by Tess Oliver
"We're just twenty minutes from home," Tom stated plainly.
His voice, coming out of the middle of the droning buzz of the motor, snapped me out of my thoughts. I sat forward to get a better view of the place where I would be living.
Stalks of corn stand in perfect rows with their golden tufts of hair and long gangly leaves. There are patches of dry land in between the crops, land that looked so brutally abused by plows and farming, it seemed as if it would never produce corn again. Some of the corn fields appear not to be thriving with small brownish stalks that seem to be leaning against each other for support.
"We haven't had much rain lately." Tom spoke so infrequently it always jarred me when I heard his voice. "But that'll change soon enough." He chuckled, a rarity for him. "Then we'll be complaining that there's too much damn water."
I returned to my journal after the one-sided conversation. The truck has waddled off a main road, and we are driving along a stretch of uneven dirt. Several small buildings, all built from rough hewn wood and with roof shingles that are thin as paper, cluster together in what appears to be a small town. The only building with paint on its exterior is a bank.
I'd found it easier not to ask questions and risk any sort of instantaneous conversation when it came to the journey home. In truth, I just didn't care enough to make inquiries. At this point, we seem to be heading farther away from the highway and civilization in general, so I can only assume we are close to his farm.
Tom slows the truck to a crawl past a small, ramshackle building sitting between a filling station and an abandoned warehouse of some sort. The bright lettering painted on the front window proudly announces that it is Tucker's Saloon. In front of said saloon is a large rambunctious crowd watching something in the center of their circle. With the dust and shouting being kicked up, I can only assume it is two wild dogs fighting or possibly even something bigger, like bears. Are there bears out here? Without mountains, it seems unlikely.
"Christ almighty." Those aren't the only words Tom utters under an angry breath, but the others aren't fit for my diary. It seems we are stopping and I badly need a leg stretch, so I will have to continue this entry after my few minutes of exercise . . .
. . . I am so flabbergasted I can hardly hold the pen. At the same time, there is so much to write I can hardly move the ink along the paper fast enough. I am working hard to mask my restless, flustered state so as not to earn Tom's attention. If he asked me why I was in such a state, I truly would have no answer. It all began when we stepped out of the truck.
I sighed with satisfaction as my legs stretched and the constant battering of my bottom had come to a full stop. Tom climbed out of the truck and ordered me, rudely, to stay put. He could hardly mind me taking a few steps in a circle, which I did and relished each small movement of leg muscles. Meanwhile, Tom lumbered with tense shoulders and clamped fists toward the boisterous crowd.
I startled and nearly rocked back off my heels as he let out a whistle that could have rivaled that of the five o'clock train pulling into the station. Yet, the earsplitting noise wasn't enough to grab the attention of the crowd. They were truly enjoying some sort of spectacle. I mused about what folk in this part of the country might find entertaining when the circle of spectators split open, and a large figure was thrown from the middle, landing fully on his side and kicking up more dust.
Tom whistled again. It startled me once more. I backed up, using the truck as my supportive wall to lean against as I watched with interest. From the cloud of swirling dust, the tossed out man rose like some mythical creature from the earth. He was tall, long in every limb with shoulders that spread the width of two average men.
Tom watched too, only with less amazement and more irritation, as the man, covered with dust, a dark bruise staining his right eye and blood dripping from the side of his mouth, jammed his hat down over his head, pushing his black hair that was long like the rest of him up against the collar of a blue flannel shirt. His impossibly long, thick legs clad in faded denims made quick work of the distance between the crowd (long since dispersed into meandering disappointed spectators) and the truck.
A woman wearing a soft, swishy frock of faded calico called out behind him. "See you later, Nate." He looked back over his shoulder. She blew him a kiss before sashaying back into the saloon with her copper red hair and energetic smile.
The next few moments seemed to cause time to stand still, while the earth spun wildly out of control. I, for no apparent reason, found myself pressing harder against the hot metal side of the truck as the man, the creature who seemed as menacing as he was intriguing, as lethal as he was compelling, skewered me with a gaze so volatile, so emerald green, it caused a warm flush to cover my skin. And yet, I could not move to relieve it with a wave of my hand. The well mannered, ladylike side of me said, Cassie, for goodness sakes look away, pull free from the magnetic power of his gaze. I tried but my efforts were in vain, for as he moved closer, erasing the yards between us, his gaze held mine as if breaking it would rip open the world. From the corner of my eye (all I could spare from the tall, dark figure walking toward me) I saw Tom spin around to return to the truck. No words had been exchanged between the two men, or, if they had, I did not hear them over the unexpected pulse in my ears. Then the man stopped directly in front of me, his chest was still heaving from the apparent brawl. With each deep breath, the muscles strained tight against the worn fabric of his shirt. He stared at me, unflinching with his steely green gaze. In those few seconds, I took in the wide eyes framed by black lashes and dark brows, the straight narrow nose with just enough bump to indicate it had been broken at some point in time, the sharp angles of his jaw where a jagged scar refused to grow the black stubble covering the rest of his chin. My alarm was as great as the inexplicable frisson of heat and nerves racing through me. I'd never been face to face with anyone like him, and as much as I hoped to never face him again, I couldn't fathom having him disappear from my view for good. Never had I experienced such confusion, such an upheaval of emotions.
He stood not more than an arm's distance and stared at me, his jaw twitching just enough to catch my attention. Without pulling his gaze from mine, he reached up and wiped clumsily at the drip of blood on his mouth with the back of his hand. It seemed hours passed but it had only been seconds. I worked hard to convince myself to look away, but I stared straight back at him, not in a battle of wills but because I couldn't drag my gaze from his face. Then he broke the moment in two as he dropped his fierce green gaze to brazenly rake it along my body, not stopping until he reached my shoes. My feet shuffled discretely, modestly toward each other as if somehow he could see right through the crepe fabric of my dress. Another flush of heat nearly overwhelmed me as he lifted his eyes, with the same scrutinizing precision, up my legs along my torso and neck, stopping again at my face.
Then he spoke, still not breaking the hypnotic stare between us. Just three words that should damn well have served to shatter the illusion completely. But I'd been knocked too senseless to pay the words any mind.
"Who's the cupcake?" His deep voice sounded as if someone had poured strong whiskey over a glass of ice, it was rich and cold, gritty and soothing.
Tom replied as if he was announcing that the sky was blue. "This is Cassandra, my wife. Cassie, my brother Nate."
The slightest flinch, the first break in the man's stony expression. He pulled his gaze away from me. I could almost hear a ripping sound, fabric being torn in two, as he turned away. His steady, hard gaze fell on his brother. Tom fidgeted with his hat, then motioned to the back of the truck.
The man's boot heels ground the dirt as he walked to the back of the truck. He looked over the pile of supplies and my one sole piece of luggage, across the wide wood lined truck bed to his brother. "What the hell were you thinking?" Those were his exact words as he hauled himself up over the railing on the truck.
Our gazes clashed once more, lightning fast and lightning powerful, before he sat down, leaned
back against the pile of supplies, stretched his long legs out and pushed the hat over his eyes.
What the hell, indeed.
I took a deep breath and put the script aside. "Sure, no fucking pressure at all," I muttered. "In the words of Nate Biggs, what the hell was I thinking?"
Nineteen
Kinsey
I'd spent two hours in hair and makeup to look as if I'd journeyed over two thousand miles across a hot, dry landscape inside a shambling old truck. I was still being costumed like a rich, east coast woman, but the silky, lush fabric of my traveling dress had been steamed and crumpled to make it look as if I'd been sitting in a truck for hours.
Sometimes, I relished my time in hair and makeup. It was my safe zone, my non-stress zone away from the organized chaos happening on set. It was also the hub for gossip about the crew. This morning Rocky and Gina were dissing about an on-again, off-again love triangle between two members of the lighting crew and a particularly perky caterer's assistant. I sipped my glass of tomato juice (forced upon me by the diet dictator) and relaxed in the salon chair as they exchanged interesting tidbits.
"I think they should just throw caution to the wind and have a big ole threesome," Rocky said as he leaned back to check my lipstick.
Gina laughed, then reached forward and tucked a few more strands of hair behind my ear. The pin curls had disappeared along with the glossy, crisp appearance I had at the start of the journey, back at the studio in front of the mansion facade. I wasn't sure if it boosted my confidence or not. I was normally not a glossy, crisp kind of girl, but I thought it might make me more riveting in the next scene, the scene that the entire success of the movie seemed to hinge upon. Or, at least, that was what Sawyer had not so subtly insinuated.
Jameson's hair and makeup call had been a good hour before mine. We hadn't passed each other once on the lot. I did, however, catch a few moments of him and Harlow standing next to his trailer draped in each other's arms. It wasn't exactly the sight I needed to boost my confidence.
Shelby came in. I was sure she would announce my call time, as if I didn't already have it etched in my brain. Instead, she smiled and told me I looked amazing and that Cassie would think so too. She was the best bestie in the world. She knew reminding me that I had to be on set and on my mark in five minutes would only make me tense, so she ignored the ticking countdown and boosted me with a compliment.
"Shel, I think we should add some pink to that new silver color you're sporting," Rocky suggested. "It would add a little edge to your look."
"Never going to happen." I finished my tomato juice with a flourish and yanked off the plastic bib I was wearing to protect my dress. "Shel hates pink. Her mother used to make her wear pink dresses and bows all the time."
Shelby nodded. "Yep, it's like aversion therapy, only with pink frilly dresses and big bows." She took a deep breath. I knew what was coming next when she gave me the serious Shelby look. "It's that time, Kiki. We need to head over to the set."
I mirrored her deep breath with one of my own. "Yep, let's do this."
"Go get 'em, girl," Rocky and Gina cheered as I followed Shelby out of the trailer. Sawyer's loud voice magnified by his megaphone echoed off the distant mountain range, a squat, raggedy purple set of mountains and hills that ran parallel with the movie set. They would eventually be edited out of the movie to give the illusion that we were in the dusty, drought-plagued Great Plains.
It was hardly the scene for a magical, romantic spark but then a movie set rarely was. Cameras and lighting equipment were placed strategically around the facade of Tucker's Saloon, a pivotal location in the book, the first place Cassie meets Nate. Only Cassie hadn't been surrounded by crew members, tense directors and curious girlfriends. Harlow's white blonde hair and the fact that she moved like a delightful little kitten, perky, yet graceful, made her easy to spot amongst the faces. She had placed herself in a location far enough away from the action but with a clear view of the entire scene. She spotted me and we exchanged glances, no smiles or nods or scowls, just two sets of eyes passing by each other, momentarily pausing, before moving along.
This was normally the time, the walk to set, where I was trying to get into the head of my character, blocking out distractions, focusing on my lines and the emotion to go with them. But the distractions were too much. It didn't help knowing that Sawyer was sitting with tense shoulders and a jaw clenched so tight he could break rocks. I didn't see Jameson but then that was all part of Sawyer's plan. In his mind, spontaneity was key. I wasn't so sure he had that right either. This wasn't like Cassie's first meeting of Nate. He was a complete stranger, a person she never expected to meet. Jameson and I were far from strangers. We'd only talked on the phone once in recent history but we'd been an item, a highly publicized couple. We shared each other's secrets and learned what the other person liked during sex. We'd been intimate, so even if years had passed, those memories could never be erased.
The extras who had been hired to act as the boisterous crowd cheering on the fight in front of the saloon were already on their marks, chatting amongst themselves, waiting for the slate to clap and the director to cue action. Roger was sitting in the truck, his eyes closed, apparently meditating to become Tom Biggs.
"Lock it up," Sawyer said, directing everyone to get quiet. "Kiki, why the hell are you still wandering around like a lost puppy? Get your ass in that truck."
I flashed him a fake smile and opened the door on the truck. I climbed inside. Roger didn't say a word. He was just like the real Tom Biggs, I thought wryly.
I was more relaxed than I expected until the slate clapped loudly and Sawyer said "rolling!" Then adrenaline reared its unnecessary head and my heartbeat sped up. I took a few steadying breaths, hoping to slow it. The comical thing was I had only one short line for the entire scene, yet it was still a pivotal moment. If it didn't go right, everything would be shit.
Tom exits truck. The door slams.
My cue to step out of the truck. I opened the door and stepped out in my kitten heels and rumpled crepe dress. The extras began cheering and yelling.
Tom: Stay put.
Cassie: I just need to stretch my legs. I won't go far.
Cassie walks small circles near truck.
Tom: (Grunts quietly with head shake)
Tom walks toward crowd. Stops and whistles. Cassie startles, then settles against the truck. Crowd splits and Nate is thrown out of circle.
I sucked in a breath and reminded myself to get a grip. I just needed to stare at him with alarm and admiration as if he was the most astounding thing ever to walk the earth. Which with Jameson's spectacular looks wasn't all that much of a stretch.
Nate pushes to his feet. Dusts himself off and pushes his hat down on his head. Stares straight at Cassie as he heads toward her.
Our eyes locked and for an instant I felt that flutter, the one you get when the boy you like is walking toward you at the school dance. I could feel all eyes on us, as if the entire crew, and nosy girlfriend, were holding a collective breath. Jameson strode toward me, looking dreamy and rugged and all the things you'd expect from Nate, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders, in his expression. Our gazes stayed locked, but all of it felt contrived, wrong, anything but magical.
Nate stops in front of Cassie, wipes blood from his lip and looks her up and down. Cassie fidgets under his scrutinizing gaze.
Jameson's eyes, brilliant green like the character, drop down and then lift back up. Then a split second of an exchange between us, only a tiny, fleeting moment that didn't feel contrived or forced. It was two old friends in the same shitty situation feeling each other's pain.
Nate: Who's the cupcake?
Cassie's stunned but speechless.
Tom: This is Cassandra, my wife. Cassie this is my brother, Nate.
Nate flinches slightly, then walks to the back of the truck.
Nate: What the hell were you thinking?
Nate hauls himself into the back of the truck with one m
ore glance exchanged with Cassie before settling down in the bed.
"Cut." Sawyer's voice sounded hard. "Fuck," he muttered before taking his finger off the button on the megaphone. It was broadcast far and loud enough for everyone on set to hear it. A chastised silence fell over the crew as if they had all had something to do with the shitty shot. But it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with Jameson and me. The magic wasn't there.
"Everyone take ten and don't bother to ask me why cuz I'll tell you to fuck off." Those were Sawyer's last words as he slipped off his chair and stomped toward his trailer. Until he stopped in his tracks, spun around and yelled again. "Greene, Slate in my trailer. Now!"
Roger wore the slightest smirk as I shuffled past him. Jameson was a few steps behind me. We couldn't even manage to walk in unison, at least as a pair, to face our angry director.
Harlow called to Jameson from the shade she'd found near the cook's tent. He shook his head. "Not now, Harlow," he said quietly.
Sawyer basically let the door on his trailer shut on us as I reached it. I pushed it open angrily. He had no right to be such a dick. Jameson's footsteps sounded behind me. He stepped into the trailer and shut the door. Sawyer walked to his kitchenette and pulled a bottle of water out of his fridge. He took several gulps while Jameson and I stood like two kids in the principal's office waiting for him to sip his coffee before he laid into us.
