I drain a Jack and Coke at the bar. I’m not sure how many I’ve had, but I’m almost drunk enough to forget about tonight. Almost drunk enough to stop running in mental circles trying to figure out what the hell that was, and who he could have been. God knows I’ve pissed plenty of people off in my life, especially since I came back from overseas. He could be a pissed off boyfriend of some woman I’ve fucked. Hell, maybe I killed his father while I was in the service.
Janette Springfield wasn’t thrilled with how I handled the situation and has requested a new bodyguard. Fuck her though. She shot enough cocaine in the short time I knew her to supply the filming of Scarface. She hardly knew where she was or what was going on anyway.
I glance at my glass of Jack and huff a laugh. Look at me talking. I’d gladly trade places with her if it meant forgetting, but forgetting would be a betrayal. Remembering the men who died under my command is part of my pennance. Every day I think of each one of them and every day it reopens the wound. But that’s the price I have to pay.
They died because of me.
I already have another job. This stalker shit is good for business, at least. The new client wanted to remain anonymous, according to Vivian, but she was able to tell me it’s another actress. I’ll take actresses over music stars any day. There’s a lot less travel involved, and that makes my job much easier. Either way, I meet the client tomorrow. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned. The last thing I need is more time to sit around and stew over the past and now this fucker in the mask. Just thinking about him makes me want to break something.
A woman at the end of the bar has been trying to get my attention for the past fifteen minutes. She has brown hair, blue eyes, and an impressive pair of tits. I swill down the last dregs of my Jack and Coke and stand. I see her spine lengthen, neck straightening. She’s careful to look at her drink. Her hands clutch the glass. Nervous. I cross the length of the bar, sensing her anticipation growing with every step. Maybe she’s seen me here before, hoped I would notice her or offer to buy her a drink. She looks like a good person, someone who would be better off without the black stain I would leave in her life. She looks up at me as I pass, hopeful.
But I don’t meet her eyes and I don’t stop. I walk straight past her.
I walk outside, into the night and back into the darkness.
26
Makayla
The set buzzes with activity as the production team gets the last touches on camera angles and set lighting. The scene we’re about to shoot should leave fans speechless as the credits roll. Everyone expects my character, Bella Frost, to fall for Aaron, the more level-headed leader of the stalkers, but this scene is going to really surprise them.
“Places, people!” shouts Camillo. He’s wearing a battered beige ball-cap over his thick mane of silky black hair. He has the look of a handsome man who has lived a hectic life of too little sleep and too much stress eating. He’s uncompromising, and has a reputation in the business for making his actors go through twice as many takes as most directors, but that never bothered me about him. Some of my colleagues just want to get done with the shoot for the day, regardless of the final product. Not me though. Even if it’s just a TV show, I want to make something that lasts, and I want every shot to be just as perfect as Camillo does.
I take my spot. We’re shooting this scene in a darkened alley with a healthy dose of ominous mist swirling around our feet. I can hear the faint hum of the smoke machine behind me.
“Andrew!” shouts Camillo. “Turn down the fucking smoke. I said create atmosphere, not simulate the actual atmosphere.”
From where I stand, I can see behind the facade of the set, but the cameras are positioned to hide all the falsity. Jason Stone sits cross legged on the ground, wearing his character’s trademark trench coat. I try not to roll my eyes when I look at him, wondering what I ever saw in him.
He’s strikingly handsome, but I’ve never been the type to date a guy purely on looks. Before I really got to know him, I mistook his eccentricities for sophistication. Now he just looks like an attention-seeking child to me, sitting there, clutching his forehead between thumb and forefinger, muttering to himself. He plays Jack Carpenter, the most wild and vicious of the stalkers. In the show, Aaron is constantly trying to keep Jack under control and failing.
“Ready!” Camillo yells.
Jason stands, grabbing his fake cleaver from the ground as he does. The Mangler. He stands with his feet a little too wide and his arms hovering a little too far from his sides in an attempt at menace. I find my character, pushing out Makayla as much as I can by focusing on the sound of white noise. The best way I can describe how I feel when I act is that I mentally split myself. I close myself off from the artificial parts of the set that I can see and transport myself to the moment.
I’m immediately drawn back to how I felt in the stairwell, cornered by the man in the gold mask. I focus on how ripped from the everyday routine I felt, how completely real it felt, like I was only truly living in those moments because they could be my last, how each word carried the power to end or prolong my life.
“Action!”
“What do you want?” I ask. My chest can’t seem to fill with enough air as I back away, making my words sound like a strained whisper.
Jack Carpenter steps closer, skillfully twirling his cleaver and tilting his head. “You.”
I back up until I feel the wall behind me and sink down there, legs too weak to hold me any longer. I shake my head, lip quivering and eyes filling with tears.
He kneels in front of me, fixing me with icy blue eyes. “I want you to love me.”
My thoughts momentarily break character to relish in how much this moment is going to shock fans. I remember Bella Frost’s past, and how much she always strived to get her family to love her and her boyfriends to love her. No one in her life ever actually loved her as much as they loved the idea of her. Jack Carpenter is as real as men come--completely driven by impulse--she lets herself believe that a man like this could actually give her the kind of love she has craved for so long.
I squeeze my eyebrows together, shaking my head. “You’re a monster.”
He leans closer, touching my cheek with the blunt edge of his cleaver, dragging it down my skin and eying me with fascination. “I love you,” he says softly.