by Max Monroe
I didn’t like that this movie was based on her and she wasn’t here to give any input. She wasn’t here to voice what she really thought about Walter Gaskins or the girls he’d killed.
If anyone knew this story, it was Grace.
For months, she had lived and breathed it.
And at the end, she’d died because of it.
The only saving grace I had in this scenario was that Hollywood didn’t know the full story. They weren’t privy to some of the facts that only Chief Pulse and I knew.
And I’d take those fucking facts to the grave.
“After a lot of deliberation, June and Hugo have decided that highlighting a romance aspect between Levi and Grace will really resonate with our audience.”
Romance aspect?
I lifted my head and looked around the room, taking in the expressions of the people around me, but everyone appeared unfazed by that revelation. Even Ivy.
Her eyes, though…they were on me, and they were remorseful.
My heart pounded wildly inside my chest to the point that my ears starting ringing with each loud thud. I told myself I’d misheard him. That those two words filling my head had been a figment of my imagination.
But I could only lie to myself for a moment or two.
“Hugo really wants to capture a friends-to-lovers layer inside this movie, so it’s very important that we start rehearsing the initial bedroom scenes between Grace and Levi early on. Johnny, Ivy, I really need you two to be on the same page starting tomorrow. I think it would be good if you both found the time to sit down with one another over the next few days and ensure that the chemistry we need on screen is there.”
Bedroom scenes. Chemistry. Lovers.
Why in the fuck was a romantic relationship involved in this movie?
Friends-to-lovers. Me and Grace.
I opened the goddamn script, and despite my better judgment, I started scouring through the pages.
My gut clenched, and I stopped scrolling when three words filled my view.
INT: Grace Murphy’s bedroom. Grace and Levi, lying in bed together, after their first intimate moment together.
GRACE
[quiet, lost in her thoughts]
LEVI
[pulls her on top of him and urges her gaze to him]
Grace?
GRACE
[whispers]
Yeah?
LEVI
I love you.
GRACE
[breath catches and tears prick her eyes]
I love you too.
LEVI
[kisses her for a long, slow moment then whispers against her lips]
I’ve loved you since we were kids.
GRACE
[smiles through her tears]
Me too, Levi. So much.
What. The. Fuck?
My brain exploded and my vision blurred to fiery red, and it wasn’t Ivy’s hair.
No, it was anger. Pure, unadulterated, white-hot rage.
Hollywood was putting a twist on Grace’s and my story without any of our permission. They didn’t know shit about their so-called twist.
God, I hope they don’t know.
I steeled my nerves and smashed them with reason. There was no way Boyce Williams and his cronies knew the real story. They were just taking liberties. Doing what they wanted. Making those precious dollars and making a mockery of us in the process.
Fuck Hollywood.
Fuck this fucking movie.
Fuck everyone in this goddamn room.
No one cared about the way this ill-advised movie was affecting my life.
Chatter droned on around the room, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. A full-out war of emotions was raging inside me, and it required all of my attention.
I wanted to stay amenable—mostly because I didn’t want to piss off Old Red. He was a man I respected, one I loved as if he was my own father.
But I couldn’t fucking stand the idea of being walked all over. I was just sitting here, letting these entitled film industry assholes do whatever they fucking wanted without any consequences for their decisions.
This was my life, my past, my truth they were fucking with.
Not theirs.
Table read-throughs were a necessity of acting, but I always found them fairly painstaking and…well, boring.
My love and passion for this career were rooted in losing myself in my character, and those moments didn’t happen during a monotonous read-through. When the cameras were rolling and I was consumed in a scene, I felt alive and fulfilled. There, in the world of someone else, I got to touch on a life unlived. A path unchosen. A whole different version of myself.
During a read-through, I still felt largely like Ivy Stone. And, hey, I liked her. She was a cool chick. But I knew her pretty well, and over the years, the excitement had dulled.
And that probably explained why I discreetly checked the screen of my phone while Boyce started to discuss business with the entire cast and crew.
It was on silent, but it had still vibrated its notification inside my pocket.
Under the table and out of everyone’s view, I glanced down to find a text message from Sam Murphy, warmly known to me as Grandpa Sam.
Grace’s grandfather had taken a liking to me ever since he and Grace’s mother Mary had reached out to welcome me to town, and lately, he’d made it a point to send me random little tidbits about his granddaughter.
Sam: Gracie hated peanut butter. I mean, HATED it. But she had a sweet tooth that rivaled a kid in a candy shop. The girl loved her sweets.
Now, I wouldn’t say the information he provided was groundbreaking in my quest for character motivation by any means, but I couldn’t deny I adored every single message I received. So far, he’d told me about her favorite movies, music, and the time he’d caught her “necking” in a car with a boy named Paul when she’d been a teenager.
He so obviously loved his granddaughter, even as the years after her death ticked away, and it warmed my heart that he was so welcoming and willing to share his memories of her.
I quickly—and quietly—tapped my fingers across the keypad and sent him a response while Boyce launched into a long explanation of the new script changes I’d already been privy to since I’d arrived in town before most of the cast.
Me: :) Grace and I definitely share a commonality when it comes to having a sweet tooth. Give me chocolate and pastries, and I am a happy girl.
Sam: Have you stopped by Luna Rae’s yet?
Me: Luna Rae’s?
Sam: The best damn bakery in Cold. Her bear claws and cheese crowns are to die for. You’ll be addicted after one bite.
He also gave me little recommendations of things to do and eat in Cold. After I’d damn near melted into a puddle of gooey satisfaction after trying out his “best tacos in town” rec at a little mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant across the street from this very building, I knew I’d gained quite the inside source with him.
Me: Looks like Luna Rae and I will be introduced to one another very, very soon.
Sam: You won’t regret it, darlin’.
I smiled at his response and slid my phone back into my pocket before bringing my eyes back to the table. Thanks to my inside knowledge, it wasn’t hard to catch up to the conversation.
“I guess it’s a good thing I kept up my training schedule from the MMA movie I just finished filming,” Johnny said, smirking in a way only a man who was one hundred percent in love with himself could.
I knew immediately he was referring to the new “bedroom” scenes that had been added to the script. All three of them included Johnny and me wearing more skin than clothes, and he was an egomaniac.
Of course Johnny was solely focused on how he’d look on camera instead of portraying our characters accurately. He gave zero fucks about the detour from the actual story our screenwriter and director had decided to take. He just wanted to make sure his abs were on point.
I fought the urge to roll my ey
es. I’d never actually worked with Johnny, but a few of my closest actress friends had, and I’d heard plenty of stories to understand the kind of man he really was.
Boyce chuckled at his stupid comment. “Johnny, we’re definitely going to be scheduling some sparring matches together over the next few months.”
Johnny laughed. “Bring it, Boyce.”
A fucking boys club of dick-comparing, these two.
Sometimes, being a woman of Hollywood was a lot harder than most realized. While Boyce would be praised for his six-pack abs and muscly biceps, I’d be scrutinized for any little fat roll that got captured on film.
Of course, I didn’t want to look bloated and out of shape on camera, but I also wasn’t going to reroute my focus toward my own personal vanity issues.
This story was about Grace Murphy.
And I knew in order to really portray the fierce, determined woman she had been, I needed to focus on her character. Her life. Not whether or not the cameras would catch the cellulite dimples on my ass.
“Well, I think adding the romance aspect to this story is fantastic,” Johnny added and offered a mischievous smile in my direction.
I wanted to gag. I saw right through his persona. Sure, he was a fantastic actor, that I couldn’t deny, but the man beneath the acting skills was purely vapid and narcissistic.
Levi cleared his throat, and my eyes immediately moved toward him. With tight tension lining his shoulders and a hard as stone jaw, every inch of his body bristled.
He looked pissed. And completely out of sorts.
“I have a quick question,” he said through nearly gritted teeth. The normally tanned skin of his cheeks was glowing red with anger.
Ever since he’d stepped into the read-through with Johnny and sat down directly across from yours truly, I’d been trying so hard to avert my focus from him, even though every damn cell inside of my body wanted otherwise. And thanks to Grandpa Sam’s short text message distraction, I’d been doing a pretty good job of it.
Well, until now.
Now, I couldn’t look away. My eyes were solely fixated on him. My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted my glass of water to my lips to soothe my suddenly dry and scratchy throat. It was like his emotions had a live wire straight to my nerves.
I’d tried to pry an emotion other than rage loose from his vault on numerous occasions, thinking the anger was a wall carefully constructed to hide everything else—and I still did. But right now, the fury wasn’t a front for something deeper—he was just pissed.
Boyce nodded toward him, smiling jovially, like a man without a care in the world. “I’m all ears, Levi.”
Every single time I’d seen Levi’s carefully controlled switch flip, I’d been on the receiving end of his ire. It was weird being on the outside looking in. My breath caught in my dry throat and held as Levi worked his teeth together roughly.
“What made you guys decide to add a romance element to this movie?” he asked, and as each syllable left his lips, the irritation behind his words grew stronger and more apparent.
Well, at least, it did to me. Everyone around us didn’t appear all that tuned in to the bristling man in the Cold Police Department uniform.
What the hell is it that makes us feel so freakishly connected?
“Well,” Boyce started to respond, seemingly oblivious that Levi looked two seconds away from going Hulk Smash and flipping over the table. “June Gatto and Hugo Roman felt like there was something missing for our female moviegoers. And after careful consideration, they decided that adding a romance element, even if it isn’t a factual part of the story, was a necessary evil.”
I hadn’t thought it was possible, but Levi’s jaw hardened more. Another fraction of an inch, and I feared it might actually turn to stone. “You didn’t think women would be able to relate to the strength and determination that Grace Murphy showed in stopping Walter Gaskins? You didn’t think that would be enough?”
“Of course we see that, Levi.” Boyce smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But we also know there needs to be a little more spice for the viewer’s pleasure.”
Levi sat frozen in his seat. His jaw was still hard, his lips firm, and his normally bright blue eyes as cold as ice.
I couldn’t decide if he was at a loss for words or he was trying to restrain himself from throttling our producer. I poised at the edge of my seat, just in case I needed to do some sort of kicking herkie jump between them.
But Boyce didn’t give Levi any time for a reaction. What he said was gospel, and now it was time to move on. I wasn’t so sure the ticking time bomb of a cop at the center of the table would care about following the bullshit Hollywood protocol of voicing grievances quickly and then burying them deep, where they’d never see the light of day.
“All right,” Boyce stated. “I’d like to do a quick run-through with set production to make sure we’re ready to start rehearsing the first scenes tomorrow. Jerry, how are we doing on schedule?”
While Jerry, our head of set production started to ramble on with prop and lighting updates, I kept watch on Levi.
He was frozen in his seat, his eyes staring down at the opened script in front of him, and his hands flexed manically into fists and open again.
I wanted to ask him if he was all right, but I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to make this situation worse than it already was.
But I didn’t have much time to question my judgment.
Moments later, Levi wasn’t frozen anymore. He stood up from his seat, the metal of the chair legs screeching across the tile. All eyes turned to him at the sound, and my throat closed around the unease. I wanted to fix this before he got himself into trouble.
His self-restraint proved worthy, however, as he kept the fireworks inside and mumbled “Excuse me” to the otherwise oblivious room.
And then, he was off, his strides long, fast, and hard as he stormed away from the table of still chattering people. He was out of the room between one heartbeat and the next.
I didn’t even think after that. I just acted. On pure emotion, apparently.
I had to go to him. I had to make sure he was okay.
I didn’t bother addressing the cast and crew; I just hopped out of my chair and jogged after him.
He was visible as I exited the room, his form cutting a dark and menacing line at the end of the hall. His fists clenched around a metal folding chair he’d found resting against the wall. Abruptly, he lifted it up, his movements a beautifully choreographed exercise in frustration, and tossed it from one side of the hall to the other. It hit the tile wainscoting with a shattering bang and clattered to the floor, bouncing wildly before settling. Any sane woman would have turned in the other direction—away from the big, bad man tossing furniture around—but I rarely controlled impulse with real sensible thought. Instead, I picked up my pace and sprinted directly toward him.
I didn’t guard my movements as I reached him, grabbing the thick, muscled heat of his arm and squeezing. His blue eyes startled to mine in surprise.
“Follow me,” I whispered. I could see the resistance swirling just under the surface of his pupils. They were dilated and intense, and I knew the real Levi wasn’t even present. This man was pure emotion, and none of the problems between us existed. “Just follow me.”
I needed to get him out of the hallway and somewhere private where he wasn’t visible to prying eyes and nosy ears. Luckily, the hall had remained empty despite the ruckus, but I had a feeling if Levi kept throwing shit, it wouldn’t be for long.
He stared down at me, my hand still gripping his bicep. My breathing shallowed as I prepared to go into battle, but somehow, some magical way, he didn’t question or argue.
Without any words, I dragged him down the hall until we reached a darkened room at the end. I turned the rust-spotted knob of the closed door and, fortunately, it opened with ease.
I ushered him inside quickly and shut and locked us safely away from the outside world.
The
room was deserted. An Office Space version of an old Western ghost town, a worn, dusty desk rested in the corner of the room, flimsy cardboard boxes and old yellowed papers scattered across it.
Levi walked over to the desk while I watched. His shoulders were ridged, and the line of his back bowed. I bit my lip, mentally scrolling through the entirety of the English language, desperate to find some sort of word to comfort him. It was a painstaking process, and his wrath wouldn’t wait. With both hands and a violent will, he shoved everything off of the desk with an angry growl. “Fuck!” he shouted, yellow papers fluttering and floating around him. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
Anger or not, his emotions stemmed from one thing: pain.
Grace Murphy had been important to him, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be in his shoes. She had been his friend, someone he’d known since he was a kid, and now, he had to watch as a Hollywood film picked apart their life story and made their own fucking version, no matter if it was factual or not.
He turned toward me, eyes still dark and haunted, jaw clenched. For as visually impactful as his desk clearing had been, it was unmistakably lacking in emotional satisfaction. “I can’t fucking believe this.” His voice was rough and open—so fucking cutting, I could feel the edge of his pain. Completely unbidden, tears stung at the base of my nose. “They’re adding a romance element to Grace’s and my story? What gives them the fucking right?”
“I don’t know, Levi,” I whispered and closed the distance between us. “I honestly don’t know.”
He watched me closely as I walked toward him, his back resting against the now empty desk. But he didn’t try to stop me, and for maybe the first time ever, he didn’t use me as a scapegoat. His body still and his gaze intent, he watched as my fingers moved to his arm again in a gesture of comfort.
“I feel like I’m living in the seventh circle of hell,” he muttered more to himself than me, the physical contact between us the sole focus of his contemplation. “Like I’m in the middle of a nightmare I can’t fucking wake up from.”