Page 16 of Falling Like Stars

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper and take a shaky breath. That flash of imagination is a hundred times more potent and erotic than what actually happened last night with Clay and all of his artless rutting.

Sam calls the actors to their places. Javier lies on the floor at the foot of his chair and Zachary straddles him, the rubber crowbar in his hand. They go over the choreography and lines—it’s not much, mostly Hugo begging for his life and Boyd taking it anyway.

They run it a few times with the camera over Zach’s shoulder for his POV and then Javier’s done with Covet.

“And that’s a wrap on Javier Paez,” Sam says, leading the crew into a round of applause.

Javier and Zachary hug it out, but the crew is already moving quickly for the next scene, which is supposed to be from Hugo’s POV: on the floor, straddled by a madman and his crowbar.

The grips set up the camera on the floor in a rig with a plywood plank. Zachary kneels over the rig and grips the bar with his left hand for support, so it looks as if he has one hand planted on the floor next to Hugo’s head. Small bags of plastic blood—the squibs—are placed strategically around the camera.

Sam calls places, and Zachary starts breathing hard. Madness overtakes his beautiful face, contorting it into something unrecognizable just as Javier’s makeup did for him. It’s like watching Zach morph into a different person right before my eyes.

Action is called and Zach attacks the squibs with the rubber crowbar. Blood splatters his face. When the take is over, Sam studies it on the monitor and decides it’s not natural enough. The makeup team with me in tow, hurries onto the scene.

Armed with a cloth and a bottle of fake-blood remover, I stand in front of Zach. His breathing is slowing, but his eyes are clouded and somewhere else. I touch the cloth to his forehead to wipe away the red splatters and he looks at me for the first time. As if I brought him back from someplace dark. His entire face softens, and he smiles.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” I say, trying to concentrate, but he has a droplet of blood on his lower lip and it’s my job to wipe it off. To touch his mouth. I feel his gaze on me as I do it.

“It’s our last night,” he says.

I risk some eye-contact and become awash in him. His presence. His nearness. I know he’s proposing a second take at the hot tub. And because he’s so damn good at expressing his every feeling on his face, I can see his conflict too. Hesitation mixed with curiosity. I have a short, fleeting thought—like a spark illuminating a dark place—that maybe he’s having a hard time not thinking about me like I’m having a hard time not thinking about him.

No fucking way.

Last night’s dirty business with Clay was supposed to wash Zachary Butler out of my mind, but now my hand is trembling slightly as it moves over his cheeks and chin. Alarm bells of guilt and grief will start clanging if I even consider possibilities…

Zach’s smile is gentle. “So, I was thinking—”

“Done,” I say and quickly step back.

I turn away from his reaction—good or bad—as the make-up artist swoops in and retouches his pre-rampage look.

They go again. The second time around, Sam approves the blood splatter, and I’m called in to take photos of Zach’s face for continuity. He’s out of breath, but still, his eyes soften to see me. The madness drains out and he’s himself again.

Do your job, do your job, do your job…

I move close, taking pics with the makeup department’s cell phone.

“I was about to ask,” he says, “before we were so rudely interrupted…”

“By you murdering poor Hugo.”

Zach’s smile widens, and hope lights up his hazel eyes. “Talking with you last night was…good. I don’t want to intrude on your place, but if you’re going to be there tonight—?”

“I’m not,” I say quickly. “Or I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Okay. Maybe we could—?”

The second AD shouts for places, and I’m saved by the clack of the slate board. They go again, and I watch as Zach pours his everything into the scene. It’s more visceral somehow, even though the only thing he’s whacking are little baggies of fake blood.

When it’s over, Sam calls cut. “We got it,” he says, and everyone applauds.

Zach’s done for the night. He looks utterly drained. Exhausted. He looks as if he could use a relaxing night in the hot tub.

Pretty selfish to keep it from him, considering it’s not even mine to begin with.

---