Dax Harlow peered at his co-star through a haze of dancing spots that reminded him of his grandparents’ staticky old television. He still managed his lines, but they were flat, even to his own ears. He took a step toward Lydia and stumbled.
“Cut!” The director called.
Darn it!
He raked his hand through his hair before he thought better of it. The Vicodin had held the migraine at bay—so far—but these dizzy spells were another matter…
“Dax, I want to see you in my trailer,” the director said in her usual no-nonsense demeanor. “Everyone else, take five.”
Great.
Being summoned to the director’s trailer was akin to being sent to the principal’s office.
Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad; in the three-plus weeks they’d been shooting, Gina Devereaux had shown herself true to her reputation: tough but fair. Not to mention really good; with her guidance, he’d done some of his best work yet.
This is what it’s like in the big leagues.
At twenty-nine, the golden window of opportunity was closing fast. This was his big break. He couldn’t afford to blow it. He owed it to his parents.
Sweat trickled down his back as he followed Gina into her trailer—and the more-than-welcome air conditioning. The grips, who set up the equipment and lighting for each scene, did what they could to provide shade, but it’s not like they could turn off the California sun.
“Have a seat.” Gina pointed to a cot across from the desk that dominated the small space. She pulled two water bottles out of the refrigerator and handed one to Dax. He opened it and took a swig; the liquid cooled his throat but not the rest of him.
She pulled a chair out from behind the desk and sat so that she faced him.
“Are you okay?” she said.
It was not what he’d expected to hear, and he was tempted to share but… this was the director.
Not a good idea.
“I’m just… I’m not having a good day,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed—yeah, it sounded lame to him, too—and he braced himself for anger or frustration.
“Have you been partying with the crew at night?” she said. “Drinking a lot of alcohol?”
“No.” What he had been doing was trying to sleep with not much success.
“Taking drugs?”
“Of course not!” he said.
“Well, then, what’s your explanation?” Irritation crept into her voice. She was under as much pressure as he was. Maybe more. “You don’t go from giving above-the-cut performance to what I’m getting from you now.”
He winced inwardly; Gina’s tough-but-fair approach was still sometimes hard to take. “I’ll do better.”
She leaned back in her chair, studying him in a way that set his nerves on end.
“Gina!” A voice called from outside the trailer.
“Shoot, that’s Sylvester,” she muttered.
Ugh. Not what I need right now.
The film’s producer was a crotchety industry veteran who had a penchant for hanging around the set and scowling at everything they did.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she called.
She sighed as she moved toward the door. “I’m going to see what he wants. Until further notice, I think you should rest and drink plenty of water.”
“Will do.” He shifted on the cot, eager to escape the director’s trailer but hesitant to do so until Sylvester was gone. “I’ll wait in my trailer.”
She nodded absently before letting herself out of the trailer.
He waited until the sound of her voice and Sylvester’s faded, and then he headed for his own trailer.
There, he dug the pill bottles out of his bag. Should he try the Tylenol again? It hadn’t been working on the monster headaches he assumed were migraines—though he’d never been susceptible to migraines before—thus his reluctant switch to the Vicoden he still had from his back injury last year.
But, after his conversation with Gina, it was clear he needed to pull it together.
Vicoden it is.
He swallowed one pill and stretched out on his cot. He tried to relax, but it was overly warm even with the trailer’s air conditioner running. He ran a hand across his forehead; it was sweaty too.
Minutes later, there was a knock on his door.
“Come in!” he called.
Instead of the crew member he’d expected, it was Gina, and she looked none too happy. “I suggested a break but I’ve been overruled,” she said. “I need you back on the set in five. I’ll send Suzie in to touch up your makeup.”
*********************
Gina Devereaux stood behind Camera Two, squinting at the actors. She had serious doubts they’d get any usable footage this day, and it was becoming harder to keep her frustration in check. If they didn’t get it this time, she was calling it a day regardless of Sylvester’s opinion.
Lord, let us get this shot.
“Action!” she called for the fifth time.
Had she been wrong about Dax’s ability? Wrong in thinking that she’d be able to bring out the best in him? Maybe those first weeks of shooting in the studio had been too good to be true.
She watched him closely. She may have been the only one to notice the slight slur on his first lines. Then he sharpened. He took his co-star, Lydia Grant, by the hand as he spun off his lines.
Lydia took over with her lines as she and Dax moved down a path as scripted. The cameras followed, and so did Gina.
Now the script called for Lydia to stumble and Dax to catch her.
Unfortunately, it didn’t go as planned. Instead of catching Lydia, Dax got dragged down with her.
Gina didn’t call a stop to the action; rather, she waited to see what the actors would do. She knew her camera people would follow her lead. If it wasn’t good, they wouldn’t use it; that’s what post-production was for. But experience had taught her that every now and then, while deep in character, the camera would catch something in the actors’ performance that just worked.
Dax stayed down as Lydia got to her knees. “Aaron?” she said, staying in character. “Are you all right?”
Gina was focused on the small movements of Dax’s hand, face, and eyes as he pushed Lydia’s hand away and struggled to his feet.
Good; he was still in character.
But then Dax’s face went pale and his eyes rolled back in his head. In slow motion, his body crumpled to the ground.
