Page 55 of The Viper
“I’m not feeding this.”
“I know.” She exhaled, shoulders dropping half an inch. “They’re dredging old boyfriends like they’re building a dock out of exes.”
My laugh was a bark. “They’ll run out of lumber.”
“They never do.” She slid her sunglasses higher on her nose. “Post something neutral. Please. ‘Grateful for the concern. Focusing on the work.’ It starves the beast.”
I hated that she was right.
“After lunch,” I said.
She hesitated. “Benji’s pissed.”
“I got that.”
“He was attacked, and a day later your love life eats the sun,” she said, gentle but sharp. “He knows you didn’t plan it. But he’s bleeding for the movie, and the movie is bleeding for you. It’s messy.”
“I’m allowed to have a life.”
“You are,” she agreed. “But our life is public. And right now, privacy looks like guilt.”
I swallowed. The fabric at my ribs felt too tight. “I’ll be perfect.”
“You don’t have to be perfect,” she said, surprising me. “You just have to stay under the radar.”
Franklin bellowed my name like a ship foghorn. We went again.
By the time lunch hit, the cicadas were high and so was my heart rate. Crew migrated to shade; Franklin migrated to his monitor; Benji migrated somewhere I wasn’t. I stepped behind the wardrobe trailer because it was the one slice of set no one ever filmed.
“Don’t run,” Lucas said, appearing out of sun and shadow like he’d been under both the whole time.
“I’m not running.” My voice came out too light. “I’m hiding.”
“That’s worse.”
I leaned back against warm metal and tipped my head up to look at him. He’d removed the sunglasses. Storm-grey eyes, steady as a level. “Is your career ruined because of me?” I asked, throat tight. “If someone connects the dots?—”
“No one’s connecting the dots,” he said, calm like a tranquilizer. “Not if you don’t hand them the map.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t say my name. Don’t look for me. Don’t react to the story. Go to work. Go home. Under the radar, like your sister said.” His mouth almost quirked. “You can stay under the radar.”
I snorted. “Watch me.”
We stood there a minute, close enough that I could see the darker rim around his irises. The want was still there, a living thing that didn’t care about publicists or permits. The want saidpull him into the trailer and lock the door. The adult saideat a salad and post a platitude before Franklin combusts.
A sudden flurry at the gate turned both our heads. A camera crew—not handheld, not fan iPhone, but shoulder mounts and a woman in heels and a pencil skirt who didn't belong anywhere near marsh grass—argued with a PA. The PA shook his head. The heels dug in. The camera didn’t blink.
“National,” Lucas said, voice flat.
“How?” I whispered. “We don’t release our call sheets.”
“We don’t need to. Restaurants talk. Hotels talk. Somebody in a headset wants a favor from their cousin in news.” He paused. “And you trend.”
I could feel the eyes finding me even from across the lot, like heat you can sense before you see fire. Lucas shifted automatically to block the line of sight. It was an act of protection so simple it felt obscene.
Franklin charged in with two ADs and a harried location manager, waving laminated permits like talismans. It bought us a half hour at best. After that, any footage they got from the public road was theirs to run.
