Page 25 of Fool's Gold

Which means all the things I fought for in Empire’s contract to keep her from being ground beneath the wheels are done. There’s no way to finish this without everyone working around the clock. It equates to a lot of coffee and even more drugs.

The fourteen-hour days I promised her are out the window for good.

Somehow, I’ll have to pull the best out of Empire, and after her little circus act last night—

I glance over my shoulder at her trailer. The sun’s already beaming down, and it’ll be hotter than the devil’s ball sack in a few hours. Empire’s inside getting ready, fighting off her hangover.

What I had to do in order to get us here makes me hate myself more than I already do.

The director, Belinda Montross, pinches my elbow to get my attention. “If we’re going to work together, Mr. Ortega, then I definitely expect you to listen when I’m talking to you.”

She tops the charts at five foot one, but her attitude adds another twelve inches to her height. She’s a relatively new up-and-comer but already has a slew of projects under her belt. She knows what she’s doing, although I haven’t determined whether she’s wrapped up with Stanic or not.

I prefer to think not because I actually kind of respect her, but at this point, thinking the best of people is suicide.

“I’m listening,” I grind out.

“No, you’re staring off like a tormented romantic hero, and that’s not the kind of attitude we need if you want your deadline met.” Belinda presses her lips together, fatigue already weighing her down.

“Just get inside, and let’s roll, okay?”

She’s right; my thoughts are on Empire, not the film.

Never in my life have I wished for a cigarette, and I don’t smoke. But something to take the tension out of my limbs when nothing else works…maybe I’ll pick up the habit. It won’t be the worst thing I’ve ever done, not by a long mile.

Blowing out a breath, I stalk into the shade of the studio building and away from the pulsing waves of heat above the asphalt, Belinda striding beside me. The others are already inside, gathered around a small setup with an espresso machine and laden with pastries.

I met with the production department already to establish the new pecking order and get my facts straight. The key creative team is in place, and the director and her assistants all shoot me the same sharp nod before going back to their conversation.

Belinda and I have been in deep talks since yesterday afternoon, and I liked to think we’d come to an accord.

They’re going to be the ones calling the creative shots here. I’m only around to supervise and make sure we stick to the new brutal timeline I proposed. It’s not unheard of for insane deadlines to make the rounds between films.

I’d just hoped it wouldn’t be the case for this one.

Belinda tugs on the end of her ponytail and blows out a breath. “All right. I guess we better get this shit wagon on the road, then. See you on the other side.” She taps the end of her baseball cap once, a kind of mocking salute to my new status, and joins her team.

The camera, light, and grip department are readying the set to resume filming.

My gaze lands on Empire’s costar. Greg Bates has been in several high-profile roles before he agreed to take on the role of Mr. Patterson. Word on the street painted him as a consummate professional, except I saw the way he looked at Empire.

The way his hands lingered a little too long in places and his eyes even longer in others.

Professional my ass.

One of the things that will have to change. I’m here now. Parker’s lax attitude and playboy tendencies are in the rearview mirror for good.

With the rest of the cast and crew distracted, I stride soundlessly toward Greg. He looks up at my approach, a small smile pulling at his lips, and automatically holds out a hand for me to shake.

“Marcus Ortega, I’m not sure we’ve ever officially met, but your name travels in my circles,” Greg begins. “I’ve heard great things about your style and better things about the clients you’ve managed in the past.”

I ignore the hand and reach for his shirt, dragging him off to the side where a large Benjamin ficus tree obscures us from the low murmur of voices. I feel his gulp when I twist the fabric in my fist.

“Just so we’re clear.”

He goes pale at my preface.

We’re the same height, which makes this less than ideal. Always better to look down on the other man, I’ve learned, than have to look up, although intimidation is in the attitude. Not in the physical brute strength.

---