Page 1 of Dean (Big Hot Alphas 9)

Chapter One

Dean

This is it.

I look at the man barreling down the cramped corridor and my eyes dart to the revolver in his hands. He levels it at me, but before he can squeeze the trigger, I grab ahold of his arm. I push him against the wall, trying to swat the gun from his hand, but he kicks me in the stomach hard enough for me to stumble back.

I’m still reeling from the kick when I’m punched in the face, the coppery taste of blood blooming in my mouth. I suck in a deep breath as I’m kicked one more time, and my back crashes into the window behind me. The glass shatters into a million pieces as I go flying through it.

Wind whooshes past my ears as I plunge toward the concrete. I close my eyes as I ready myself for the inevitable.

“Andcut!” an excited voice cries out just a second after my back hits the inflated stunt mat.

I bounce around the cushion for a while, trying to make sure I didn’t hurt myself unnecessarily, and only then do I sit up. The director, William, is looking straight at me, a baseball cap covering his eyes. He gives me two thumbs up, evidently satisfied.

“That was exactly the raw performance we needed, Dean,” he calls out. “Absolutely fantastic.”

“Happy to be of service,” I say, climbing down from the mat as the shooting crew claps. From the third story of the building, the actor I was just shooting the scene with gives me a single wave, the revolver he tried to shoot me with still in his hand. I give a single wave back, wondering if he knows he punched me a little harder than he should have.

William climbs down from his chair to come over to me and clap me on the back. “Excellent work. I was sure we’d need three or four takes to get this done, but we’re good.”

“Just doin’ my job,” I tell him.

“You make it sound so easy,” William says with a laugh. “Hey, listen. I’m spearheading a new production and I think you’d be perfect for playing the lead. You interested? It’s pretty light on the dialogue. You could definitely handle it.”

Playing the lead instead of doubling for him? Jesus. Can’t say I’ve never considered what that would be like, but…nah. I already know my answer.

“I appreciate the offer,” I say. “Seriously, man. I’m flattered. But I’m happy just doing this.” I wave a hand at the stunt mat and the building. “I don’t care much for being under the spotlight. This is everything I’ve ever wanted to do.”

William looks at me with one arched eyebrow, and then shakes his head with a grin.

“Guess that’s why you’re one of the best at it,” he says. He claps me on the back once more. “All right, Dean. See you tomorrow.”

This has been my life for the last several years: endless days of careful training, culminating in a few intense minutes of dangerous activity. Most people fail to understand why I do what I do, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can still vividly remember when I was a kid, sitting in front of the TV, mesmerized by all the crazy stunts I saw. My father tried to steer me away from it, afraid I’d get hurt trying to imitate what I saw on the TV, but there was no stopping me.

I spent my teenage years practicing martial arts, got into stunt driving school as soon as my feet reached the pedals, and I never looked back. It wasn’t easy to get to where I am today—it’s not like I had any connections in the industry, my old man owns a small landscaping company upstate—but once I got on the radar of a few production head honchos, that paved the way for a stable career.

All in all, I’m happy with my life. Why wouldn’t I be? A lot of guys in their mid-twenties are still jumping from job to job, wondering what the hell they’re going to do with the rest of their lives. The only thing that’s missing in my life is a family, but I’m not too worried about it. Once I meet the right woman, everything will fall into place.I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

“Who’s shooting now?” I ask a passing production assistant. He pushes a bottle of water into my hands, then flips a couple of pages on the script he’s carrying.

“The opening scene for the movie, I think,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at the page. “It’s set in this building, so the director probably wants to wrap it up on this location. It’s another action sequence.”

“The one with the female lead?”

“Yeah, but she’s not here,” he says. “Her stuntwoman is doing the scene.”

Instead of leaving the set, I choose to stay for a couple more minutes. I like seeing others do stunt work. There’s always something to learn. As the production assistant rushes off, I follow in his footsteps. When I round the corner of the building, I see that everybody’s all set up.

“All right, Zoey,” William calls out. “You know the drill.”

Shading my eyes from the sun, I scan the scene to find the stuntwoman. I spot her right beside the building’s entrance, an old café racer bike parked next to her.

It feels like I’ve been gut-punched.

She’s wearing ragged jeans and a leather jacket, and there’s a helmet hanging from her right hand. Before putting it on, she runs one hand through her brunette hair, locks of it tumbling down her shoulders.

It’s like it all happens in goddamn slow motion.

---