Page 13 of Act Like You Don't Care
Pete let out a long breath and shook his head. "Just meet with them. We'll sort it out from there. It’s all fixable, I promise."
Damn. "When?"
"Today. This afternoon. They're supposed to be here around two, we should have time to finish the bathroom part of the fight scene before they arrive. Tam, I don't want to start calling in favors, but this scares me."
What was there to say to that? This guy signed my paychecks, figuratively speaking. And it had been his influence that had gotten me the chance to read for the new Margaret Grant cyberpunk movie. That role could set me on the road to my Oscar. I wanted it so badly I would seriously consider backing off on some of my hard no clauses to get it. What’s a little ass on the screen compared to the rocket launch that movie could be to my career? Although I’d hate it if Morgan was right. "They look like they’re done.” I stood up and took a step in the direction of the set. “I’m not happy about this.”
Pete grinned at me and got to his feet as well. "Like the rest of us are jumping for joy. This is going to be a pain in my ass, but I'm not risking your safety over your ego. Now go, make the studio some money."
That got a real laugh out of me, and since there wasn’t much more here to argue, I grabbed Will and headed back out to the set to make money.
Miles
It was me, my father, and my two brothers, Rick and Jim, who went to the movie studio that afternoon to talk to the producer. Living around Hollywood all my life, the back lot and the admin offices were familiar, but this time we were taken deeper into the building, right down to a set where, from the noises, the crew was still filming.
The guy who'd come to meet us, a thin intense young man with a midwestern accent who introduced himself as Will, stopped us just outside a door. "We'll wait for the light to go off, then we can go in." He leaned against the wall and looked us over, wiggling his clipboard idly against his hip. He seemed amused by something, though I couldn't figure out why. Maybe Tam's public image was a watered-down version of the real him and we were going to see a tantrum of epic proportions. Or maybe he expected Tam, given his reputation, would hit on each of my brothers as soon as they got in sight distance. They were exactly his type.
The light went out and Will opened the door to lead us through into...chaos. At least, it looked like chaos to my uneducated eyes, but Will led us through it like he'd done it a million times before. Which, to be honest, he probably had.
The set was made up as a replica of a living room and a small bathroom, both tiled in black and white. Right now, it looked like a bomb had gone off in it--broken toilet with a puddle of water around it, sink ripped off the wall, shower curtain torn half off its rings. A swarm of techs raced around the room, taking things apart and removing them, sweeping up broken scraps of what I assumed was not really porcelain, and mopping up the water.
"Come on, they're over here," Will said, and pointed off to a corner, hidden far behind the cameras.
I was the last one to follow, distracted by the stream of men and women carrying what looked like an entire bathroom into the set. The thought amused me, for no real reason I could imagine, and I had to half-jog a couple of steps to catch up with the rest of the group.
And there was Tam Laydon, sitting in a high chair under a light that was directed right at his face. A young man worked at the star’s make-up, stripping away bits of what looked like skin, and washing away the streaks of fake blood on Tam's left cheek. The actor had a bloody cut on his forehead above his right eye, a split lip, and hands that looked like he'd been punching a cement wall for the past twenty minutes. All fake, I knew, but it made my heart pound briefly with a burst of adrenaline. Just a gut response, but my blood still ran cold for a second before my brain caught up to my spine. I guessed even a Master’s degree couldn’t wash away the experience of years spent guarding people like him while I was in undergrad.
Of course, having read the newest of the letters, the one that had arrived this morning, maybe it was for the best.
The make-up technician stepped back with a nod and an upheld finger, saying something in a voice too low for me to make out. Tam grinned at him, cocky, cheerful, and absolutely brilliant in a way that reminded me of his screen presence, but somehow more real looking. It was odd, and my subconscious kept turning the observation round and round in the back of my mind, refusing for whatever reason to let it go. It seemed important, though I couldn’t figure out why.
"Octavio's just going to set up some of the plats on Tam's face," Will commented, seemingly to no one in particular. "Once he's done, we'll have a few minutes while they rebuild the set before we do the scene again."
I thought it was funny that Will had inserted himself into the activity surrounding the movie star. My brothers, too, seemed to find it funny, or just a little odd, given their expressions.
Elijah Francis, the executive producer for the movie and the man who’d been our main contact with the studio over Tam’s safety, walked onto the set. If I’d thought it was busy before, from the moment Francis walked into the room, the people in it picked up the pace until I could hardly keep up with them for the constant traffic to and fro.
"Hi," Francis said, holding his hand out to shake Dad’s. "I'm Elijah Francis. Thank you for coming on such short notice. This is pretty important."
"We're used to short notice," Dad said, shaking the man's hand firmly.
"So are we, but not for stuff like this." The producer frowned and gestured to the side of the room. "Follow me, we can talk in here while they finish resetting the props."
He started back the way he'd come, taking us in behind the chairs where Tam was sitting. The star looked at us as we walked past, his gaze curious and a little defensive. I guessed he wasn't too happy about having his lifestyle curtailed, which was too bad. Recent events spelled out such an increase in risk that I wouldn't even let him roam around the set unguarded right now if I had any say about it.
We ended up in a large, bare room just off the set, three long narrow tables set up in a U shape at one end. Francis took a seat and gestured to us all to sit down. "You've read the letter."
"We have," Dad said. "I passed it on to our threat evaluation expert." He uncurled his fingers in my direction. "This is Miles."
The producer looked me up and down as if my ability to judge a person's instability should be written on my face. "And you've done this before?"
I cleared my throat. "I have a Master's in Psychology and spent a few years working with Andrew Tate's group in New York, doing exactly this. My references are available if you want."
The producer shook his head, waving off the suggestion. "I talked to Ernest Weinstein yesterday when the pig thing happened. He said your people did a good job with the Eloise Hansen incident and did it without creating much of a stir." That last bit was directed toward Dad. When he didn't make any response to the comment, the man continued. "As close as possible to under the radar is what we want."
Tam's voice rolled across the room from the direction of the door, a sound with the kind of heft to it that made it a pleasure to listen to. It was a shame the microphones didn't pick that up, or if they did, the processing after stripped it all out. It was sexy, something I could appreciate in an academic sort of way. "If you think you're hiding it from me, Elijah, we might need to have a talk."
"You know we're not trying to hide it from you. I’ve only been talking to you about this for three days. Now sit down and meet your new security team."
