I don’t intend to fall asleep. When my eyes snap open, I feel disoriented, realizing that it’s grown late and the studio is quiet. My room is silent as a tomb as I blink, staring at my reflection in the oversized mirror. This is the spot where I always sit, pampered by the professional makeup and hair artists who help me look beautiful on television.
Despite the bright lighting, I never had a problem dozing off. That tells me I need rest, and I’m not getting enough. Pushing to my feet, I slip into my shoes and grab my handbag, slipping it over my shoulder before picking up my phone from the vanity.
That’s when I see it.
Roses. A dozen of them in a glass vase on the coffee table to the left of the door. This room has more furniture than necessary, including a leather sofa, a black glass coffee table, two end tables, a vanity and chair, and a rack that holds a dozen or more outfits with matching shoes. There’s a half bath as well. It’s not bad when you’re looking for a bit of privacy while on set. Although I don’t seem to get it often, if at all.
But this. . . the flowers. They weren’t here when I entered after I finished shooting the commercial. I couldn’t have missed a dozen red roses. Or the bright while card contrasting with the deep crimson color. These arrived while I slept.
My fingers tremble as I pluck the card free and scan it.
With love from your #1 fan.
It’s written in a messy scrawl that’s almost illegible.
I can’t believe this person snuck into my dressing room. It’s not the first time they’ve invaded my privacy. A few weeks ago, someone tried to enter my hotel room while I was showering. They managed to destroy the lock and almost broke down the door. If I didn’t hear the noise, I might have opened the shower curtain and not been alone.
I couldn’t sleep for several nights afterward. The paparazzi got wind of it and wouldn’t leave me alone. News media ran with the story about the crazed fan after the pretty baking contest winner. I had to avoid going out in public for weeks.
But that wasn’t the worst part. It was how it made me feel. Like I had to watch over my shoulder, and I wasn’t safe.
And then Rex Coleman showed up.
If I close my eyes, I know I’ll be able to see the mental image of him. The big beefy biker with too many tattoos and bulging muscles, his ax always with him like he’s Paul Bunyan, ready to clear a forest of trees. It’s his eyes that always get to me. So blue and clear and far too discerning. He sees me in ways no one else ever has. At one time, that meant everything to me.
Three years later, I just feel smothered.
He’s a lumberjack and one of five brothers who co-own the Coleman Lumber Company. A pillar of strength, generosity, and progress in the little town of Raven’s Crest. His family is respected, and so is the motorcycle club he belongs to, the Kings of Anarchy. He’s cocky, arrogant, and a heartbreaker.
I found that out the hard way three years ago.
That’s why I sent him on his way as soon as he showed up at my apartment in L.A. and decided he wanted to play the hero. Too little, too late. I’m not falling for Rex Coleman and his charms a second time.
A sigh escapes my lips. I don’t need this stress.
Crumbling up the note, I toss it into the trash can by the door and exit, not realizing that everyone has already left. For the first time, I glance at the time on the screen of my phone. I slept for three hours!
No wonder it feels like a tomb in here. It’s grown late. None of the crew works beyond eight unless we’ve got a deadline to meet. Nobody should be in the building, including me. It’s only security after midnight.
Most of the lights are turned off, with only the exit sign and a few others left to illuminate the studio. It’s strange to be here when no one is working. I’ve never stayed this late.
The only noises belong to the building. Creaking. The whir of something mechanical as cool air moves through the ducts overhead. There are usually people operating the lighting and camera gear, the rigging, and placing the extension cords and cables in the best positions, along with the rest of the production equipment, but now it’s only skeletal parts without their human masters.
I glance at the set and props, knowing the kitchen will either be torn apart, rebuilt elsewhere, or reused for another show or movie, as needed. In another day or two, this area might look completely different with an entirely new set. It probably will. People are efficient and fast in this business. You have to work quickly to make money. It’s the nature of the beast.
My mind drifts back to the roses I received, and I realize I’m standing in a dark studio alone. It’s not that I don’t feel safe, but I do wonder if the person who dropped off the flowers is still here. Waiting. Watching.
That thought spurs me into action as I speed walk toward the exit, weaving around equipment. It’s not until I’m within a few feet of the exit doors that I notice the chain and padlock. They never lock the doors like this. At least, not that I’ve ever heard.
Something clatters to the ground across the set, and I spin around, heart pounding into my throat as I search through the dim lighting. No one is there. No other noises occur as I reach into my purse and find my keys.
I saw a video once that you can line the keys up in your fist, snug between your knuckles, with the tips pointing outward. That way, if you’re ambushed or attacked, you can use them as weapons. It’s all I’ve got. I hold my cell in my left fist and place the keys through my right knuckles.
I’ve got to find another exit.
There’s a hallway straight ahead and another to my left. Since the noise came from in front of me, I turned left and ran down the length of it, hoping I could find a way out. I’ve never had to go this way before, so I can’t be sure it leads out of the building.
There’s a shuffling noise behind me, and I nearly screech, running faster as I picture a knife-wielding serial killer behind me, gaining. My blood is rushing through my veins loud enough to drown out almost every sound around me. It’s disconcerting as I begin to sweat, horrified I’ll die because I have a fan who thinks it’s okay to cross a line.
