by Max Monroe
Old Red was a man with character and a strong moral compass. He’d been an important male figure in my life. Hell, he’d been more of a father to me than my old man. Pulse had only ever done right by me.
He was generally a man of few words, but that was because he only ever gave the truth. He didn’t put on airs, and he sure as shit wasn’t easily impressed. And I couldn’t deny that if he felt this movie was the right thing for our town, there was a good reason behind it.
That didn’t mean I didn’t fucking hate every minute of it; just that I couldn’t avoid the inevitable.
Until this movie was done, Hollywood was here to stay.
“I’ll let Glen know there’s been a change for this morning’s shift,” he added, and without any sort of fanfare, Chief sat back down in his old leather chair and got back to working on whatever had had his focus when I’d first walked in.
I’d been dismissed.
And unless I wanted to really get on Old Red’s bad side, I needed to suck it up and face the music.
I’d been hired as a consultant for that stupid fucking movie, and whether I liked it or not, that was the job I’d be doing today.
No police work. No keeping the peace and protecting my community.
Just a fucking Hollywood film based on one of the lowest points in my life.
One that still haunted me to this day.
If this wasn’t the seventh circle of hell, I sure as shit didn’t want to see the real thing.
I hadn’t wasted time changing out of my uniform, fearing if I made any sort of detour, I wouldn’t follow through with actually coming. Of course, now that I was here, my mistake was obvious—surrounded by film crew, actors, actresses, and producers, I stood out like a polar bear on a tropical beach.
Cold’s town hall was a beast of a building that usually appeared more abandoned than anything else. But now that production had set up shop in here, it was a totally different story.
It looked overfilled, bursting at the seams with movie sets, film equipment, and people in full motion—setting up cameras, adjusting lighting, and doing a whole bunch of other shit I knew zilch about.
It was surreal. Our usually quiet town hall might as well have been taken over by aliens.
What used to be an auditorium had been broken apart into a few sets, and one looked uncannily like the station. Every detail had been integrated and cloned, including the goddamn Golden Girls bobbleheads Mona kept on her desk.
It was eerie as fuck. And overwhelming.
Feeling out of place and unsure of where I was supposed to be, I slipped off my jacket and set it over an empty chair while I gained my bearings.
I hated that my eyes searched the room for a mane of red hair and bright green eyes.
And I outright despised the fact that I felt the inklings of disappointment when I didn’t spot her anywhere in my vicinity.
But instead of focusing on the reasoning, I wrote it off as simple discomfort in unusual surrounds. I was just wanting to find at least one familiar face in the giant room.
Right.
“Levi Fox?” a man with a mess of gray hair and scrutinizing brown eyes asked as he stepped around three men setting up camera equipment and closed the distance between us.
I nodded and held back the sarcastic urge to glance down at the nameplate on my chest.
“Boyce Williams,” he introduced himself, and we shook hands. “Producer and current man in charge until our director arrives in a few days.”
Most people would probably say something along the lines of “Nice to meet you,” but I felt no urge for pleasantries with this man—or anyone related to the production of this film, for that matter.
“Levi Fox. Apparently, I’m one of your consultants.”
He smiled, nodded, and before another word left his lips, the walkie-talkie on his hip crackled to life.
“Boyce, we just got word that the props for the bedroom set won’t be delivered for another two days.”
Boyce sighed and held up one index finger in my direction. “Give me just a minute.” He lifted the small walkie-talkie to his lips. “Hugo wants to start filming the bedroom scenes immediately when he arrives, and we need Johnny and Ivy to do a run-through before he gets here. Figure it the fuck out. Order new shit. Whatever you need to do to make sure it’s ready by tomorrow.”
He slid the walkie-talkie back into its holder, and his eyes met mine.
“Sorry about that,” he said, but his words held no apology. It wasn’t hard to deduce Boyce Williams was the type of man who didn’t give many fucks about what anyone else thought or felt. And more importantly, he cared less about inconveniencing someone.
For lack of anything better to do, I just shrugged.
“I’d like to get you acquainted with Johnny Atkins today,” he said. “He’ll be playing, well, you, in the film.” He grinned and gestured for me to follow his lead.
I knew who Johnny Atkins was. Hell, everyone in America knew the so-called “Hollywood Heartthrob.” Women fawned over him like he was some sort of mythical Greek god, and men wanted to be him.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less. The idea of meeting him sounded less appealing than getting all of my teeth pulled.
We walked past a few tables filled with food and refreshments, slowly stopping every so often so that Boyce could order a random fucker around, and eventually made it to the back corner of what used to be the town hall auditorium. Johnny Atkins stood in the center of a small group, smiling and chatting up a few women, who seemed to be more Hollywood Heartthrob groupies than anything else.
“Johnny.” Boyce grabbed his attention, and Johnny turned his back to his fans.
I held back the urge to roll my eyes when a blond woman to his right sighed despondently at the loss of his attention.
The whole idea of fame was a real mindfuck for me. I never understood how people were placed on pedestals for shit like acting, music or sports. Why the fuck was any of it noteworthy?
“This is Levi Fox,” Boyce introduced, and Johnny flashed his movie-star smile—all white teeth without the slightest imperfection. His blue eyes turned up at the corners as he grinned in my direction, but unnaturally, no wrinkles formed. He held out his hand to shake mine. I took it despite my discomfort.
“Nice to meet you, man.”
“You too,” I said, but the words felt like barbwire scraping across my tongue.
Nice was the exact opposite of what this felt like to me.
Annoying? Infuriating? A fucking thousand-pound weight on my shoulders? For sure.
But, nice? Not in the least.
“Levi is ours for the day,” Boyce kindly interjected, and I felt like shoving that fucking walkie-talkie down his throat. “Feel free to pick his brain, ask him any questions you have about his character.”
“Perfect.” Johnny nodded in understanding. “Mind grabbing some coffee and chatting for a bit inside my trailer?”
“Not sure I have much choice,” I responded, and both men laughed. Trust me, it wasn’t in sympathy.
Johnny grinned. “Fantastic.”
Yeah, real fucking fantastic, I thought as I followed his lead. This was the stuff dreams were made of.
I’d been inside Johnny Atkins’s trailer for what felt like an eternity. In reality, it had only been about two hours, but the barrage of questions didn’t make the slice of time go any quicker—or feel anymore enjoyable, for that matter. Question after question shot from his mouth at a rapid-fire pace, all of it related to me, Grace, and the Cold-Hearted Killer.
None of it was shit I wanted to rehash, but for the sake of being amicable and following the chief’s pointed instructions, I gave my best impression of someone who didn’t mind being there.
Besides cop and man with a permanent chip on his shoulder, I guessed acting could be added to my resume. Who would’ve thought?
“So, did you know Walter Gaskins?” he asked what had to be the one hundredth question of the day.
> “Unfortunately, yes,” I answered honestly. “Everyone in Cold knew Gaskins. Hell, most of them knew him because they trusted his medical advice.”
“Was he your doctor too?”
“No.” I shook my head.
“What about Grace’s?”
Anxiety crept up from my stomach and urged my throat to spasm, but I managed to respond with a simple, “Yeah.”
“Damn,” Johnny muttered. “That’s fucked up.”
I nodded. Yeah, and you don’t even know the half of it.
“Did you guys suspect him?”
“I didn’t, no.” But Grace did. Too bad no one, including myself, listened until it was too fucking late. My heart stung from the thoughts, and the taste of regret was potent on my tongue.
It’d been over five years, and still, some days, it felt like it’d just happened yesterday.
Johnny leaned back on the small leather couch inside his trailer, resting the ankle of one leg on the opposite knee. He looked at me as the wheels of his brain spun with what I could only assume were more fucking questions.
I silently hoped he’d switch the focus of his interrogation to something other than the Cold-Hearted Killer and Grace.
“So, you’ve lived in Cold your whole life?”
“Born and raised.”
“Grace too?”
“Yeah. We had been friends since we were kids.”
“And that’s all you were together?”
I quirked a brow. “Huh?”
“Just friends?” He reworded his question. “Nothing more than that?”
Where in the fuck had that come from?
I squinted my eyes and stared directly into his far too friendly gaze. “We were coworkers too,” I answered pointedly, watching his expression closely.
He didn’t flinch or falter, seemingly appeased with my response.
“So, from what I’ve heard, the Fox name is synonymous with money in this town. Is that true?”
I shrugged, admitting, “My father had built a relatively big empire in this town before he died.”
What I didn’t describe was that Lazarus Fox had been the prime example of the power greed held over people. Money had been his sole purpose in life, to the point that he’d been nonexistent for most of mine. Hell, my dad hadn’t really become a semiconstant in my life until my mother left.
But it had been too late.
I’d already considered Chief Pulse more of a father than my own, and luckily, through his astute guidance, he had helped direct my life path from a rebellious teenager always looking for trouble to pass the time to an actual man. Someone who stood up for the right things and made a promise to serve and protect his community.
If only I would’ve held that promise for Grace.
Three knocks to Johnny’s trailer door startled me out of my thoughts.
“Conference room. Two minutes. We’re starting the read-through,” a voice that I knew was Boyce Williams called from the other side of the white metal barrier.
I internally sighed in relief over the idea of a reprieve from this madness while Johnny Atkins did whatever it was actors did.
“Okay,” Johnny called back.
But my relief was momentary.
“And bring Levi along!”
Fan-fucking-tastic. Could this day get any better?
Probably not, I mused.
Johnny smirked and stood from his spot on the leather sofa. “I guess we’ve been summoned.”
“It appears that way,” I said. Sarcasm dripped from my voice, but the Hollywood Heartthrob didn’t notice. He seemed to be impervious to it, most likely stemming from the fact that Johnny Atkins lived inside Johnny Atkins’s world—a place where he was king and anything and everything revolved around him. He’d been nice enough during our conversation, but that was all because it served him to be.
His mannerisms were cocky, his movie-star smile shone with egocentricity, and most importantly, he spoke to those around him like they were beneath him. When he’d asked his assistant to grab us coffee, he’d said it in a way that made her feel like she was the lucky one in the scenario.
As I followed his lead out of the trailer and toward town hall, I noted that his strides were leisurely. He was confident in the fact that everyone waited on him, and he needn’t feel pressured to rush.
I silently wondered if this was how Johnny Atkins handled everything in his life.
Alarmingly, he reminded me a lot of my father. Lazarus Fox didn’t wait for anyone, but he had absolutely no qualms about making someone wait on him. My dad had been that way his whole life, and it wasn’t just in business; it had bled into his everyday life as well. Even to his own wife and kid.
A vision of fiery red and mesmerizing green filtered past my eyes as we stepped into the second-floor conference room. Ivy sat in the center seat around the long table, surrounded by fellow actors, crew members, and Boyce Williams, but she was the only one I could focus on—her and the two empty seats directly across from her. I hoped one of them wasn’t intended to be my own.
She was engrossed in the script in her hands, her rosebud lips pursed and moving faintly as she read the words on the pages.
I hated how much I loved the sight of those lips. I could imagine them in a thousand different scenarios, feel them in a million different ways, and not a single one of either would be given anything less than an R rating.
“Johnny, Levi,” Boyce called toward us from his spot at the head of the table. Of course, he pointed toward the two empty seats at the center.
Internally, I groaned. This was all I needed, sitting directly across from the one woman I couldn’t stand but seemed incapable of keeping my eyes—or hands—off of.
Instantly, Ivy’s eyes lifted from her script and met mine. We stared at each other for a long moment, neither one of us giving anything away, until I broke the contact and engrossed myself with settling into the seat beside Johnny.
But the break in contact was only brief, and when I looked across the table, her eyes met mine again. A million emotions crossed through the green pools. Irritation. Confusion. And something else I couldn’t quite figure out.
I silently wondered what she was seeing in mine.
Generally, since I’d grown up and gained control of the rebel inside me, I was the kind of man who could keep his emotions close to the vest. But ever since Ivy Stone had stepped into Cold, she’d managed to bring out things in me I hadn’t even known were possible.
After Grace, all I wanted was to stay numb.
But Ivy seemed hell-bent on making me feel too fucking much.
About Grace. About myself. About her.
Despite the shit I’d given her about being selected for the role based solely on appearance, I knew that wasn’t really the case. The red hair and green eyes were a match, but that was the end of the road. Grace’s features had been hard and cut, in contrast to her girlie interior. And aside from being a cop, she was all pink and hearts and flowers.
Ivy’s features were softer—perfect gentle lines and subtle slopes. Her body was petite like Grace’s, but much more of an hourglass, and she seemed to be all woman rather than girl. The only thing they really had in common was the power to make me vulnerable.
“Well, hey there, Ivy,” Johnny said beside me, his voice full of cocky confidence and oozing the familiar charm I’d overheard him unleash on the women who’d been standing around him when we’d first met.
“Hi, Johnny,” she responded, a soft, friendly smile cresting her lips. “How are you?”
I silently wondered if they’d already been in a movie together, and I wanted to gut-punch myself when I had the urge to utilize Google when I got home later.
That was the last thing I needed to do.
I didn’t want to know more about her, and the less time I let her consume my thoughts, the better off I’d be.
“Better now that I’m sitting across from you,” he cajoled, and the inklings of irritation started to slip into my veins
. When it reached my fingers, I clenched my fists under the table.
I wished I could’ve said the idea of Johnny schmoozing Ivy didn’t bother me.
I wished I could’ve been oblivious to it all and not been looking across the table for her reaction to his words.
But wishes and reality were two different fucking things.
Ivy’s friendly smile didn’t falter, but she didn’t say anything in response to that. Her eyes flicked to mine before she averted her focus to the head of the table where Boyce was clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“Everyone, this is the real-life Levi Fox,” Boyce announced and pointed directly toward me. “He’ll be spending a lot of time with us to make sure we’re not fucking things up too badly,” he teased with smirking lips. “I expect everyone to go out of their way to make him feel comfortable on set.”
Several people at the table looked in my direction and offered accommodating nods and smiles. A few even quickly introduced themselves. It was too many names, too many faces to remember, but I did my best to act amenable.
“All right,” Boyce announced. “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, let’s start our first official read-through for Cold. Hugo will be in town in a few days, and we all need to be on the same page for when we start filming. And I need to get everyone up to speed on the script changes.”
I stared down at the script sitting in front of me.
And it was the sight of that very script that really brought it all home.
Hollywood was really making a movie based on something that had happened in my life. No doubt, the worst experience of my life. One I still hadn’t found closure from. And now, I sat in a room full of actors and crew members who would be recreating it as a story.
My fucking story.
“Everyone refer to page fifteen,” Boyce said, and the sounds of rustling paper echoed inside the room. “This is the first scene at Ruby Jane’s, and you’ll see we’ve made several dialogue changes, not only for Grace’s character, but for Levi’s as well.”
Grace.
God, just hearing her name cross Boyce’s lips flooded my veins with anxiety.
