Page 2 of A Lucky Shot

A genuine bubble of excitement inflated Cass’s chest for the first time in hours. “Absolutely, but it’s only here for a few days, and it’s selling out fast, and be warned I’ll talk your ear off, and there’s a whole bondage section that I need to check out for an upcoming erotic Shakespeare production I’m working on!” Cass stopped to draw breath and lowered her waving hands. “I’ll send you a text, if you’re still interested?”

“Erotic Shakespeare production?” Jill choked on a laugh. “I can’t wait.”

Her new friend floated across the restaurant to her boyfriend, leaving Cass to find her date for round two of their night.

Dancing. Which used to be her favourite. He wouldn’t try to merengue with her. Or maybe he would. It was highly unlikely he planned to bring her to the type of place where it would be on the playlist anyway. It should be fine.

Cass hitched up the corners of her mouth and slid beside her maybe-dancing partner at the restaurant’s front. His eyes scanned from Alex, to Jill, and back to Alex, watching as his friend wrapped his new girlfriend in an embrace.

“I’ve never seen him hand over his balls so fast.”

Something tilted under Cass’s ribs. Is that what he called open affection? The hope of getting similar attention vanished with the last of her energy. “I think they look really happy.”

Nick grunted in response, then turned on the smile that usually made Cass giggle like she’d downed a glass of champagne. The smile was directed at the tittering attendant, who nearly prostrated herself over the counter.

Nick’s a flirty guy. He’s like this with everyone. Cass pretended she didn’t see the attendant slip something in his pocket.

The club bounced with bodies and heat. It was the last thing she’d have chosen to do. The music pulsed, the crowd vibed, and her feet protested after a long day on set, even with the painkiller she took before dinner. Cass dug her thumbs into the small of her back as she waited for the bartender to pour the vodka and sodas.

This was still a date, and that was something. Dinner, dancing, a chance to dress up. The hour she’d agonized in front of her closet hadn’t been for nothing. The plunging neckline of her French navy-blue jumpsuit earned an appreciative double take from the bartender, and although she couldn’t wear the heels she’d bought to go with it anymore, the gold Mary Janes looked gorgeous.

Not as gorgeous as the woman currently trailing her fingers up Nick’s arm as he reclined against the bar. She was tall and blonde and everything Cass wasn’t. And she looked like she was about to crawl into his pants.

The condensation from the drinks dripped over her fingers as she held her breath, waiting for Nick’s response. Would he brush her hand away? Or would he lean in and whisper in the woman’s ear, like he’d done with Cass only hours ago?

Why would she wait to find out something that shouldn't be a guess.

She tipped one vodka and soda into her mouth, chased it with the second, and escaped without a backwards glance.

At 12:37 a.m. on a Saturday morning in the back of an Uber, Cassidy St. Claire decided she’d had enough of Nicholas Martin. For good this time.

Probably.

Meanwhile, down a back alley in Vancouver’s West End

God, he hated night shoots.

Josh Graham pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck in a futile attempt to ward off the unseasonable chill and glowered at the crew like they had ordered the rain to personally piss him off. He raked the dark strands out of his bloodshot eyes. Any effort into styling his hair sixteen hours ago was long undone by now.

The black night ejected tepid sheets of rain over the set, seeping through the tents and permeating every layer he wore. Water smoked off the lights, glare reflecting off every surface and, even from up here, he could see the actors squinting into the downpour when they should be wide-eyed in awe. How the director could see the blocking through the downpour was a mystery. Even if he could see it, the shot was a loss. Unsalvageable, even in post. Not like they had a budget to fix anything.

Of course it was raining. The entire week had called for clear skies and balmy temperatures. Then this. The shoot should have ended hours ago. If they didn’t call it a night soon, they’d be on the hook for union breaks, too. Not like anyone would want to eat right now. The stench of garbage from the back alley coated the inside of his nose in an oily sheen. Breathing through his mouth didn’t help.

Still.

They had finally nailed the tracking shots. Got the B-roll for the exteriors. And he’d convinced the director to go ahead with the shoots, using the rain instead of the golden hour glow they’d planned on. The lead actress’s close ups, her teeth bared to the sky and mascara artfully streaking down her cheeks in inky rivers with the light spangling through the rain behind her? It would be the money shot in every trailer.

Come to think of it, it had been a pretty good fucking day. No number of soaked toes or botched takes or repositioning of lights could hinder the fact that they made magic.

Plus, he had promised Isabella he’d text her if they wrapped the shoot by midnight. If his feet were soaked, at least his dick could get wet tonight, too.

Fucking call it already.

As predicted, after another fizzled take, the director gave the crew the long-overdue permission to wrap for the night to a round of weak cheers.

Half past midnight. Isabella would forgive him.

Josh whipped out his phone to scroll through his contacts, but Emily’s name popped up before Isabella.

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