Page 5 of Beach Reads
I sit back on my heels. Push the wet hair off my forehead.
Above me, one angry lifeguard punches another. There’s a dullthumpand a ragged growl, but no crunch of bone. No curse words.
Not real.
“Hey!” I yell, pushing to my feet. “Cut it out.” A cameraman circles us slowly as I jab a finger at the weeping extras still hugging each other at my feet, glaring around the other lifeguards. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”
They all mutter and shake their heads and look bitter. Nice try, Hanson, but this argument continues into the next episode.
And for a split second, I can see it: every single day stretching into the future, all exactly the same. Thousands more lines delivered in the same tone; thousands more sprints into the sea. The same recycled plots, over and over. More head tosses, more makeup, more making out with my own damn thumbs.
I can’t keep doing this. Not forever.
Maybe not even for the rest of the summer.
I’ve never been so relieved to hear Franklin yell, “Cut.” Then: “Alright, we’ll go again with camera two.”
* * *
“You must be exhausted.”
It takes a long moment for Darla’s words to drift through my funk, but once I hear her, I wheel around. She’s clearing up the actors’ rest station, tossing used cups and water bottles into a bigbag to recycle. She’s been out on this beach in the blazing sun for hours, too, but she’s still as perky and sweet as first thing this morning.
“Uh.” My voice is gravelly from all the salt water and yelling. “Yeah. Kind of.”
Her smile is sympathetic. “I could fix you a coffee if you like? Or I could fetch you a soda—”
“I’m good.” That smile flickers, and I school my harsh tone. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, I just don’t want Darlawaitingon me. She’s a production assistant, not my server. “I’m done with filming for today. Just waiting on Franklin’s notes.”
Franklin: the director. Her uncle, and the reason I didn’t beg for Darla’s number the first day that I met her.
Well, that and the fact that she’s ten years younger than me and not made bitter by life just yet.
“He’s grouchy,” she warns, leaning closer as she plucks cans and bottles from the table next to me. “Don’t let him get to you, though. Uncle Franklin is always grumpy after too long in the sun.”
I know that as well as any person alive, but I don’t point that out. I nod and smile, and try not to stare at the escaped tendrils of blonde hair blowing against Darla’s neck.
She’s wearing a blackRiptidepolo, the buttons undone. That slim triangle of bared chest is pure torture, the shadow of her cleavage enough to give me dry mouth all over again.
Fuck.
I squint out at the waves, glad to have changed into jeans and a white t-shirt while I got the chance. It would be bad enough to get hard on set, but in those swim shorts? Around all these other assholes? I’d rather die.
“This must be such a dream job.”
I slant a look at Darla, but it doesn’t seem like she’s being sarcastic. I guess she’s only been on set for a month—and it’s a whole different experience for the crew, anyway.
“Yeah, I’m lucky,” I mutter.
She blinks. Glances at me. Opens her mouth to ask god knows what, but then a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Jesse.” Franklin squeezes, giving me a quick shake. “Good stuff earlier. Shame about that fucking seaweed, but we got the shot.” He keeps talking, rattling off a bunch of notes for tomorrow, but for the first time in my life, I’m not listening.
I’m staring at his niece where she stands at his elbow. Soaking in every detail of her: the pink tinge to her cheekbones from a full day in the sun; the turquoise nail polish on her bare toes; the way the tip of her tongue keeps darting out, wetting her bottom lip as she listens to her uncle.
Darla has the most amazing hazel eyes. Big and round and beseeching.
Heat coils in my gut. Fuck.
