Page 36 of The Publicity Stunt
Parker see right through at me. Of course he does. “Uh-huh.”
“Why are you here, Parker?” I ask again.
He scoffs. “You won’t let me buy you coffee, you won’t let me take you to lunch, yet you seem pretty entitled to answers.”
I bite my lip. Ouch.
He gauges my silence for a second. “I’ll see you around, April,” he says and without waiting for a response, storms out the trailer, slamming the door shut behind him.
Yeah. See you around.
* * *
Whoever said there’s no business like show business obviously never met Tony Martin.
The guy arrived an hour late and just before shooting was set to commence, pulled out a fanny pack full of weed. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, not at all, if I hadn’t already retrieved six cocaine-stuffed plastic baggies from his trailer.
Now it’s eight p.m. and I’m still on set. Standing across from the green screen, waiting for the last of Tony’s scenes to end.
“All right, lock it up, everyone!” Markus yells from his director chair. “We’re rolling in three, two, one … aaand action!”
The bulb above the steel table flickers thrice and the boom operator lowers the fuzzy microphone.
Tony looks up, leveling a revolver at his co-star’s forehead. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
“Brad, don’t do this. Please,” “Jack” says.
I mean, if you’re asking someone not to shoot you in the head, you’d think they would go with more than just “Don’t do this” and “Please.”
Tony’s face grows grim and one of the cameras zooms in as he tightens his grip around the gun. He pulls the trigger. A reverberating bang goes off and “Jack” falls to the floor, clutching his chest, covered in fake blood.
Wasn’t the gun pointed at his head?
Tony gets up from his chair, its creaking sound filling the room, and walks over to the body, the dolly following his every move. “We’ll meet again, friend.”
“Cut!” Markus yells. “Not bad.”
Not bad? That was horrible.
“You’ll get used to the cheesy dialogue.”
Parker’s voice startles me. He stands casually to my left, his brown hair as messy as ever.
I shrug, unsure of this wobbly dynamic between us. I feel like I’m stuck in some sort of limbo. Are we talking? Not talking? Friends? Not friends? For the next couple of seconds, I force my eyes to stay focused at the ground. But dammit if they don’t dart back to his face. The second I look at him, he looks at me too.
Shit.
He snickers and my ears burn with hot embarrassment. “Wanting to look at me isn’t a crime, April.”
I frown. That’s a little arrogant.
“I’ve been looking at you all day,” he adds.
Ohh …
“Stop flirting with me.” My tone is firm, but it’s impossible to hide the smile in my voice.
He laughs, smug. “Stop liking it when I do.”
