Page 36 of The Unfinished Line

There were twenty-one days until we started principal photography. But before that, I was scheduled for a handful of role discussions, combination rehearsals, costume fittings, and camera tests. Which meant I didn’t have much time to get myhead on straight, to figure it out, and prove I belonged in this industry.

However, despite my professional concerns and the attention they demanded, there was another thought that had been hammering on my door, waiting all night to be granted admission. I hadn’t permitted my thoughts to wander during the table read—I wasn’t so scattered as that—but now that it was over…

I flipped off the Christmas tunes humming through my radio and checked the time. It was shortly after eight. Dillon would have landed several hours ago—probably around the same time Waylon MacArthur was trying to figure out a way to justify cutting me from his cast. But Waylon was no longer forefront on my mind.

Dillon had flown to California… to stay for the holidays. She’d signed up for a charity race in Santa Monica, and while I wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed, I knew it meant it wasn’t rated and she wouldn’t get paid. This trip was on her own dime, her own agenda. And it wasn’t Santa Monica she’d come to see.

The thought was almost thrilling enough to wash away the vision of Waylon MacArthur glowering at me through his vapor haze.

I knew I wouldn’t see her tonight. The race was first thing tomorrow morning. And if I’d learned one thing about Dillon Sinclair over the last two months, it was thatnothingcould disrupt her focus before a race day. Even an unrated one. She disappeared. Closed herself off. Ran her race. And then, picking up wherever she left off, reappeared as if she’d never missed a moment.

A habit I could probably benefit from in my own career. If I’d only had that kind of laser focus.

But here I was again—not ten minutes off the backlot, with my entire career in jeopardy—thinking about her. Daydreamingabout her arrival. Wondering if it would be okay to text her? It wasn’t that late, but I knew she was obsessive about her sleep.

Still, she’d only arrived a couple hours ago. She probably wasn’t sleeping.

“Hey Siri, text Dillon.” ApplePlay swirled to life, ready to do my bidding.

“Just finished with the read-through. Rough night, but survived by the skin of my teeth.” The message immediately showedread, but there was no reply. I told myself not to take it personally—I already knew she’d be in her competitive mode. I’d see her tomorrow. Until then, well—I knew it was best to leave her be.

I pulled off on Melrose and inched my way through Hollywood. By the time I got to my apartment it was after nine PM.

I parked, grateful to find a spot two blocks over, since the shared driveway was full, and hurried for my front door. I’d lived there almost a year now—the neighborhood was decent—but I still didn’t care to walk home by myself after dark. Even with two self-defense classes under my belt and can of pepper spray in my purse.

“Hey.”

I startled, tripping over the short walkway step, almost falling on my face. I’d been searching for my keys and hadn’t noticed the figure sitting on my stoop, or the bike leaning against my door frame.

“Holy shit.” I stepped back, then laughed, unable to hide my smile. “What are you doing here?”

Her hair was matted to her head, her helmet hanging off the crook of her arm, her bare feet stretched out in front of her with her bike shoes still attached to her pedals.

“You said you had a rough evening. I thought I might swing by to wish you goodnight.”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Sleep is overrated.”

This, I knew, for her was a lie. She slept ten hours a day, minimum. Without fail. Without regards to outside circumstances. It was part of her job. As important to her as training. Diet. Rest. Recovery.

Maybe I wasn’t the only one neglecting my profession.

“Do you want to come in? Have a cup of coffee?” I panicked thinking about the mess on my kitchen sink. The post-it notes all over my dining room table. I’d planned to tidy things tomorrow morning, since Dillon had insisted I not come to watch her race. It was too trivial of a competition, she’d insisted. When I came to watch her—I’d loved that word,when—she wanted it to be something worthwhile. Something she could be proud of. I’d conceded.

“Can’t.” She stopped me before I got the key in the door, rising to her feet in that languid style of hers, like a cat waking from a nap. “Early morning.”

“You really rode all the way here from PCH just to say goodnight? I thought you were supposed to rest before a race?”

“A pre-race ride didn’t turn out so bad in Hana,” she smiled. “I just wanted to see you, Kam-Kameryn.” Leaning over, she kissed my cheek, then collected her bike, and disappeared down the poorly lit walkway.

Scene 14

“Zero chance you’ll ever kick it in.”

“No?” Dillon looked over her shoulder at Kameryn, shifting the child-size soccer ball from hand to hand. She raised an eyebrow. “And what do I get if I win?”

Even in the neon glow of the Saturday night lights on the Santa Monica Pier, she could see the color touch Kam’s cheeks. But tonight, instead of growing reticent, Kameryn remained committed to her flirtation, holding Dillon’s insinuating gaze.

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