Page 15 of The Viper
“Then maybe we quietly hand this over to production security in the morning,” Carrie said. “They can handle the law enforcement piece without your name attached. There’s probably footage at the bar that would show what happened.”
My chest loosened a fraction. “Okay.”
“And you need a proper security detail while you’re here. Not the studio flunkies who just shuttle you to and from set. Someone with training.”
A flicker of the stranger’s eyes, steady as a level. I forced my thoughts away.
“I thought—” I started, then stopped. “I thought men in uniform were supposed to be … honorable.” The word tasted childish and unfair. “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? Honor, service, all that.”
Carrie’s mouth softened. “There are honor and predators in every wardrobe, babe. Uniforms, suits, jeans and a smile. Tonight you met one of each. Don’t let the ugly one erase the good.”
I absorbed that, letting it sink into the ache. “I’ve always been … intrigued,” I admitted, hearing my own shyness. “By military guys. They feel …differentfrom Hollywood men. Less posed.”
Carrie nudged my shoulder. “Some are. Some aren’t. Same as our world.”
Our world. The phrase made me feel both held and trapped.
I pulled my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. “Do you ever feel like we live in a snow globe? Everyone watching, waiting for the shake?”
“All the time,” she said. “That’s why I knit.”
I barked a laugh. “You don’t knit.”
“I do in my head,” she said primly, then waved her phone. “Also, I doomscroll. Speaking of—are you looking at this on your real account or your lurker?”
“My lurker.” I grimaced. “You think I’d survive on my real account? I’d throw my phone into the marsh and start over as a pottery instructor.”
She snorted. “You’d hate clay under your nails.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I had a few burner accounts: a private one for close friends that never saw daylight; a ghost account I used to check fan edits and charity threads; a hidden one for scrolling when I was up at three a.m. remembering every mistake I’d ever made. Ask any celebrity and they’ll tell you—anonymity is a hoodie, a hat, and an @ with zero followers.
“Okay,” Carrie said briskly. “We’re going to be smart. You’ll tell Hannah first thing. I’ll be here when she hears so she can yell at both of us equally. We’ll loop in production security and set you up with coverage.”
“She’s going to ask why I didn’t wake her,” I said.
“She’s going to ask a lot of things,” Carrie said. “We’ll answer what we need to.”
I nodded, sinking my chin on my knees. “What happens if the crowd shows up to set?”
“Franklin will throw a tantrum and threaten to move company to Atlanta,” she said. “Then ADs will build bigger barricades, hire off-duty cops, and treat the whole thing like a puzzle. Production is very good at puzzles.”
“And me?”
“You,” she said firmly, “will work. You’ll be brilliant. You’ll keep your head down. You’ll let other people do their jobs.”
I watched a small light far across the water move along a dock, a human star wandering a private sky. “I don’t want to be reckless,” I said quietly. “I just wanted … a night.”
“I know.” She looped her arm through mine, the gesture sister-soft. “We’ll find you a safe one, someday. Not tonight.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket, even though I’d turned off everything loud. The push alerts that slip through no matter what—you could throw a phone into the ocean and still hear it ring in your skull. I ignored it for three seconds. Then I caved, opening my anonymous account.
My name trended. Of course, it did. Clips multiplied and mutated, stitched with old interviews to create a story that fit whatever narrative the poster wanted: reckless starlet; damsel in distress; feminist icon; cautionary tale. A blurry still of the uniformed man’s hand near my glass spun into a thousand theories. A screenshot caught the stranger’s shoulder and half his jaw, shadow-cut and impossible to identify.
Relief and disappointment warred in me. Apparently, I was as predictable as my brand.
“You’re not looking at the comments, right?” Carrie asked.
