I school my expression, not wanting him to see just how much that comment got under my skin. “Rhiannon Carpenter.”
He nods. “Heard Rebel was into her when he met with the girls over breakfast this morning.”
Fuck me.
The first scene for Rebel’s call is being filmed which includes one of the models who are wearing pants and Rebel fighting aggressively inside of a staged home. Rebel throws a dish into the wall a couple times for them to get the shot correct and then the director calls it as they move to set-up scene two which looks like includes Rhiannon.
Rosie slides up beside me, balancing a plate of appetizers and wearing a visitor’s pass slung loosely around her neck. She nudges me with her elbow playfully; her gaze fixed on the set.
“So, she’s the one you sued and lost?” She asks, nodding toward Rhiannon. Her shorts are somehow even shorter under the bright stage lights as she listens intently to the director’s instructions.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Rosie studies my expression carefully but doesn’t push. We may have had only had each other growing up, but we’ve never been comfortable being emotionally vulnerable and I don’t feel like getting into it right now with prying eyes and listening ears.
The director calls scene and Rhiannon moves into her position like a professional. Rebel’s yelling at her, she’s mouthing something back while the music plays. He backs her up slowly until she’s pinned against a wall by his hips. His fingers wrap around her throat, lips part, and I want to scream.
Because the way he’s looking at her, the way he’s touching her, is not for him to do. It’s for me.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, feeling like I have a front row view to my own personal hell.
The director ends the scene, and they do it again and again until it’s perfect. If he leaves marks on her throat, I’ll kill him. I’m close to ending my career over this.
Thankfully, by the third redo the director swears there’s so much believable chemistry between them that they don’t need to do a fourth take.
Lucky for me they have chemistry.
“You good?” Rosie asks me softly.
“Yeah. Why?”
She points to the pen I didn’t realize I was squeezing in my fist.
“You snapped that in half.”
“Oh.”
A sleek, expensive sports car is being wheeled onto the set, the scene’s focal point for act three. I narrow my eyes, curiosity turning into concern.
“What’s going on here?” I ask Billy. He shrugs and points to Liam.
“Not sure.”
Liam is nearby, listening to his earpiece and barking out instructions. I take a few steps closer, trying to sound casual but feeling unsettled.
“Hey, Liam, what’s this scene about?”
He pulls out an earbud and glances at me, his tone matter of fact. “It’s a tense one. Rebel’s character and model number one argue in the car, and then—boom—a CGI car T-bones them on her side, killing her instantly. Should look pretty powerful on film.”
I blink, my stomach twisting.
“But don’t worry, your client is perfectly safe. It’s all CGI, of course, we just shake up the car a bit. Give them a fright to make it feel believable.”
Except it isn’t my client I’m worried about this time, it’s Rhiannon whose face is pale and now looks like a ghost as she receives instructions.
There’s no way Rhiannon knew about this scene. She doesn’t have a proper manager, just her best friend and part-time criminal defense lawyer booking her gigs with no actual vetting or legal protection. No one’s looking out for her, not the way they should be, and something tells me that this scene isn’t going to go well for her.
I glance at her, sitting in the driver’s seat, completely unaware of the chaos she’s about to act out.
