Page 54 of The Viper
I squeezed her hand, grateful.
Outside, the sun had the audacity to be unbothered. Crew clustered along the dock, scurrying with light bounces and sandbags. The wind machine coughed to life. Seagulls judged from the railing.
Benji was nowhere to be found.
“He’s late,” Hannah said, appearing at my elbow with a headset and a frown. “Again.”
“He had a concussion,” I said.
“He had bruises,” she corrected. “No head trauma. His team cleared him.” She followed my gaze to the security tent where new faces mingled with familiar ones. Extra guards. The kind with square jaws and new radios. “We beefed up,” she said.
“Because of the articles.”
“Because production finally believes me about risk,” she said, then winced like she hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
I wanted to be offended. I didn’t have the energy.
Benji showed just as Franklin’s patience began emitting an audible whine. He moved fine, but the cut on his cheek would need a makeup miracle. He didn’t meet my eyes when I walked toward him. He did nod once, short and professional, like we’d never eaten dinner together or talked about starting over.
Was he mad at me?
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“How’s your face?”
He managed a smile without humor. “My face is insured.”
“Benji—”
“You’re late to apologize,” he said quietly, not looking at me. “So, let’s just be actors.”
I supposed I deserved that. I didn’t agree with it, but I deserved it.
Ever since the story about me at the bar broke, the set had been a circus. Paparazzi at the gates. Fans showing up with homemade signs. Reporters digging into every personal detail they could find. It wasn’t just me under the microscope anymore—it was everyone connected to the production. The unwanted attention had put pressure on the crew, made tempers short, and turned even the most mundane things into potential headlines. And Benji—sweet, even-tempered Benji—had been the one who paid for it when he was attacked.
He was definitely mad. Irritated, at least.
We hit our marks. The opening was a close two in natural light—his hand on my waist, my soft smile, that ache Franklin loved, the wind teasing the loose tendrils by my temple that the hair person had engineered to look like chance. The scene asked for longing and restraint and something that looked like fate.
I could do longing. Restraint felt like a sick joke.
“Action,” Franklin called.
We danced the scene without touching more than the line allowed. The camera drank everything—my eyes, his breath, the split-second tremble of my fingers as his thumb brushed a seam of fabric. It was good. I knew it was good. It also cost me something.
“Cut,” Franklin said, low, like a prayer. “Again, tighter. We’re living in half-millimeters.”
We lived there for three more takes. Between them, I sipped water and avoided the edge of the set where spectators had gathered—the kind of locals who smelled a story and had friends at news stations. Security politely pushed them back, which only made phones rise higher.
When he arrived, Lucas was a slice of shade in the periphery—black shirt, sunglasses, that watchfulness that made the air around him feel like a plan. He didn’t get closer. He didn’t need to. I could find him without looking, the way you locate your own pulse.
In a break that was barely long enough to be called one, Hannah sidled in with a tablet. “They’re everywhere,” she said without preamble. “CNN’s entertainment arm, Vanity Fair, syndicated gossip shows—everyone. They’re rerunning the Pelicangate clip next to the hotel stills. Speculating it’s the same man. They can’t ID him, but the posture is similar enough that even our mother could spot it.”
I stared past her at the sun winking off water. “What’s the studio saying?”
“They want a clarifying statement.”
