Page 22 of The Viper
When I finally turned back toward the trailers, the air smelled like salt and something electric—like the world was holding its breath, waiting for whatever came next.
And I realized I was, too.
8
LUCAS
The SUV hummed along the winding roads toward James Island, the morning sun slanting through the live oaks, casting dappled shadows on the pavement. Noah drove, his hands steady on the wheel, the kind of calm that came from years of navigating worse than Charleston traffic. I leaned back in the passenger seat, my eyes tracing the landscape—marshes stretching wide, their surfaces glinting like molten silver, Spanish moss swaying like ghosts in the breeze.
There was a pull to this place, a weight I couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just the beauty, though the Lowcountry had that in spades. It was something deeper, like mysteries whispering from the shadows, begging to be unraveled. I’d been to a lot of places—dust-choked deserts, jungles thick with menace—but Charleston felt alive in a way that got under your skin. It was starting to get under mine, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it.
Noah glanced over, catching my stare out the window. “You’re taking to the place,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I grunted, noncommittal. “It’s got a vibe.”
“That it does.” He eased around a curve, the harbor peeking through the trees. “Dominion Hall’s got its fingers in a lot of pies, Lucas. Overseas ops, local investigations, you name it. We’re the ones people call when shit needs fixing.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And where’s today’s field trip on that spectrum?”
He smirked, eyes on the road. “Charleston’s got its share of problems—big money, old secrets, new players. Dominion Hall’s becoming the go-to for situations that need a … delicate touch. Today’s one of those. A call came in from a Hollywood type, friend of ours. Could be right up your alley.”
Hollywood. The word hit me like a jab, and Lexi Montgomery’s face flashed in my mind—those eyes, that electric jolt from last night.
I shook it off. She was a one-time encounter, a moment in a bar that had already gone viral. I’d never see her again, except maybe on a screen, and maybe that was for the best. She’d hit me like a siren’s call, pulling me off balance, and I didn’t have time for that kind of distraction.
Still, her presence lingered, a ghost in my blood, and I hated how it made me feel—unmoored, like a rookie who’d forgotten his training.
We crossed a bridge, the water below shimmering in the morning light. James Island unfolded ahead, quieter than downtown, with houses tucked among palmettos and marsh grass. Noah pulled into a lot near the water, where a cluster of trailers and roped-off areas screamed film set without a single sign to confirm it. Local security stood at the perimeter, looking bored, their radios crackling faintly. Crew members hustled between tents, hauling cables and reflectors, their movements practiced but chaotic. The air smelled of salt, sunscreen, and the faint chemical tang of paint from a nearby dock under construction.
Noah parked and stepped out, his posture shifting—still relaxed, but with that operator’s edge, like he could snap into action in a heartbeat. I followed, my senses already scanning.
The security setup was light, more for show than substance. A few ropes, a couple of guards who looked like they’d rather be fishing. If this was a high-profile shoot, they were cutting corners.
Noah strode toward the nearest guard, a stocky guy with a clipboard and a sunburn. “Here to speak with the director,” Noah said, his tone all business.
The guard squinted. “And you are?”
“With Dominion Hall.”
That got a raised eyebrow. The guard muttered something into his radio, too low to catch, but the reply must’ve been quick because he waved us through without another word.
We moved past the ropes, weaving through a maze of tents and staging areas. The set was a hive—grips lugging lights, assistants darting with clipboards, a makeup artist touching up an extra under a pop-up canopy. A massive wind machine hummed near the water, its blades slicing the air, while a camera rig was being adjusted on a dock where a sleek trawler bobbed gently.
It was controlled chaos, every movement choreographed, but I could feel the undercurrent of stress. They were behind schedule; you didn’t need to hear the shouting to know it.
Noah navigated the bustle like he’d been here before, leading me to a cluster of people huddled around a monitor under a shaded tent. The man in charge was obvious—mid-forties, wiry, with a beard trimmed to perfection and an expensive watch that gleamed when he gestured. He wore a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, and carried himself like he was used to being listened to. The director.
Noah extended a hand. “Franklin P. Smith?”
The man turned, his eyes flicking over us like he was sizing up a shot. “That’s me,” he said, shaking Noah’s hand. “You’re the Dominion Hall guys?”
“Yep. Noah. This is Lucas.”
I nodded, keeping my hands at my sides. Franklin’s handshake was firm, but his vibe screamed cover-your-ass. Not a creep, exactly, but the kind of guy who’d throw you under a bus to protect his vision. Art trumped everything else with him—you could smell it in the way he stood, like the set was his kingdom and we were just visitors.
“We’re behind,” Franklin started, not wasting a breath. “Inflation’s killing us, crew shortages, equipment delays, permits getting yanked at the last minute. Making movies these days is like herding cats in a hurricane.” He waved a hand, the watch catching the light. I wondered if it ever complained about his schedule. “But we’re managing. Barely.”
Noah nodded, his face neutral, waiting. I liked that—he didn’t fill the silence, didn’t give Franklin an inch until he got to the point. Smart.
