Page 3 of Out of the Gold

Chase gives him the finger.

He walks around the trailer for a few minutes and I study his movements. Pride at my handiwork grows as the costume looks good. Next up, I have to get Chase into the upper-body part of the costume, a bodysuit made of a heavier spandex-rubber material than the pants. I walk over to the closet where two replicas of the bodysuit hang, running my hand over the black material. A gold stylized “8” is located over the heart. Defined six-pack abs plus an Adonis belt are the main feature of this design. Have to give props to Judith—her design really is awesome and the weight of the material is deceptively light. It’ll look fantastic on camera.

“Okay, here’s the next part of your costume.” I give him the wicking undershirt our shopper picked up. Once he’s in that, I shake the bodysuit, which snaps at the crotch. Not the most conventional outfit for a man, but super-practical.

Chase looks at the bodysuit with wide eyes. “You have to be shitting me.”

Mark stifles a snort, mutters a goodbye, and hightails it out of the trailer.

“This better be worth it,” he gripes.

What a primadonna.I shake the bodysuit. Again.

His jaw clenches as he snatches it from my hands, puts it down to the floor and lifts his foot.

My eyebrows reach my hairline. “What are you doing? You put it on over your head.”

He gives me a dirty look as his foot goes through the bodysuit’s opening and lands on the floor with a thud. “I’ve been dressing myself for thirty years. I think I know how to do it by now.” He places his other foot through the opening and yanks it up. His body contorts in all sorts of ways as the material makes its way toward his arms.

When the bodysuit gets stuck mid-abdomen, I shove aside my annoyance and help the thirty-year-old baby. I’m not being altruistic, but how this costume looks will affect how Judith views me.

He grunts as it gets caught again around his arms. I take my time and settle it over the rest of his body with care. I don’t want to rip this, as it took over forty man-hours to create. Due to time constraints, we only have one other for the shoot.

When the material is situated over his upper-half and spandex abs are in place, I motion for him to snap it beneath his crotch. His lip curls downward.

What a baby. “For heaven’s sake, just do it.”

“This outfit is so much different from what I had before.” He motions up and down his body.

His whining is the last straw. “You’re getting paid a shit-ton. Do your job and stop complaining.”

He scowls. “Says the woman in street clothes.”

He steps apart and reaches down, causing me to turn my head. When I hear the telltale third snap, I return my gaze and check out the effect. My God, he is a masterpiece. Shoving this errant reaction away, I give a critical eye to the superhero ensemble before me. You can’t see the snaps at all. They’re obscured by the bulge. The very pronounced bulge. Yay, Judith, way to stroke his oversized ego.

Satisfied with the costume so far—and ignoring a weird flutter in my gut—I turn my attention to the last remaining pieces. All that’s left are his boots, which he shouldn’t complain about. Well, and the mask, which can wait till last. I hand him a pair of socks and the black boots, and point to the chair. Stiffly, he maneuvers to it and sits down with extreme care. Soon after, he’s wearing the footwear.

I offer him the mask—a gold affair that covers up his eyes and nose. He takes it from me and secures it in place, then turns his azure eyes on me. Despite all I know about Charles Wainwright, which is Chase’s real name, I swallow. He has been transformed into the graphic novel character.

Piercing blue eyes.

Tousled black hair.

That damn cleft in his chin.

Body chiseled as if by Michelangelo.

I stifle my reaction. Filming in Florence with all the artist’s masterpieces before we arrived here must’ve gotten to me. I shake my head. “Why don’t you stand up and walk around to get a feel for the full costume?”

He places his hands on his knees and rises. Hisbarehands. Shoot. I forgot the gloves. While Chase walks around, I head over to my bag. Holding out the gloves, I say, “Almost forgot these.”

He glances at my hand and takes the gloves but doesn’t put them on. Whacking the side of his leg with them, he paces through the trailer.

“Does anything pinch?”

“No. It’s okay.” He stops. “Not as heavy as the one before.”

His observation warms my heart. “I’m happy to hear that. It was designed to be as comfortable as possible.”

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