IAN
Ghosts.
There are so many of them roaming the base and scarfing down breakfast burritos from the food truck.
I’ve arrived at the set with plenty of time to spare, call sheet rolled and wrinkled in my crushing grip as I take in the trailers and trucks, crew members scrolling their iPads, and of course, the extras dressed as ghosts.
I blink around to take it all in and smile, growing more enamored by the buzzing atmosphere.
Creativity floats around us like magic fairy dust, and it’s all more intoxicating than the five beers I had last night with a guy named Willis while we played Jenga.
I check the time and note I still have ten minutes before I need to be in costume, so I move to the side and out of the way, where I unroll my call sheet and skim down to my name. When I first held one of these sheets, I got so overwhelmed with the long list of crew members, scene descriptions, production team, and other relevant people that I needed a shot of whiskey.
It felt like we were teaming up to solve world hunger or something.
Then, I quickly figured out that not every box on the call sheet applies to me, so I zero in on my parts alone. Makes it much easier to focus.
Once I scan the scenes we’re filming today and refresh my memory, I glance up to the makeup slot to check if I recognize the name of the new person, but it just says TBD. Humming, I put the pieces of paper in my backpack and stuff my hand into my pocket as I make my way to the wardrobe trailer, a gust of cold wind biting at my cheeks.
I hope whomever Sarah got for makeup can cover my red nose, or else this movie’s turning into a holiday film starring Rudolph.
As I walk, I check my phone for any new messages from Annalisa. She texted me a few times last night like nothing’s changed, but I didn’t respond.
How many other ways can I tell her it’s over?
Would telling her about Richard’s warning help? She cares about this movie and her career as much as I do, so it could work to tell her the director will be pissed if we don’t get our personal shit together.
Then again, it would probably fuel her advances, instead. After I saw the darker side of her the night she snuck into my hotel room, I wouldn’t put it past her to use this pressure as leverage over me.
This is a damn nightmare.
Patrick exits the trailer, decked in a dark suit. It’s his costume for his role as the evil spirit who comes to manipulate my character. He looks nothing like the guy in a bright salmon shirt and khakis from our table read yesterday.
“Good morning.” I nod, standing to the side to let him by.
“Brock.” He gives me a tight-lipped smile, then dips his head back down to the script in his hands, his eyebrows furrowed.
I watch him as he continues reading and walking, almost bumping into a pair from the camera crew moving equipment into position. Without glancing up, Patrick moves out of the way at the last second like he has a third eye.
I’d think the whole thing odd, especially his short interaction with me, but I’ve come to know that’s how he is. Focused and driven, whether we’re discussing dialect coaches or preparing for the first day of filming.
I disappear into the trailer and welcome the instant heat that warms my cheeks. “Morning, Dola.”
The short woman shuffles some hangers of clothes around, then locks gazes with me. “You and your smirk. No wonder Annalisa’s obsessed with you.”
“Now you’re just being too kind,” I joke, but inwardly, I cringe.
Dola giggles and shoves a T-shirt at my chest, and I wrap my hand around it. She chews on her bottom lip as she reaches for my pants, and I thank her before disappearing behind a curtain to change.
Once I’m fully dressed, she doesn’t do much else since I’m supposed to be as plain as they come. Finished with me, she sends me on my way, but not before she kindly teases, “Don’t break too many hearts today. We have ghosts to deal with.”
Winking, I check my phone and confirm I’m still on time. I also check a new message from my mother, who wishes me good luck on my big day. I text her back and receive an immediate response that she’s so proud of my brother and me both.
It’s as if he’s standing over her shoulder and wanting to make sure he doesn’t go unnoticed.
I scoff under my breath and tuck my phone away as I reach the trailer for hair and makeup. I’m just about to climb the few steps up to the door when a flash of red catches my eye. Turning to fully face the familiar mane of thick and wavy hair, I note a unique shade of bright red with almost blonde streaks.
The morning rays cast a glow around her in a brilliant aura. When she tosses her long strands over one shoulder and glances in my direction, my knees almost give out. Like I’m suddenly too heavy to stand on them.
I know her.
Wait. How is she here?
It can’t be.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, stopping a foot away from me and blinking faster than flashing disco lights.
My body comes alive, even though she asks the question with a mix of shock and disgust—emphasis on the latter.
But that’s not what I focus on.
I continue staring at her like she’ll vanish if I blink. I haven’t seen or talked to her in years, and yet, it’s unmistakably her.
Madison Taylor.
Once upon a time, I spent night after night contemplating what I’d say to her if I ever saw her again. And now’s my chance.
Except my mind is blank.
Her gaze darts around us, bouncing to the trailer, to Sarah who whizzes by as she rambles on the phone, then to the asphalt.
Until she finally peers up at me.
“This is your movie.” She says it as if understanding just dawned. Like some piece of an unknown puzzle finally landed in place.
“That’s right, gorgeous,” I manage, then clear my throat. “Madison Taylor,” I say in awe, sweeping my gaze over her.
She was tall in high school, but she’s even taller now, with long, slim legs to boot. Her breasts grew two cup sizes, and her eyes are a deeper green than they were at seventeen.
She’s every bit a woman and every man’s wet dream.
“Ian Brock,” she says, and I instinctively wince. Why does it bother me that she didn’t use my real name?
Her expression brightens the longer she stares at me, and a slow grin spreads as she says, “How cool is it that you’re an actor now?” She reaches out and squeezes my bicep, nodding her approval.
Instantly, I wish I wasn’t wearing this thick coat so that I could feel more of her. Would her touch be warm and familiar?
“And you’re so fit. Then again, you always were—star football player and all.”
I shrug, easing into my stance as I try to reacquaint myself with this spitfire I once knew. “You remember how athletic I was on the football field?” I wink, using my signature charming tone.
“I do,” she says and drops her voice to a seductive whisper. “Will you be doing any stunts during production? Any flips? Hanging by a rope, perhaps?”
I lean in, cupping my hand around one side of my mouth like I’m telling her a secret. “I have a stunt double, but I will be briefly suspended in the air for one shot. I’m—”
“Great. I hope you fall on your ass,” she snaps, losing every bit of amused mischief she just held.
“What?” I frown, extremely confused.
She brushes past me, bumping my shoulder with hers with extra force like she wants to hurt me herself instead of waiting.
I jump when she slams the door, and surprisingly, it jostles my memory. “Oh, right,” I mutter as more than one incident pops into my brain.
There’s a slew of reasons she’d be pissed at me, and I wouldn’t blame her for any of them.
Madison Taylor would be considered the one who got away by anyone from a Hollywood screenwriter to a Nashville country singer, but there’s so much more to the story.
I skip to catch up to her and fling the door of the trailer open, then skim over the line of chairs and lights across the top of the mirrors. The counters are white, as are the walls, but the chairs are black, giving the room a modern minimalist appearance.
But I don’t think it was on purpose. Just practical and reasonable.
Neither of which I would use to describe Madison right now.
She jerks a swiveling chair to face a mirror as I enter, and the space seems more cramped with the three of us—me, Madison, and her rage.
“Remember IBS?” I start, easing into a self-deprecating memory to lighten the mood as I near her like I would a dicey science experiment. “That Collin Johnson was a real clever thinker in high school.”
“Oh, he wasn’t the only one to figure out that Ian Bowman Sucks is also a bowel movement acronym,” she says, her tone sarcastically sweet. “Oh, wait. It’s Ian Brock now.”
“Shit. You’re still mad about junior bio.”
“Mad that you flung a worm at Joey Tanner but missed, and it landed in my hair, and then I had to wash it repeatedly and eventually ended up chopping off six inches because I could still smell the formaldehyde?” She clutches her chest dramatically and deadpans, “Now why would such a thing piss me off? Really, I’m just glad you weren’t our quarterback, because that arm of yours wouldn’t have done us any favors.”
“Wow.” I blink. “You remembered the word formaldehyde—you’re beyond pissed.”
She twists her lips, and her eye twitches. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m too dumb to remember the name of a chemical?”
Frowning, I lurch forward. “No! That’s not at all what I’m saying.”
“It sure sounds like it is.”
“Biology just wasn’t your best subject. You were better at English and history.”
“Gee, it’s mighty gracious of you to give such a compliment.” Her Texas drawl grows deeper as the red in her neck spreads up to her nose like she’s cold.
“Lord, you’re just as stubborn as I remember,” I muse, recalling the whole scene of the worm incident like it happened yesterday. Then more memories of Madison and me flood my mind. It all feels like it just occurred, especially now that the shock has worn off.
I mean, I never expected to see her again, let alone run into her on a movie set.
But damn, here she is, sharp tongue, sass, and all. She’s the slice of home I needed, even though the only thing she’s done so far is insult me and wish me harm.
Again, as I mentally take note of the long list of things she could be mad about, I don’t blame her.
“Sit.” Arching an angry brow, she points to the seat. “This is my first time doing makeup for this sort of thing, but I was given strict and detailed instructions on the tight schedule—although nowhere in the middle of all that was I told I’d be working with you. Nonetheless, we need to get moving.” She checks her watch, then grabs a bag and unzips it to reveal brushes, glass bottles of foundation, and other items.
I do as I’m told and sit, but I can’t stop myself from squirming. Since when did makeup trailer seats become so uncomfortable? “I didn’t know this is the line of work you’re in.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” she clips, holding on to her grudge like I once did a football.
But as she leans close to stuff napkins inside the collar of my shirt to keep it from getting dirty, the fire in her green eyes engulfs me.
And not all of it is from anger toward me.
It’s like the dark whiskey-colored flecks in her irises are speaking to me—to say they’re not mad, but sad.
When she applies the first of a lightweight foundation to my skin, her nostrils flare, and I tense as her warm breath hits my lips, reminding me of the way she used to kiss me.
She was so passionate, and it wasn’t because we were teenagers in wild lust. She was insatiable in every sense of the word—spontaneous, strong-willed, sexy.
After that worm landed in her hair, she leapt over the table toward me, claws out and vengeance in her soul before she pulled out the slimy—and very dead—creature from her head.
All she wanted was to make me pay, which she kept repeating under her breath during the rest of class.
I paid too.
It happened after football practice when I was tired, and my guard was down. I reached my car and opened the door without peering inside first, and wouldn’t I know it? Madi had put a cake in the driver’s seat, and I sat on it.
To further humiliate me, the entire football team saw, and Collin Johnson recorded the whole thing. The bastard lived to embarrass me.
I had to hand it to Madi, though—it was hilarious.
And one of the many reasons I fell for her.
“Stop smiling,” she cuts into my thoughts. “The crinkles around your lips are leaving creases in the makeup.”
“Your wish is my command.”
But my attempt at a joke does nothing to penetrate her cool expression as she smooths in the areas above my cheeks, then grabs a brush.
“What about the time I crashed my dirt bike into your garage door? Is that why you’re mad?”
She sighs. “That would be why my father still hates you. It didn’t help that you drank half his whiskey afterward.” A ghost of a smile plays across her pink lips, and I lean forward for a better view of it.
It takes me back.
Back to the fun we used to have—damn, the good ole days, indeed.
Madi quickly drops any sign of a grin like it was an accident to begin with and straightens her posture as she rips the napkins from my collar. “You’re all set,” she says, and she might as well have told me to eat shit.
Grabbing her wrist, I stop her and stand, rising to my full height, which is only a couple inches taller than her. I rake my gaze over her face, searching for the girl I used to know, and she’s there. In every subtle freckle sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.
In the curve of her lips.
The wide eyes that constantly look like they’re amazed by the world.
Her sweet perfume wraps around all my senses, and I inhale my fill like it’s calling to me—I’m mesmerized.
I open my mouth to ask her to meet me for dinner later so that I can start to make everything up to her, but the door to the trailer swings open, making us both jump.
“Hi.” A young woman enters, waving and slinging her bag onto the minisofa along the opposite wall. “I’m Searcy, the makeup artist’s assistant,” she says, digging into the bag.
“Right.” Madison pulls her arm from my grasp to shake Searcy’s hand, and she introduces herself as well. She glances back at me, checking me over, then points to the chair. “Wait. This side looks darker. Sit.”
As we get back to work, I eye Madison while she and Searcy exchange tips and instructions, as well as war stories of their industry.
I don’t get a word in as more people file in and take the seats lining the wall of the trailer, bright bulbs illuminating us all, but it’s like I’m invisible.
“Okay.” Madison drops the brush onto the counter and stands upright.
As I rise from the chair, Searcy goes to the other side to keep working like she’s playing duck, duck, goose with the actors.
“So, listen…” I wipe my suddenly clammy palms down my pants.
Madi’s nostrils flare as she stares at me in the mirror, and I spin around, grasping her wrist again.
But I don’t have a chance to finish what I want to say this time, either.
The door to the trailer opens again, and my last chance to ask Madi to dinner floats out into the breeze.
Annalisa steps inside, takes one look at my hand on Madi’s wrist, and scrunches her face, anger etched into every moisturized feature. “What the hell is going on here, Ian? Is she why you don’t want to date me anymore?”
I grind my jaw.
She pins her stare on Madi. “I’m Annalisa Hughes. But I’m sure you already know that. And you are?” Her deep and sudden inhale is loud, and the trailer grows tense. “You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
She continues rambling, but I don’t make out what she says. Madison’s cheeks are red, and she purses her lips like they’re zipped closed.
We might not have seen each other in over ten years, but I can still read her. And she obviously wants to tell Annalisa off but is afraid of the consequences.
“Ian, are you trying to make me jealous? Because you know I hate games, but this one might be working. I’m super—”
“Listen, Ian and I are n—”
“We’re together!” I blurt, holding our joined hands up like that’s all the proof Annalisa needs.
The other four people in the trailer snap their attention to us.
Annalisa gasps, and Madi turns her narrow glare toward me, mouthing, “What the fuck?”
I force a smile and tighten my grip on her hand, silently begging her to go along with this. I turn back to my co-star-slash-stalker and take a leap. “We’re old friends”—not a lie, actually—“and we reconnected now that I’m in New York, which is where she lives.” Also not a lie. “One thing led to another, and we’re dating again.” I shrug, still holding Madison’s warm hand in mine.
Annalisa crosses her arms, studying both of us like she’s looking for any tiny flaw in my story.
After a brief pause, I lean over and kiss Madi’s cheek, inhaling her sexy scent one more time and whispering in her ear for good measure, “Please. I’ll explain later.”
She schools her grimace and turns toward Annalisa. “It’s so great to meet you,” she bites out, her face even redder than before. “Ian, sweetie,” she says, turning to me. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Can’t wait. I’ll call you about dinner tonight.” I wink, which earns me a subtle you-will-die-in-your-sleep glower.
She grins so hard that it causes her to squint, and she appears to be in pain.
Just like I will be by the time she’s done with me.
As I leave the trailer, I just know Madison’s going to get me back for this like she did the worm incident. But worse. I mean, she’s had over ten years to plot my demise, and now I’ve given her more than enough bait to carry out each excruciating revenge act.
In all fairness, I did just fucking ask her to pretend to date me so that my delusional co-star would get off my back. I didn’t plan on this, but it could work.
It seemed like Annalisa bought it and will finally end the insanity of constantly texting me.
We’ll be able to film in peace and avoid compromising our careers in the process.
But there’s one major problem with all this—Madison Taylor.
I don’t know the when, what, or how, but she is definitely going to make me pay for this.
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