Page 2 of Living Hell

ONE

Iona

“NO ONE EVER TOLD MEdying was easy.” His over-the-top southern drawl was accented with a deathly gurgle.

I stared down at the man. His soft brown curls were sticky and smeared red. He was classically handsome, the perfect love interest. Hence, why he was dying in my lap.

He reminded me of my hometown bully. I hated that guy and this one, well . . . I didn’t feel much better about him.

The smell of cigarettes and coffee—a lethal aroma—puffed in my tear-stained face as I held his head in my hands.

“No, Jim, don’t leave me. You’re all I have in this forsaken, dusty town.”

My head felt heavy as if something was pulling it down. I knew what it was—the dialogue.

“Oh, Darleeee . . .” He reached for me, but it was too late.

His arm fell to the ground. A puff of dirt rose and he closed his eyes. My tear landed on his nose, smearing a trail into his thick makeup. I knew he wanted to itch his nose but couldn’t move.

Play dead, you hack, until the director yells cut.

It was my turn to give it my all. Could I do it? Only time and thoughts of my trainer waving a chocolate bar in front of me as I did burpees could produce the level of pain required for this moment.

“No! Oh, Jim . . . You were my whole being!” I raised my fist to the sky. A little improv on my part, but believable nonetheless. To produce any emotion for the man in my arms took award-winning talent.

“Cut!” a thick, booming voice said about five inches from my ear.

I gritted my teeth as the dead man opened his eyes. “Was it as good for you as it was for me, sweetheart?” He winked, causing some inner furnace to ignite deep in my belly with a strong desire to burn him alive.

“Get off me, Albert. When was the last time you brushed your teeth? Wednesday?”

Sitting up, his hand shot into the air. “Dee Dee!” Groaning when his assistant didn’t instantly appear with his iced coffee, he turned his wrath toward me. “I thought about brushing today, but then I realized we had this pivotal scene and I knew my character wouldn’t brush his teeth. To feel him . . .” His fist pounded his chest before raising and loosening his fingers to snatch the coffee from his assistant, who finally showed up. He gave Dee Dee a scathing look before turning back to me. “My teeth had to suffer.”

More like my nostrils had to be incinerated.

“Everyone take twenty. The producers wish to speak with me,” the director, the once great Chilton Hensley, said before turning and stomping away, muttered obscenities floated in his wake.

The heat was dry like opening an oven door on Thanksgiving, and I was the turkey. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and looked up. Cara stood over me as strands of her auburn bob drifted into her eyes. She shook her head and that perfected smile appeared, comforting me during the awful shoot.

She was overly sweet, knew all the best places to eat in LA, and understood who the right people to meet for potential roles were. In other words, Cara was the perfect assistant.

This was my first starring role in a big-budget Hollywood film. The script for Hell Fire needed work, my costar was a notorious man-child, and the location was brutal.

But the dehydration and daily irritation with the star was all worth it. To work with the director of my dreams and finally get to play a lead . . . I’d do a twenty-four-hour shoot only inhaling Albert’s breath through an oxygen tank if I had to.

Cara’s usual eager smile was replaced with a frown. “Let’s head to your trailer.” This was curious. Getting out of the heat to the cool air-conditioned room of my trailer should light up her wilted features. Maybe the heat was exhausting her? I made a mental note to get her water as soon as possible.

“Yes. And away from you-know-who before he gets bored and decides to play one of his hilarious pranks on me.” I rolled my eyes.

I motioned toward Albert Harston and stood with Cara’s help. My costar believed he was clever, relatable, and fun by playing jokes on people. Only, the pranks weren’t smart or funny. One landed his stunt double in the hospital with third-degree burns on the set of Shadow of Light. Honestly, he’s a liability and lucky to be working on this film.

When I met him at the cold reading my eyes couldn’t help but soak up the tall, trim body dressed in a perfectly molded vintage T-shirt he probably overpaid for and skin-tight jeans. He was hotter in real life than what I saw on screen and I was giddy at a possible on-set fling. I mean, we have to pass the downtime somehow, right?

But when he wrapped the toilet seat in my trailer in plastic wrap and a few other tricks he pulled on the other actors, I wrote him off as a dud. A pretty dud, but a dud nonetheless.

Not brushing his teeth today when he knew we had a scene to shoot where I would be close to his face was just another one of his jokes.

“And out of the heat,” she said in a pitch higher than usual.

---