“Anders, let’s talk.” He doesn’t sound pleased.
Micah’s assistant passes him a white towel and he uses it to mop his dry forehead. “Anders Beck to the principal’s office,” he whines, mimicking an old-timey school secretary. He passes the towel back to Frankie without a thank you. “I heard about Sunday night.”
“Thanks, Frankie,” I say to his assistant. Someone should acknowledge her. She’s been graceful in response to Micah’s thankless dismissal since day one.
Frankie walks off in the direction of Micah’s waiting golf cart and I turn to my co-star. “Please don’t comment on my personal life. Let’s focus on work.”
One side of his mouth hitches up in a sardonic smile. “Are you capable of that?”
I count backwards from ten. The audacity of this guy. I’ve been here. I’m giving one hundred percent without complaint, which is more than I can say for him. And besides being seriously dehydrated and coated in a thick layer of sand and sweat, I probably developed stress fractures in my legs from what we did today.
“Care to clarify?” I ask. My calm tone does not match the irritation I’m feeling.
Before he can answer, Christopher shouts from the bed of the truck he’s been working from. “Anders. Let’s go.”
“Have fun in detention,” Micah sing-songs as I walk away.
How many days left in this shoot? I’ve had difficult co-workers who come and go—active addicts, lazy bums, perfectionists, the full range—but Micah is like a permanent rock inside my shoe. I try to shake off the annoyance as I reach Christopher and hop onto the flatbed truck.
“What’s up?”
Christopher pulls off his ratty cap and curls the bill in his hands before tugging it back onto his head. “Something is off with you today.”
“How so?” I don’t mean to sound like a snarky, punk kid, but I am beat. I’ve literally been running all day. I don’t know what more I could have given.
“I don’t know. You’re here, I get it. You’re putting in the time.” He blows out a long sigh and props his fists on his hips. “But you’re notherehere. The magic whatever that makes you Anders Beck is missing. You’ve been counting down the minutes all day long.”
I think back on the work I’ve done with Micah and can’t disagree. I’m not going to throw him under the bus, though, no matter how much I want to. He’s nailing his part. It shouldn’t matter that I’m daydreaming about punching his throat.
Then there’s the matter of Sunny Pratt. I haven’t texted her, even though I want to. I haven’t called her, even though I can think of at least ten valid reasons to dial her number. I have compartmentalized the nanny into a mental box all day like the professional that I am. I’ve only opened that box… a few dozen times. Okay, maybe I’ve been kind of distracted. Sunny has been on my mind constantly. It’s just that I only have so much time with her…
“I’m sorry, Chris.” And I really am. I want to do my best work. This isn’t me. Well, it is, but I’m determined to do better. “I’ll get my head in the game.”
“Yeah, about that. I talked to Oliver.”
“Oliver called you?” That guy better not have taken his issues to Christopher. He’s a pain in the behind, but he’s always kept this stuff between us. Yeah, I butt-dialed him in the middle of making out with Sunny. And yeah, he overheard stuff that’s probably giving him a brain aneurysm. But once I stop dodging him we can talk about this like adults. There’s no need to drag the director and producer into it.
“I called him. I’m concerned about your focus, and so is he.”
Iwant to be angry. I want to swear. I want to fire Oliver. But I know they’re both right, so I stay silent.
“I hear you’re starting something up with the nanny.”
I run a hand down my sweaty face. I need a shower, and a rewind button for life. “Yeah.” No point in hiding it.
“I can’t comment on your personal life. I will comment on the fact that we’re paying you enough that you should be capable of holding off on any distractions for a few months.” One of his assistants puts a tablet in front of him and he scribbles his signature. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“Yeah. Hearing you loud and clear, Christopher.”
“Good man.” He claps my shoulder. “No more clock-watching. See ya tomorrow.”
My eyes scan the desert for my ride—my rat manager-slash-best-friend should be here in a golf cart somewhere. I can’t get back to my suite fast enough.
“Yeah, I never want to get a call like that again, man,” Oliver gripes as we roll to a stop in front of my suite. It’s been a solid ten-minute lecture from him, and I’ve already heard it from Christopher. “I can’t unhear what I heard on Sunday night.” He shudders. “And I could’ve done without the dressing down from Christopher.”
“I get it,” I snap.
“I don’t think you do,” he snarls. “It’s not only your job you’re messing up. Quit screwing around with the nanny.”
