by Jae
“They could have been there for you,” Crash finally said. “Held your hand in the waiting room or something.”
Jill tried to imagine her mother holding her hand but couldn’t. The two times in her life when she’d asked her parents for help, they’d been too busy struggling with their own emotions, adding to her stress instead of relieving some of it. “They live in Ohio.”
“So? I know for a fact that there are planes in Ohio too.” Crash gestured at the plane they were in, which was slowly pulling away from the terminal.
Jill’s throat went dry. She fumbled for her seat belt, making sure it was buckled. “Yeah,” she said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the moving plane. “But I didn’t want them there. I couldn’t deal with them on top of everything else.”
Crash opened her mouth, but then she closed it again. She squinted over at Jill. “Are you okay?”
Their plane taxied down the runway, quickly picking up speed.
Jill nodded, staring straight ahead, not to the small window, where the ground was flying by.
“Are you sure? You’re a bit pale.”
Jill couldn’t answer. Her stomach lurched when the plane lifted off the tarmac. She swallowed hard and grabbed the armrests with both hands.
“Here,” Crash said gently. “Maybe this will help.”
Expecting some medication to settle her stomach, Jill glanced over.
Crash was holding out her hand.
Jill hesitated, wanting to tough it out, but then, as the plane climbed at a steep angle that took her breath away, she latched on to Crash’s hand. Her fingers were warm and strong, not damp and trembling like Jill’s. After that kiss three days ago, the touch should have felt awkward, but it didn’t. It felt safe.
“I’m not afraid of flying,” she told Crash but didn’t let go of her hand.
The corners of Crash’s mouth twitched. “Of course not.”
“No, really. I’m not. It’s just the takeoffs and the landings that I don’t like.”
Finally, the plane was safely off the ground and no longer rising so steeply. The knots of tension in Jill’s stomach eased, and she exhaled slowly. “Okay. You can let go now.”
But Crash didn’t seem in a hurry to withdraw her hand. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
Truthfully, Jill didn’t either. Quite the opposite. She tightened her grip for a moment, soaking up the warmth of Crash’s skin, then forced herself to let go. Her hand felt strangely cold and empty now. She curled her fingers into a fist. “What about you?” she asked to distract herself and looked past Crash to the grid of tiny buildings below them.
“Me?”
“Yeah. I guess as a stuntwoman, you’re not afraid of any of this.” She waved her hand in a vague gesture that could just as well mean this thing between them rather than flying.
Crash looked at her as if wondering which option they were talking about. “You saw me behind the wardrobe trailer on Thursday,” she said, her voice pitched so low that no one else on the plane could hear. “What do you think?”
In the past, Jill had always assumed all stunt people were adrenaline junkies and fearless daredevils not scared of anything. But while Crash was courageous and confident in most situations, the vulnerability she had revealed after the explosion stunt had touched Jill deeply.
Before Jill could answer, Crash shook her head and went on. “We have a saying: there are fearless stuntmen, and there are old stuntmen, but there are no fearless old stuntmen. You can’t be a scaredy-cat, of course, but a certain amount of fear is actually healthy. I know I wouldn’t want to work with a stunt performer who is too cocky and reckless.”
Fear is actually healthy, Jill mentally repeated. She sighed. Too bad it can’t heal MS. She turned a little in her seat and studied Crash. “Have you ever…backed out of doing a stunt?”
Crash immediately shook her head. “I’ve suggested ways to adjust a stunt to make it safer, but no, I never backed out. I’m not the backing-out type.”
The answer hung in the air between them for a moment. That was part of why Jill couldn’t get involved with her. Crash would stay with her out of a sense of duty and obligation, even if it meant ruining her own life.
They sat in silence and watched the world disappear beneath them until the plane leveled off and the fasten-seat-belt light went out.
Floyd rose from his seat, stepped into the aisle, and gave Jill a questioning look. “Want to switch back?”
Jill hesitated. She turned her head and looked at Crash.
Their gazes connected, making it even harder to tear herself away.
Her mind skipped ahead to the landing once they reached San Francisco. Would Crash hold her hand again? She longed to shake her head and tell Floyd that she’d stay where she was, but, finally, reason won out. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t keep clinging to Crash—literally and figuratively. “Sure,” she said and got up.
After one last glance back at Crash, she slipped past Floyd and into the leather seat next to Lauren. She felt Crash’s presence in the row behind her yet refused to turn around and peek at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lauren watching her, but she purposefully didn’t react.
“Are you okay?” Lauren finally asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Lauren pointed down. “Because you keep rubbing your hand.”
When Jill followed her gaze, she realized she’d indeed been rubbing her hand. Not the left one, which sometimes got tingly, but the right one. The one Crash had held. She snatched her left hand away and clutched the armrest. “It’s nothing.”
The cool breeze from the bay picked up, making Jill shiver in her damp dress. I’ll never, ever complain about the heat in LA again. After shooting in the City by the Bay for three days, she finally understood why Mark Twain had supposedly said that the coldest winter he’d ever seen was the summer he’d spent in San Francisco.
Well, the sun had been shining earlier today, but they hadn’t been able to film this scene then, because apparently rain didn’t show well on film when the light came from overhead. Now with the gray clouds above and the cold wind blowing, Floyd had declared it perfect weather. But then again, he wasn’t the one who needed to shoot take after take in the pouring movie rain.
Floyd looked up from the monitor showing the video feed from camera one. Lips pursed, he shook his head. “Let’s go again, this time with a bit more intensity. You’re shouting at the sky, angry at nature’s poor timing. Take it from ‘Now of all times it rains,’ please.”
Production assistants herded the extras back into position. They were portraying San Franciscans made homeless by the earthquake and fires.
Jill moved to her mark, careful not to slip in the puddles surrounding her. The rest of the set, where the cameras and equipment had been set up, was completely dry.
“Roll sound,” the assistant director shouted.
“Speed,” the sound mixer answered.
“Roll camera!”
“Rolling,” the first assistant camera operator called.
“Marker!”
The second assistant camera operator stepped in front of the camera with a clapperboard and called out the scene and take number. He smacked the top slat down with a loud crack and ducked out of the frame.
“Action,” Floyd called.
Big, fat raindrops began to fall down from the rain tower, which was basically a twenty-foot pipe mounted on a stand and hooked up to a tank truck via a hose.
Jill shivered as the fake rain hit her. Couldn’t they have at least heated up the water a little before pouring it down on her? Then she forgot about her complaints as she sank into her role and became Dr. Lucy Sharpe.
Clutching her black doctor’s bag, she stopped in the middle of the street and lifted her face to the sky. Water dripped down her chin.
“Now of all times it rains?” She let out a disbelieving laugh, bare of any humor, and shook her fist as if threatening the weather gods. “We could have used the darn rain three days ago, not now when the fires are out already and most of the city lies in ruins!”
A cry of pain came from one of the nearby tents.
Lucy shook the rain out of her eyes, jumped over a foot-long fissure in the street, and rushed toward the tent. She ducked inside just as Floyd called, “Cut!”
Please, please, please. Jill clutched her ice-cold hands together and paused inside of the tent as she waited to hear if the take was finally a wrap.
“We need to go again,” Floyd called, making her groan. “One of the extras is wearing sneakers, and it shows up in the shot. Where the hell is wardrobe?”
Jill inflated her cheeks and blew out a breath of frustration. “Oh, Jesus.” She felt like kicking something or someone—preferably that extra with the sneakers.
“Here.”
The familiar voice made Jill look up and into Crash’s blue eyes. She hadn’t realized that someone else was in the tent with her.
Crash held out a blanket and a hot water bottle.
“Thanks.” Jill took the hot water bottle and tugged on the blanket, but instead of letting go, Crash wrapped it around her and rubbed her shoulders and arms through the thick material.
Jill knew she should protest and pull away from this intimate gesture, but it felt too good. She shivered, and it wasn’t just from the cold. She clutched the hot water bottle with both hands so she wouldn’t do something stupid—such as wrapping her arms around Crash and burying herself against Crash’s heat. “What are you doing here? I thought you and the other stunt people had gone back to the hotel?”
“The others did, but I thought I’d stick around for a bit. After the scenes I shot this morning, I just couldn’t resist seeing someone else be miserable for a change.”
Despite her words, Crash didn’t seem gleeful, but Jill didn’t comment on it. “Oh, yeah, then take a good long look.”
Crash gave her a compassionate smile. “Maybe you could have that extra fall into the fissure or die some other horrible death in the next scene.”
Laughter bubbled up despite Jill’s misery. When Crash settled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, her arm brushed Jill’s side, making her shiver again. She covered it by shaking herself. “Ugh. That milk is making me all sticky.”
“Milk?”
Jill nodded. “Apparently, rain doesn’t show up well on film, so they add a bit of milk to the water before pouring it down on me.”
“Well,” Crash said, giving her a crooked grin, “isn’t bathing in milk supposed to do wonders for the skin? I heard it worked for Cleopatra. Not that you need any help in the looks department, mind you.”
Jill burst out laughing and forgot her bedraggled state for a moment. She suppressed the urge to touch Crash’s forearm and pressed the hot water bottle to her chest instead.
The sounds of the crew setting up for yet another take drifted in.
The assistant director stuck his head into the tent. He looked from Jill to Crash and back, visibly surprised to see them in this semi-embrace, with Crash still rubbing the blanket over Jill’s back. “Uh, ready to go again?”
Holding on to the hot water bottle for another moment, trying to soak up every last bit of heat—and, truth be told, support from Crash—Jill nodded. She handed the hot water bottle back to Crash and gave her a nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Crash said softly.
After one last glance back at her, Jill tugged her drenched costume back into some semblance of order, squared her shoulders, and marched back to her mark beneath the water tower.
Crash crossed her hotel room toward the window and glanced at the street below. Darkness had fallen outside. One of the drivers had delivered Crash and other crew back to the hotel almost an hour ago, but Jill, Shawn, Nikki, and the crew that had been shooting their first-unit scenes today still hadn’t returned.
Where the hell are they? It couldn’t take that long to film the last shot of the day, could it?
The more time went by without them returning, the more worried Crash became. Had Jill suffered a relapse, so they had to take her to a hospital?
Bullshit. According to her research, heat could make MS symptoms flare, but she hadn’t heard of wind and rain having the same effect. Still, she couldn’t help worrying.
Voices outside in the hallway attracted her attention. She hurried to the door and put her eye to the peephole.
A bald man passed by. He wasn’t part of the cast or the crew, only another hotel guest.
Just as Crash was about to turn away from the door, her cell phone rang. She jerked and nearly slammed her eye into the spyhole.
Oh, yeah, that’s all I need. Having to explain to Ben or the people in makeup how I managed to get a shiner when I wasn’t doing a stunt. She walked over to the nightstand where she had left her cell phone. The display said, “Mom.” She swiped her finger across the small screen. “Hi, Mom.”
“How is my favorite daughter doing today?”
“Your only daughter is just fine, thanks.” The old joke between them soothed her a little. With the phone pressed to her ear, Crash walked back to the door to take another peek through the spyhole.
The hotel corridor beyond was empty.
“So, tell me about the crazy things you did today,” her mother said.
“Not much to tell,” Crash answered.
Her mother snorted. “Like I believe that even for a second! Remember how you fell off that tree, broke your arm, and didn’t want to tell me?”
“Mom!” Crash groaned. “That was ages ago. There really isn’t anything to tell today. I have a gag scheduled for tomorrow morning, but the most dangerous thing I did all day was heat up water for a hot water bottle.”
Her mother made a sympathetic noise. “Cramps?”
“Huh?” Another glance through the peephole. Still nothing. “Oh, no. The hot water bottle wasn’t for me.”
“Oooh! Have you been holding out on me, Kristine?”
“Holding out on you?”
“Have you met a girl?” her mother clarified.
An image of Jill flashed through Crash’s mind—the way she had stood under the rain tower earlier, her face raised to the sky, the drenched dress clinging to her curves. “Not a girl,” she said without thought. “She’s a woman.”
“So you did meet someone? What’s her name? She isn’t another stuntwoman, is she? Did you meet her in San Francisco? When will we get to meet her?”
“Whoa! Slow down, Mom! It’s not like that.”
“That’s what you said when I caught you in bed with that Jennifer.”
Another groan escaped Crash. “Her name was Jessica. And thanks so much for reminding me of all the highlights of my youth.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” her mother said.
No, actually, it hadn’t been. Though she would have chosen another way to come out to her parents, they had taken it in stride.
“So what’s the story with…?” Her mother paused expectantly.
“Jill,” Crash supplied after a moment’s hesitation, knowing her mother would get it out of her sooner or later anyway. “Jill Corrigan.”
For several seconds, only silence filtered through the line. Then her mother let out a shriek.
“Shit, Mom!” Crash pulled the cell phone away from her ear and then carefully moved it back. “Believe it or not, stunt people need intact hearing.”
“Jill Corrigan? The Jill Corrigan?” Her mother’s voice was still higher than normal, sounding like an excited teenager.
“The one and only.”
“Oh, I loved her in Coffee to Go. She’s just so funny. I stopped watching when they wrote her out of the show.”
“You have to bring her home and introduce us!”
Crash thumped her forehead against the door several times. “I told you. It’s not like that. We’re just friends.”
Her mother let out a disbelieving huff. “Don’t tell me she’s not your type.”
“She is, but… It’s…complicated.” She didn’t want to mention Jill’s MS, not sure if her mother knew.
Steps came from the hallway.
Crash lifted her head away from the door and checked the peephole again.
Even through the fish-eye lens that distorted her features, there was no mistaking the person that slowly walked by.
Jill!
Someone had lent her a coat, but she was still wearing her wet costume underneath. Why the hell hadn’t she gotten out of that thing on the set? Had Jill been too proud to let anyone help her with the buttons?
“I need to go, Mom,” Crash said into the phone. She didn’t wait for an answer but hung up and threw the cell phone on the bed. With her hand on the door handle, she hesitated for a second and glanced down at herself. She was wearing just a pair of boxer shorts and a thin tank top beneath the bathrobe the hotel had provided. Shrugging, she opened the door anyway, stepped out, and pulled it closed behind her.
Too late, she realized that she hadn’t pocketed her key card before leaving her room. There would be time to worry about it later. For now, she wanted to focus on Jill, who had stopped in front of her room farther down the hall.
She was fumbling the key card out of her purse. Her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t get the card into the slot. “Come on. Open, dammit.” She kicked the door.
“Hey there, Rambo. You might want to leave breaking down doors to us stunt people.” Crash stepped up behind her and took the key card from her.
“What are you doing?” Jill protested.
“Opening the door for you.”
“Thanks, but I can manage.”
Normally, Crash tried to be respectful of her wishes, but not this time. Jill’s hands were ice-cold beneath hers. She covered them with her own for several moments, hoping to warm them, before she swiped the card through the card reader.
