The Rock Star (Hollywood Heartthrobs Book 2)

by Tabitha Bree

  I push into the sound stage and in the center sits a ship deck, ready for us to draw swords on. The ten-year-old boy inside me does a heel click in the air. I can’t wait to get on that thing. Let’s just hope I know what to do when I get there.

  We’ve been practicing our fight choreography for a couple of weeks, and the training is kicking my ass. Viktor is no frail old man. He’s a veteran as far as action adventure movies go, frequently seen brandishing a medieval weapon or performing complicated fight scenes on the big screen, so this is just another day at the office for him. I’m worried if I don’t keep my wits about me he could take an arm off with that fake sword. They are sharper than you’d think.

  As I cross the large warehouse-like space, I feel warm inside, and not so self-conscious. All thanks to a dear friend of mine.

  Jack Daniels.

  “You look right at home in that ensemble,” Delilah says, marching toward me. I know she means this as an insult or a mocking nod to my usual fashion choices, but I still grin at her all the same. If anything, her insults turn me on more than compliments.

  “I’m glad you think so.” I do a full turn, arms out wide. “I only want to look good for you.”

  “I never said you looked good.”

  “Delilah Moore, do you mean to say you don’t think the costume designer did a good job? My word, I—”

  “Shut up,” she hisses, looking over her shoulder. “You’re an idiot, do you know that?”

  I step closer to her, smiling sideways. “Do you talk to all the talent like that?”

  “I don’t talk to any talent like that.”

  I laugh. “Ah, touché, Miss Moore.”

  She rolls her eyes, beckoning me to follow her to the set. “It’s not Miss Moore, it’s not sweets, it’s just Dee. Delilah to you. Now get on set, we’re waiting for you.”

  I grin, leaning in to her ear. “I think I’ll go with Dee. It’s more… familiar.” I wink as she scowls and I take my position on the ship deck. God, it’s easy to ruffle her feathers.

  “Let’s go from the top,” Dee announces to the crew. “Just like in rehearsals,” she adds for me, Viktor, and the handful of featured extras also in the fight scene.

  “Roger that, boss,” Viktor says, and Dee beams at him—the first time I’ve seen her smile. And fuck, it’s some smile. It makes her whole face shine, from her brown skin to her green eyes. It’s a wonder she’s behind the camera, and not in front of it. She sees me staring and her smile drops, her signature frown taking its place. Or maybe the frown is just reserved for me.

  We start by blocking the scene with the cameras, working in slow motion so they can get their movements right. It’s not so bad. The choreography has thankfully stored itself in some unused part of my brain, and Vik has remembered everything perfectly. Of course. Then the extras come in and it becomes a bit more complicated; swords striking in from behind me, shielding a blow from the left, shielding a blow from the right. I’m glad we’re going over it slowly because fuck me, this shit is difficult. People are flying around on cables, doing commando rolls on the ground. It’s nuts. And to think there are five more fight scenes in the film.

  Suddenly I miss my guitar and the recording studio.

  “Let’s shoot it,” Katherine announces.

  Katherine is a woman who means business. I knew that from the minute I met her at my meaningless audition (we all knew I had the role anyway). The way she narrowed her eyes and sized me up… deciding whether I was worthy enough to be on her film set. But I was done caring about the judgments of other people. You can rarely control what people think, anyway. Might as well just do what you like, deal with the consequences later.

  “Let’s reset,” Dee calls out to the crew. I’m too tired to give her my usual smirk, so I go to my starting position like a good boy and wait for them to call action.

  Shit. Was the floor spinning like that before?

  “Quiet on set,” Dee shouts. “Rolling sound.”

  “Sound speed,” the guy holding the boom mic says.

  I try to steady myself.

  Just like you did in rehearsal. No big deal.

  “Rolling!” the PA calls out.

  The clapper walks in front of the camera. “One apple, take one, A mark.” The clap of the slate makes me flinch, and I can feel my heart beating faster. I still have that warm, fuzzy feeling in my head.

  “Action,” Katherine barks.

  Mine and Viktor’s swords come together triumphantly, marking the beginning of the sequence. His blue eyes are piercing, hyper focused.

  You’ve got this.

  I spin around and meet his sword again. Elbow out. Elbow in.

  He jumps on a large wooden crate, bringing his weapon down above me, and I meet it just above my face, exactly as practiced.

  See? This isn’t something to get your fucking knickers in a twist over. Everything is fine.

  And then the extras get involved.

  Stab from behind, jump, twist.

  Okay, no problem.

  Go left, step right, dodge, dodge, duck, or was it twist? Bump into an extra. Fuck. Dart to the side, turn, arm down, no wait, shit, arm up.

  WHACK.

  I feel my elbow meet something warm and smooth. I turn around and behind me is an extra, clutching his face with both hands.

  Oh shit.

  There’s blood fucking everywhere.

  “Cut!” Katherine shouts, running onto the set. “What the hell happened?? We need a medic!”

  “He elbowed me in the face,” the extra says, muffled by his hands.

  “It was an accident.”

  “Let me see,” Dee says, pushing past me to the extra. He lifts his hands and the whole bottom half of his face is saturated.

  Fuck me, that’s a lot of blood for one nose.

  “I think he broke it,” he wails.

  “How did this happen?” Dee turns to me as the medic takes over.

  “I told you, it was an accident.” My stomach churns… the Jack Daniels… the blood…

  “That’s what the choreography is for, so you can fight safely. Were you not at the rehearsals?” She snaps.

  “You know I was at rehearsals,” I grumble.

  I need to sit down. My head is spinning.

  “Well the buttload of blood coming out his nose says otherwise.” Dee is honed in on me, hands on hips.

  “I… need to go lie down.”

  Before she can protest, I trudge off the set, power walking to the sound stage door and fleeing across the studio grounds to my trailer. As I shut the door behind me, I take a deep breath. Sanctuary.

  I knew today was going to be rough, but I didn’t think I would maim someone in the first ten fucking minutes. I lie on my couch and wait for the room to stop spinning.

  Okay, so maybe the Dutch courage wasn’t the best idea before a complicated fight scene. Jesus, this whole thing is so involved. The huge sets, the extras running around everywhere, and what about the crew? There must have been like eighty people in there with a job to do. I thought this would be a bit of a laugh.

  But my friend inside with the broken nose probably doesn’t think it’s so funny.

  There’s a banging on the door, and before I can tell whoever it is to fuck off, Dee steps inside.

  “You can’t just march yourself off set, that’s not how this works,” she says, circling the air with her finger. “We have a film to shoot.”

  “You’re kidding?” I say, rubbing my face. “So that’s what all those cameras are for.”

  “I don’t have time for your shit. You need to get yourself together and get back on set. Now.”

  “Ooh, Mommy’s feisty when she’s mad.” I sit up on the couch and wobble on the spot. That JD won’t stay down for much longer.

  Dee narrows her eyes. “Are you… drunk?”

  “Drunk is a bit of a stretch,” I laugh. “I can hold my liquor better than a thirteen-year-old girl, thank you very much.”

  “Oh my God, you’
ve been fucking drinking this morning? What the fuck, Xavier?! It’s not even ten!”

  “Nothing to shit kittens about, I’m coming, I’m coming.” I stand up and immediately regret it.

  Dee just watches me with wide eyes. “This is a disaster.”

  “I think disaster is a little dramatic.”

  “I can’t let you back on set for a fight scene if you’ve been drinking. It’s a health and safety hazard,” she says sternly, annunciating every word. “The whole shooting schedule will be off.”

  Well… that isn’t great.

  I sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fuck it up. This morning I just—”

  “I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses,” she says, putting a hand up. “Call a driver and go home. And come back tomorrow ready to do your job.” She turns toward the door.

  “Is it broken?”

  “What?” She spins around to face me.

  “That guy’s nose… is it broken?”

  She exhales slowly, her voice lower when she answers. “No.”

  “Good.” I nod.

  She frowns and drops her eyes to the floor before slamming the door shut behind her.

  3

  Dee

  It’s only the second day of shooting and we are already behind. And it’s all thanks to one dickhead.

  Katherine’s skin looked like it would fizzle and melt off her face when I told her Xavier was drunk and I had to send him home. As first AD, I have the delightful duty of making sure everything is safe on set. And some drunk moron thrashing around a fake sword does not come under the description of safe. I just hoped that Xavier would show up for day two, fresh and ready to make up for lost time.

  But he is already fucking late.

  Again.

  He’s going to be a nightmare.

  I wait in the parking lot, ready to pounce the second he arrives.

  “Thinking about buying some wheels?” Viktor says as he walks toward me. He’s been here two hours and is done with hair, makeup and wardrobe. If you count his scaly, sea-god skin prosthetics as wardrobe.

  “Huh?”

  “The cars.” He points to the parking lot. “You’re just staring.”

  I drop my shoulders. “I’m waiting for Xavier to arrive. He won't get a second to sneak off to his trailer.”

  “I’m glad you’re staying onto him. That was some whack in the face yesterday.”

  “Hopefully his assistant will start doing her job and keep him on track,” I grumble. “I don’t want him to be my problem.”

  Viktor laughs gruffly. “I don’t blame you. And I think you might be in luck.” He nods toward a black BMW. It rolls past the security check as the boom barrier lifts into the air.

  “Ahh, lucky me.”

  Viktor pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  As the car comes to a stop, nothing happens, and I wonder if Xavier is messing with me—actually waiting for me to walk over and open the door for him.

  I would rather punch myself in the face.

  A minute passes, and then a minute more, but finally his door opens, and he stumbles out, squinting up at the sky. He walks toward me, his strut a little dampened today.

  “Now, this is quite a welcome party. Did you miss me that much?”

  I look into his face and grimace. “Jesus. You look like shit.”

  “Thank you,” he says, wiping the lenses of his sunglasses on his t-shirt.

  “What the hell happened to you??”

  “Rough night.” He grins, but it doesn’t light up his face like it usually does. His skin is always pale, but today it looks clammy, almost gray around the hollows of his cheeks. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and the whites of his eyeballs are all bloodshot, like he just copped a lemon to the face.

  “Super. Makeup is going to have a field day when they see what they’re dealing with,” I say sarcastically. “Come on. You’re late, again. Go straight to wardrobe. I’ll be waiting out here.”

  “I’ll be anxiously anticipating our reunion.” He tilts his head at me and saunters to the wardrobe trailer.

  “Some time this century would be great,” I call after him, and he waves a hand in the air behind him.

  We manage to get through the fight scene, but it’s like getting blood from a stone. Xavier is slow and heavy in his movements. As far as fearsome pirate captains go, he looks like he could be taken down by the scrawny dude that sits in the crow’s-nest. He’s clunky, uncoordinated, and every five minutes he yells out “line” to the script supervisor. We even consider getting him an earpiece, so we can feed his lines to him. It’s a joke.

  The third time he drops his sword in the middle of a take, it dawns on me.

  He’s not only tired.

  He’s hungover as fuck.

  Great. Like it’s not bad enough we have some entitled rock star as our lead. He also has himself a little drinking problem. Super. That’s bound to make the next three months of filming a breeze.

  I share an eye roll with George, our cameraman, and brace for another long, painful day. It’s actually uncomfortable to watch, and by the time lunch rolls around, I’m glad to stop subjecting my eyes to it. The whole spectacle is like a car wreck, but I can’t look away. I just hope they can fix the footage we got in post-production. Maybe they can CGI his ass right out of there.

  “Jackson for Dee,” the PA’s voice comes through my earpiece.

  “Go for Dee.”

  “Hey. Katherine wants you to sit with her for lunch.”

  I frown, making my way out of the sound stage, always the last person to leave the set. “Copy that.”

  Katherine doesn’t sit with people at lunch—it’s well known in the film community. She even has a separate lunch table on every film she works on, just in case the cast or crew get any fruity ideas and try to perch next to her. I’m used to unfriendly directors, but this is something else. My last director (slash friend), Adam, wasn’t exactly Mr. Sociable. But unless he was hiding from Evie, he was always in the lunch tent sitting next to George, or sharing a comfortable silence with Joel, his first AD.

  Katherine’s discouragement is next level ‘don’t talk to me’, and everyone knows not to even try. So inviting me to sit with her for lunch must be a good omen. A sign that she finds me the least annoying on set, tolerable enough to share a meal with.

  Dare I say she actually likes me.

  At least despite the Xavier headache, I’m doing something right.

  I make my way through the lunch queue, filling my plate with anything that will give me energy for the rest of the day, and walk to Katherine’s table in the tent's corner. She’s sitting there with the shot list, marking it as she goes down the page.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Pull up a chair.” She motions to the space opposite her. I try not to smile as I drag a chair over. Katherine Sharpe and I, friends.

  She puts her pen and the list down, picking up her fork and stabbing at her salad. “We have a problem.”

  Oh.

  So this isn’t a social call.

  “We do?” I say, bracing myself.

  “Xavier.”

  I relax my shoulders. Well, that problem, I’m already aware of. “Right.”

  “He’s going to ruin our schedule.”

  “I know, and I’ve been onto his assistant about him,” I begin, pulling out my phone on reflex.

  “His assistant has proven to be useless. I’ve told his agent we need to manage him ourselves.”

  “Ourselves?”

  My hairs stand up. I don’t like where this is going.

  “Xavier Black is used to doing whatever the hell he wants whenever the hell he wants. And that’s not going to fly on my set. Nolan has confirmed he’s a done deal, there’s no replacing him now. We need to manage this situation, before he upends the entire film,” Katherine says.

  “Okay,” I nod my head. “So we need to find him another assistant, someone who can handle him.”


  “Frankly, we don’t have time to mess around with new assistants. We need someone who can pull the reins in right now.” Katherine looks at me, raising her eyebrows.

  “Me?”

  “I don’t have the time or energy to deal with our lead showing up too blotto to swing a sword or too hungover to remember his lines.”

  “Of course, but surely there is someone better for the job. As first AD, I feel like my hands are tied elsewhere. Can’t we just—”

  “I’ve seen you with him, Delilah,” Katherine says, tilting her head down. “I know you try to be discreet, but I know you can’t stand him. You don’t put up with his bullshit. I don’t need someone else. I need you. You can wrangle him.”

  I laugh nervously. “Most of the sabotaging he’s done has been away from the film, drinking and partying. How am I meant to wrangle him once he leaves the set?”

  “I don’t care if you have to babysit him twenty-four seven. Just make sure he shows up on time sober, and ready to work.”

  I sit back in my chair, my eyes darting but focusing on nothing in particular. I’m in charge of wrangling the rock star? How has this fallen on me?

  “I’ve only had a taste of how impossible he can be,” I start, wondering how I can get out of this. “To be honest, I’d feel more comfortable getting his agent involved.”

  “Look, our time’s up on this, and I’m putting the responsibility on you. Now can you do your job, or not?”

  And just like that, Katherine’s tone has changed. We are no longer colleagues working on a solution together. I am her subordinate, and she is giving me my marching orders.

  “Of course,” I choke. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t,” she says, gathering her shot list, and I can’t help but pick up on the foreboding undertones of her last words. This is it. The line has been drawn in the sand, and I have to come through. Failing Katherine Sharpe is simply not an option. I know all too well what will happen if I do.

  I spend the rest of the day digesting the task in front of me.

  Me, Xavier’s assigned babysitter. Except it’s even worse than that. Babysitting suggests looking after an infant or small child, but what I have on my hands is a grown ass, party obsessed, immature douchebag. And I have to find a way to keep him in line for the rest of principal photography, or it will be my career at stake.