Scene 29

Elliott slammed me into the moss-covered stone so hard it made my teeth rattle.

"I knew you'd put up a good fight," he hissed against my ear, his breath reeking of something sour. I clawed at him, digging my nails into the forearm he'd shoved against my neck, desperate to escape the pressure of his body. I found everything about him repugnant. His laugh. His lips. The way he so easily overpowered me. No matter what way I twisted, I couldn't escape his hands tearing at my clothing. He pressed me harder into the wall. "Stop pretending you don't like it."

Beginning to panic, I tried to tell him to fuck himself, but he cut off my protest as he crushed his mouth against mine. It enraged me. The sudden, unwelcome intrusion—the bitter taste of his tongue, his cold fingers forcing their way beneath the winter layers of fabric. Finding strength I didn't know I had, I managed to shake loose an arm, and without thinking, hauled back and struck him. Hard.

"Cut!"

Oh. My. God.

Struggling to recover my breath, I stumbled back a step, horrified. That hadn't been in the script. But then, none of it had. Elliott and L.R. had decided it would be best to leave the scene improvised. Something, I discovered, Aaron hadn't protected me from in my contract.

"What do you mean there's no intimacy coordinator?" Sophie had ranted when I called her a few days earlier after landing in Scotland. "This all should have been stipulated in your nudity rider."

The provisions written into my intimacy scenes covered a lot of things. Angles—as in, nipples or no nipples. I'd insisted on the latter. It was one thing for the movie to open with an ultrawide shot of a stark naked Addison Riley stumbling through the snow of a nuclear winter, but it was another entirely to have the whole world become acquainted with the color of my areolae. Aaron had spelled out the length of time my unclad body could be shown in a continuous shot—four seconds—and even specified the types of modesty garments to be provided. Who knew a Hibue could make Grady Dunn look like a Barbie doll?

When signing the contract, I'd felt like we covered all the bases. But that was before discovering Elliott Fleming was a complete asshole.

In Greenland, my more sensitive scenes had gone off without a hitch. I'd been nervous—the most skin I'd ever shown on camera was my calf in the Gillette commercial—but between the crew and Grady, I'd felt very protected. But then, part of that reason was because Elliott hadn't been there.

We'd shot all of his scenes in Nuuk in the first ten days. His schedule was the priority—that had been made abundantly clear—and before the second week was out, he'd boarded his private plane and jetted off to Africa, where he was starring in an adventure film.

His departure had come as an immense relief to me. I'd have rather shot a hundred simulated sex scenes with Grady in the arctic blast of winter than filmed a single frame with Elliott in the comforts of a studio.

I loathed everything about him. Shooting with him these last three days had only reenforced the validity of my hatred.

Our present scene together wasn't a love scene—it was an assault. One I was grateful L.R. had kept in tune with the book. The novels were adult-themed, but they hadn't been explicit. But it was no surprise the script had placed more on-screen emphasis on the tumultuous love triangle. I got it, sex and violence sold—this was Hollywood, after all.

Swords and dragons may have lured viewers to Game of Thrones , but it was the titty shots and gory fight scenes that kept them returning for more.

So, I was relieved when I read the script and found they'd left the majority of Oliver's assault off-screen, implied the way Margaret Gilles had written it. But I still hadn't realized just how violating it would feel to film the lead-up to the insinuation.

A fact indicated by the trickle of blood dripping from Elliott Fleming's lower lip.

Holy shit . I was about to get fired.

"I'm—" I started, with no real sense of what I was going to say, but was saved by L.R., who had burst to my side, his face barely visible beneath the cinched hood of his rain jacket.

"Brilliant!" He pounded my shoulder with a gloved hand. "We're going to roll with that. Beautiful, Kameryn." He looked to where Elliott was dabbing blood off his chin. "You going to live?"

Elliott worked his jaw, his eyes fixed on me. "Glad my contract included dental insurance."

L.R. was unperturbed, calling for makeup. "Get him cleaned up, will you?" he clapped his hands. "Last looks! Let's go, people! Moving on!"

"You know," Elliott whispered as we set up for the continuation of the scene, "you even hit like a pussy."

I dug my dirty fingernails into my palm. I may have gotten away with it once, but I doubted I'd get away with slugging him a second time. I was just grateful L.R. was satisfied with the take. We'd filmed it at least a dozen times.

For the next two hours, I crawled through the mud-covered grass of the dilapidated castle courtyard, feeling the weight of Elliott's boot pressing me into the saturated ground. It was the last shot scheduled on the call sheet, the end to the nightmare of this scene, and there'd been more than one time where I'd wondered who was crying—me or Addison Riley?

"Cut! Let's call that a wrap!" L.R. finally hollered through the north Scotland drizzle, drawing cheers of Thank God, I'm freezing , and Who's up for a pint? from various crew members.

I pushed myself upright, making sure the drenched tatters of my threadbare shirt were still covering what they were supposed to, and was surprised by Elliott's outstretched hand. I ignored it, forcing my shaky legs beneath me, not wanting to linger on my knees too long for fear of whatever comment he would fling at me.

"Solid work."

I thanked the costume standby for the warm jacket handed to me and scrubbed fifteen-hundred-year-old soil from my face, ignoring Elliott. Not once had he offered me so much as a word of encouragement. I wasn't about to let him compliment me now.

The time for that had passed.

Three months ago I would have sold my soul to gain his approval. It had been without question that he and Grady were two of the most talented actors I'd ever witnessed work. When paired with one another, what they created was simply genius. And I knew, when we filmed our scenes together, some of that magic rubbed off on me.

But I was past the point of hoping to impress Elliott. We'd wrapped up our major scenes together, and other than some minimal studio shoots and whatever pickups would be needed, our work together on this film was finished.

The crew had it right. It was time for a pint.

"Excuse me," I brushed by him, beginning my trudge up the steep switchbacks toward civilization.

An hour later, showered and dressed in what practically felt like summer clothes compared to what I'd been wearing in Greenland, I stepped out of my trailer to find Elliott waiting for me.

It had finally stopped raining, the midafternoon sun highlighting the cliffs overlooking the ruins of Dunnottar Castle.

"Am I needed for something?" I asked, trying to appear unbothered, but missed the first step of my trailer ladder and almost landed on my face.

"Careful," he caught my arm as I stumbled to find my feet. "It would be a drag to break something now."

"Wouldn't you just love that?" I snatched my arm away. "Maybe you could convince L.R. to find someone to replace me?"

Circumventing him, I headed for the path that wound along the cliffside down to the town of Stonehaven, where we were staying for the week. It was a beautiful walk, and I decided, after spending the day being dragged through the mud by my hair, and slammed up against fourteenth-century castle walls, I could use the time to unwind and stretch my aching limbs.

"Can I give you a ride, Kam?"

I didn't look back. "Nope."

My heart sank when I heard steps jogging up behind me.

"Can I walk you to town, then?"

I stopped. We were fifteen feet from the edge of the cliff. Maybe he'd trip. It was at minimum a three-hundred-foot drop. Most of his scenes were shot. Anything we had to reshoot could be handled with CGI.

I sighed. "What do you want, Elliott?"

"To be friends."

He probably could have seen my tonsils the way my mouth hung open. I couldn't even convince the muscles of my jaw to close it. "Are you drunk?" I finally managed. I almost hoped it was the case. He couldn't possibly be so disillusioned to think, after what he'd put me through, we could somehow now be buddies. I mean, three hours ago, he'd driven his knee into the small of my back and whispered ‘imagine how fun this would be in real life,' out of range of the microphones.

I had the urge to spit in his face, the way he'd ad-libbed doing the same to me earlier in the morning.

"No," he said. "I'd just like to put this all behind us."

"Behind us?" I could feel my heartbeat accelerating. " Behind us ? Just one word from you and—" I snapped my fingers "—bam, everything's A-okay, just like that?" I laughed, almost delirious, taking a step forward.

He didn't need to trip off the cliff. A good push would do it.

"Do you have any idea how you've made me feel? What you've put me through? Do you know, every actress on the planet thinks I'm the luckiest girl alive, because what could possibly be better than landing the role of the most beloved heroine in the twenty-first century? And then—to have the privilege to star with the great Elliott Fleming! What could possibly be better than that ?"

I hadn't realized I was shouting. I took a glance around. There were still crew members mulling around the castle down below. I lowered my voice. "Do you know what a single kind word from you could have done for me?"

He nodded, unsmiling. "Yes. Gotten you fired."

I snapped my eyes back from where I'd looked out over the bay. "What?"

"You were out of your league, Kameryn. Not with talent—you're very talented, that was never a question—but you wouldn't have made it. It was obvious after the first few minutes of the read-through."

"And you thought somehow it would help me if you turned into an absolute bastard?" I asked, incredulous.

A part of me knew I was toeing the line—this was still Elliott Fleming, still the headlining actor, still the man who had dangled my job above me like a carrot on a string, threatening to cut the cord at any time. But the other part of me could hear all the horrible, degrading things he'd whispered, the ways he made me feel inferior, the person responsible for all the nights I promised myself I'd quit the next morning.

"Do you know how much I've hated every minute working with you?" I continued when he didn't immediately respond.

"Then it worked, didn't it?"

"What?"

"You hate me, don't you?"

I laughed. "You're unreal."

"Listen Kameryn, you were so nervous and so overwhelmed. I knew you needed something else to think about, to help you stay grounded—even if it meant turning your anxiety into rage directed at me. I didn't want to see you fail."

"Ah, got it. The old I only hit you ‘cause I love you theory, huh?"

"It wasn't exactly a cakewalk for me, either!" It was the first time he broke the even keel of his tone. "But I knew MacArthur would shred your contract the first week if something didn't change—and change quickly. So when I talked to Grady—"

"—to Grady! Grady knew?"

God damn it. I could feel the tears threatening.

"Yes." His hazel eyes held mine without blinking. "And L.R., too."

I whipped my gaze away, returning it to the water. I couldn't believe this. I couldn't believe him. "I must have been the laughing stock of the whole crew."

"No one else knew, Kameryn. I swear it. And none of us were laughing at you."

"You really want me to believe that?" I heard my voice crack. I swore to everything that was holy I was going to fling myself off that cliff if I cried.

He took a step closer, daring to set a hand on my elbow. "We've made a good film, Kam. You're an incredibly talented artist. You just needed a little help."

The first fat tear slid down my cheek, disappearing into the collar of my coat. I didn't budge. I'd apparently lied to all that was holy. The water in Stonehaven Bay was way too cold for a plunge, anyway.

"I get it if you won't forgive me. Like I said, believe it or not, it wasn't exactly an enjoyable experience for me, either."

I slowly extracted my arm from his hold, taking several steps away. I didn't doubt he was genuine. Even he wasn't so great an actor to pull off a performance like this. And if he was, well… an Oscar awaited him.

"I'd like to walk back alone," I said, not looking his direction. I didn't know how to feel. Or what else to say.

"Okay." He stood back, respecting the distance I'd put between us. "If you want to grab a drink sometime—I owe you something that isn't practically jet fuel." A smile crept into his voice. "Or, if you decide you'd rather take another swing at me, I'll give you another shot for free." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him touch his lower lip. "I lied earlier—you've got a hell of a left hook, Kingsbury."

I almost laughed, but I wasn't quite there yet.

Two hours later, I sat at Downie Point, looking out over Strathlethan Bay. I'd spent the walk scrutinizing every last interaction I'd had with Elliott—from the first time I met him at the read-through, where he'd been charming and sincere, to our night out at Bartholemew's , where everything had changed—coming full circle to his proclamation on the cliffside. I decided he was telling the truth—and was probably right. I'd have been canned the first week of filming if left to my own devices.

It didn't make me feel what he'd done was justified, but I did understand it. He hadn't just been looking out for me—he'd helped himself, in turn. He cared about this film. I'd never seen him feature in anything less than sublime. He needed me to be his equal. And, despite the misery he'd inflicted on me, he may have saved my career in the meantime.

I wasn't sure I wanted to be his friend. I didn't really know who he was. But, at least I hadn't pushed him off the cliffside.

So that was a start.

As the sun disappeared behind the rolling hills, the ocean turning to ink a hundred feet below me, I pulled out my phone, checking the time.

It was almost eight PM, which meant it was already early morning in Yokohama.

I was surprised I hadn't heard from Dillon. She'd have raced almost twenty-four hours earlier. I'd sent her a text that I knew she was going to crush it, and then turned off my phone to keep my head in the game, aware that today's shooting schedule was going to be taxing. But I'd expected to have a message from her by now, and it worried me that I didn't. If she came in second again…

Opening Twitter , I lingered, listening to the herring gulls settling in along the shoreline.

She'd been intensely focused these last four weeks, training harder than I imagined was good for her. But it wasn't my place to ask. She knew what she needed to do, and she knew her body. And I knew this race had a lot more riding on it than points and prize money.

She hadn't said much, but knowing the French girl was Henrik's student had to be eating her alive. I'd never been one to wish ill on a stranger, but I admit, I secretly hoped the woman had woken with an extreme case of Montezuma's revenge.

Resigned to look, I pulled up the account for World Triathlon. I clicked on the video of the podium celebration for the professional women, certain it would be Dillon in the middle.

It wasn't.

Again, it was Elyna Laurent. But this time, it wasn't Dillon standing to her right. Or even her left.

A herring screamed in the distance and a glacial chill worse than anything I'd experienced in Greenland slid up my spine. I minimized the video and pulled up the race results. Fifty-five competitors in the Elite Women's start. I scrolled. Second from the bottom I found her name. Dillon Sinclair. Time: DNF.

Did Not Finish.