Page 7 of The Viper
They always said they scheduled those early to “break the ice.” Personally, I thought it was more to get the awkwardness out of the way before anyone got too comfortable.
My co-star, Benji Dawes, waved from the dock as he boarded the boat. Tall, dark hair, soft blue eyes—the kind of face that looked heartbreakingly sincere on screen. He was one of the nicest men I’d ever met in Hollywood. And completely, utterly uninterested in me.
He was out, privately but comfortably, with a longtime partner who sent him daily good-luck texts before shooting. I envied that kind of quiet, uncomplicated love.
“Morning,” Benji said, offering his hand to steady me as I stepped aboard.
“Morning.”
“You ready to fake it ‘til we make it?”
“Story of my life.”
We laughed, the easy camaraderie easing my tension a little. Still, my stomach fluttered as the director called for silence. The crew shifted into place. The camera assistant clapped the slate.
“Scene Twelve, Take One.”
Action.
The boat rocked gently beneath us. I was supposed to straddle him, kiss him, then collapse into laughter that turned breathless, then tender, then something that could pass for desire.
It was choreography, all of it—the tilt of my chin, the arch of my back, the placement of my hands. Benji whispered his lines against my neck, his voice soft and professional. The camera circled. Someone adjusted a reflector mid-take. Another moved in closer with a boom mic.
I could feel every breath of the crew around us. Fifteen people, minimum, watching from just out of frame. Franklin’s voice floated across the deck: “Good, good—now slow down there, Lexi, hold his gaze—perfect. A little more shoulder—beautiful.”
Beautiful. There it was again. Always beautiful. Always perfect. Always performing.
By the time we wrapped the scene, my neck hurt from holding the same position too long, and my lips were sticky with fake sweat.
“Cut,” Franklin said, clapping his hands. “That’s it! Excellent work, both of you. Let’s reset for coverage.”
Benji leaned close as we disentangled. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “Just glamorous as ever.”
He chuckled. “Remember when people thought this job was sexy?”
“Don’t ruin the fantasy,” I teased, though my smile felt thin.
Because the truth was, I loved this job. The creativity, the intensity, the chance to live a dozen lives in one. But sometimes, it felt like all the emotion stayed trapped on screen, while my real life grew quieter, smaller.
Between takes, I watched the crew moving around me—everyone busy, everyone belonging somewhere. And there I was, the center of the scene, the one everyone stared at but no one really saw.
The loneliness hit hard then. Not the kind that comes from being alone, but the kind that settles in when you realize you could be surrounded by people and still feel unseen.
We shot for hours. The sun climbed higher, then slid toward afternoon. Sweat beaded on my back beneath the dress, and my smile stiffened from repetition. Every kiss, every caress was rehearsed, filmed, reframed, and filmed again.
When they finally called lunch, I escaped to my trailer, collapsing onto the sofa. The air-conditioning hummed, cool against my skin. Hannah handed me a bottle of water and a wrap from catering.
“You killed it,” she said, scrolling through her phone.
“I faked it,” I corrected.
“That’s literally the job description.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Benji’s a sweetheart,” she added. “It must make things easier.”
