felt like someone had just stabbed me in the back in the name of saving maybe five dollars. Was it really worth it?

  Anders put a hand on my shoulder, and, unlike Ashton Radley, it wasn’t creepy. It was comforting. “Budget. I’m sorry. When you and your dad both left, poor Rocco was bumbling his way through things.”

  “What else did he do?” I asked, almost too afraid to know the answer. We were both walking double-time towards the soundstage and with every step I prayed...

  Don’t say he let the werewolf puppets get wet.

  Don’t say he let the werewolf puppets get wet.

  Don’t say he let the werewolf puppets get wet.

  “Well, the werewolves got a bit damp during the swamp scene.”

  I squealed in horror. My nightmare was made real. “No!”

  They were made partially of paper mâché. Paper mâché couldn’t tolerate humidity. It basically just dissolved into a nasty pulp if water so much as looked in its general direction.

  “It’s not as bad as you’re expecting,” he promised. “Probably only a little repainting.”

  Maybe I should have stayed at the castle, I thought to myself when we got to the soundstage and I realized that I would have to completely recraft one of the werewolf muzzles. It was all droopy and sad. It didn’t just need repainting—it needed to be re-sculpted. This is what I got for wanting my freedom. I wanted to work. Fine. Connor gave me exactly what I asked for, and now I would have all the work I could ask for.

  Then, just as I was getting resigned to my day’s work, I took one whiff of the cheap fake blood that Rocco had put in the sprayers and I raced to the nearest trashcan to throw up. I emptied my entire breakfast, last night’s dinner, and all my remaining energy into the bin. Anders, who’d been standing nearby, rushed over to help me.

  “Oh, my God, Izzie!” he said, looking horrified and floating around me anxiously. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Actually, now that all that stuff had come up, I actually did feel okay. A bit tired. A bit disgusting. But overall, just fine. Weird.

  “Should I call somebody? You should probably go home if you’re sick.”

  I shook my head. “Nah. It passed. Really. I’m good.”

  Fantastic. My morning sickness had officially arrived. I was eight weeks pregnant to the day. Except for the fact that I was trying to work, it was right on time.

  30

  Connor

  The Co-worker

  After we parted at the door that morning on our way into work, Isabelle and I didn’t cross paths until about midday. When we did, she almost didn’t recognize me under my werewolf makeup and weird, ill-fitting, ripped-up clothes. She did a double take and her brown eyes were humungous. But instead of running away from the scary werewolf man, she was grinning.

  “Connor?” she asked, staring at me in the busy hallway behind the soundstage. “Is that you under there?”

  I nodded from beneath my furry, bloodied grey mane and prosthetic eyebrows. Speaking under so much makeup was neither easy nor advisable. I’d just spent the last two hours in the makeup chair and was read
y not to have three people in my face with glue and brushes for a bit. That meant limiting my replies even though I wanted to talk to Isabelle.

  “Did Lettie do that?” Isabelle asked. “I met her this morning, by the way.”

  I nodded, thinking the two women were destined to become good friends.

  “She did a really good job,” Isabelle continued, coming up closer to examine the prosthetic fur and moulage makeup that had been applied to make me appear like I was halfway between disfigured, burned human man and giant, semi-canine man-eating monstrosity. She leaned up with her hands on my shoulders in a way that made my heart pound at her nearness, but I knew it was motivated only by curiosity and not affection. She squinted at the details. “I love the gnarly burns! They’re super gruesome.”

  Isabelle and I shared a love for great effects. And she was right. The makeup folks had really knocked it out the park. The burns were amazingly detailed, and very gross. They looked horrifically painful, with charred edges, bright red interiors, and just the right amount of moisture to seem like they’d sting horribly and leak blood everywhere. Considering that I was just one of a whole army of evil werewolves, I’d certainly gotten the royal makeup treatment. I smiled at her and she giggled gleefully.

  “Ooh! Look at that. She even did the teeth!” she said, leaning closer to get a look at my fangs. I bared them for her a bit. They were about a half inch long. More than long enough to make talking a challenge. Totally impossible to eat with. “Nice work. They look sharp.”

  “Connor,” the director intoned from behind me as he passed. “We need you for the fire scene in five. Go get in position.”

  I nodded. He didn’t know who I was. He wouldn’t be ordering me around so curtly if he did.

  All the communication between my production company and his people was mediated by Luc. As far as everyone except Isabelle knew on this production, I was just Connor Palczynski, eccentric, grumpy, quiet stunt dude. Since they’d never seen me except in makeup (I was careful to make sure that I was always made up before I walked out on set), it was easy to maintain my anonymity, especially before I’d done away with the big giant beard and sunglasses routine.

  I shrugged at Isabelle and pointed toward the soundstage. It was time for me to get in position.

  Isabelle blanched and shook her head.

  “Fire scene?” she asked. “Is that today?”

  I blinked at her and then nodded again. She looked weirdly scared. “What’s wrong?” I said in a low voice, careful not to move my mouth too much and mess up my prosthetic muzzle.

  She swallowed. “It’s dangerous.”

  Was she concerned about my well-being? That was new. I found that I almost liked it. A feeling in my chest pinched and fluttered.

  “I’ve done this before,” I told her, trying to sound reassuring. Fire stunts were always dangerous (how could they not be?), but I knew what I was doing. I’d probably been lit on fire at least a dozen times in my life so far. Maybe more. There was a thrill to it, too. I sort of enjoyed it.

  But Isabelle didn’t look like she was enjoying this conversation at all. Her expression was torn. “I’ve been thinking, and I don’t think you should do this scene,” she told me, dark eyes shining up at me with a look that made it hard to focus. “You’re going to be a dad soon,” she added. “The baby needs you. This is too dangerous for you. You gotta’ take care of yourself. Protect yourself.”

  My mouth dropped open in surprise. I shouldn’t be opening my mouth that far, but I was genuinely shocked. Isabelle took in my expression and laughed.

  “I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I probably sound just like you, huh?”

  I nodded at her again. I wished I wasn’t under so much makeup and fur. Usually it felt like a shield on set. It was something physical between me and the rest of the world, and generally so dang ugly that it physically repelled people whether they realized it or not. I mean, nobody comes up to the snarling werewolf guy and strikes up a random conversation. The monster makeup was a deterrent unto itself. But right now, it just felt like an obstacle between me and Isabelle. It was keeping me from being able to talk to Isabelle, and the look on her face worried me. I couldn’t properly emote, or talk, or comfort her about whatever was wrong.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, interpreting my expression even under all the werewolf-y-ness. “I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she almost looked teary. Isabelle never looked teary. Even when I yelled at her. Even when she told me off and was extremely frustrated. Even when she’d been thinking she was going to die from frostbite, she’d been dry eyed and fierce. I’d never seen her this emotional.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. I was late to my scene at this point, but I needed to know what was going on.

  “It’s nothing,” she sniffled. “Just my hormones.” Her eyes were huge. “I don’t know how to explain it, but all of a sudden, I’m feeling really pregnant,” she added. Her voice was a low hiss. “I’m crying, I’m confused, I’m nauseated…”

  As if just to prove a point, someone from craft services walked by with the Chinese food for today’s lunch and Isabelle turned a terribly unnatural shade of green. She gagged and I stepped back.

  “I gotta’ go,” she said, turning and running in the other direction. “I’m gonna’ puke. Right now.”

  “Connor!” the director said, stopping me from following Isabelle. “What’s up, man? We need you. Everyone else is ready. Radley has a call with his agent in a few and we gotta’ get this scene done. What’s wrong?”

  Isabelle was already turning the corner away from me. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to keep it together. I wanted to run after Isabelle, but that would lead to questions from the director. As far as anyone else was concerned, I wasn’t Connor Prince. I was Connor Palczynski. And he knew his place on the production.

  I shook my head at the director. If I let my secret out, it would be out forever. My life in the industry would change. It had taken years for me to get back to the point where I didn’t have to explain who I was to everyone I met. Years for people to forget.

  As much as I wanted to chase Isabelle, I couldn’t let my feelings for her get in the way. Being sick was a part of being pregnant. It was part of what I was paying her for.

  Besides, she was the one who was obligated to me in the contract. I was a free man. Free to let Isabelle go off and be sick alone. Free to hide who I was behind an elaborate web of lies and secrecy. Free to get lit on fire by Ashton Radley. I’d made my life and now I had to live with it. I followed the director inside.

  31

  Connor

  The Movie Star

  “She’s back alright,” Ashton Radley said into his mobile phone. He paused while the party on the other end talked and then he laughed. “No, I’m not shitting you. That Isabelle Schmidt. The one with the Kim Kardashian ass and the face like Liv Tyler.”

  I’d just spent the last hour being repeatedly almost lit on fire. We’d been unable to make it through the very short, very simple scene. And none of it was my fault. It was all Radley. The little blond weasel was supposed to deliver a one-liner right before dropping the match on me, but the moron couldn’t remember his line. His one line. We were now taking a break to accommodate his call to his agent. And he was talking about Isabelle.

  Everyone else had gone to lunch, leaving us alone on the soundstage. I happened to be standing next to him, in fact, entirely ignored. I couldn’t go anywhere in all my meticulously applied stage makeup, obviously, so I just had to wait until we were able to continue shooting. Radley was preventing me from eating lunch, but I don’t think he cared. In fact, Ashton Radley seemed to have mistaken me for one of Isabelle’s werewolf puppets because he carried on with his conversation like I wasn’t even there. Maybe I was just beneath his notice.

  I shifted uncomfortably as I listened to Radley continue to describe Isabelle’s physical attributes. Kim Kardashian’s ass and Liv Tyle
r’s face? Yeah, it wasn’t that far off. I could see where he was coming from. But he was talking about Isabelle. My Isabelle. The mother of my child.

  “I know,” Radley continued. He shook his head at whoever was on the other end, although of course they couldn’t see it. He made an exasperated noise before continuing. It was a sort of whiny, bitchy little moan. It set my teeth on edge. “Dude. I know. I know it’s a bad idea. But she’s so super-hot. I can’t help it.” He paused to look at himself in the mirror. “I’m not even mad. I just want--” Someone must have interrupted him. “Yeah, on her knees and also on camera so I can have a copy for the old spank bank. I’m sure she can make it up to me if you know what I mean.”

  It did not take a genius to figure out what Ashton Radley had in mind for Isabelle. Had she not made herself abundantly clear the first time? I ground my teeth. Fangs. Whatever. If I ground them any harder they’d be dust in my mouth.

  This little baby actor with his shiny hair and punchable face thought he was going to get Isabelle to sleep with him? He had another thing coming. My fist. And it was about to be headed straight towards his face if he kept this trash talking shit up.

  “Of course, she will,” Ashton was saying now. “Dude, she’s sorry. I’m sure she’s sorry.” He paused. “Um, she was probably just starstruck.”

  Ashton caught a reflection of himself in a nearby mirror and stared longingly at it.

  “Yeah. I do think so,” he added. “Have you seen me? I’m pretty.”

  Wow. What an ass.

  “Dude,” he continued. “Yes, she will. She totally will. I’ll totally win her over. You watch. I get that, but I always come out on top. That’s why they keep giving me credit—I’m a safe bet.”

  I almost laughed. Isabelle had not been starstruck when she took a knee to Ashton’s crown jewels a couple of weeks ago. She’d been furious. Having seen her fury, I could now attest to its tremendous force. Tiny woman. Big attitude. I couldn’t imagine Ashton Radley would have much chance at winning her over.